The Noble Warrior (The Empire of the North Book 1)

by Brendan DuBois

  “And what was it called?”

  “It had a number of names. Amerka being the most common.”

  Micah turned to him, his look pensive. “Not bad for a tourist. One-sided… but that’s to be expected. Come along, Armand, let me show you the ruins of my people.”

  Ruins, Armand thought. That’s why I’m here. And not for a damn history seminar.

  After a half hour they came out before the large domed building. More of the ragged children were there, either begging or trying to sell ice drinks or carvings of the various ruins. There were wide stone steps leading up to the main dome, and as they gingerly walked up, Micah said, “This is the largest building here in the ruins. Most believe this is where the assembly, or parliament met.”

  Armand noted the collapsing stone, the empty windows, the birds flying in and out of the ruins. “Is it safe?”

  “We’ll be going to places that are fairly safe,” Micah said. “But we won’t have time to tour the entire structure. There are many rooms in here, which we think where the representatives met, or lived.”

  At one of the doorways Micah spoke to another man who wore a yellow scarf, and he reached below a stone counter and came up with an oil lantern. He lit off the lantern with a sputtering match and spoke quickly in a patois. Micah laughed and looked over to Armand.

  “Ready?”

  “Yes,” he said, feeling his heart thump right along.

  “Then let’s go back in time, Armand.”

  He followed him into the darkness.

  The air was dank, thick with odors and old things. They went up another set of crumbling stone steps, the lantern leading the way, until they came out onto a wide stone floor, beneath the dome. Armand felt his head go back, looking up at the dome, and with the awe of seeing what the ancients were able to do, there was also a tinge of fear, feeling that the tonnes of stone above him could collapse at any second. Micah stood nearby, looking up as well, the lantern in his hand.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, laughing, making Armand feel like he was a student before him, a feeling he didn’t like. Micah went on. “Every tourist thinks the same. That the dome will collapse and kill them. Don’t worry. It’s been up for centuries, and it’ll be up for centuries more. The old ones here ---” and then there was a note of pride in his voice “---my ancestors, they built this place well. They built it to last.”

  And then he looked to Armand, his tone of voice wistful. “One wishes that other things they built could have lasted as long. Come, let’s take a look around.”

  They walked further across the stone floor, and despite its age, Armand had to admire the handiwork that went into it. Barbarians, sure, he thought, but look at those huge stones and how they were still holding up! Up above on the walls were heavy empty wooden frames that looked like they once held paintings. There were statues here as well, most shattered and broken and on their sides. Armand saw all had their faces disfigured, like they had been the focus of rage, so many years ago.

  “Who were these people?” Armand asked, touching one of the statues with the toe of his boot.

  Micah said, “Oh, the great ones. We don’t know their names, or who they are, or what they did. But this building, being so big and ornate, they must have been very important.”

  He followed Micah as they went down a long hallway, filled with more broken statues, more empty picture frames, and then Armand saw something odd. There was one statue, standing by itself, but it wasn’t broken, or torn down. It stood there and he felt chilled. It wasn’t fully human, that was for sure. There were offerings of some sort at the base of the statue, fruit and nuts and flowers from the jungle.

  “What’s this?” Armand asked, standing still, looking at the form. It was tall and had a folded, leathery skin, with some sort of square shape at its rear. There was a human head on top of the shoulders, but its arms… held another head, it seemed. A blank, bulbuous head, held in its arms, like some sort of trophy.

  “No one knows,” Micah said. “Most people think he was a shaman, or a priest, or some mighty hunter… and that he carries the head of some monster in his arms, a monster he had killed.”

  Armand looked again at the brave face of the man. “So that’s why his statue was left alone.”

  “Maybe so. My father’s father told me that even back in his days, people left the statue alone, and gave it offerings.”

  Armand followed Micah as they went down a long hallway, filled with more broken statues, more empty picture frames, their footsteps and others echoing on the stone. Sputtering torches on the walls lit the way. Birds still flew overhead, and Armand unbuttoned two more buttons on his tunic. He wiped again at the sweat trickling down his forehead. They were now in a great room, with balconies overhead, some of the stonework having collapsed. There were rows of benches before them, torn up, shattered, lying in heaps. On the other side of the room was a large rostrum or higher place, and other tour guides moved their small collection of visitors among the ruined benches and tables.

  Micah took a breath. “This is where we think the people’s assembly met. At least, that’s what the old stories and legends tell us.”

  Armand looked around at the size of the room, feeling chilled again, like the ghosts of the old leaders were still here, looking at them all. “There must have been hundreds of them, to fit in such a space.”

  “Yes, you’re right,” Micah said.

  “It must have been a large empire, back then,” Armand said.

  Micah replied, pride in his voice. “Greatest in the world.”

  “How fascinating,” Armand said, and he actually meant it. Micah rubbed at his chin and said, “Your empire… isn’t there an assembly, similar to this?”

  “There is,” Armand said. “It’s called a parliament. Made up of leaders from our tribes, nobility, clans and trade guilds. They advise the emperor, but, of course, it’s up to him to decide whether he accepts their advice. More often than not, he does. Our elders… they’re wise. They know the lands, they know our peoples… it’s a system that works.”

  “Is your father one of the advisers?”

  “Yes, but only in a very small role, as a viscount. He prefers to do his service for the emperor at the Ministry of Trade. And Potomick… what do you have?”

  Micah’s face was still. “We have Prez Thomas III. And the Prez is selected by a group called the College.”

  “College?” Armand asked. “Like a university?”

  “No,” Micah said, shaking his head. “This College is made up of guild masters, traders, and the like. And every eight years, they meet and select the Prez.”

  “And how long has Thomas III been Prez?” Armand asked.

  “My entire life,” Micah said.

  After retracing their steps, they returned the lanterns to the gatekeepers and resumed their walk down the wide stone steps. There were pools of water before them, and wide packed dirt roads, and more partially-hidden buildings, lining each side of a wide and long field that was kept close-cropped. By now Armand had his tunic almost unbuttoned all the way.

  “It’s so hot!” Armand said, wiping at his face with a damp kerchief. “How could any empire be governed from such a hot place?”

  Micah turned as they kept walking. “Is it true, up north, that the water sometimes falls from the sky, frozen?”

  “Sure. We call it snow. In fact, some of our clans, they have more than thirty names for different kinds of snow.”

  Micah shook his head. “Frozen water… I’ve seen it in iced drinks but to think of it on the ground and in the air… not natural.”

  They plodded along in the heat and on either side were more ruined buildings. Micah said, “A few of those were temples, or exhibit halls. There were old things in some of them… bones and stones from long ago. One temple had some paintings of flying machines, made from metal, including ships that traveled off the world, into space.”

  Armand folded the kerchief and placed it in a tunic pocket. “I’ve heard t
hose tales as well.”

  Micah’s voice sharpened. “They are not tales. The old ones here, my ancestors, they traveled off world.”

  Armand felt defensive before this poor peasant boy and didn’t like it. “Well… some of our science men, they know the old ones sent instruments and such off world… we sometimes see moving dots of light up in the sky at night… but to think people traveled there… they believe it’s just tales, or imaginings…”

  Micah stopped and brusquely took the bottle of water from Armand, took a sip. “My grandfather told me that when he was a boy, an elder who was part of the College, let him touch a stone from one of these buildings, a stone that came from the moon.”

  “The moon?” Armand couldn’t help himself and burst out laughing. Tour guides… how ignorant do they think tourists can be? He took the bottle back from Micah and after wiping the opening clean with his hand, took a swallow of the warm water.

  As they passed another open pool of water, the passing breeze brought cooking smells to Armand. In the heat, Armand had forgotten how hungry he was getting. By the shores of the pond stalls had been set up, with all types of food being served, from fruits or cooked vegetables to items wrapped in large leaves. Armand stopped and Micah looked to him. “Are you hungry, sire?”

  “Yes, I am… but it seems that these stalls are only for… the ones who live here.”

  Micah said, “True, sire… and at the far end of these ruins, are restaurants for visitors, but if you wish to have a local meal, well, I recommend these places. The food is fresh and satisfying.”

  They walked closer to the stalls. Micah said, “If you allow, I will go there and get something for you. Will that be acceptable?”

  “Quite,” Armand said, finding a large boulder underneath a palm tree that was shaded. He sat down and stretched his legs, and Micah stood there, not moving. His face was solemn. “My apologies sire. Perhaps I did not make myself clear. This food is for sale. If you wish some, I must ask you for some money.”

  “Oh.” Armand felt slightly foolish, like his tour guide had put him in his place. Armand reached into his side pouch and said, “Will a brass sovereign be acceptable?”

  He nodded, took it from Armand’s hand, and then walked away. Then something came to Armand. He called out, “Micah! Is there enough there to buy something for you as well?”

  A faint nod. Armand called out again. “Then do so.”

  As he moved into the crowd, Armand felt satisfied that he had taken care of his hired boy.

  Armand sat in the heat, legs stretched out, took another swallow from the water bottle, gauged the time by the placement of the sun, felt uncomfortable. Time was getting on. Father kept a fairly regular schedule with his meetings. Armand wanted to make sure he was back before Father returned.

  A young boy approached, about the age of Armand’s youngest sister. He was wearing a tunic that looked like it had been a sack for holding grain or vegetables, with a length of cord as a belt. His feet were bare, caked with dirt, and his brown arms were covered with scratches. One of his eyes was cloudy, no doubt injured at an earlier age. In his hands, he held out a wood carving.

  “Sir, sir, sir,” the beggar said, Armand barely understanding what he said. “Please, please, please.”

  He held out the carving and Armand took it in his hands. The workmanship was remarkable, showing a man’s head, like a tiny bust, in dark wood. Armand looked again at the little boy, snot running down his nose, and took in the ruins. Centuries ago, his ancestors had built and populated this place, and even had ruled most of the world, if the old stories and fragments of old books were to be believed. And now? He and his kind were poor, diseased and corrupt, scrabbling for life among the ruins of such glory. Even in the heat, something cold seemed to trace on the back of his hands.

  “Please, please, please,” the boy said again.

  Armand began to examine the sculpture even closer when there was a shout and Micah approached, carrying a small bag. The boy snatched the carving from Armand’s hand and ran away. When Micah arrived, Armand saw his face was colored.

  Armand stood up. “It’s all right, no need to be angry… the boy wasn’t bothering me.”

  He could sense Micah trying to control his temper. Micah quickly bowed. “Forgive me, sire… I wasn’t angry with the boy. I was angry with you.”

  Armand was shocked at the accusation. “Me? Whatever for?”

  Micah said, “If one of the gatekeepers saw what was going on… the boy bothering you as you sat there, with the white sash, then the boy would have been in the cane fields by this evening hour.”

  “He wasn’t bothering me!”

  Micah said, “It doesn’t matter. All here know the law, especially what it means, for one to wear the white sash. You might have condemned that young boy to a miserable life and early death.”

  Armand said nothing else for a few moments. If he was back in Toronto, one word to Father could have placed this insolent Micah into serious trouble, even spending a few weeks under the care of the city’s proctors. But yet… Armand realized from Micah’s reaction just how far away from civilization he was. Out here among the ruins, even with this white sash, he was on his own. Father wasn’t nearby, his family servants weren’t nearby, the proctors of Toronto weren’t nearby. Looking at the Micah and remembering what he had said about his own parents, Armand decided to do what was right, to show the heart of a true noble.

  He gave his hired boy a slight nod. “You’re correct, Micah Kennedy. My apologies for not paying attention, for placing that child in danger.”

  Their meal was cold drinks made from a fruit mixture, and pieces of meat and vegetables, cooked on a long skewer of wood. The food was tasty and spicy, like nothing else he had ever eaten. Armand asked Micah what the meat was, and he demurred. “Hard to explain, sire. Just enjoy the taste.”

  When they were finished, they resumed their walking. Armand came up to a small rise of land, and at the top of the rise was a collection of square stones, tumbled into a pile. Micah said, “The stories say a mighty stone column stood here, rising up to the sky. No one knew who exactly it was built for… just a great man from many, many centuries ago…”

  Armand eyed the pile of stones as they walked past. “What happened to it, then?”

  Micah said, “One of Prez Thomas III’s predecessors, many years ago, tore it down to build his own monuments.” Micah pointed off to the right. “There was a place over there, before I was born, where another monument was found… buried under stone and dirt and weeds. Flat stone that had letters carved in it… rows of names. That stone, too, was removed for other construction.”

  They skirted around a pond that was rectangular in shape, moving towards a building that Micah called the temple. Armand walked up the steps, most of them cracked and shattered, and before him he saw an incredible sight that made him stop so he could take it all in. The temple was open to the outside, with pillars before them, and hidden in the shadows, beyond the pillars, was a huge statue of a seated man. He sat in a giant stone throne, staring out, wearing a coat and trousers and boots, his giant hands resting on each side of his throne. His face was somber, looking out with an old but knowing gaze. His eyes were firm but tender, and he had a beard, but no moustache.

  Armand knew it was odd, but he had the strangest feeling he had seen him before, and then he recalled: the young beggar from just a while ago, with the carving. The carving had been of this man’s face. Armand looked up at him and even with the tourists, the place was quiet. Even with the cathedrals and churches from back home, it seemed to be one of the holiest places Armand had ever been.

  “Who is he?” Armand whispered, noting that no one here was raising his or her voice.

  Micah sounded proud. “One of our ancestors, one of the great leaders. Father Abram. That’s his name. Father Abram.”

  “What made him great?” Armand said, finding it hard to look away from that bearded face.

  “He freed the slaves,�
�� Micah said simply. “All of the slaves in the empire… Father Abram freed them, freed them all.”

  Armand tore his look away from the statue’s face, and noted that ivy and other weeds had grown up on the temple’s walls, but the statue was clean. Armand pointed this out to Micah and he said, “When there are no gatekeepers around, the people who live nearby, they make sure Father Abram is clean, and is safe. It’s a sacred duty to them.”

  Then Armand noticed offerings piled at the base of the giant statue, of fruit and stones and wooden carvings. Armand said, “The people around here, do they pray to him, as well?”

  Micah looked at Armand with surprise. “Of course.”

  “What for?”

  “To come again, sire,” Micah said. “To come again and free the slaves.”

  Armand’s mouth was dry, and he took another swallow of water. “Slaves? Really?”

  Micah then touched Armand --- and he allowed the familiarity --- and gently turned Armand about with his hand, to look out by the wetlands by the approaching bay. Columns of smoke rose up from the cane fields. “Sire, who do you think works out there, all day and all night?”

  “Workers,” he quickly replied. “Servants. Who else?”

  “Sire, those are slaves out there who do the work. Slaves that cut the cane that is turned into fuel and brought north to your land, so you can run your engines and your airships. I know there are slaves, even in your lands, even in your household. Am I not right?”

  Armand shook his head. “We have servants, Micah. They’re not slaves.”

  Micah laughed, but there was no humor there. “If I may ask, what kind of servants are they? May they leave when they wish, to take position elsewhere? Do they earn any type of salary, or does their pay go to their debts as indentured servants? Debts that go back, generation after generation? Tell me, sire… tell me about your servants.”