by Colin McComb
Published by 3lb Games LLC
First eBook edition: December 2011
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Copyright © Colin McComb, 2011
Cover by Stone Perales
Graphic design by Don Strandell
e-book formatting by Guido Henkel
Edited by Ray Vallese. You can also find him on Facebook, Google+, and Twitter
This book is a work of fiction. Everything contained within is a product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or real-world events is coincidental.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Prologue
He rode, his proud face bleeding and grim in the light of the setting sun. He cradled a sleeping baby in the crook of his left arm, the reins of the metal horse in his right fist. With a few swift kicks, he urged the steed ever faster westward. His eyes squinted into the setting sun, and beads of perspiration—or were they tears?—coursed down his unlined cheeks. The gleaming hooves of the steed tore great clumps of sod from the grassy hills as it sped through the spring dusk.
Miles behind him, the city burned on its mountain. Steel-clad knights thundered from the great city’s gates into the dying day on their own metal stallions or took to the air with mechanical wings. The military dirigibles Retaliator and Heaven’s Will rose slowly from the heart of the city, flames spitting from their engines, and turned their massive noses to the west.
The knights sought the oathbreaker, the thief of their princess, the betrayer of their king. They swore bloody vengeance on Pelagir of the King’s Chosen, son of Pelgram, and raced to be the first to have his head. He had betrayed the most sacred of their oaths, and their rage burned as brightly as the flames in the capital city.
Childhood’s Tale
Spring, Clasping Year 577
Three… four… five…
Pelagir’s hands wrapped tightly around the straps of the whipping post.
Six…
Hot dust in his nostrils.
Seven…
Wet warmth on his back.
Eight…
Underneath the pain of the whip, he whispered a mantra:
Nine…
(you are a knight’s son a knight’s son)
Ten…
(KNIGHT’S SON KNIGHT’S SON)
Eleven…
The pain vanished deep within him, each lash of the whip a silvery explosion fading into the darkness.
Twelve…
His mind was blank for the final stroke. He might as well have been dead for all the pain it caused him.
It was his twelfth birthday. This punishment was nearly routine by now. Punishment for insubordination, for failing to complete his chores, for anything that angered his father… and Sir Pelgram had a notoriously short temper, especially since Pelagir’s mother had left his cruel hand six years prior; Pelgram said she had fled home, but neighbors whispered of darker things. Pelagir hardly remembered her: the black hair, a tearful face, and the smell of flour with her embraces. But she had fled, and for all Pelagir knew, she could be dead now. He loathed her for her disappearance even as he secretly enshrined the ideal of her memory into his heart. He came into no contact with women, unless it was while collecting food from the market, and his interactions were no more than necessary to complete his transactions.
The casual slaps, disdain, and occasional beatings that once were her burden became her son’s, and they increased in frequency and severity. Whippings could be had any time. Today it was for some imagined impudence, and Pelagir knew better than to protest his punishment.
His father was one of the Knights Faithful and burned to be more, but his desire was too strong and his flesh too weak. He spent his rage on the enemies of the Empire, and when none were available, he spent it on his son Pelagir. He said that he wanted to make his son one of the finest of the knights, and Pelgram knew that the Knights Elite had their feelings beaten out of them. Well, as he had said more than once, he’d bring his boy to them ready, and through his son his own glory would grow.
Pelgram’s cruel nature was mirrored in his lean face. His black hair was shot through with streaks of iron gray, and his mustache was beginning to turn as well. His lean body was covered in scars from countless battles, and when he wore no shirt, Pelagir used to try to count them.
Pelagir’s face was that of his father, and he was already almost as tall as his sire. He was not extraordinarily strong yet, despite the endless exercises his father forced upon him, but his relentless endurance made him the equal of any boy on the field.
Pelagir used to live for the times when his father was away on campaign. But now that he was twelve, he would be expected to travel with his father as a squire. He had only two options: continue to suffer the lash, or flee.
He chose to suffer. He chose the long path that could lead him to the place his father had failed to reach. He taught himself silence at the whipping post, taught himself to overcome pain, and buried the small voice within him that cried out at the injustice his father doled out.
His face betrayed none of this as he let go of the post and picked up his shirt, slipping it over the burning welts on his back without a grimace. His father had already turned away, telling him that dinner had best be ready by the time Pelgram returned from the knights’ headquarters.
Pelagir watched his father stride away, and though his face did not show it, he prayed for his father’s death.
Summer, CY 577
In Glendavy, the rebellious northeastern province of the Empire, Pelagir stood watch over his father, a bloody sword in his hand. Shouts rang out across the battlefield, the din of sword striking metal or flesh, the firing of the heavy artillery behind. Muffled explosions and screams. And Pelagir, unshaking, his cold eyes on a Glendavin man moving toward the unconscious knight and the boy guarding the fallen body. The man didn’t seem to notice the body of his compatriot at the boy’s feet as well.
The Glendavin grinned through his bushy red beard, hefting his axe as he hiked the short rise, and he began to chuckle as he drew near.
“Boy, step away from that knight and you’ll live to see another battlefield. I’ll just be having that armor, and we’ll let the crows have the rest.”
“You will not have it.”
“I’m giving you a chance to live, lad. Best take it while you can.”
“Your friend here thought the same thing.”
The Glendavin’s eyes widened for a moment. “You killed him?”
“Yes.”
“How old are you, boy?”
“Twelve.”
The man whistled. “That’s impressive work. I killed my first at fifteen. Lost count since then.” He chuckled, but Pelagir kept silent. “Not much for praise, are you, boy?”
“No.” Pelagir’s whippings had taught him to keep his face tight, and though he did not show it, terror was twisting his bowels.
“Nor do you talk much.”
“No.” Pelagir shifted his stance slightly, trying to remember the training his father had beaten into him.
“Then let me do the talking. How about you step aside and let me at that armor, and I’ll take you back to Glendavy? We could use fighters, and it’s better you come away now. Look.” He held his bloody ax
e held loosely in his hand, confident in his ability, and gestured across the battlefield with his left. “The Empire’s lost this battle already, and the scavengers will be coming out soon enough. It all looks like it’s still in flux, but the fact is, it’s over and your side—”
Pelagir executed a perfect lunge, his sword piercing the man’s throat and emerging from the back of the neck. The man fell to his knees, his axe only halfway raised, struggling to strike back. But the axe fell from his fingers, and he touched the blade of the sword as if to pull it from his neck. He gasped three times, vomited blood, and Pelagir withdrew the blade with a clean stroke.
Pelgram moaned, and Pelagir knelt at his side, eager to take the praise his father would surely give. Maybe, Pelagir thought, maybe this will mean I’ve proven myself at last.
“What’s happened?” Pelgram’s eyes fluttered, came into focus.
“You were knocked unconscious by that man, there. I killed him. The other man came for your armor. I killed them both.”
“Where’s my mount?” Pelgram struggled to his knees, bracing himself on his son’s shoulder, panting, shaking while his head settled.
“It was destroyed. That’s why I had to defend you.”
“From two whole Glendavins?” Scorn filled Pelgram’s voice. “Find me a mount, and give me that sword.” He pushed himself up, hard, and nearly forced Pelagir into the mud. For a moment, Pelagir imagined his honorable father falling to the ground with his son’s twice-bloodied blade buried in his gut, Pelagir laughing as his father’s blood spilled on his hands. But instead, the boy passed the hilt to his father and descended the rise to seek a mount for his father, the knight.
Fall, CY 577
Pelagir stood outside his father’s library, his back straight, listening to the murmuring from inside the room. The messenger had ridden down from the hilltop, and Pelagir had barely had time to announce the visitor to his father when the man swept in behind him and closed the lad out of the library. Pelagir waited outside the door in case he was needed.
Behind the thick door, he could hear their muffled voices. The visitor’s voice was calm and measured, his father’s tense and clipped. Pelagir strained to hear the words, but could not. He knew that if he placed his ear to the door, all would become clear, but he had been caught at that once before, and he was not the sort of boy who made the same mistake twice. He waited, his body still and patient, but his mind raced as he explored the possibilities.
The man was clearly of some importance and, based on his bearing, was likely a knight. The messenger outranked his father or represented someone who did, or else (if Pelgram’s voice was any indicator) he would have been shown the door minutes ago. Neither had asked for refreshment, so this was not a courtesy call. Orders, perhaps? Was his father being given command, or was he being commanded? More likely the latter, decided Pelagir, and they were commands Pelgram did not like.
In a short while, his father opened the door. “In, boy.” Pelagir stepped inside. The rider stood in front of the desk, facing the door, his hands clasped behind him. He was not a tall man, but he was imposing regardless in his quiet strength. He waited to speak until Pelgram had closed the door and taken a position behind Pelagir.
“I am Lieutenant Caltash. I come from the knighthood.” Pelagir straightened instantly. “I have spoken with your father already, and though he disagrees with your readiness, I have overridden his objections. In three weeks, you are to report to the academy for our advanced training. Congratulations, Pelagir. I’ll be keeping my eye on you.” With a meaningful glance at Pelgram, Caltash strode from the room. Pelgram followed on his footsteps to see his guest from the house, and Pelagir considered his future.
Knighthood was not a guarantee. Many of those who entered the academy failed. Some died. Some amounted to little more than squires or support—valuable in times of war and peace, no doubt, but what boy dreams of reaching glory through the quartermaster’s ranks? What would he do if he washed out? Return home? No, he decided, he would sooner flee the capital Terona, perhaps to the duchies to work for one of the High Houses, or even to the provinces.
When Pelgram returned, his eyes had filled with a dark fury. He clenched his fists at his side, rather than strike his son, and said, “They say you’re in shape. You’re not. Your chores will double, your exercises will take an additional two hours, and we’ll be carefully reviewing your lessons. I will not be shamed by your ineptitude in the eyes of the knighthood. If we’re lucky, you won’t be drummed out in the first year. If we’re exceptionally lucky, you may even be accepted into the order of Knights Faithful, but I don’t expect that.”
He pointed toward the door. “Go. Your play time has ended. It’s time for you to act like a man now and do a man’s work.”
Pelgram never laid the whip on his son again, though he clearly wished it when Pelagir stumbled under the weight of exhaustion. Pelagir thought his father’s obsession with his son’s imagined bad behavior (or as his father put it, “my dishonor”) crumpled under the fear of the thought of what the Council of Knights would do to him if he sent them a recruit with fresh stripes across his back. The older man contented himself with curses, threats, and humiliations.
This was how Pelagir ended his childhood and took the first steps that led him toward manhood. Surely, he thought, surely the knighthood could be no worse.
The General’s Tale
I write this letter now to send to you, children of my friends, in hopes that I will be able to deliver it to you by pigeon or by hand. Perhaps they will have told you of my rise; I know that I have played the part of uncle to you, and have not spoken of my past. Perhaps you know this history already. If so, I ask your forgiveness. If not, I hope to educate you.
I write this morning from a small inn in one of the lower quarters of the city. I can hear the bells in the High Cathedral toll eight of the clock. I believe that this is the last chance I will have to write these notes, and I beg you to forgive their lack of flower. The words I put to paper here are based on my recollection, not set down with perfect accuracy. I am no scribe, and I may have missed words, intonations, or phrases that might have changed the meaning of the events I describe here. Forgive me my errors.
Forces have been set in motion, forces I can only struggle against. I cannot hope to control them, and I believe that they are already poised to sweep me under, to dash me against the rocks in the current they have created.
I cannot send a note to warn the king of my suspicions. After the conversation I had in the garden this morning, I think the conspirators watch and perhaps control any messages the king receives. I must find a way to put this message into the world, and perhaps a solution will come to me before I have finished writing. Still, I have written to three of my lieutenants: Ilocehr Hargrave, William “Wet” M'Cray, and Nansa Westkitt. I trust them implicitly and with my life, and with their help perhaps we can find a way together to work against the Empire’s enemies.
My window is open. The candles flicker in the slight breeze, which carries the scent of the ivy and flowers outside. I can hear thunder rumble distantly. It’s getting louder. The storm tonight will be a bad one, I think… but I digress. It is time to begin.
My full name is Tomas Glasyin. I am of the Lesser House Stoyan. Our matriarch swears fealty to House Westkitt, yet when I took my oath in the army, I became Houseless. I am a general in the Empire’s armies, and until recently, I was a high commander of the ground forces. Tomorrow, I might be dead.
They say that victory is sweet. I have never found it so. Though it is better than the alternative, far better, victory tastes like ashes to me.
I remember the last time I killed someone with my own hands. It was fifteen years ago, during the Utland Uprising, and the enemy had broken through our lines. I was confident of victory, but not so sure that I would live to see it. I had planned for the line breaking as a ruse, to draw in our foes to be crushed by our reserves, but the enemy fought with greater ferocity than I would hav
e credited and turned the break closer than I anticipated. A fair number of my staff had let their combat skills slip, and because of that, I found myself face to face with an enemy for the first time in years.
My talents were true, and my muscles remembered their training. I bested the three who came against me before my troops rallied around me. I led the counter-charge myself when I discovered that Colonel William M’Cray, leader of the left flank, had been slain with his commanders. I held the flank until I could withdraw to oversee the greater battle. I dispatched perhaps five more of the enemy before the reserve pounded in and I could return to the command quarters. I remember the faces of each of the dead men. It is a facility I have, to remember names and faces, and I can summon up the dying agonies of the hundreds I have killed in my life.
As I said, I killed only eight that night, a far cry from the battles of my youth. I do not wish to take credit for the actions of my men, who fought bravely and well. I will claim credit for my quick action and for keeping morale, and because of that, I can claim credit for victory that day. That triumph led to the suppression of the Utland Uprising, and so I can call it the turning point in that conflict. For that, I can claim credit for holding the Empire together, since the other rebellious counties and provinces saw that we meant to hold our land no matter the cost, and their mutterings subsided. The king saw this as well, and he awarded me the Star of Ydris, an honor given to soldiers of exceptional bravery and valor. There have been only twenty-five stars awarded in the fifteen-hundred year history of the Empire, only twelve in the nearly six hundred Clasping Years since Terona’s last great acquisition, and I hold two of them.
I say all this to establish my credentials, not to boast. Despite my accomplishments, I take no joy in victory. I look on the fields of the dead and I cringe. I order the devastation of cities and towns and I weep inside at the destruction. Time and trouble have taught me to avoid war at all costs. As a younger man, I desired glory on the battlefield, but no longer. It is a last resort, and I curse the necessity of my profession. I have never told this to anyone. I am a private man, and I keep my agonies to myself. If it were not for my leadership, the senior general would be someone more reckless, less skillful, and the cost of war would be more than I could bear. I do the job I hate because there is no one who can do it better—no one who could do it at even twice the cost in lives. That is no choice at all. I serve the Empire and the king that I love.
