by Evan Dicken
He sat for a long time, legs drawn up, face pressed against his knees as he had when he was very small, before his mother had found him and given his backside a dozen welts with the flat of Widowbane. But mother was gone, now, wasn’t she?
Dully, Livius wondered if they were all gone. It seemed impossible Livius was the only survivor. He pushed himself to his feet, wiping a sleeve across his face. ‘Time to find out.’
The corpses were fresher in the throne room. They were piled thick around the high articulated columns, splayed across the carpet, slumped in the shadowed alcoves where oaths and betrayals had been wrought in whispered tones. It made sense they would have gathered here at the last. Livius would have come himself if the sickness hadn’t overcome him so quickly. With morbid amusement, he wondered whether his father had been disappointed or relieved Livius had been the first to succumb.
He found the old man stretched out below the autarch’s dais, one beringed hand outflung as if to claw his way up the stairs. The plague had yellowed his father’s ruddy skin and made dark the hollows of his eyes, but the old man’s expression maintained an air of impatient irritation, like he’d taken death’s measure and found it wanting.
‘It seems fitting.’ Livius stepped over his father’s corpse, glancing up at the throne. ‘All your schemes and intrigues, and here you are, still sprawled at the autarch’s feet.’
At least I tried, boy.
‘Fair, fair,’ Livius nodded. The reply was typical of his father – when the old man deigned to notice Livius at all it was usually to berate him.
Sharp as a spoon, this one. You never had the mind for intrigue.
‘And yet, here I am.’ Livius clucked his tongue. ‘And there you are.’
And why do you think that is, boy?
Livius swallowed, unsure. How had he been the only one to survive?
Think you fought off the plague all on your own? That you were spared because you’re special? His father’s chuckle was thick and wet. You weren’t worth killing.
‘I’ll show you what I’m worth.’ Livius turned away from his father to climb the dais steps.
The Autarch of Uliashtai sat slumped on the edge of his throne, awash in gold embroidered robes now far too large for his plague-ravaged frame. His breastplate was embossed with silver cogs, arranged in a way that they seemed to be turning as Livius approached. Next to the meticulous finery of Uliashtai’s ruler, Livius seemed a beggar in tattered linen, his doublet stained with blood and bile.
The autarch had been a hero in his youth, fighting alongside his neice, Empress Xerastia, even as Chaos devoured the Mortal Realms. He had slain warlords and beasts, set scores of daemons and monsters screeching into oblivion. Beloved of the gods, the autarch had risen high, wielding powers beyond mortal comprehension, but the fall of the Steamgird had broken him, left the man bitter and paranoid. Instead of marching forth, the autarch had retreated from the world, locking his court inside the palace’s ancient walls.
‘And none of it saved you,’ Livius said, his voice little more than a whisper. His barest touch was enough to send the autarch’s body toppling down the stairs. Livius froze, mortified, but the blank faces of the dead held no admonition. He let out a long slow breath, then sat in the autarch’s throne.
He grinned down at his father. ‘Do you see me now?’
But the old man would never see, none of them would.
Livius had dreamed of this day. Now, he saw how foolish, how worthless it all was. He drew up his legs, pressed his face to his knees, and wept.
He had no idea how long he sat that way, but he must have fallen asleep, for a great hammering snatched him from fevered dreams. He stumbled to his feet, almost pitching headlong from the dais.
It had to be Skayne Bloodtongue, Chaos come at last. But no, the palace was still sealed, he would have felt if the gates were breached. Widowbane in hand, Livius stumbled down the stairs, stepping gingerly over his father. Thankfully, the old man remained quiet.
At the far balcony, Livius saw dark fingers of smoke curling up from inside the city walls. Bloodtongue’s creatures rampaged through the churning gears of the outer city, their progress marked by flashes of green-and-yellow balefire as they battled both the defenders and each other.
Livius glanced down, surprised to see not daemons, but a great mass of people below. Men and women in legionary gold assaulted the palace gate with a makeshift ram, to little effect. After a few moments, a robed man stepped from the crowd. Rolling back his sleeves to display dark skin inlaid with the delicate filigree of the Gilded Order, he brandished a crystal staff at the gate, unleashing a torrent of jagged lines.
But the gate was more than just iron and bronze, it was blood, and bone, and flesh – the souls of a thousand thousand Lantic heroes. They would not yield.
Livius called out, but his voice was too weak, so he staggered back to the throne, gripping the armrests with nervous strength. There were people below, his people, and the Lantic didn’t abandon their own.
He concentrated, willing the gears to turn, the gate to open. For a moment, he feared his blood was too weak, that the ancestor gears would fail to recognise him. Then, slowly, grudgingly, they began to move.
It was torture. Livius could feel their gaze upon him – queens, kings, autarchs, emperors, empresses in a long line stretching back to the beginning. Who was he to sit upon their throne? To command their obedience? Livius felt naked, exposed, worse than worthless.
Then came the pain. Their disdain raged through him like cold fire. Livius must have blacked out, because the next thing he knew there were people in the throne room.
Strong hands lifted him from the throne. ‘This one’s alive.’
Livius opened his eyes to see a tall, sharp-faced woman in the uniform of a Lantic captain. She wore a greatsword strapped to her back, and although her armour was battered to almost shapelessness, Livius could just make out the markings of the empress’ personal legion on her breastplate.
She set him down with surprising gentleness, tipping a canteen of warm water to his lips.
Livius drank greedily. The Gilded mage stepped into his vision, kneeling to offer a hunk of stale bread.
‘Careful, careful,’ the sorcerer’s voice seemed to resonate within Livius’ thoughts. ‘You’ll make yourself sick.’
‘You opened the gates?’ the captain asked.
Livius’ mouth was too full to respond, so he just nodded.
‘What happened here?’ the sorcerer asked.
Livius swallowed a large mouthful. ‘Plague.’
‘Strange.’ The sorcerer pursed his lips. ‘There was no sickness in the city.’
‘What does it matter?’ The captain said angrily. ‘They’re dead. And we’ll join them if we don’t keep moving.’
The sorcerer ignored her. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Livius. I am – was part of the autarch’s court.’ He took a bite, then looked around. ‘Now, I don’t know.’
‘We don’t have time for this,’ the captain said.
The sorcerer pressed a hand to his chest. ‘I’m Kaslon, and my impatient friend here is Captain Sulla.’
Livius stood unsteadily, nodding his thanks to them both.
‘Where is the Underway?’ Sulla asked.
‘Careful, that’s no way to address your emperor,’ Kaslon said.
Sulla took a step back, her mouth working. ‘You can’t mean…?’
‘He is of the blood.’ Kaslon leant on his odd crystal staff to offer Livius a deep bow. ‘Do you know of any other surviving nobility, captain?’
Livius swallowed, feeling his stomach clench. How many times had he dreamed of this? In the quiet, desperate moments when his parents’ expectations pressed in around him, when embarrassment burned like fire in his cheeks, when his failures and disappointments piled so high they seemed to blot
out the sun? He’d fantasised about becoming emperor, but not like this, never like this.
Thankfully, he was able to lurch away before the vomit came boiling up. When he turned back, red-faced and ashamed, they were all kneeling.
‘Emperor Livius,’ Sulla said, her tone forced. ‘Your people need you.’
Kaslon
Kaslon stared into the latticed depths of the staff, drinking in the jagged interplay of its facets. He could feel the hint of a pattern lurking just beyond his ability to grasp. He would not repeat the Order’s mistakes. The masters had been unable to accept anything outside the narrow bounds of their logic. But knowledge had no bounds, no limits. Kaslon understood that now, just as he understood that to truly defeat Chaos he would first need to understand it.
‘They’re almost here.’ The hard rasp of Sulla’s voice broke Kaslon from his contemplation. She was leaning over the throne room balcony, scowling out at the city beyond.
He glanced up, frowning. ‘And the refugees?’
‘Still coming,’ she said with only the barest of flinches. The city guard had spread word of the Underway, and with the Autarch’s Palace lying open the people of Uliashtai had come in their hundreds and thousands, desperate to escape Bloodtongue’s creatures.
‘We must close the gates,’ Kaslon said almost without thinking.
Sulla’s scowl was sharp enough to etch glass. ‘And abandon our people?’
‘Better than losing everyone.’ Kaslon glanced at Livius.
The new emperor frowned, looking as if he was about to faint. Although eating had restored some of the young noble’s colour, it had done nothing to dispel the nervous flightiness that seemed to cling to him like a miasma.
‘I don’t think I can,’ Livius stammered. ‘Close the gate, I mean.’
‘What?’ Sulla asked.
‘I’m sorry,’ Livius said. ‘Opening the Palace nearly killed me.’
‘Then it’s settled.’ Sulla gave Kaslon a hard look. ‘The gates stay open.’
‘And what will we do when Bloodtongue’s monsters come shrieking down the Underway after us? We can’t outdistance them, not with all these people.’ Kaslon laid a hand on Livius’ shoulder, threading his words with lines of compulsion. He could feel them loop around the young noble’s scattered thoughts, then draw tight, leaving no room for fear or doubt. ‘You must try, emperor.’
‘I will try,’ Livius repeated.
Sulla made a disgusted rattle in the back of her throat. ‘I can’t believe a Lantic Emperor would–’
‘There’s more than honour at stake, here.’ Kaslon spoke over her. ‘The empire is dead, captain. Now isn’t the time to cling to tired doctrines, we’re facing extinction.’ He flicked his hand at the burning city visible beyond the balcony. ‘More than extinction, they will erase us from history.’
Sulla’s hands made white-knuckled fists at her side. ‘And what will we tell those inside the palace who have friends and family outside?’
‘Tell them it’s a necessary sacrifice,’ Kaslon said. ‘They’re Lantic, they’ll understand.’
Sulla looked to Livius, who trembled under the captain’s gaze.
‘I’m the emperor.’ The young noble’s voice was as thin as gold foil. ‘I’m responsible.’
‘Fine.’ Sulla flicked an angry hand towards the crowd gathered in the autarch’s court. ‘Then you tell them you’re leaving the city to die.’
With a terrified nod, Livius took a few steps up the dais.
Kaslon summoned the power for a spell, already tugging at the threads that would give Livius courage, but a strong hand fell on his shoulder, the grip painfully tight.
‘I looked the other way in the plaza.’ Sulla’s breath was hot on Kaslon’s ear. ‘I won’t again. We’re Lantic, mage, we stand free – to the end.’
Kaslon felt a momentary flash of irritation. It seemed the captain and her soldiers were too strong-willed to succumb to arcane compulsion. He gave a sour nod, and let the power bleed away.
‘I’m glad we have an understanding.’ The pressure on Kaslon’s shoulder relaxed.
‘My people,’ Livius looked like a caged animal, shoulders high, gaze darting around the chamber. ‘You don’t know me, but I am your emperor.’
That got the crowd’s attention.
‘Bloodtongue’s horde is inside the walls. They’ll be here soon.’ Livius swallowed, glancing at Kaslon for support. ‘We… we must flee. If I don’t close the palace gates now, Bloodtongue will–’
‘We can’t abandon the city!’ Shouts trickled from the back of the chamber. ‘My brother is still outside!’
Livius blanched. ‘I know we’re Lantic, but maybe just this once we could–’
‘Coward!’ The crowd took up the cry. ‘Traitor!’
‘I order you to flee!’ Livius was red-faced now, his voice high and desperate. ‘I’m your emperor. I’m your emperor!’
‘Are you satisfied?’ Kaslon pulled free of Sulla’s grasp. ‘The emperor has made his choice, or don’t you follow orders any more, captain?’
Sulla’s glare was deadly, but she gave a tight nod. ‘I’ll have my people restore order, explain why we need to close the palace gates. If there’s one thing the Lantic people understand, it’s sacrifice.’
Livius collapsed into the autarch’s throne, looking ready to vomit again.
‘Fine speech, boy.’ Sulla stalked off, abandoning all pretence of deference.
‘You made the right choice,’ Kaslon stepped up to lay a hand on Livius’ arm.
‘What does it matter?’ Livius put his face in his hands. ‘What does any of it matter?’
‘You showed bravery,’ Kaslon said, acutely aware the court was full of the corpses of Livius’ friends and family. He glanced at the autarch’s throne. ‘But there are trials, yet.’
‘The gates.’ Livius’ face crumpled.
‘You are emperor,’ Kaslon said.
Like a man facing his own execution, Livius straightened, fingers curling around the toothed cogs set into the arms of the throne. Shudders wracked the young noble’s body. Sweat broke out on his face as he convulsed upon the autuarch’s throne, a thin line of blood trickling from his nose.
Kaslon wanted to reach out, to use his powers to aid the young man, but the ancestor gears would not turn for sorcery. Only blood would tell.
So he waited, hands tight upon the staff, his throat dry as the iron desert.
Livius cried out, his back arching so sharply Kaslon feared it might snap, but, at last, the great gears began to move.
The first cries rose from outside the palace. At first surprised, they quickly turned furious as the gates slammed down.
Jaw clenched so tightly he feared his teeth might crack, Kaslon helped Livius down from the throne. The young noble was barely conscious, his feet slipping on the smooth marble stairs.
‘See, father, see,’ Livius muttered as Kaslon half carried him from the throne room and down through the spiralling galleries that led to the Underway.
Sulla’s soldiers had begun herding the refugees towards their escape. They marched down the stairs, shoulders hunched, muttering and surly. Grim men and women in tarnished legionary gold moved among the crowd. Their gazes raked over Kaslon, sharp as blades, but he paid them no mind. The Lantic soldiers would do their duty.
With a tight frown Kaslon followed, knowing that if he looked back, even for a moment, all was lost.
Runes lit the vaulted shadows of the Underway. Constructed long ago as a show of friendship between man and duardin, it burrowed beneath Chamon’s metal skin in a perfect line, connecting Uliashtai to the hold of their old allies in the Lofnir lodge.
Kaslon could feel it in his bones: the meticulous care in every line, every column perfectly arranged, nothing out of place. It was like standing between mirrors, flawless reflections re
treating to infinity. The Gilded Order had worked hand in hand with the Auric Runemasters of the duardin, just as they had on the Gilded Steamgird, the great wall that had protected the empire since time immemorial. That was before the Lofnir lodge had betrayed them, brought the Steamgird crashing down and the Lantic Empire along with it.
The tunnel was quiet save for the echoing footfalls of the refugee column, silent now that the wails of those left behind had faded into the distance. The survivors clumped together in ragged bunches, eyes downcast as they hurried along, blind to the marvels around them. Massive metal statues lined the tunnel – heroes of the Empire, their armour picked out in golden foil, their shoulders broad and unbowed. Their eyes seemed to follow Kaslon as he passed, the heat of their steely gaze like a fire at his back.
He grunted. Let them judge him; the empire they knew was gone.
Kaslon gripped his staff tighter, leaning on it for support. The answer lay within its prismatic depths, he was sure of it. The power to save his people, to master Chaos. Kaslon knew he could find the truth.
He just needed more time.
Livius
‘We must stop,’ Livius said. It felt like days since he’d last rested, perhaps longer – they had been unable to mark time in the unchanging twilight of the Underway.
‘The Azyr Realmgate is but a few hours’ march,’ Kaslon said, shielding his eyes from the bright coppery sun overhead, as the refugees emerged from the Lofnir lodge’s massive gate in a staggering mass, blinking against the glare.
‘What use is reaching it if half our number are dead from exhaustion?’ Livius glanced back along the ragged column. Livius could see the exhaustion dragging in their every step, the quiet desperation that hung about them like a fog.
‘I agree with Livius,’ Sulla said. ‘We lost too many in the lodge. To press on would be suicide.’
