The Argument of Empires

by Jacob T. Helvey

  Trying to ignore the constant hammering of the men hastily patching their rooves, Grith headed towards the center of town, sharing greetings with a few faces he hadn’t seen since he had last been in Kuul. Children passed, marveling at the caiman skin he carried over his shoulder.

  “Did you kill that?” a boy asked, stopping to stare at the hide. He couldn’t have been more than six, lanky and tall for his age with a dark mop of hair matched by chocolate skin. Spirits! It wasn’t that long ago that I looked like that.

  “He put up a good fight,” Grith said, kneeling and pointing to the spear hole. “But I think I got the better of him.”

  The boy stared in awe, his dark eyes wide. Grith was likely the only warrior the boy had ever met, and at his age, they all wanted to be warriors. He stretched out a small hand towards the hide, but stopped just before his fingers brushed the rough skin along the spine. “My mother told me to run if I ever saw a scale-back.”

  Grith nodded. “Then she’s a wise woman. Leave the killing of these things to those of us without brains in our skulls.” He gave his head a soft wrap with his knuckles.

  Someone called to the boy, and he ran off before Grith could say more, shouting to a group of friends who milled around the back of a ramshackle house, likely ready to tell them the story of how he had met a real-life warrior, and carrying a caiman skin, no less. Grith might have looked like the boy once, but had he ever really been like these children? Certainly he’d been more serious. Years of training with the spear, bow, and clubs had robbed him of much of his childhood. Fun had been a luxury in his family’s house, and friends his own age an impossibility. It hadn’t been until the death of his parents that he had met Itte and Yiven, the only two men he could honestly call friends.

  Shaking his head, Grith threw the caiman skin back over his shoulder and turned to continue his walk, making his way towards the center of Kuul where Shaeze had his shop. The traffic was heavy this close to the Wide House, the administrative center of the town. Spirits! I didn’t know there were this many people in the whole village. Dozens, perhaps hundreds of men and women crowded the central square, the only open spot in Kuul large enough to contain so many milling, tightly packed bodies. They were all looking at something, but what that “something” was, Grith couldn’t tell.

  He poked his head up above the crowd, using his height to try and see what was causing the commotion. There was a precession of some sort up ahead, led by soldiers clad in heavy armor. He could see pale skin behind the open faces of their white tasseled helmets. Selivians…

  Shit! Grith cursed inwardly. No merchant kept such heavily armed guards. Only a Selivian official would have the use of such men. That was all they needed, a stuck up mainlander waltzing into town to give them some directive sent from on high. Probably trying to raise our taxes again, Grith thought.

  Regardless, if there was going to be a meeting, Grith needed to be present. As the only warrior in Kuul, he held an important position as the town’s protector. He had never been called out in any official capacity to fulfill the role, but it was difficult to know when that might change.

  “Let me through!” he shouted. “I’m a warrior!” The crowd parted as they saw the spear in his hand and the bow case hanging from his belt. After a few moments of pushing and shoving he emerged into a clearing at the center of the square where the Village Mothers—the defacto leaders of Kuul—stood facing the precession.

  Risha was the older and more wizened of the two. With a broad, kind face and a wide frame she was one of the few Shaleese that Girth would have hazarded to call fat.

  Tikala stood at her side. She was tall and broad-shouldered and still looked like she could wrestle a python, even in her advanced age. Together they represented the best of the Shaleese. Wisdom and ferocity in equal measure.

  “I didn’t know if you would make an appearance,” Tikala whispered to him, her voice still strong despite her graying hair.

  “Lucky I was in town then, mother,” he replied, glancing again at the pale skinned men filing into the square. “So, whose soldiers are they?”

  “I don’t know,” the woman said, sounding both interested and apprehensive. “But I think we’re about to find out.”

  The quiet chatter of gossip and conversation was broken by the sound of heavy boots on wood planks. Hundreds of eyes were drawn to a single point, work, lives, and the storm barreling down on the village forgotten in the face of the retinue rounding the corner of Shaeze’s shop. It wasn’t often that the Selivians visited the Shaleese Marshes and when they did, trouble always followed.

  Each one of the soldiers that fronted the formation carried a halberd at his shoulder and an sword at his belt. Their plate armor was polished to a mirror sheen, with the symbol of the Selivians, a green sunburst, painted directly onto the steel.

  Grith shifted uncomfortably. These were no normal grunts. They were too alert, their formation too uniform. Men like this protected lords, and important ones at that. And from the sygil etched into their armor, there was only one man they could be protecting: High Lord Irrin, Master of Selivia, and sworn vassal of Emperor Hadan—the most powerful man for a hundred miles. Grith felt a pit form in his stomach.

  The guards fanned out into a semi-circle, pushing back townspeople with lowered weapons and angry looks. Some protested, but almost all fell into line with enough prodding. A palanquin rounded the corner behind the guards, lifted by more than a dozen shirtless, pale skinned laborers and surrounded by even more armored soldiers. A group of scribes, servants, and a conspicuously dressed young man took up the rear.

  Grith counted the soldiers quickly, his warrior’s mind reverting to the basic skills his father had drilled into him so many years ago. Before you attack, it is important that you know the disposition of the men you are fighting, he had said. That way you can never be taken by surprise.

  There were thirty-two in all, the largest force that had entered the Marshes in Grith’s lifetime. He could feel bile welling up in his throat as the servants pulled up a dozen paces from where he and the Mothers stood.

  A stool was placed at the door of the palanquin allowing a man to descend to the boards below. He was thin with creamy skin and light blue eyes that scanned the milling crowd around him with disinterest. His dark hair was cut short and slicked back across the crown of his head with oil that gave the locks a lustrous sheen. Behind him trailed a heavy robe, red with black accents, the garment designed so that his equally fine shirt and vest peeked out at the high collar.

  Many of the townspeople gasped. Others fell to their knees, bowing to the man who, by Imperial Law, owned the land on which they stood. They were afraid, and Grith could understand that fear. Only he and a few others stood tall. He wouldn’t be intimidated, and certainly not in his own village.

  “Greetings, High Lord,” Risha said, giving a small bow.

  “We weren’t expecting you,” Tikala continued, seeming to complete her companion’s sentence.

  Grith gritted his teeth and tried to ignore their niceties. The Mothers knew how to play the game. It was wise to show respect and deference to men like this, but Spirits he wished they didn’t have to.

  Irrin gave a small nod of acknowledgement to each in turn. “So this is Kuul,” he said in Sasken, the common tongue of the Empire. “I never believed the stories. Cities rising from the marshes and all that.” He turned his head, looking over the collection of buildings surrounding the square. “Well, not exactly a city, but still marvelous. To think that there were places like this within my borders…”

  “Our people have always been resourceful, High Lord,” Risha said, smiling and playing the part of the dutiful subject like she had been born to the role.

  “Resourceful in avoiding your taxes, perhaps,” Irrin replied. It was said with such nonchalance that Grith half-thought he couldn’t give less of a shit for how much coin the Marshes put in his coffe
rs.

  But no. You didn’t become a High Lord by showing leniency towards your subjects. You became High Lord by being the most ruthless bastard around. The viper had started with kindness, but now, had finally shown his fangs. It was enough to make Grith’s blood boil. His parents had died fighting for men like this… this sawed off twat?

  “But those days are now coming to an end.” Irrin waved a hand to one of his scribes, motioning him forward. The round man produced a roll of paper from the satchel he wore over his shoulder. The High Lord took it, breaking the wax seal that held the formal-looking notice closed. He cleared his throat and in a sharp and clear voice, obviously meant for the entire town, read: “Let it be known that by the order of Emperor Hadan, Master of Hadalkir, Toashan, the Heranan Islands, and Fanalkir, the Province of Selivia should raise a force of no less than three-thousand men and make for Fanalkir at greatest speed. Let it be known that High Lord Irrin, Vassal and Lord of Selivia, may use any and all means necessary in the carrying out of this order.”

  A levy then. Brilliant. Grith had known this day would come for a long time. The Shaleese couldn’t stay aloof to this war in the south forever. And I’m the one carrying the weapons, he thought. I’ll be the first in line to the chopping block.

  “Thankfully, I will be generous.” Irrin continued, more quietly now. He turned to Tikala. “What would you say is the population of this town, my lady?”

  Tikala shrugged, shaken, but trying to show no sign that the High Lord had gotten to her. “Five-hundred, perhaps a little more.” Irrin waited, but the honorific never came. The subtle jab was enough to perk the corners of Grith’s mouth. The old woman had never much liked authority, even now that she wielded a small piece of it.

  “I see.” He turned back to the scribe who had given him the writ. “And how many would you say we take, Trimier?”

  “Based on the towns we’ve recruited from previously, I believe twelve would be a respectable number, High Lord.”

  “Twelve it is then.” Irrin turned back to the village. “You have until tomorrow to decide which of you will be joining my army. I trust that you will choose the most capable and strong young men among you. Until then, I will be waiting in whatever passes for this village’s meeting hall. Come to me when you have made your decision.”

  Two:

  Kareen

  Kwell sat like a scar on the horizon, splitting in two the arid hills of northern Fanalkir. Its famed walls, tall to protect against the sea winds, were now visible as a band of gray in the distance, protecting the city and the mountain peak at its center from the punishing storms of the Godsea.

  The hurricanes that came off the Eye of Tirrak were strong enough to capsize even the mightiest bulk transports. A city like Kwell might face half a dozen such storms a year. And still, its builders had chosen an open strip of coastline on which to build their city, even though the surrounding lands were dotted with natural harbors. But who was she, to question the wisdom of Kwell’s ancient builders?

  Kareen turned away from Kuul, allowing the winds coming off the Eye to blow through her dark hair. Those winds, which Kareen had sworn would sink their ship only a week ago, calmed her now, a cooling breeze in a land famed for its heat.

  “My lady,” came a voice from the rear of the ship. A squat man in a fine jacket and trousers was approaching from the aft. Lord Yules…

  Yules had been her traveling companion since boarding The Skydaughter’s Kiss a month ago. Both had needed the fastest ship in the port at Akiv, Yules because he was late in reporting to his post along the Front in Fanalkir, and Kareen because she needed to pay her taxes.

  “Look at you!” Yules exclaimed, coming up to stand beside her at the ship’s railing. “Thousands of miles from home, all by yourself, and you still stand tall. Your father would be so proud.” Kareen put on her most agreeable smile, trying with all her might to stomach the man’s niceties. She had heard enough of his compliments to last a lifetime since boarding The Skydaughter. “He spoke so highly of you the last time we met. Said that you were the best daughter a man could ask for.”

  Kareen smirked. “I’m not sure if I should take that as a complement or an insult.”

  “Take it for what it is,” Yules said. He turned to her, his expression becoming serious. “He’s a good man, your father, no matter what the others say.”

  The others… Yules meant the other lords. There were hundreds in the Empire. And almost all who still lived had sided with Emperor Hadan during the Autumn Rebellion, all except her father and a handful of his ostracized companions. “The others would prefer to see his head mounted on a pike in the Courtyard of the Fates.” She took a deep breath. “Along with all the others…”

  “I remember those days well,” Yules said with a sigh. “You can’t blame them for that sentiment. Not when your people burned all the lands from the Kilrian border to Akiv.”

  “I was nine,” Kareen said, defensively. “The only thing I remember is the messenger coming to my father’s estate after the battle at Anton. Father told me to go to my room.” She gave a grim smile. “Probably didn’t want me to hear the bad news. But I was always stubborn. I listened at the door as the man told Father about the slaughter following the battle. About how Komay had been beheaded in front of what was left of his men. How his corpse was dragged back to Akiv behind the Emperor’s horse.” That messenger’s words still haunted her. It was as if, at such a young age, she could almost see the events he described.

  She could picture Komay—she had seen him once when he had come to recruit her father for his rebellion—his noble head torn from his shoulders, his fine features spattered with blood. The thought was enough to make her sick, even seven years on.

  “It must have made quite an impression,” Yules said. “But you’re alive, which is more than can be said for the others.”

  “I think about the families, Yules,” she continued, ignoring his attempts at kindness. Why was she telling him this? This man, who had fought on the other side.

  “Stripped of their titles,” he added. “Made homeless.” There was true remorse in his voice. Although he might have thrown in with the Emperor, Yules had known her family in the years before the Rebellion. No matter what his sympathies, he felt for them, understood their plight.

  “In comparison,” Kareen said. “My family was lucky.”

  “Still, to have to pay your taxes to the Emperor in person every year. It seems a stiff punishment.”

  That wasn’t even the worst of it. The Stevalan family was barred from raising levies and acquiring new peasantry. They couldn’t even see fair representation in a court of law, as was their right as Peers.

  “If His Highness had been in Akiv, as he was when my father and brothers made the trip, I’d be home now. Instead, I have to travel to this… this warzone,” she said bitterly, motioning to the city.

  Kwell was quickly filling more of the horizon to her left. She could pick out individual ships in the docks now, laying at anchor in their hundreds, most carrying supplies or troops for the war against the Cutarans. Kareen cursed herself for not yet packing, and turned to head towards the ladder down to her room in the hold.

  Remembering herself, she stopped for long enough to give a short curtsy to Yules. He blushed slightly at the gesture. Given the difference in their ages, should she find that endearing, or slightly strange? She decided to trust the man’s decency—this time—and went with the former.

  “I was speaking to the captain a moment ago,” Yules said before she could extricate herself, motioning to the rear of the ship where the Heranan manned the wheel. “He says we can’t be more than an hour out of port.” He pulled a handkerchief from within his coat and wiped the sweat from his face. “I already have my men packing my things. I don’t want to keep the Emperor waiting on me.”

  “Neither do I,” Kareen replied, looking back towards Kwell. “I’ve heard he is
n’t kind to tax-dodgers.”

  “It was a pleasure to share your company,” said Yules, holding out a pudgy hand. She took it and let him kiss her father’s ring. “Through thick and thin and through all the terrors of this journey, you were a guiding light.”

  Kareen smiled, but inwardly, rolled her eyes. How did women who spent time at court ever learn to tolerate this kind of flattery? “If I ever suggest traveling on one of these things again, have me committed and throw away the key.”

  But, as much as she had hated every moment spent aboard, The Skydaughter’s Kiss had cut her journey in half. Stormrunners could skirt the Eye of Tirrak and use the power of the eternal storm to push themselves forward at speeds impossible to attain in a normal ship. She had thought they would die on more than one occasion, but their Heranan captain claimed he had run the Eye a dozen times before and had masterfully sailed them through. But despite their luck, she had no intention of repeating the experience.

  “I should go below,” she told Yules. “I still have some things to pack before we offload.” She gave another curtsy and took the ship’s ladder down to her cabin, before the man could prod her more.

  The interior of her little room was somehow simultaneously cramped and sparse. Captain Poil had assured her that the hull of the ship had to be thick enough to survive the Eye, and so comfort had to be sacrificed in the name of strength. It was a strange adjustment for a young woman used to wide stone chambers and canopied feather beds.

  She gathered her clothes, purchased at the suggestion of a secretary in the Imperial Palace. It’s as hot as the abyss down there, my lady, she had told Kareen. Buy cotton. It’ll keep the heat at bay longer than that stuffy wool of yours.

  She had taken the woman at her word, and bought a dozen cotton dresses in varying styles, ranging from formal gowns to more casual outfits that could be worn on any occasion. They might not have been tight fitting silk, as was the fashion these days, but Kareen still maintained that there was nothing less fashionable than sweating buckets.