Rise Of Empire

by Sullivan, Michael J

Taking stock of the mess around her increased her melancholy. This is what came from refusing to have a handmaid along, but she could not imagine being cooped up in the carriage with anyone for so long. She picked up her dresses and laid them across the far seat. When she spied a document crushed into a ball and hanging in the folds of the far window curtain, her stomach churned with guilt. With a frown, she plucked the crumpled parchment and smoothed it out by pressing it in her lap.

  It contained a list of kingdoms and provinces with a line slashed through each and the notation IMP scrawled beside them. That the Earl of Chadwick and King Ethelred were the first in line to kiss the empress’s ring was no surprise. But she shook her head in disbelief at the long list. The shift in power had occurred virtually overnight. One day nothing, the next—bang! There was a New Empire and the Avryn kingdoms of Warric, Ghent, Alburn, Maranon, Galeannon, and Rhenydd had all joined. They pressured the small holdouts, like Glouston, then invaded and swallowed them. She ran her finger over the line indicating Dunmore. His Highness King Roswort had graciously decided it was in his kingdom’s best interest to accept the imperial offer of extended landholdings in return for becoming part of the New Empire. Arista would not be surprised if Roswort had been promised Melengar as part of his payment. Of all the kingdoms of Avryn, only Melengar refused to join.

  It all happened so fast.

  A year ago, the New Empire was merely an idea. She had spent months as ambassador trying to strike alliances. Without support, without allies, Melengar could not hope to stand against the growing colossus.

  How long do we have before the empire marches north, before—

  The carriage came to a sudden halt, throwing her forward, jerking the curtains, and creaking the tired springs. She looked out the window, puzzled. They were still on the old Steward’s Road. The wall of trees had given way to an open field of flowers, which she knew placed them on the high meadow just a few miles outside Medford.

  “What’s going on?” she called out.

  No response.

  Where in Elan is Tim, or Ted, or whatever the blazes his name is?

  She pulled the latch and, hiking up her skirt, pushed out the door. Warm sunlight met her, making her squint. Her legs were stiff and her back ached. At only twenty-six, she already felt ancient. She slammed the carriage door and, holding a hand to protect her eyes, glared as best she could up at the silhouettes of the driver and groom. They glanced at her, but only briefly, then looked back down the slope of the road ahead.

  “Daniel! Why—” she started, but stopped after seeing what they were looking at.

  The high meadowlands just north of Medford provided an extensive view for several miles south. The land sloped gently down, revealing Melengar’s capital city, Medford. She saw the spires of Essendon Castle and Mares Cathedral and, farther out, the Galewyr River, marking the southern border of the kingdom. In the days when her mother and father had been alive, the royal family had come here in the summer to have picnics and enjoy the cool breeze and the view. Only that day the sight was quite different.

  On the far bank, in the clear morning light, Arista saw rows and rows of canvas tents, hundreds of them, each flying the red-and-white flags of the Nyphron Imperial Empire.

  “There’s an army, Highness.” Daniel found his voice. “An army is a stone’s throw from Medford.”

  “Get me home, Daniel. Beat the horses if you must, but get me home!”

  The carriage had barely stopped when Arista punched open the door, nearly hitting Tommy—or Terence, or whoever he was—in the face when he foolishly attempted to open it for her. The servants in the courtyard immediately stopped their early-morning chores to bow reverently. Melissa spotted the coach and rushed over. Unlike Tucker—or Tillman—the small redheaded maid had served Arista for years and knew to expect a storm.

  “How long has that army been there?” Arista barked at her even as she trotted up the stone steps.

  “Nearly a week,” Melissa replied, chasing after the princess and catching the traveling cloak as Arista discarded it.

  “A week? Has there been fighting?”

  “Yes, His Majesty launched an attack across the river just a few days ago.”

  “Alric attacked them? Across the river?”

  “It didn’t go well,” Melissa replied in a lowered voice.

  “I should think not! Was he drunk?”

  Castle guards hastily pulled back the big oak doors, barely getting them open before the princess barreled through, her gown whipping behind her.

  “Where are they?”

  “In the war room.”

  She stopped.

  They stood in the northern foyer. A wide gallery of polished stone pillars displayed suits of armor and hallways led to sweeping staircases.

  “Missy, fetch my blue audience gown and shoes to go with it and prepare a basin of water—oh, and send someone to bring me something to eat. I don’t care what.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.” Melissa made a curt bow and raced up the stairs.

  “Your Highness,” her bodyguard called, chasing after her. “You almost lost me there.”

  “Imagine that. I’ll just have to try harder next time.”

  Arista watched as her brother, King Alric, stood up from the great table. Normally this would require everyone else to rise as well, but Alric had suspended that tradition inside the council chamber, as he had a habit of rising frequently and pacing during meetings.

  “I don’t understand it,” he said, turning his back on all of them to begin his slow, familiar walk between the table and the window. As he moved, he stroked his short beard the way another man might wring his hands. Alric had started the beard just before Arista left on her trip. It still had not filled in. She guessed he grew it to look more like their father. King Amrath had worn a dark, full beard, but Alric’s light brown wisps only underscored his youth. He made matters worse by drawing attention to it with his constant stroking. Arista recalled how their father used to drum his fingers during state meetings. Under the weight of the crown, pressures must build up until action sought its own means of escape.

  Her brother was two years her junior, and she knew he had never expected to wear the crown so soon. For years she had heard Alric’s plans to roam the wilds with his friend Mauvin Pickering. The two wanted to see the world and have grand adventures that would involve nameless women, too much wine, and too little sleep. They had even hoped to find and explore the ancient ruins of Percepliquis. She had suspected that when he tired of the road, he would be happy to return home and marry a girl half his age and father several strong sons. Only then, as his temples grayed and when all of life’s other ambitions were accomplished, would he expect the crown to pass to him. All that changed the night their uncle Percy arranged the assassination of their father and left Alric king.

  “It could be a trick, Your Majesty,” Lord Valin suggested. “A plan to catch you off your guard.”

  Lord Valin, an elderly knight with a bushy white beard, was known for his courage, but not for his strategic skills.

  “Lord Valin,” Sir Ecton addressed the noble respectfully, “after our failure on the banks of the Galewyr, the imperial army can overrun Medford with ease, whether we are on or off our guard. We know it and they know it. Medford is their prize for the taking whenever they decide to get their feet wet.”

  Alric walked to the tall balcony window, where the afternoon light spilled into the royal banquet hall of Essendon Castle. The hall served as the royal war room out of the need for a large space to conduct the defense of the kingdom. Where once festive tapestries hung, great maps now covered the walls, each slashed with red lines illustrating the tragic retreat of Melengar’s armies.

  “I just don’t understand it,” Alric repeated. “It’s so peculiar. The imperial army outnumbers us ten to one. They have scores of heavy cavalry, siege weapons, and archers—everything they need. So why are they sitting across the river? Why stop now?”

  “It makes no
sense from a military standpoint, Sire,” Sir Ecton said. A large powerful man with a fiery disposition, he was Alric’s chief general and field commander. Ecton was also Count Pickering’s most accomplished vassal and regarded by many as the best knight in Melengar. “I would venture it’s political,” he continued. “It’s been my experience that the most foolish decisions in combat are the result of political choices made by those with little to no field experience.”

  Earl Kendell, a potbellied fussy man who always dressed in a bright green tunic, glared at Ecton. “Careful with your tongue and consider your company!”

  Ecton rose to his feet. “I held my tongue, and what was the result?”

  “Sir Ecton!” Alric shouted. “I’m well aware of your opinion of my decision to attack the imperial encampment.”

  “It was insanity to attempt an assault across a river without even the possibility to flank,” Ecton shot back.

  “Nevertheless, it was my decision.” Alric squeezed his hands into fists. “I felt it was … necessary.”

  “Necessary? Necessary!” Ecton spat the word as if it were a vile thing in his mouth. He looked like he was about to speak again but Count Pickering rose to his feet and Sir Ecton sat down.

  Arista had seen this before. Too often Ecton looked to Count Pickering before acting on an order Alric had given. He was not the only one, and it was clear that although her brother was king, Alric had failed to earn the respect of his nobles, his army, or his people.

  “Perhaps Ecton is right.” Young Marquis Wymar spoke up. “About it being political, I mean.” He then hastily added, “We all know what a pompous fool the Earl of Chadwick is. Isn’t it possible that Ballentyne ordered Breckton to hold the final attack until Archibald could arrive? It would certainly raise his standing in the imperial court to claim he personally led the assault that conquered Melengar for the New Empire.”

  “That would explain the delay in the attack,” Pickering replied in his fatherly tone, which she knew Alric despised. “But our scouts are reporting that large numbers of men are pulling out and by all accounts are heading south.”

  “A feint, perhaps?” Alric asked.

  Pickering shook his head. “As Sir Ecton pointed out, there would be no need.”

  Several of the other advisors nodded thoughtfully.

  “Something must be going on for the empress to recall her troops like this,” Pickering said.

  “But what?” Alric asked no one in particular. “I wish I knew what kind of person she was. It’s impossible to guess the actions of a total stranger.” He turned to his sister. “Arista, you met Modina, spent time with her in Dahlgren. What’s she like? Do you have any idea what would cause her to pull the army back?”

  A memory flashed in Arista’s mind of her and a young girl trapped at the top of a tower. Arista had been frozen in fear, but Thrace had rummaged through a pile of debris and human limbs, looking for a weapon to fight an invincible beast. Had it been bravery or had she been too naive to understand the futility? “The girl I knew as Thrace was a sweet, innocent child who wanted only the love of her father. The church may have changed her name to Modina, but I can’t imagine they changed her. She didn’t order this invasion. She wouldn’t want to rule her tiny village, much less conquer the world.” Arista shook her head. “She’s not our enemy.”

  “A crown can change a person,” Sir Ecton said while glaring at Alric.

  Arista rose. “It’s more likely we are dealing with the church and a council of conservative Imperialists. I highly doubt a child from rural Dunmore could influence the archaic attitudes and inflexible opinions of so many stubborn minds who would strive to resist, rather than work with, a new ruler,” she said while glaring at Ecton. Over the knight’s shoulder, she noticed Alric cringe.

  The door to the hall opened and Julian, the elderly lord chamberlain, entered. With a sweeping bow, he tapped his staff of office twice on the tiled floor. “The royal protector Royce Melborn, Your Majesty.”

  “Show him in immediately.”

  “Don’t get your hopes too high,” Pickering said to his king. “They’re spies, not miracle workers.”

  “I pay them enough for miracles. I don’t think it unreasonable to get what I pay for.”

  Alric employed numerous informants and scouts, but none were as effective as Riyria. Arista had originally hired Royce and Hadrian to kidnap her brother the night their father had been assassinated. Since then, their services had proved invaluable.

  Royce entered the banquet hall alone. The small man with dark hair and dark eyes always dressed in layers of black. He wore a knee-length tunic and a long flowing cloak and, as always, carried no visible weapons. Carrying a blade in the presence of the king was unlawful, but given he and Hadrian had twice saved Alric’s life, Arista surmised the royal guards did not thoroughly search him. She was certain Royce carried his white-bladed dagger and regarded the law as merely a suggestion.

  Royce bowed before the assembly.

  “Well?” her brother asked a bit too loudly, too desperately. “Did you discover anything?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Royce replied, but his face remained so neutral that nothing more could be determined for good or ill.

  “Well, out with it. What did you find? Are they really leaving?”

  “Sir Breckton has been ordered to withdraw all but a small containment force and march south immediately with the bulk of his army.”

  “So it really is true?” Marquis Wymar said. “But why?”

  “Yes, why?” Alric added.

  “Because Rhenydd has been invaded by the Nationalists out of Delgos.”

  A look of surprise circulated the room.

  “Degan Gaunt’s rabble is invading Rhenydd?” Earl Kendell said in bewilderment.

  “And doing quite well from the dispatch I read,” Royce informed them. “Gaunt has led them up the coast, taking every village and town. He’s managed to sack Kilnar and Vernes.”

  “He sacked Vernes?” Ecton asked, shocked.

  “That’s a good-sized city,” Wymar mentioned.

  “It’s also only a few miles from Ratibor,” Pickering observed. “From there it’s what—maybe a hard day’s march to the imperial capital itself?”

  “No wonder the empire is recalling Breckton.” Alric looked at the count. “What were you saying about miracles?”

  “I can’t believe you couldn’t find anyone to ally with.” Alric berated Arista as he collapsed on his throne. The two were alone in the reception hall, the most ornate room in the castle. This room, the grand ballroom, the banquet hall, and the foyer were all that most people generally ever saw. Tolin the Great had built the chamber to be intimidating. The three-story ceiling was an impressive sight and the observation balcony that circled the walls provided a magnificent view of the parquet floor, inlaid with the royal falcon coat of arms. Double rows of twelve marble pillars formed a long gallery similar to that of a church, yet instead of an altar there was the dais. On seven pyramid-shaped steps sat the throne of Melengar—the only seat in the vast chamber. When they had been children, the throne had always appeared so impressive, but now, with Alric slouched in it, Arista realized it was just a gaudy chair.

  “I tried,” she offered, sitting on the steps before the throne as she had once done with her father. “Everyone had already sworn allegiance to the New Empire.” Arista gave her brother the demoralizing report on her past six months of failure.

  “We’re quite a pair, you and I. You’ve done little as ambassador and I nearly destroyed us with that attack across the river. Many of the nobles are being more vocal. Soon Pickering won’t be able to control the likes of Ecton.”

  “I must admit I was shocked when I heard about your attack. What possessed you to do such a thing?” she asked.

  “Royce and Hadrian had intercepted plans drafted by Breckton himself. He was about to launch a three-pronged assault. I had to make a preemptive strike. I was hoping to catch the Imperialists by surprise.”r />
  “Well, it looks like it worked out after all. It delayed their attack just long enough.”

  “True, but what good will that do if we can’t find more help? What about Trent?”

  “Well, they haven’t said no, but they haven’t said yes either. The church’s influence has never been strong that far north, but they also don’t have any ties to us. All they want is to be on the winning side. They’re at least willing to wait and watch. They won’t join us because they don’t think we have a chance. But if we can show them some success, they could be persuaded to side with us.”

  “Don’t they realize the empire will be after them next?”

  “I said that, but …”

  “But what?”

  “They really weren’t very amenable to what I had to say. The men of Lanksteer are brutish and backward. They respect only strength. I would have fared better if I’d beaten their king senseless.” She hesitated. “I don’t think they quite knew what to make of me.”

  “I should never have sent you,” Alric said, running a hand over his face. “What was I thinking, making a woman an ambassador?”

  His words felt like a slap. “I agree that I was at a disadvantage in Trent, but in the rest of the kingdoms I don’t think the fact that I am a woman—”

  “A witch, then,” Alric said, lashing out. “Even worse. All those Warric and Alburn nobles are so devoted, and what do I do? I send them someone the church tried for witchcraft.”

  “I’m not a witch!” she snapped. “I wasn’t convicted of anything, and everyone with a brain between their ears knows that trial was a fabrication of Braga and Saldur to get their hands on our throne.”

  “The truth doesn’t matter. Everyone believes what the church tells them. They said you’re a witch, so that makes it so. Look at Modina. The Patriarch proclaims that she’s the Heir of Novron, so everyone believes. I should have never made an enemy of the church. But between Saldur’s betrayal and their sentinel killing Fanen, I just couldn’t bring myself to bend my knee.