An Emperor's Fury: Most Favored

by Paul Heisel

  Makison stopped pacing, turned to the cell bars, and nodded eagerly. "Tell him he shall have that and more. It is my promise. You must tell me, though, who my benefactor is."

  Velinole ignored the question that had been asked of him a thousand times. "The end of your imprisonment is near, Makison. It's time for you to be free. All will be revealed soon enough, and you will understand."

  Makison flung himself into the bars, rattling them. The man broke down, his legs collapsing. He wept, crying and sobbing into his hands, curled on the floor into a ball. He wiped his face with dirty clothes, cleaning grime away, his distraught face looking up.

  "There, there," Velinole said, trying to sound sincere. "I will return with fresh clothing, more food, and water. You must be strong when you take the throne." He turned to walk away.

  "Tell me," Makison said as he used the bars to stand up, "why does the Father not visit me any longer?"

  Velinole spun around. "What?"

  "The Father…Taawn…why does he not visit me?"

  Velinole stood there, contemplating his answer. Makison was telling the truth, but what was on his mind was Taawn having access to this part of the prison. There was only one way in and one way out! "I was not aware Taawn was visiting you."

  "He had for many weeks. I only say that now because he hasn't visited like he promised. I pleaded for him to let me out, but he wouldn't." Makison leaned against the bars, studying the mysterious man before him.

  "He's dead. Your brother Jakks killed him. Executed him without cause, along with the other Accord of the Spirit monks."

  "Is that why the Accord of the Hand is coming? Because my brother killed Taawn and his Spirit monks?"

  "Yes." Velinole resisted his urge to search the hallway for the secret door Taawn had used to gain access. It had to be close by. Velinole clenched his jaw, cursing himself for not finding and blocking the entrance to the outside world. Good thing Taawn was dead. Good thing Taawn never used this knowledge against Jakks.

  "He foresaw his own death," Makison said softly. "He told me that he was going to die in time, and that he would help me gain my freedom before he died. Documents, he told me, he was going to write everything down in documents. They are hidden, and they prove that I've been down here for years. Wrongly imprisoned."

  Velinole said nothing. Even if there were detailed descriptions of Makison's incarceration, they could search the castle and not find this dungeon's entrance. He would have to find the secret portal and seal it. This made him pause. It had to be in one of the cells, one with a broken lock, otherwise Taawn would have been trapped just as Makison.

  "Taawn said when he died he would visit me in my dreams," Makison said. "Seems like he was right on that point."

  Velinole, for once, was at a loss for words. "Has he visited your dreams? A ghost then? Vision?"

  Makison took a deep breath. "Many things haunt me, it's so hard to discern. Certainly the visage of an old broken monk too blinded by charity to understand how things work wouldn't haunt me. What haunts me are those who betrayed me, starting with my brother. When I get out of here - there will be blood."

  It jolted Velinole from this thoughtful stupor, and he wondered now; what had Taawn said? Taawn could have told Makison many things about Jakks, Velinole, and what was going on in the kingdom. He could have had the documents hidden or given to a person for safekeeping, only to be released when the time was right. Or they could have been in the monastery, now occupied most surely by thieves or other scum. He knew he should have burned that monastery to the ground! It was too late for him to undo anything Taawn had accomplished, and he would have to carry on with his plan regardless. Besides, if there were documents to be released, it would have been done so by now. Taawn was executed weeks ago. "I shall return with what I have promised you. Soon you will be free, just as Taawn said. You can have your revenge, you can have your brother's blood if that is what you truly want."

  "When you return, bring my benefactor with you. I want to meet him."

  "I will send him to you when the time is right. He will not allow me, you, and him to be in the same room together. I will bring you clothes and what you need to be presentable - soon you will be free, and you will have your benefactor to thank. I promise, my master will see you."

  "Thank you for helping me."

  "No thanks are needed. Just remember your benefactor, my master, kept you alive."

  "I'm grateful for that, and I won't forget. And you should have no fear, as I'm not one to kill the messenger."

  Velinole rasped out a stilted breath, filtering through the veiled threat. "You better be happy I don't throw away the key and leave you here to rot. I can tell my master that you are dead, and he will never question me about it. Just remember who is behind bars and who can walk free out of here. You're not out of here yet."

  "We understand each other then."

  Velinole stormed away, as he was late, and he had no time to search for the secret entrance in one of the cells. He hurried through the silent stone corridors, hardly paying attention to where he was going. The lefts and rights came without thought. It was disturbing that Taawn had access to Makison - who knew what that old crone had learned in the dark. Who knew what information had been passed between them. Makison could know many things about the goings on in Borgard, and he was playing ignorant until he was free. Velinole felt the heat rise. He emerged from the wardrobe and closed the door quietly, and then, as before, slipped out of the room without anyone noticing. Into the dark shadows of the passageway he went, bypassing the parts of the castle that housed the extended family and out of town guests. He had to think. He had to figure out if he could do anything, or undo anything that Taawn did before his death. A solution would have to come later, as he was already late for a council meeting, and his absence and lateness would definitely be noted.

  #

  Waiting was a part of being a scout. Feln knew from previous experiences that he could be in the old monastery for weeks while the battle raged against Borgard. In the last two years of being advance scouts, many times he and Owori had been required to arrive at a position and hold it either through force or patience. This time, though, he was alone, without Owori. In his heart he knew Owori was safe and he longed to know what she was doing. The monastery was secure, so he was content for now. The caretaker had worked to bar every door and opening, now the only entrance was the front of the church. Complicating the entrance were impromptu walls of wooden tables, chairs and old pews that forced any intruder to a dead end, where Feln could confront them from the shadows. The rabble hadn't come back, and the putrid bodies in front of the monastery had been removed and most likely burned. The sign about the plague, though, remained. The monastery was lifeless save for him, the caretaker, and the rats that scurried about. Below him was the cellar, a far darker and colder place, and it was how he would travel into Borgard castle if he ever received the order. The tunnel below the monastery was crude by any measure, but sufficient for occasional travel of a single person. He had explored it as thoroughly as he could, writing down details he thought significant. It extended for many miles under the city, ending at a maze of stone corridors that would take him days to fully map. He thought with a two or three more days of exploration, he could find the entrance to the castle dungeon. Feln figured that at a critical point in the upcoming battle Djaa would ask him to infiltrate the castle, find his way to the leaders, then capture or kill them. The task weighed heavily on him. It would be difficult - probably the most difficult task he had ever undertaken. There would be well-trained guards, limited space, and Jakks was a formidable fighter, not to mention Kragan, who was a master swordsman. It seemed impossible for him to do alone, and he hoped he wouldn't be unaided. The Accord of the Hand had to send a team to assist him.

  Feln meandered through the maze at the front of the church, looking out through the entrance for signs of intruders. It was getting cooler and the grounds were dark, the perfect time for the curious to come c
alling. Thus far he had been fortunate; he guessed between the frightened thieves' tall tales about the haunted monastery and the prospect of disease, they would have peace for a few more days. When things got desperate enough, the curious would become bold and they would come calling.

  Feln could hear crickets singing, and he was glad to have them serve as part of the warning system. If anyone came to the church, he would know because the crickets would stop singing. He was thankful it wasn't winter, as that would have complicated matters. Had it been colder, he would have had to risk a fire, and that would have brought unwanted attention to a place that was supposedly abandoned because of disease. From his post, he could see the entrance to the church, the atrium, and where the caretaker was dozing. Later in the evening he would bar the front doors and rest, and tomorrow he would do the same thing; train, secure the grounds, explore the tunnel, and wait for something to happen.

  Chapter 7 - Retreat

  Djaa sat cross-legged in his command tent, sipping tea. The other leaders were stationed in the gatehouse near the bridge and would be more comfortable than he for the evening. Before him sat the anticipated battle plans, sketched on parchment and updated with the latest information from the day's events. The bedroll to the side of him was untouched, he had hardly slept the last few days, the lantern beside him hissed as it consumed oil seized from the Borgards. The upcoming day of fighting would bring death to many, and that occupied his thoughts. The war would be a setback for the Accord of the Hand and all of the monasteries would suffer losses. Their numbers would diminish and there would be a reallocation of personnel, which always brought about changes. Though he was embroiled in this war, he contemplated the next series of sweeping reforms, and he was certain it would come when the Hand named Seveth as the successor to the Grand Master. Seveth was internally focused, and that would draw resources away from their expansionist tendencies. Djaa wasn't sure if that was good or bad, as it was challenging to understand if their aggressiveness had served them well or not. Certainly they were a wealthy empire and demanded respect, yet he had heard rumblings from the other kingdoms that most were tired of the Accord of the Hand forcing itself upon anyone who raised an opposing hand to them. This would mean more wars, so he was hopeful Seveth would use a sensible approach and mend the broken relationships. They had expanded their empire in every direction, too far in his opinion, and now they had the wealth of nations to draw upon. But the Accord of the Hand never used the wealth for anything. They just sat on it, like a mythical dragon hoarding its treasure. Often he thought about what he would do if he had the wealth, and tonight was no different. First he would improve their roads and bolster their armies. They had enough gold to afford more standing troops. This security would be a deterrent while he negotiated additional treaties, then he would turn his attention to increasing their population outside of the monastery cities. More land would be granted for the wealthier families, and he would institute a more lucrative feudal system to expand the use of that land. The Accord of the Hand Empire had millions of untouched acres just waiting to be exploited. He anticipated more people would come to take advantage of the land grants, the increased population would bring more strength to the economy, and it would be a self-reinforcing cycle. Yes, they would have to be wary of all of the negatives population growth brought, but crime, waste, and destitution for some were minor annoyances compared to the benefits. He wondered, though, did anyone else share his vision?

  Exercising his muscles, Djaa took time as well to stretch. He glanced at his weapons, all carefully laid out in rolls of light canvas inset with silk. It had been a long time since he had used them in battle despite the conflicts. He trained every day, that hadn't changed, and he felt his skills were still superb. Sparring with Gargam, though defeating at times, was the best way to stay sharp. As Djaa stared at his keen katana he knew the complexion of the Accord of the Hand was changing, and there was nothing the folded steel could do to help him. Not now. Shackled by the responsibilities of running a small kingdom, he spent his time taking care of his own monastery and maintaining a fearsome army. It was satisfying work, yet he knew there was a higher calling to answer. All of this didn't matter, and it made him laugh. Unconsciously he shook his head. It didn't matter. None of this mattered. There was a future for him beyond these borders, that was clear to him, yet he hadn't taken the last step towards his grand transformation. He was a great man, a confident leader, and a formidable foe to his enemies. In this future, he was none of those things. Yet. He had yet to prove himself, and it would be difficult.

  A figure strode into the tent unannounced, severing his thoughts. It could only be one of the Seasons, a leader as restless as he. A diminutive figure came inside, cloaked in black robes. There was no question it was Kara, and she was the closest thing he had to a confidant besides Gargam. She had aspirations just as he did, but, he thought, she was willing to go about it in extreme ways. It didn't matter what she did though. He knew the political landscape better than she, and regardless of what he decided to do, Kara would never become the Grand Master unless the entire political system fell apart. For that to happen, there would have to be a civil war. Was she that ambitious to risk internal conflict? Djaa stood up as Kara pulled her cowl back to reveal her lightly tanned face. She bowed.

  "Master Kara, well met," Djaa addressed her in the formal Accord of the Hand manner. He bowed in kind and he found the formality of it rather unnecessary. Yes they were at war and respect should be given to the leaders, but he didn't want the opposition to know who the leaders were. They took care to make sure the leaders looked no different from other monks and soldiers so it would be harder for the enemy to concentrate on destroying those who commanded this war. "What do I owe this unexpected visit?"

  "We have secured all positions. The Borgard forces remain behind the second set of walls with no signs of a counterattack. We are distant enough that no catapult can hit us." Kara took a breath.

  "But that's not what you have come to tell me."

  "A scouting party that was patrolling the mountains came across a man who had escaped from Borgard using a series of caves and natural tunnels. He was evading our patrols before we caught him. Slippery devil. After we caught him, he claimed to be one of the Borgards. Brother to the king."

  Djaa laughed. "What proof does he have?"

  "Enough gems to choke a horse," Kara answered. She held up a signet ring. "He has a ring with the royal seal of Borgard. He's not lying."

  "Bring him here."

  Kara returned to the tent with a bound and gagged man. He was dressed in rich blacks and stood just as tall as Kara. Of slight build, the man looked to be more thief than a man of the Borgard family - said to be tall, stout fellows with great strength. It seemed as if this situation didn't bother him, yet Djaa could see a hint of nervousness in his shifty, dark eyes. With a single punch to the stomach, Kara dropped the man to his knees and he buckled, collapsing toward the ground. With his hands and mouth bound, he struggled as he tried to regain his balance. Kara snatched the collar of his cloak, her strong hand kept him upright and from falling.

  "Leave us," Djaa said. "There is no need for your presence here."

  Kara shot Djaa a questioning glance, but didn't protest the order she had been given. Her dark eyes lingered, then she backed out of the tent and left them alone.

  Djaa approached the man who was still reeling from Kara's blow and he removed the gag and set it aside, spittle flying from the prisoner as he sucked for breath. "So, what should we talk about?"

  #

  Kara didn't glance back at Djaa's tent as she glided through the darkness. She had given over the prisoner's care to Djaa, so it was no longer her responsibility, no longer a worry for her. It was like him to manage critical things himself, to keep his dealings private. This latest oddity concerned her, because she or another monk should be present for the questioning. There needed to be a witness to confirm the information extracted. She wondered, had Djaa made a mistake?
She walked quicker, hoping that Djaa knew what he was doing. She recalled that he had not led her astray in the past, and he wouldn't now, would he? They trusted each other, confided in each other, helped each other, didn't they?

  A robed figure approached Kara from a distance and it took no time for her to determine it was Gargam. The hulking man was the only monk who had trouble hiding his identity in his robes. He was gargantuan, a head taller than anyone else she had ever met, solidly built, strong, and a masterful fighter with incredible endurance. Kara had often wondered if she should try her skills against Gargam. Perhaps one day she would enter the tournament and challenge him for the right to be the Hand's champion. It would be an interesting match with little chance of success, but she was ready for the challenge. She thought if the war didn't drag on too long, there would be another tournament soon. The notion came and went, as she had too many responsibilities in Bora and couldn't be distracted by competitions. Her focus needed to be on her monastery.

  "Well met, Master," Gargam said, his deep bass voice seemed to be everywhere at once.

  "Gargam, well met. What news have you?"

  "Nothing of interest. The battle goes as planned."

  "Our forces dwindle every moment we are here," Kara said. "Reformation will take place after this war, and there will be a shift in power. After this war is over, the Grand Master will name Seveth as his successor. Soldiers will be transferred. Ranks realigned, perhaps monks will be reassigned. Do you know what that means?"

  Gargam nodded from underneath his cowl. He started to reply when Kara held up her hand, demanding silence.

  "This isn't the time or the place to speak of such things," she told him in a whisper. "I shouldn't have commented at all. I have already said too much. Things will change soon enough."

  Kara was about to leave when a monk came running toward their position. It was a runner, part of their communication network, and he looked panicked.