A Viral Imperium: The Plagueborn Series Book 1

by Darren Joy

  Because she’d been different.

  Rage fuelled his speed, and as he raced behind a row of low buildings, he lost his pursuers. A part of him wanted to turn and fight, but he knew he would lose. His sister needed him. She was the one breather he cared for, and he owed her. He would run, but he would never forget. A time would come when Threadfin Todder would avenge a little girl.

  He’d heard Felps cursing with dark flavour before he was out of earshot. Quick footsteps had followed. No doubt, that exemplar wasn’t far behind either. What was he? To his knowledge, only his kind possessed magical abilities. None knew how the Atlantians had done what they did, but he wasn’t at all sure it was magic. What he did know was that he needed to get away.

  He clambered onto a low wall, landed in another street. Taking a left, he dodged along another alley, then a right, a left. He put his agility to good use, darting like a cat with a warg on its ass. There were people in the streets shouting, crying, and wailing as their homes burned. Not a few bodies lay about too, some shrouded with the green cloak of the Actaeon Guard. He dove into the middle of a crowd, not daring to look back.

  Somehow, I must get home, he thought, trying to bolster his courage as he ran. I’ll find you, Aiy. They’d murdered little Cat, but he would not let them reach his sister too. He would not fail a second time.

  He stumbled and ran as best he could, until he reached the eastern Tarl Gate. It stood open and unguarded. His luck was in, a rarity these days. He followed the dirt road beyond the walls for a few moments. Then he veered left and across the rolling hills towards the dark eaves of Tarl Forest, leaving Lame behind forever.

  You didn’t keep your promise, sister, he thought as he ran, but I vow I will keep mine.

  Chapter 7

  To Break a Promise

  Year 912YC, eleven years earlier

  IN THE SHADOW of Icarthya’s Adalcis Gate, in the Pleth Quarter, Threadfin watched the men toss the bodies onto a wagon bed. They hadn’t bothered to cover the emaciated forms, and his gaze fell upon the empty eyes of a child. The outbreak within the tenements close to the capital’s port had claimed fifty-three lives. Considering the death toll of the last plagues, it didn’t deserve the name. The streets beyond were devoid of life, folks fearful of what might be a return of the dreaded pestilence.

  Weeping sores covered the girl’s skin. ‘Perhaps she died in her sleep without any suffering,’ he said. He didn’t believe that, but he thought the lie might comfort his sister who stood close to him. ‘What is this about? Why have you brought me here? Father will be apoplectic if he learns of this.’

  Both wore long deep cloaks called dalbas, which covered them entirely including their faces. His was a red-violet, hers dark grey. The daylight had begun to wane, a cold white fog creeping from the imperial port, curling about their feet.

  ‘I wanted to see them,’ she whispered, seeming unaware of the furtive looks from the gravediggers. The men couldn’t see their faces, but only the Imperial Family wore the traditional garb beyond the Imperial Quarter. That they had no palace guards with them was what would seem odd, even suspicious. ‘I wanted you to see them. Our father has many reasons to be angry with you, but it isn’t him you need fear.’

  Threadfin felt an icy clutch on his half soul. ‘What have you discovered?’ He kept an eye on the breathers through the gauze fabric of his cloak’s veil. So far, the men who were twelve feet away, showed no sign they could hear.

  ‘There have been several others, two reported in Byrsa. You understand, don’t you? The rumours say virals are responsible. This time, the tales have taken root. Exemplars are rounding up any they find. I doubt there are enough left in the entire world for a single clot. Still, they find people and behead them, and then burn the bodies. Just having a runny nose or a pasty complexion is a death sentence. These outbreaks are dangerous ... to you. You must not remain in Icarthya, Fin, perhaps not even within the imperium.’

  ‘I know you care if these people live or die. You snuck out to give alms to Muckers, even after father forbade you. You’ve always thought of others, but who will watch your back if I’m not here?’

  She signed irritably. ‘We are not children any longer. Things change.’

  Threadfin gave a low laugh, devoid of humour. ‘Not everything. I know your heart better than you. You won’t send me away. You wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘Avitus suspects.’

  ‘And?’ He fought back a pang of fear. ‘Let her. She wouldn’t dare voice her suspicions, not while father lives.’ Anyone with sense in their heads knew Liviana sought power. His sister needed him.

  ‘That’s just it,’ said Aiyana. ‘Father can’t see her for what she is. Ever since she returned, she flaunts herself at him. That trollop takes more of his time every day, always managing to keep me out of the way.’

  ‘Huh,’ he grunted. ‘He’s entitled to enjoy himself you know. He is the imperator. She wouldn’t be my taste. I like them bonier. You know, rotten on the inside, a little stiff, cold, missing a limb or two, eye dangling from a socket. Almost gets my heart thumping thinking about it.’

  ‘This isn’t a joke, Fin. I believe Liviana is behind those rumours. The situation has become far too dangerous. I don’t want you here any longer. I do not need you to protect me.’ Those words cut deep, as he supposed she’d meant them to, but he didn’t believe her. She had a blade for a tongue at times. ‘Father expects me to be tough,’ she continued, ‘to be without weakness, but I cannot sit back and wait for trouble. In fact, I won’t.’

  ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

  She stared ahead, refusing to meet his eyes. The fog rolling in from the Adalcis Ocean thickened as dusk fell, cold seeping into the bones of the capital.

  ‘Avitus is not the first to think that way,’ he said, voice shaky. ‘I am an Icarthian prince, undead or not, and she’ll need more than suspicions.’ He sighed, watching a befouled grolg stamp and snort before it hauled the wagon away. Killing Avitus was out of the question. She was too close to their father for that, and he thought Aiyana might be overreacting. ‘No matter what the future holds, I will keep you safe. That was my promise to you. You promised me that we would always be together. That nothing would separate us. I hold you to that.’

  ‘You are impossible.’ She gave a dramatic sigh before gripping his hand and turning to face him. They were alone now. For an instant, he thought her face looked different behind her veil, eyes sunken and skin greyer. No doubt, it was his imagination. ‘All things end, little brother, and soon you must leave. I will do whatever I have to, to see you safe ... even if it means breaking a promise I once made in good faith.’ Turning away, she re-entered the city through the arched stone gate.

  As Threadfin turned to go too, he glimpsed a spy. Whoever it was, detached from the doorway of a tenement and was lost to shadow. Likely, it was his sister’s Darken, or perhaps a spy of their father’s. He didn’t care. He knew his sister.

  She wouldn’t break her promise.

  Chapter 8

  When the Darken Comes

  Present Day

  A WOMAN, WITH two children snuggled against her, awoke from a stupor. They were crouched, within a crowded tenement, against a brick wall. There were several hand lamps and tallow candles lit, but the light was smoky and dim. The youngest boy held both hands over his ears, eyes wide as plates. His sister hummed a tuneless sound, and the woman stroked the girl’s hair to calm her. She felt tired, her eyes itchy and sore. A headache pounded through her skull. She’d overdone it.

  ‘They’re still searching,’ said a washerwoman named Misla from her position by a narrow window. There was no glass. A goatskin kept out the worst of the cold. Misla was well into her fifties, but her skin was smooth, arms strong, and she had an ample bosom that was the envy of any woman, and a warm smile.

  ‘Should’ve been over be now,’ Toadius, the washerwoman’s husband muttered, while chewing a lump of birch bark tar. ‘How many blasted days it been?’


  The woman tending the young ones hated that smoky stink off his breath when he leaned close, but he claimed it eased his toothache. The cripple sat by her, ready to defend her if required. He got about on his hands, dragging his scrawny frame everywhere. She knew he was a good man and trusted him. She trusted Misla, trusted them all. They knew who she was, though they never spoke her real name aloud, never treated her differently. All in the Muck Quarter knew Princess Aiyana Todralan.

  Out of necessity, here they called her Maya, a short form of her middle name. These were her people, the downtrodden, crippled, hardworking Muckers. That name should’ve curdled on her tongue, but each of them wore it with pride. Misla came to her and bent to stroke the girl’s hair. Both orphans, they had taken to Maya.

  No one cared about these people. She’d tried starting an orphanage, but bureaucracy and corruption had scuppered her plans. Politics was like nature, mystifying and at times, dangerous. You could cover your head from the storm, find shelter until it passed, but you could never stop it.

  ‘Named me, Toads, that day he did.’ The cripple was nattering away again. ‘Gotten ’til it stuck and ol’ Toadius Pole was just fine ’bout that. A fine brother he were too, ’til he ran off. Grown up in the Muck Quarter of Byrsa, you see. Made it as a stonemason in the ol’ Prole, but well, while he’d slaved ten hours a day, seven days o’ week, the rest o’ us starved. That was afore they invented those fool scrips.’ He spat to indicate what he thought of those. The scrips had improved the lot of Muckers, to a point, but it prevented any from rising higher.

  Toadius liked to natter and Misla liked to mother. An odd pair they made, but Aiyana saw the love between them and envied them. You never knew your people, father, she thought. Never saw how special they are. They are the foundation our world is built upon. Without them, it all crumbles. She vowed to make their lot better.

  ‘Twas after he’d made for the good ol’ capital, and started sneaking into the Mammon, or the Glut as most us ordinary folks termed it, that he’d started making a living. That was when he’d earned his name too and got noticed. You see he’d gotten that good with a quick hand and a knife that folk thought they was robbed by ghosts. Of course, that was around the same time folks started disappearin’. Was naught to do with him, though.’

  Toadius gave a hacking laugh and spat out a dark substance. ‘Proud of his skills he was, and that he’d never once killed. “Killin’s for other folk,” he oft said to me, “those without a conscience. I got me one of those, Toads, you see. No killin’ for ol’ Podral now.”’

  Throughout the Muck Quarter, most people, who had good reasons to hate her family, loved her as their own. They told her she was beautiful, like her mother. She liked hearing that. Now, they’d taken her in, to hide her from Liviana’s spies, not to mention the soldiers that roamed the city. Icarthya was vast with nigh a million people, and their search would be a long one. Her hunters didn’t know or understand her, didn’t know that this was the first place she’d run to. Now with a dirt smeared face and a ragged dress and flimsy shawl, she looked like any other Mucker.

  ‘Enough of your blather,’ Misla snapped at her husband, though there was little bite in it. ‘Poor dear will be traumatised by now, listening to you carrying on.’ She took the little girl in her arms and then handed her over to Toadius. ‘Here, make yourself useful.’ She turned and gave Aiyana a smile. ‘You’ve to learn how to block out his noise, my dear. I’ve had forty years of practice. Hasn’t seen his brother in, oh, must be twenty years now. Swear it were two by his carry on.’

  ‘He’s alive,’ spat Toads as the girl started to cry. ‘Don’t talk o’ him like he’s not. Who’d you think keeps sending us that coin?’

  Perhaps Misla saw the worry in Aiyana’s eyes. She ignored her husband as she spoke. ‘It’ll be alright, dear. The Muck is big and you’re buried deep in it, now. They won’t find you, and if they do, we’ll fight. There’s others who’re ready to defend you, hundreds of folk if I’ve heard right, and from the Prole too. They know you. They know your heart.’

  Aiyana smiled to reassure the woman, but Misla didn’t understand, she couldn’t. Their worlds were different, though they resided in the same city. These people would die, if they tried to stand and fight. She wondered if hiding here hadn’t been a mistake.

  She’d have to keep them out of it, and the rest of the city too. It’s between you and me, Liviana, she thought. She had to regain the throne. She wanted people like Misla and Toads to be safe.

  ‘Somethin’ else happenin’ out there,’ suggested Swine, an old codger often found scratching in the dirt searching for the Spectrum knew what. Aiyana suspected that was how he’d earned his name. A few joked aloud that he’d lost his mind and was looking for it. Presently, he’d taken position by a different window, peering past the edge of a tattered, yellowing goatskin. By the look in his eyes as he glanced at her, she thought his mind was just fine.

  ‘I’m gonna go and check it out,’ Toadius suggested, spitting out the black lump. The girl gripped his arm, but Toadius pried her fingers loose. ‘Just gonna go and look, pet. No need to fret.’ The girl cried louder, while the boy remained in a world devoid of sound.

  ‘You idiot,’ Misla hissed in a low voice. ‘I know why you’re going and tis suicide.’

  ‘Not in front o’ them,’ Toadius muttered just as low, and Aiyana had to strain to hear. ‘When things quieten, bring them to the docks, by the old shipyard. I’ll meet you there.’

  ‘What we want with the docks?’ Misla said too loudly, her surprise overcoming her caution. ‘They’re not selling fish these days. Besides, there’s a curfew. They catch you and it’ll be the dungeons.’

  The girl began to wail and Aiyana hugged her tight. The cries faded into wet sobs on her shoulder.

  ‘There’s ships, I heard,’ piped another voice. Others, crammed together in the near darkness, started murmuring the same. ‘The traders are lettin’ folks board ’em, I heard, any what makes it that far alive.’

  ‘Shush all yer blather,’ hissed Swine. ‘Someone’s coming.’

  Aiyana strained to hear sounds from outside.

  ‘The docks, Misla,’ Toadius whispered again, eyeing the children. Word of the Nephilim threat had spread, and Toads must have found a way to get them out of the city. Poor fools terrified by a rumour. Avitus was far more of a threat than any giant. Still, few would manage to flee, passage aboard a ship expensive. Aiyana had given Misla and Toadius coin in the past. They must have been saving it along with what his brother sent.

  Toads left the tenement by a rear door, on his hands as always. He could move at a surprising speed that way. Aiyana never did learn what had happened to him for all his tale-telling. She knew enough that he hadn’t been born that way.

  At the front entrance, a silhouette filled the doorway.

  ‘Yana,’ whispered a voice. ‘Yana.’

  Aiyana put a hand on Misla’s arm, calming the woman who seemed ready to leap at the intruder. She even spotted a few knives appearing in several dirty hands. ‘Do as Toads said, Mis. Get them and yourself away.’ She kissed the washerwoman and then hugged her tight. ‘It’s going to be okay.’

  It was time for her to leave.

  Her Darken had come.

  THE NEXT DAY, AIYANA Todralan in a dirty brown cloak sat beneath the fractured barrel-vault of an imperial library. Dust and crumbling stucco descended like dry rain. The earth tremors were minor, and of little consequence. The building was intact despite heavier tremors last month. Still, several blocks in the right wall had shifted, and the oaken doors had splintered.

  Sixteen tallow candles guttered on twin bronze stands, the only other light from a single wheel window of rose-coloured glass. Stacks of books adorned the stone flags, a scribe floundering through the unordered piles. Much was vellum but not all were that old. These were made of paper, an Atlantian invention none knew how to reproduce. She’d heard one foolish rumour that it came from trees. The mongrel scribe appeared
to drown in his coarse grey robe as he searched.

  The stunted runt is of no help whatsoever, she thought. She glanced at the bronze mirror she kept on the desk in front of her. The distorted image looking back unnerved her. She slammed it mirror-side down.

  Raising her left hand, she kissed her gold ring with the winged silver inset. She was a sensible woman, preferring logic. Still, the odd prayer couldn’t hurt. Another tremor shook the building. The princess sank deeper into her robes.

  She’d been thankful that records and documents, in reasonable order, remained unscathed. Other libraries hadn’t fared as well. As she’d begun her search, relief had turned to monotony. Stack after stack had failed to enlighten her. Sat in a cedar-wood chair, she sifted through sheaves of vellum and then moved on to a codex of poorer quality. Some of the parchment leaves still had traces of animal hair. A vapour of dust lingered in the room. Her long legs stretched beneath the desk.

  ‘Nipper,’ she snapped, irritation getting the best of her. The scribe’s feet were visible beneath a stack of Atlantian tomes. ‘Quit dawdling, you pea-brained dolt. Bring me those cuneiforms.’

  She loved clerical work, loved that old book smell, permeated by a hint of mould and burning pig fat, the touch of parchment on her fingers while surrounded by all that knowledge. What she hated was hours of searching and nothing to show for it. Placing her head in her hands, she fought her emotions.

  I’ve heard it before, the name of an imperatrix from centuries ago, an ancestor. She was on the verge of tears. Her Darken had forbidden her to come, overstepping the bounds of propriety for an imperial bodyguard. Aiyana agreed that the danger was real, as was the urgency to act. They had not parted well.

  Her desk rattled and she felt the vibration beneath her feet. The last great quakes had occurred three years ago. Thousands had perished. The repairs to the northern walls remained incomplete, though Byrsa’s were in worse condition. Most of the dead there had been because of subsequent fires devastating the slums. Markus Olen had spent the taxes elsewhere, choosing instead to negotiate with southern kingdoms for trade. He’d sought to expand Icarthian rule, while forgetting to maintain what he possessed. She shook her head still disbelieving he was dead. No, she would weep later, when time and circumstance allowed. Icarthya had become old, fat, and complacent. She needed to save it.