The Cor Chronicles: Volume 04 - Gods and Steel

by Martin V. Parece II

  When they reached the top, Marya held her breathe at the beauty of the panorama below her. Blue water stretched for as far as she could see into the horizon, reflecting the sun’s light off its surface. Waves broke with white crests on the rocks far below them, and seabirds sang and cawed as they glided through the air all around. Nestled far below and with another such cliff on its other side was the city of Theron.

  Marya found it to be rather unimpressive as cities went. Of course, once one had seen the walls of Byrverus shine brightly with the morning sun, no other city could hope to compete. Theron was less than a quarter the size of Byrverus, and it had no great walls around it to protect from invasion. The city was established well after the Cleansing and had never seen war, so such defenses were not needed as far as Akorites were concerned. Theron was as much port as it was anything else, as the city’s entire economy was based on trading goods by sea, and half of the city’s area seemed to consist of docks. At these and even from a great distance, she could see the great ships Cor had once described from his journeys. Oddly, there were several which she assumed to be Tigolean apparently anchored outside of the city’s harbor.

  “Picturesque is it not? Now you know why I wanted you all to come up this way,” Parol said almost as a sigh. He placed his hand on his brow to shield his eyes from the sun and seemed to look out to sea. “That is good! It seems that they already arrive. Very well then, let us away to our army.”

  Marya somehow doubted that Parol had merely wanted to show her the view. Though she had to admit, it was quite a view! Regardless, she was sure the Tigolean ships anchored outside the harbor had something to do with his need to ascend the cliff, and whatever it meant, Parol had clearly found what he hoped to find.

  They marched into Theron as kings and generals at the head of a conquering army that had returned home, though everyone who watched knew they had in fact come to conquer the city and Akor with it. Parol led on a magnificent stallion with his wife to his right and Marya to his left, both riding bay mares. Thousands of armed men entered the nearly unprotected city on foot, and to look around, Marya thought their force eclipsed the defenders of Theron by four times at least. Apparently, the merchant city needed little protection. For their part, the people seemed completely uninterested, as if this sort of thing happened every day. Or maybe it was because they all knew it was coming.

  Up close, Theron was even less impressive than from afar. There were no grand and shining buildings like there were all over Byrverus. Most everything was made from timber or boring gray rock, the likes of which existed anywhere. As they moved toward Theron’s center, the homes grew larger and more beautiful, eventually giving way to estates similar to what she had seen in Byrverus. It was interesting that the rich and powerful always tended to be at the center of cities.

  Parol stopped his horse outside one of these, a gigantic palatial estate seemingly made entirely of marble. Polished steel gates set into ten foot tall walls of marble stood open, revealing an enormous and luxurious courtyard. Several guards stood outside this gate, and they were clad in the most polished and ornamental plate mail Marya had ever seen. She thought that one single plate may have cost more than all of her utilitarian ensemble and was less useful. Parol dismounted and motioned for the others to do so as well.

  “Where are we? Is this your home?” Marya asked as she dropped to the ground. She looked back the way they had come and saw the thousands of armed and armored men weaving through the city streets. It unnerved her how much the army looked like a giant snake, each individual man a single scale.

  “My home? No, of course not. At least, not yet. No this is the Linare – the palace of the King of Akor,” Parol explained. “I am sure the king is expecting us, and with any luck, most of his noble subjects await as well.”

  “He holds court? Here?”

  “It may not be as grand as King Rederick’s palace in Byrverus,” Parol responded hotly, “but yes. Remember, we of Akor are merchants, not military minded. Our edifices are designed with luxury in mind, not war and defense. War has never come to Akor.”

  “That may change before long,” Marya said, almost under her breath, and Parol shot her a hard look for the remark.

  Marya followed behind Lord and Lady Parol, allowing the noble to lead the way. He left all of his men behind except for a large toothless brute, made so by Marya’s forehead, and a small wiry man that Marya knew to be an assassin of the best kind. The grounds inside the wall were lush and beautiful with thick green grasses and many plants the likes of which were sure to have been imported. Trees, bushes and vines bearing wide arrays of fruit were everywhere, and many she had never seen before. There were also fountains of marble, spilling the purest looking water. They followed a slate walk up to a pair of ten foot tall gilded doors which had been left open to reveal the estate’s interior. There were few guards and a number of onlookers, but no one barred their path.

  Inside was as plush and beautiful as outside. The room they entered seemed to make up the entirety of the estate, appearing larger on the outside than the inside. The floors were of marble, has were the many columns that supported a ceiling that appeared to be the same. Thick, soft rugs and rich animal skins from the entire world adorned the floor, and there were expensive divans, couches and pillows everywhere, many of which in use by persons in expensive garb. They all watched Parol as he leisurely crossed the room on his course toward the largest of the divans. It had to be fifteen feet long and at least four feet wide, upholstered with the richest of burgundy velvets. Satin pillows leaned against scrolled arms apparently wrought of gold. To Marya’s eye in fact, the entire frame of the thing appeared to have been made of gold, and she thought it must have weighed a thousand pounds. Parol stood in front of it, eying it critically before he turned to face the assembled crowd.

  Marya looked around and counted at least three score persons who looked to be important and another two score who had the look of servants. She counted maybe fifteen weapons among them, and she was fairly certain that she could kill everyone within the great room if she had to.

  “Where is the king?” Parol called out to anyone who would answer.

  “It seems he’s fled,” answered a lazy noble who lay stretched across an animal skin Marya couldn’t identify. He lay on his side with his head propped on one hand, a golden goblet in front of him. The man yawned before continuing, “I think our good king caught wind of your little move on his throne. He boarded his fastest galley and sailed with the dawn. He made no mention of returning.”

  “Then he has conceded the throne to me,” Parol concluded.

  “Perhaps,” replied another noble. This one leaned cordially against a marble column, dressed in a rich velvet tunic and silk leggings. “But you may wish to acquire some royal food tasters.”

  This brought a few soft, sarcastic laughs from around the room, and as Marya searched their faces, she found few of the merchant nobles looked up at either her or Parol. They were so different from the nobles and lords she’d seen at the court in Byrverus. These men and women were soft and rich, used to a certain degree of luxury and languidness in their lives. She realized, their disinterested faces showed what they really thought of their new king – they didn’t care one way or the other who ruled so long as their moneys continued to roll into their coffers.

  Parol sat onto the royal divan, leaning so that his right arm rested on a massive golden scroll. A few shot interested glances his way before returning to their practiced apathy.

  “I claim the throne of Akor!” Parol called triumphantly.

  “Good for you!” came a sardonic reply from a far corner. Marya instinctively and openly laid her hands on her weapons.

  Parol ignored the jibe, and what he said next drew real stares. “I declare myself Emperor of the Shining West! Too long we have accepted the leadership of Aquis and its priests. No longer!”

  “Really? Have you informed King Rederick?” asked the first man. He still lounged across the floor
, but he seemed far more engaged. “What if he refuses to accept your newfound emperorship? Shall we declare war upon our neighbor who is ten times our size? Perhaps we shall inundate them with armies of trading caravans! We have no rocks, so we shall fill our catapults with heavy bags of coin and melt our gold down to make arrowheads!”

  “Mock me not, Lord Opun,” Parol calmly replied to the sounds of open guffaws and feigned inhalations of shock. “Akor is small, but we have much to offer.”

  “The army you’ve marched into Theron consists of almost every fighter left in the kingdom, excluding our own personal guards, and it’s nothing compared to the armies of Aquis.”

  “You are wrong again Lord Opun. Aquis is weak, its strength broken by the Loszians. Rederick dreams of taking the war to Losz, but it will take him years to rebuild his broken cities. The damage to Aquis’ economy alone will slow him immensely, and let’s not speak of the loss of so many of his people.

  “He won’t be able to stop the hosts I will bring to bear on him,” Parol concluded.

  The great room was silent, and all the nobles seemed suddenly interested or at least curious. The one called Opun pushed himself up to sit cross legged on the animal skin and said, “And what could you possibly bring to bear? Five or ten thousand green soldiers and hired mercenaries?”

  “One hundred thousand blood and loot thirsty Tigoleans.”

  * * *

  Parol lay stretched across the royal divan, completely naked as Marya stood and began to strap on her armor. Parol had commissioned it for her shortly after leaving the Steaming Potato those months ago, and it had taken some time for the armorer to complete it. Fitted perfectly for her, it consisted of a simple plate hauberk and legguards, plate armguards and sabatons with chain mail underneath. She had discarded the chain mail early, much to Parol’s consternation, but she explained that it was important for her to not be protected quite so much. The noble turned King had merely nodded.

  Parol refused to say more after his announcement of an impending Tigolean invasion. He politely ignored or sidestepped additional questions, saying only that he would meet with each Merchant Lord in turn over the next few days. He then curtly dismissed them all and locked the palace up tight. He stationed a hefty number of his own men as guards and gave orders for the rest of the host to be quartered wherever there was room. He sent his wife and children away to find suitable suites.

  He then bent Marya over and took her right over the divan. Once he was done, she pushed him down and climbed atop him, but the bastard couldn’t keep himself hard enough to please her. She sighed as she encased herself with steel; Keth had never had that problem.

  “Where did you find a hundred thousand Tigoleans?” she asked. His eyes narrowed at the question, and Marya knew the familiar tone in her voice grated on his sense of propriety.

  “From Tigol of course, and you will address me as Majesty at all times. I am your King now.”

  “At all times?” she repeated. She then mocked her own words from just minutes earlier. “Oh yes, Majesty! Oh gods, Majesty! Fuck me, Majesty!”

  “How dare you,” he growled. His eyes smoldering, he shot up from his place, and she nearly laughed at his shrunken manhood.

  “My apologies, Majesty,” she said as sincerely as she could muster, bowing her head. “Majesty, I am curious how you secured a host of Tigoleans.”

  “It was simple,” he replied as he sat back upon the divan, though less comfortably. “Good coin will buy anything. Promise them lands, titles, incomes and exclusive trading rights, and Tigolean warlords will line up to provide you the muscle you need. The first has already anchored ships at sea, and tomorrow I will send word to him that he may dock.”

  “And where do I fit in this plan of yours, Majesty? I ride beside you at the front of your host, and you ride me behind closed doors. Am I just some warrior or general, your lover or both?”

  “Where do you want to fit in?” Parol asked. They locked eyes for a moment, and the fire that had shone in his eyes was now gone.

  “I want it all,” Marya replied quietly. “I want the throne next to yours. I want Empress of the Shining West.”

  “Ha!” Parol blurted loudly, slapping his knee. He searched Marya’s face and quieted his tone when he found no hint of humor, “It’s impossible. I am married. My wife is Queen of Akor, Empress. It cannot be you.”

  “Your marriage is nothing to you, Majesty,” she sneered. “Don’t tell me you are suddenly an honorable man. If I am to feel your seed spilled within me almost nightly, then I shall have the power I deserve!”

  “You have the position you deserve,” Parol replied, his voice hard as stone. The two locked gazes, and after a moment he sighed. “What you ask is impossible, but I will promise you this – prove to me that you are in fact the Lord Dahken you claim to be, prove that you can make this Lord Dahken Cor bend to you, and I shall make you Lord Dahken of all the West. You will have dominion over all your people and answer only to me.”

  “May I leave now, Majesty?”

  Parol waived nonchalantly, and Marya strode away. As she approached one of the barred exits from the marble hall, she took comfort in the fact that she could have killed him at any moment.

  8.

  It was a bizarre moment – reaching out to the scholar. I had little point of reference, but I think he couldn’t have been more than maybe one point six meters tall and no more than sixty kilos. He was a bent old man, likely about sixty Rumedian years of age, which put him closer to seventy Solar years. His once black hair had turned stone white, though it was still perfectly straight, and it reached down almost to his waist. He had a matching mustache, each side of which extended easily twenty five centimeters in either direction and was split in two by a shaved upper lip. His yellowish skin had wrinkled and tightened with age, but his dark eyes revealed sharp intellect.

  The scholar was a quiet, learned man on the northwestern coast of the southern continent, Tigol. He had a small stone tower, some distance from a village, in which he kept many books. Not just books, actually; he had scrolls, loose pieces of parchment and papyrus, even pictures and runes that had been scrawled across pieces of rock. He was wise and knowledgeable, and people of all sorts seemed to seek him out for information.

  I’d been feeling the need to pass on some of the stories that I Chronicled, to make sure that some of the lives I watched and recorded made it to the people of the world. I knew from files I had scanned that the Chronicler before me had used the Tigolean scholar a number of times. It was easy to find him, and even easier, frighteningly easier to connect my mind with his. I filled it with images, images that threatened to burn his brain should he not expel them. The link lasted only five milliseconds, and within seconds of breaking it, the scholar set to writing on anything he could find.

  It was very nearly mind control, and I wonder if I could have actually made him do anything I wished. I had never seen such technology – not on Mars, not on New Earth and not on Aldebaran Gateway Station. What would happen if the fleet got their hands on it? What would happen if Admiral Zheng got his hands on it? I can only hope the gods would never allow it. After all, they stopped a nuclear device from detonating. To hell with nuclear devices! They stopped a gun – one of the simplest weapons, powered by simple chemistry – from going off.

  I am back in the archives now, trying to find some way around the security that was put in place so long ago. Someone has gone to so much trouble to hide the past, to hide how this all happened, and it is that fact that intrigues me so much.

  I was seventeen (in Solar years, not Polluxian) when I told my parents that I was joining the service. Of course, they could have forbid it, but that wouldn’t matter once I graduated secondary school. My father, a Chinese botanist, opposed my decision heavily. He felt that the service was just another extension of the totalitarian regime. My mother, a nurse and a white American, just cried. I went to the Academy on New Earth for the next three years, and I nearly dropped out a million t
imes, even up until the day I shipped out to Aldebaran Gateway Station. Before they packed us up and sent us to AGS, they gave us a month off to spend however we wished. Most of us spent it with our families, and it was the hardest month of my life. I went to bed every night saying, “I’m dropping out. I’m quitting.” The day before the tran picked me up, no tear went unshed, even with my stoic father. We all knew that by the time I reached AGS in three months, they would both likely be dead and gone from old age.

  I joined the service because I wanted answers, and I thought I would find them among the stars. Philosophy, faith and science had all failed me. I was too empirical for faith, too emotional for philosophy and too hopeful for science. I needed to leave the trappings of my home to look elsewhere. I didn’t find my answers, or at least I haven’t yet. But there are answers here, at least to this puzzle, and I will piece it together.

  9.

  “This should be fine for me and Thyss,” Cor said.

  He had a layout of the Crescent laid out on the table in front of him as Keth, Brenden and a few engineers stood round. The Crescent was an ancient set of buildings and guardhouses not too far from Byrverus’ center. In the old days of The Cleansing, it was part of the main defenses for the city, but as Byrverus grew, they became more and more obsolete. Larger walls were erected further out to protect the ever expanding capital, eventually culminating in the incredible but now broken white walls. The Crescent, named so for its shape like a crescent moon, fell into disuse and then disrepair. It wasn’t until the richer and more influential citizens of the city demanded something be done with the eyesore that Queen Erella had it renovated primarily for administrative use.