Derek laughed. “Indeed,” he rejoined, “No doubt you were the one showing mercy!”
A messenger approached warily, but Derek waved him forward. The runner delivered his information in hushed tones, then departed. Derek turned back to the Guardian. “It seems that several of my men have breached the walls of that fortress, in spite of your people’s attempts to thwart me. The local lord has been slain, and his tribe is all but defeated. It is only a matter of time before the city falls to me, and then the boy.”
Aneirin replied casually, as if assisting the warlord in his strategy, “What of the Termessians and Emmetchae, attacking your flank?”
Derek’s brow twitched as he tried to contain his anger. It infuriated him that this Guardian had orchestrated these attacks; he was as wily as Drystan. “They do not concern me,” he answered with forced tranquility, “They will fall before the Regiment, just as every other tribe has fallen—even your own.”
Aneirin shrugged. “Your victory,” he said, “will be short-lived.” It was not a retort.
Derek could not suppress a shiver at the cold calmness of the Guardian. He rolled his shoulders and popped his neck to hide the involuntary spasm, but it was clear that Aneirin unsettled him. Trying to mask his feelings, he snorted derisively. “Is that right?” he asked. His words began to drip with disdain, until at last, he was snarling. “I rule these lands, Guardian, from here to the southern seas. Those that resisted, I conquered. Those that did not submit, I destroyed. All that stands before me now is a brat and a few swords. Within a month, I will be ruling as far as even your eyes can see! Can’t you see that I cannot be killed? If Aeron himself faced me, I would be victorious! What chance does that whelp have? Tell me, you relic!”
Aneirin was amused. “And yet he will see the setting of the sun this day.”
An uproar among nearby Leonites interrupted Derek’s retort. Because of the great crowd of soldiers, neither Derek nor Aneirin could see the cause of the disturbance. Someone was pushing their way through the throng and drawing a great deal of attention.
At last, Arsynio led the entourage out into the open before his lord, and bowed low. “Milord,” he said, “I have brought you the Alkimite warrior. He appeared before us like a god, milord, and he challenged you to a Duel of Lords.”
Derek looked over the prey that he had sought for so long. Hector’s clothing was ragged, and he was covered in dirt. Though he stood tall and confident, he still had the bearing of a youth. “He’s no god!” he snapped at Arsynio, and shoved the man away. Glaring down at Hector, he demanded, “Why, by Kyrou, would I accept such a challenge?”
Hector, staying out of reach, drew the sword at his side, showing off its perfect design and construction. “If you defeat me in a duel,” he answered, “you will win these imperial symbols by the will of the gods.” He glowered back at the other lord. “If you have your men kill me, you are nothing but a grave robber.”
Derek sneered. “With your death, the emperor’s weapons fall to me by right,” he responded, “even if I do not kill you.”
Hector frowned, narrowing his eyes in amusement. “Do you really fear me so much, lord, that you would have me killed by an arrow?” He looked at the gathered Leonites and shouted, “And how can any of you respect an emperor who cannot fight for his own authority?”
Derek knew that Hector’s argument would win over his superstitious soldiers, especially once Arsynio told a few tales of the boy’s appearance. “Fine!” he answered, “I accept your challenge.” He went to Brosne and ordered, “Keep all the men back.” Glancing at Hector, he saw the Alkimite looking away; he followed Hector’s gaze to Bronwyn. He pointed at her and said, “And make sure she watches this!”
Under Brosne’s direction, the Regiment formed a ring around the warlord and his young foe. Bronwyn and Aneirin were held at the edge of the ring, forced to watch the duel. Inside the ring, Derek cracked his knuckles, then drew his sword impatiently. “Are you ready to die, you little fool?” he spat.
Hector shrugged in response. “I have lived by the Code, if that’s what you mean.”
“Hah!” Derek scoffed, “The Code. The Divines. I curse them daily, and yet they have never had the courage to face me. I don’t think they even exist. We’re on our own here, and knowing that truth has freed me of your stodgy old ‘Code.’ I will live forever, and when the last of your generation lies dead, you will be forgotten.”
Hector drew the spatha from his back and hefted it. Bowing his head before his opponent, he said softly, “Then let us finish this.”
Chapter Nineteen
The 2040th year of the Sixth Era
The fourth of the month of Dekamen
Early in the fifth hour
North of Hector’s duel, Fintan sat huddled in a group with the Leonites’ other prisoners. They were inside one of the many buildings in the great city. He was chained alone, but the whole group was held in place by four men wielding spears. Death seemed imminent.
In truth, Fintan prayed for death. He had nothing to offer in return, but he begged Aeron over and again to end his miserable existence and take him home. The Sundan had seen the end of his people under the cruel stroke of the Ferites. He had helped destroy an entire tribe of innocents. He had watched his dearest friend cut down by one of Derek’s minions. He had witnessed the slaughter of another tribe, whom he could not protect. And then, in a desperate act, his last friend in the world had sacrificed himself to slow the advance of the very same army that had already robbed Fintan of so much.
An advance that, by every account, carried onward unhindered.
How Fintan wished for death.
After the disaster at the bridge, the disaster that Einar had caused, that had taken his life, Captain Brosne had ordered that all other prisoners be held away from the front lines. He was not going to be accountable to Lord Derek for failing to keep a few slaves in order. So Fintan had been removed, and brought back to this place, gloomy and dank even in the late morning.
A ruckus arose outside. The four guards rushed to the door to see what was happening. Fintan noticed that they were no longer being watched; part of him urgently wanted to get up and attack their captors—but he was tired, and he was weak, and he wanted only to die in peace.
Then it became clear that the ruckus came from an attacking army. He could hear screams of pain and shouted orders. The Chimaera Regiment was under assault—and from what Fintan could tell, it was not faring well. He smiled; Derek had focused their efforts so singularly on the stronghold that his flank was falling to some new aggressor.
The four guards retreated from the door, raising their spears defensively. Two women charged in, axes held high. They were both stunning, but when Fintan’s eyes settled on the woman in the lead, his heart felt heavy and his mind swam in amazement at her beauty.
She was younger than Fintan, with a small nose and a sharp chin; her high cheekbones accentuated her perfect brown eyes. Brown hair fell past her shoulders in a braid. As she killed the nearest Leonite, her slender grace mesmerized the Sundan.
Then he saw that a second guard had raised his spear against her. Galvanized into action, Fintan jumped to his feet and raced to her rescue. Throwing his chains around the man’s throat, he pulled with all his might. The Leonite dropped his spear, and the strange woman easily dispatched him.
Fintan fell to the ground under the sudden weight of the body. As her companion eliminated the other two guards, she pushed the corpse away and knelt beside him. Smiling in a way he hoped was charming, he introduced himself, “I am Fintan, the last Sundan.”
She bowed her head and smiled, capturing Fintan’s heart forever. “I am Reina,” she replied, “Queen of the Emmetchae.”
*
The 2040th year of the Sixth Era
The fourth of the month of Dekamen
Halfway through the fifth hour
Derek attacked swiftly. His swings were high and long, and he held his weapon with both hands; he aimed to kill in a
single strike. He forced Hector to backpedal; the Alkimite struggled to parry. His retreat sacrificed his footing.
Derek raised his sword overhead and swung down hard. Hector blocked it, but fell into a throng of soldiers. Derek stepped away, letting his men push Hector back into the ring. He maintained his balance, bringing up his own weapon into a defensive stance.
Derek advanced again. He brought his sword in lower. Hector blocked the assault; he locked hilts with the other man. They glared at each other, only a hand’s breadth apart. A wave of foul breath filled Hector’s nostrils as his foe taunted him, “You will fall.”
Hector narrowed his eyes. Through gritted teeth, he said haltingly, “Not to you.” He relaxed a little bit—just enough for Derek to feel it. The warlord tensed his muscles, prepared to force Hector to the ground.
Hector did not give him the chance. With an inarticulate roar, Hector burst forward with a surge of energy. Derek’s muscles were locked in place, and the eruption threw him off balance. He fell back.
The Alkimite went on the offensive. The longsword gave him extra reach and extra weight, and he used both to his advantage. Each attack forced Derek further back. In this fight, more than any other, Hector remembered all of his training—everything he had learned trying to become a member of the militia, everything Brynjar had taught him, and everything experience had beaten into him in the arena. He worked hard to control his every move, his every strike, with precision, while making them seem unpredictable. He sought the advantage, dodging when he could to tire his enemy and afford himself more opportunities to strike.
Derek was taken aback by this aggression and skill. He had expected a quick and pointless battle. He rarely had a chance to counterattack, but remained on the defensive. He watched for his opening—and soon enough, he got it. Hector’s swing went wide, and left his weak side undefended. Derek lunged, low and fast.
Hector awkwardly shifted his grip, trying to parry, but he was too slow. Derek’s blade cut his waist. The pain loosened Hector’s grip; when he tried to counterattack, Derek batted the weapon away, and Hector lost his hold entirely. The spatha clattered across the road, too far to reach.
Hector stumbled back, trying to create space. Derek grinned wickedly and charged, sword held aloft. Hector found the hilt of his gladius and narrowly drew it in time. He blocked the attack, which left both men stunned and reeling.
Derek shook his arm violently to free it of the tingling sensation. He roared at being repulsed and, in a bound, the dreaded warrior pounced at Hector from afar. The hero dodged back; he narrowly avoided being mauled by Derek’s wild attack. As the Leonite’s weapon fell, Hector rushed past it to strike with his sword—but the blow glanced off the other’s breastplate harmlessly.
Derek could not bring his sword to bear, so he barreled his shoulder into the Alkimite. Hector was knocked back, and Derek charged again. He raised his sword up and aimed it at his opponent’s unprotected head. Hector reacted instinctively. He swung his sword hard, trying to swat the strike away. Metal collided against metal, and with a screech, Derek’s sword was broken in two, and the jagged blade careened past Hector’s ear toward the crowd. It nearly struck one of the Leonites, but it fell short and buried itself in the dust.
Derek recoiled, snarling. He threw the broken hilt at Hector, but the other man dodged neatly. Backing away, Derek called out to his soldiers, pointing at the imperial longsword, which lay on the far side of the circle. “Someone give me that blade!”
Captain Brosne took the initiative. He rushed forward. snatching up the fallen weapon and tossing it to his lord in one swift motion. Derek caught the blade and settled into a defensive stance.
Brosne’s coughing interrupted the duel. The man stumbled farther into the circle, falling to his knees. He tensed sharply with each cough, which grew progressively worse. Dropping to the ground, he rolled onto his back and clutched at his aching chest. Hector backed away from the man, startled and horrified by the gruesome display. In seconds, Brosne’s eyes, ears, nose, and mouth filled with blood, and he died.
Derek ignored the event. He took advantage of Hector’s distraction to become accustomed to his new blade; he made a few deft swings before telling Hector arrogantly, “Try again!”
Hector tore his eyes from the bloody spectacle and turned back to his foe. Taking a deep breath, he advanced slowly. He struck, but Derek parried. The warlord counter-thrust, but Hector dodged. The dance continued as the men circled each other, carefully avoiding the messy corpse.
Hector was tiring. His hands grew numb from the reverberation of steel on steel. He knew that this duel would have to end soon, or Derek’s years of experience would outlast him.
Derek stopped circling and stepped toward his enemy. Hector stood his ground, and did not shrink away. At last, Derek lunged. The heavy sword came down for a killing stroke.
Hector blocked—but amid the distraction, he had shifted his grip, and now his hand was in the wrong place. The two swords locked at the guard—directly across one of Hector’s fingers. The keen blade sliced through the digit and it fell away, leaving his right hand with only four.
Hector yelled out in agony, but he could not escape Derek’s attack. With their swords still locked together, Derek compelled Hector to one knee; the Alkimite held his sword with both hands, trying to resist the crushing force as blood spilled down his arm. Derek inched closer, bringing more pressure to bear. The warlord leaned over the boy. Spittle fell from his lips as he ground out, “Now you’ll finally die.”
Hector’s legs were bent beneath him; he was nearly lying on the pavement under the strain. He knew he could make only one more attempt. As he shifted his grip, twisting his left arm around so he held the sword along his forearm, he prayed silently to Carys for mercy, in case he should fail. Then he released the weapon with his right hand.
The spatha inched closer. Hector dropped his free hand to his boot sheath and found the last imperial blade. He drew the dagger, twisted it, and jabbed it upward at full force. The fine point found the soft flesh of Derek’s neck, just above his breastplate; Hector embedded it to the hilt.
The mortal wound sapped Derek’s strength. He gasped, unable to fill his lungs with life-giving breath. Falling backward, he dropped the longsword to the earth and clutched at the weapon in his throat. He withdrew it, then gurgled, coughing up blood. Weakly, he toppled over and collapsed heavily onto his back; he continued to cough, trying to clear his airway in vain.
Hector slowly climbed to his feet. He stepped closer to the choking warlord. Derek’s face was contorted in pain and fear. The expression seemed so out of place on the hardened man that Hector was almost too startled to continue. Then he gathered his courage and knelt by the dying man. In the customary words of the last rite, Hector asked softly, “What do you see, Lord Derek the Leonite?”
Derek’s eyes could not focus. Through the blood flooding his throat, he murmured, “Too bright... to see.” He reached out, and his old, scarred hand found Hector’s young face. Then his limbs were loosened by the cold, and he breathed his last, and his wretched life fled with a groan beneath the shades.
Hector closed the man’s sightless eyes as they clouded over in death. The young heir intoned, according to custom, “May you find rest hereafter.”
He tried to stand, but the last reserves of his strength had gone. He stumbled; his knees were shaking and his hands were trembling. His vision narrowed as he fell.
Bronwyn and Caradoc broke from the soldiers’ grip and rushed forward to catch him. Placing his arms across their shoulders, they held him up as friends and subjects. Bronwyn whispered into his ear, “You’ve done it, Hector. Look upon your empire.”
At her urging, he opened his eyes, and he saw a great host of warriors—Leonites, Ferites, Sidians, Termessians, Emmetchae, and Alkimites alike—kneeling before their Emperor.
*
The 2040th year of the Sixth Era
The fifteenth of the half-month of Hemimen
&nbs
p; At the turn of the sixth hour
The next four and a half months passed in a blur. Hector was called upon constantly to make decisions for each tribe. With the blessing of Lord Torleif, the son and new ruler of the Sidians, Hector declared that Fylscea would be the new home of every tribe under his leadership. Immediately, horsemen were sent to the homelands of the disparate peoples with tidings of peace and prosperity. Over time, every tribe would be gathered in the capital, from the Alkimites, Termessians, and Emmetchae to the north, to the Ferites and Leonites in the south.
Meanwhile, the warriors and people already in Fylscea demanded a new name for Hector’s new empire. Against frequent requests, he flatly refused to call it Hectrea after himself. He wanted to call it Fylscem, but before his announcement, Aneirin advised against it. The Guardian explained that the old empire had become corrupt and stagnant, and that the Eye, Aneirin’s father, had destroyed it for a reason. Perhaps unwisely, Hector kept what Cassus had told him in the caves to himself, and did not tell Lord Aneirin what the Leonite had claimed. Finally, Hector settled on Annifrea, because it was founded on the bonds of friendship and peace.
One hundred sixteen days after Derek’s death, at the end of the sexennial month of jubilee, Hector announced that a new era was beginning. The half-month, traditionally occurring at the end of every sixtieth year following the month of jubilee, would officially be considered a time of solemnity, reflection, and preparation for a new generation. This was especially important in this, the two thousand fortieth year of the sixth era, in memory of the terrible war and all who were lost. Afterward, there would be a new age, and the month of Kyromen would begin the first year of the seventh era.
Shortly thereafter, Hector made another decree, which was revolutionary for peoples who had lived in complete servitude to their lord: Any person or tribe unwilling to live in Fylscea as an Annifrean would be welcome at all times, but was free to depart for their own land. Several families from the old Chimaera Regiment were the first to break away, for they thought Hector weak and dishonorable; the Termessians, too, returned to their forest, but as allies. The Emmetchae, under a new queen, also went to their own homeland; Reina remained behind and was betrothed to Fintan. The Alkimites and all of their allies journeyed to Fylscea to join the new empire, and the Sidians were proud to be an integral part of it.
The Chimaera Regiment Page 27
