Empress Aurora Trilogy Quest For the Kingdom Parts I, II, and III Revised With Index (Quest For the Kingdom Set)

by L. M. Roth

  An overpowering thirst suddenly assailed him. His tongue seemed cloven to the roof of his mouth. It felt thick and furry. When had he last had any water?

  He lifted his head, only to let it fall back as the pain throbbed more intensely with his head raised. He tried to cry out but only a hoarse croak escaped from his throat. Was there any near who could hear him? Any to come to his call?

  A door suddenly crashed open, revealing a dimly lit corridor beyond the rectangular frame. A burly guard with an unpleasant face thrust a lantern dangling from his hand in the direction of Marcus’ face.

  “Well,” he jeered. “Coming around are you?”

  “Where am I?” Marcus croaked.

  “You’re on your way to a new world,” the guard snickered.

  “Water, I need water,” Marcus demanded.

  “Don’t get so high and mighty with me!” the guard bellowed, with a threat in his voice.

  Marcus measured him with his eyes, and noted that although he was only of medium height he outweighed Marcus considerably, being heavily muscled. That fact did not deter him in his outrage at being manacled.

  “I am Marcus Maximus, son of the great Valerius Maximus, the most honored General in all the Imperial Army. How dare you speak to me like that?”

  “Dare? Here’s how I dare!”

  The guard slugged Marcus’ jaw, adding to the pain from the blow to his head.

  “You may have been the son of the great Valerius Maximus, but you’re about to begin a whole new life!”

  The guard laughed unpleasantly and stomped out, slamming the door as he went. The room was plunged into darkness once more.

  Marcus lay in a blackness that was almost as bleak as the despair in his heart. What, what had happened? Why had the estate been attacked? Why was he taken? And most of all, what had happened to his father and mother?

  Marcus thought of his parents. His stern father with his erect military bearing, massive shoulders, and his iron control of his emotions. Marcus could not remember ever seeing his father lose his composure. Never had he seen him cry when tragedy struck, no, not even at the death of his younger son five years before.

  Callistus had been a delicate child with a small piping voice and a smile that was quick and bright. He adored his father and played soldier with an avid desire to someday be as fierce as his father. Valerius delighted in the child and joined in his games, acting the part of commander to whom Callistus must report for duty.

  Then one day while riding his pony Rufus, a rabbit that hopped across his path startled the animal and he took off at a gallop, with Callistus clinging to his mane. Marcus attempted to stop the runaway pony, but before he could catch the reins Rufus tripped on hitting a gopher hole. His knees buckled; Callistus lost his grip and sailed over his head. A frantic Marcus raced to the spot where his brother lay white and still. But nothing was to be done. The child lay dead.

  It was Marcus who carried his young brother in his arms to his father’s library, where he had retired to study some maps for an upcoming military campaign. The room was usually a haven for Marcus, one where he liked to retire when he wanted to retreat from the world. With its shelves of scrolls compiled from the great works of literature, the large stone-circled brazier that warmed a winter evening, and the atmosphere of hushed quiet that calmed his spirit after a busy day, it embodied stability and a sense of life enduring as it had always endured. But no more. With this day, life would never be the same again. Wordlessly he entered the library.

  “Father..” Marcus whispered over the lump in his throat.

  His father glanced at the burden his eldest son carried and staggered to his feet. Marcus placed the broken body of his son in his father’s arms. Valerius paled, and looked without seeing at the still face of Callistus. Yet no tears escaped from his eyes. Only a moan quickly stifled betrayed the devastation in his heart.

  For Marcus’ mother Honoria the loss was unbearable. Upon seeing the body of her small son she collapsed as if from a physical blow. Marcus caught her before she fell to the ground and helped her to a chair. A cry escaped from her lips before she clamped a hand to her mouth. Silent sobs racked her body as she struggled to regain composure. With difficulty she quieted her breathing, then rose slowly to her feet, every inch a matron of Valerium.

  In the days and months that followed, Marcus wondered if he would ever again laugh with such carefree gaiety as he did in the days before he lost his younger brother. His parents bore their grief in stoic silence as was the custom of their people. Yet Marcus knew that for them the death of Callistus was a terrible loss, but to be borne with dignity.

  And now, were they grieving again in the belief that their remaining son was lost to them? And what of them, were they killed in the attack on the Villa Maximus, or did they yet live?

  After he healed from the blow to the head, Marcus was taken to the hold of the ship, where to his distaste he was incarcerated with other unfortunate souls, prisoners like himself. He was given a berth so narrow and short that in order to lie on it he had to curl up on his side, bringing his knees up in a fetal position. He could sit on it during the day, but he was manacled and unable to roam freely about.

  His fellow prisoners suffered likewise, and as no one was given water to bathe, the stench of unwashed bodies quickly became overpowering. Meals were brought three times daily, consisting of dry bread, vegetables cooked so lightly that they were still half-raw, and surprisingly, meat, although it was not a good quality and was cooked until it was tough and difficult to chew.

  Marcus was surprised at this last addition until he was enlightened on his second day in the hold by one of the guards who brought him his meals.

  “Here you are, and eat up every last morsel,” the man chortled with a wry grin on his face.

  “Why are you so concerned for my welfare?” Marcus asked the man, astonished at what he at first perceived to be kindness on the man’s part.

  “Welfare?” the guard snickered. “I am not concerned for your welfare! Do you mean to tell me that you don’t know where you are bound?”

  Marcus felt a sense of uneasiness creep over him. He was suddenly afraid to ask any more questions, but the guard was not about to let him off lightly.

  “You truly don’t understand, do you?” the guard queried. “Well, then allow me to enlighten you, my haughty young lord! You are to eat meat so that you do not lose strength.”

  The guard stopped and guffawed. Marcus felt the urge to slap his mocking face, but restrained himself.

  “Oh, this is rich! Rich indeed!” the guard permitted himself the luxury of another laugh, then stopped.

  “Well, let me inform you, young master, that you are bound for Eirinia, and the reason you are allowed to have meat is to keep up your strength, because they don’t want any weaklings up for auction at the slave market!”

  With that, the guard laughed into the stunned face of Marcus, and left the hold.

  The sun was so bright when he emerged from the darkness of the hold that Marcus saw green spots dancing before his eyes. The day was fair, with billowing white clouds drifting like the sails of a ship against a sky so blue that it looked like an ocean hovering over the world. To Marcus, it seemed a mockery, a cruel joke that his freedom should end on such a halcyon day.

  What had he or his father done to merit him being sold as a slave in the market? And in Eirinia, of all places in the Valeriun Empire, why Eirinia?

  Marcus was not unfamiliar with the land of Eirinia, although he had never been there. Tales of the wild people to the north had terrorized the citizens of Valerium for more than a hundred years. True, they had been brought to heel under the feet of the Valeriun Empire, but they were a savage and unlawful people with customs and beliefs that were primitive and incomprehensible to the Valerians.

  Here the inhabitants made blood sacrifices to their gods, it was said. Blood sacrifices of their own people, was the rumor. And strange sorcerers wove spells and chanted incantations that produce
d dark magic and wicked enchantments.

  If he had to be sold as a slave, Marcus mused to himself, why in Eirinia of all the lands to choose from in the Valeriun Empire? For surely his fate in such a wild land would be horrifying to hear of, if indeed he lived long enough to tell about it!

  Chapter III

  A Change of Fortune

  Marcus gazed at the night sky. Such a vast expanse of glittering stars! Like lamps to illumine the darkness of night, his mother once described them. Did they look down on the affairs of men as some believed? There were those who alleged that the stars were peopled by gods, and that they intervened in the lives of those who called upon them.

  Marcus held no brook with such thought, nor did his father. Valerius had once, on the occasion of the funeral of Callistus, shared his opinion with Marcus.

  While Honoria believed in the gods with her whole being, never missing a sacrifice in the temple for whichever deity had a feast day, Valerius had his doubts. If the world was governed by supreme beings, why was it so chaotic? As a soldier he had been on many campaigns, fought in many wars, and subjugated many peoples.

  He had heard the prayers of many soldiers before marching into combat, prayers that their lives be spared in the midst of battle. All too often those prayers went unheeded. He had witnessed the desperate sacrifices of those villagers who were being marauded by an invading army, prayers for protection from the conquerors. But no one answered. And finally, what had Callistus ever done wrong that he should be taken from this world at the tender age of nine years? Why, his life had barely begun before it was ended! No, Valerius did not believe in any higher power that interested itself in the affairs of men.

  All this Marcus thought on as he meditated on the starlit blackness above him. Did he believe in a higher power? If he were to answer in truth, then that answer must be no. For what had he done that merited being taken captive from his father’s house and sold into slavery?

  It was now more than five months since the events that had shattered his world, and Marcus was now a slave in the remote backwater of Eirinia. Backwater indeed! There was nothing in Eirinia except rolling green hills, myriads of sheep, and the shaggy wild men who raised them.

  More than one hundred years ago Eirinia had been but a rumor among the civilized men of Valerium. Legend spoke of a wild people to the north who sacrificed their own people to their gods and dwelt in a lush, green land encircled by mists that rolled in from the sea.

  It was the Emperor Severus who took the initiative to determine the truth for himself. He reasoned that a land so lush would be of great benefit for Valerium. And the inhabitants would be enslaved to serve the Empire.

  But, alas for Severus, all was not as he envisioned. For one, the inhabitants did not see matters in quite the same light that he did. They loved their land and decided to keep possession of it for themselves. And when the soldiers of the Valerian army first beheld the inhabitants of Eirinia, their hearts nearly failed for courage.

  Such sights were rarely seen in the urbane, civilized world of Valerium. The inhabitants of Eirinia that greeted the invading Valerians were wild beyond description. Naked except for a loincloth, they carried spears that they could hurl at great distances. On their heads each wore a leather cap with a pair of ram’s horns attached to it.

  Any soldier who was hapless enough to get close to one of the Eirini (if he had not first been speared) was quickly gored to death. Against such weaponry close combat was difficult, the long Valerian broadsword being tricky to wield against a weaving opponent who aimed at any exposed part of the body. Since the Valerians’ battle gear consisted of a short knee-length sleeveless tunic, a breastplate of metal to protect the heart, and a helmet to cover the head, it was not difficult to find a vulnerable spot.

  Coming behind a Valerian soldier engaged in hand to hand combat with another foe was a favorite trick of the Eirini. They simply charged from behind, bent their head and gored the thigh of the Valerian and tossed him in the air as a bull might have done. If he did not die of a broken neck in the fall, the resulting loss of blood expedited death.

  For more than three years the Emperor waged campaign after campaign against the Eirini, but to no avail. Until at last the day came when a soldier of Valerium came to Emperor Severus with a solution. The Eirini depended entirely on their livestock for survival. From their sheep they gathered wool for blankets and clothing in the cold winter months and slaughtered them for their meat. They depended on the forests to gather nuts and berries, medicinal herbs, and firewood for kindling.

  If, the soldier suggested, the Valerians set fire to the forests and the grass the sheep grazed on, the Eirini would be forced to submit for survival. The Emperor delighted in the proposal and promoted the soldier in rank to execute the plan. And that is how Valerius Maximus’s great-grandfather became the head of the Valerian army.

  When the Eirini saw the Valerian legions with torches at the ready they rallied to defend their land. The Valerians, however, determined on their course and torched the straw-covered huts of their abodes, the grasses their sheep grazed on, and headed for the forest. The Eirini women and children in the huts perished in the devouring flames and the Eirini men were torn between fighting to avenge them or trying to save their land. They fought on, but the fire decimated their villages and turned their lush grasslands to a brown wasteland.

  In village after village it was the same, until at last after a summer of starvation the Eirini sued for peace. The terms of the treaty were thus: the Eirini would continue to raise their sheep and live on their land, but a tribute of livestock and wool was to be delivered annually to the Emperor.

  The treaty was ratified; grass was reseeded, new trees planted, and now more than one hundred years later, Eirinia was again a lush green land. The Eirini people had learned enough of the Valerian language to be conversant, although they clung to their own customs and manner of living.

  Marcus glanced at his master Cadeyrn. For several weeks the two of them had come out by night to watch the flock. Someone had to protect the sheep from the wolves who roamed after dark in search of tender meat. Marcus didn’t think a man’s life worth endangering to protect a creature that could do nothing but eat grass.

  When Marcus had been taken from the slave galley, his eyes had been dazzled by the first sight of a land so green he thought it must surely be a vision of some fantasy world come to existence. Such an emerald verdure was undreamed of!

  In time he would come to know the mists that could roll in from the sea without warning, transforming the familiar landscape into something out of a dream world, at once terrifying and entrancing. He would come to hear the tales of strange beings that walked in the wilderness, inducing the villagers to keep their distance from the woods and be home by nightfall. How much was fact and how much fantasy Marcus could not determine, since he never saw such beings with his own eyes.

  He was transported to the village of Leith and informed that he would be required to herd sheep. In return, he would be given two meals a day and provided with a small corner of the hut of the family of Cadeyrn to sleep in. The two meals a day both seemed always to consist of black bread, berries, nuts, and occasional mutton. The corner of the hut was a space so tiny that he had to curl up in a ball in order to recline. The floor was packed earth and always hard, cold, and uncomfortable. He was provided with a blanket woven from wool, but he seemed always chilled to the bone.

  Marcus remembered with longing his spacious bedroom at home; the large, airy chamber with exquisitely tiled floors, the bed with its many blankets and cushions, and the brazier that warmed and cheered his chamber. With even more longing did he recall the ample meals that he indulged in so carelessly: mounds of luscious fruit both tart and sweet, hearty meats with the juices running from them, breads of a soft and dainty nature, and ices to cool one down on a hot summer day. Would he ever taste such delights again?

  Even more did he miss the companionship of Felix, with his intelligent conversati
on, his irrepressible sense of humor, and the friendly rivalry that made them such excellent sparring partners. What had happened to Felix? Had he been caught in the raid and unable to keep his rendezvous with Marcus?

  The family of Cadeyrn had no stimulating conversation, no humor to liven the dull days, and worst of all the hut and its inhabitants reeked of sheep. Although the Eirini had absorbed some of the customs of Eirinia, bathing among them, it did not dispel the odor of sheep that clung to his own and Cadeyrn’s clothing. Marcus felt his entire world had been reduced to the smell of sheep and the sound of their bleating. His life was a far cry from the stately dignity he had enjoyed as his father’s son.

  Although Marcus had not himself seen any evidence of the brutal savagery attributed to the Eirini in warfare, nor witnessed any sorcery among those with whom he dwelt, he was aware of undercurrents of secrecy; whispers between Cadeyrn and his wife that stopped abruptly if he entered the hut, covert glances in the village between certain men who gave hand signals to one another, quickly cut off if any chanced to catch their exchanges.

  No, he did not evidence anything sinister with his own eyes, yet he sensed that the rumors he had heard of Eirinia all of his life were based on fact. It did not make him feel at ease in this eerie yet beautiful land…

  Something brushed against him in the dark, startling him. It was Monte, the lamb who seemed to haunt his steps. Cadeyrn had named him Bleater because of all the lambs he bleated the most. But Marcus dubbed him Monte because of his black-tipped nose.

  At first, Marcus had been annoyed that some dumb, four-legged, smelly creature would follow him so relentlessly. But Monte persisted in following Marcus, even coming to lie down beside him to sleep. Gradually Marcus came to accept this, although he didn’t think he would ever get used to the smell of these sheep! But in truth, he was glad of the warmth of Monte’s wool on this chilly autumn night.

  The hilltop on which they tended was open on three sides, exposing them to the biting wind. The fourth side was bordered by an ancient forest that ran down the hillside and extended for miles. It offered shelter from the wind, but provided no safety, as it was an excellent hiding place for wolves and wild boars. The redolent aroma of pine and the musty scent of dead leaves came to Marcus’ nostrils, carried on the breeze. The air was cold, but it kept the mist which concealed night terrors at bay.