Kings of Ruin (Kingdoms of Sand Book 1)

by Daniel Arenson

  Let the others kneel, he thought, and let them run my empire.

  Near the Senate soared a colossus, a towering golden statue, depicting him—Emperor Marcus Octavius. The statue gazed upon the Empire, eyes hard, the nose proud and dipping down over thin lips, the balding head topped with a laurel.

  "Two doppelgangers," Mingo remarked at his side, a smirk on his lips. "One carved of gold, the other a miserable wretch caked with sweat and shit. I wonder, dominus, which will last longer?"

  "The one caked with shit," Marcus said. "I'm not letting you die anytime soon."

  Mingo cackled. "Then I failed at my task, reminding you of the mortality of all men . . . and all empires."

  The procession moved onward through the Acropolis, between the temples, the Senate, the statues, and the palace. They made their way uphill toward the Amphitheatrum, the largest amphitheater in the Empire. The ring of stone rose many stories high, each tier formed of engraved galleries, statues standing between the arches. The procession flowed through the gateway and into the arena.

  Eighty thousand people filled the Amphitheatrum, leaving not an empty seat. They roared as their emperor, the mighty Marcus Octavius, rode his golden chariot across the arena. They marveled at his jeweled horses, at his splendid raiment of deep purple and gold, and they laughed at the memento mori who stood on one foot and pirouetted, only to fall from the chariot into the dust. Legionaries stepped into the arena too, five hundred of Aelar's finest, clad in shimmering armor, red crests of horsehair proudly rising from their helmets. They arranged the spoils of war in the arena as the crowd roared. The treasures shone.

  Soon the captives would enter the arena too, displaying their nakedness to the crowd, and the lords of Aelar would bid for them, paying gold for their flesh. Soon chariots would race around the Acropolis, and wine would flow for days. Soon there would be songs, dancing, great feasts in the palace to commemorate this victory.

  But not yet.

  First Marcus would truly end this war.

  He rode his chariot to the center of the arena and halted. The crowd fell silent around him. All eyes were upon him. Atop the archways leading into the amphitheater reared golden horses, and they too seemed to stare. Even the birds fell silent in the sky.

  Marcus Octavius raised his fist, turned toward the archway he had entered, and shouted, "Bring them forth!"

  Three generals rode into the arena, clad in full regalia, breastplates bright and cloaks flowing. Chains ran from the horses, pulling forth five captives: a ragged man, his skin hanging loose from many beatings; a woman, her face swollen with bruises, her head shaved and dripping blood; and three children, one barely old enough to walk, iron collars around their necks.

  "Behold!" Marcus Octavius cried. "Behold, Aelar, the royal family of Leer! See their wretchedness, and see them bow before me!"

  Soldiers stepped forth. Whips cracked and clubs swung into spines. The royal family of his enemies fell into the dust. Chains yanked their ravaged bodies, and sandals pressed onto their hamstrings, forcing them to kneel. The broken family cried out in pain, bodies shattered. Their blood soaked the sand.

  Marcus rode his chariot in rings around them, and his voice boomed, filling the arena, reaching the ears of every man, woman, and child in the audience.

  "The land of Leer rose up against us!" he said. "We allowed these barbarians to govern themselves, if only they paid tribute to the glory of Aelar, if only they worshipped our gods. And yet they burned down the temples we had built them!" The crowd rumbled in rage, and Marcus shouted even louder. "They called themselves a free nation, and they burned our ships in their harbor, and they beheaded our governor and raised a king and queen of their own. Now the world sees the price of their defiance!"

  He rode toward the sidelines, alighted from his chariot, and climbed the stairs up the tiers. He took his seat, a throne of gold under an embroidered canopy. His memento mori knelt at his feet like a dog. Other slaves were already waiting here—collared women in silk stolas, kneeling on rugs. They held forth golden dishes full of grapes, honeyed nuts, and wine, but Marcus waved them aside. He leaned forward in his seat, staring down at the arena, and licked his teeth.

  The legionaries too departed the arena, leaving only the beaten family there. The Leerians tried to rise but fell again, spines shattered. The children wailed, and the father made a wretched attempt to crawl across the sand, to reach the staircase Marcus had climbed, as if still hoping to reach the emperor and fight. Marcus remembered the battle only a month ago, when he had faced this brute on the field, when he had smashed the man's teeth.

  "Now your suffering finally ends, King of Leer," Marcus whispered.

  "All who live must die," said Mingo, lapping wine from a bowl on the floor. "Even the greatest rulers."

  Trumpets blared across the amphitheater. Below in the arena, a hidden door opened on the floor. And the lions emerged.

  The crowd roared in delight. Young women laughed and pointed. Children squealed in joy, sitting on their fathers' shoulders. Men cried out raucously between gulps of wine. The lions in the arena ignored the crowd. For long days, their handlers had starved them, and now the magnificent beasts feasted. The animals did not go straight for the throat; they had been raised to favor living prey. They gnawed first on the limbs as the captives screamed. They tugged out the entrails and dragged them through the sand, and still the Leerians writhed and begged. Their screams were a horrid sound, torn, inhuman.

  As the crowd cheered and the blood spilled, Marcus looked away. He raised his eyes and stared across the arena.

  On a hill beyond, visible even from here, rose his great golden statue, watching over the Empire. Two lesser statues stood behind it, gleaming in the sunset. A statue of Princess Porcia, his firstborn, and a statue of Prince Seneca, his son.

  All who live must die. The words echoed in Marcus's mind. Even the greatest rulers.

  Marcus was fifty years old. He did not know if his death lurked in the next campaign, or if he would die thirty years from now, lying feebly in a bed. He did not know if Aelar would stand, or if more around the Encircled Sea would rebel and bring these temples and palaces crashing down.

  You will live after me, my heir, he thought. You, Porcia the Strong. Or you, Seneca the Proud. Whoever captures me the land of Zohar, the world's fountain of lume, shall rule in this great city of Aelar. Whoever rules Zohar shall rule an empire.

  "Very soon now," Marcus said, "one of my children will bring me the spoils of Zohar too: their women to warm our beds, their lumers to raise our halls, and their royal family to feed our lions. And then, when either Porcia or Seneca brings me these imperial gifts, we will have an heir to Aelar."

  Mingo raised his head from his bowl. Wine stained his mouth, the color of blood.

  "Very soon now," the slave agreed, "Aelar will have a new ruler."

  Marcus stared back at the lions. They had torn the heads free from the bodies, and they were feasting on the bones and blood of a kingdom.

  SHILOH

  She stood in her garden, looked around her, and saw endless memories, some of joy and others of blood.

  A pine rose before her, trunk twisting and bark rough, sending forth many branches heavy with needles and cones. In its shade, Shiloh had placed stones from the sea, an old bronze urn painted with gazelles, and the limestone statue of a maiden. Between these treasures, Shiloh had spent years nurturing her cyclamens, and now the lavender flowers bloomed, mottled with what light fell between the pine branches. She had always loved cyclamens. The flowers were more fragile than the anemones or lantanas she grew on the patio of her house, and they favored the shade, growing best near rocks and statues, as if the flowers sought safety in stone. Perhaps Shiloh had always felt an affinity with cyclamens, for she herself felt fragile, blossoming only in safety, hiding away from a world where hardier breeds thrived.

  A kingfisher fluttered above, landed on a branch, and sang, and Shiloh remembered the first time she had seen kingfishers. S
he had been only a youth, sixteen summers old, when she had moved into Lord Jerael Sela's home, when she had first seen this pine, heard the kingfisher's song. A sheltered princess, the youngest daughter of Zohar's king, she had only seen the sea in mosaics of sapphires and lapis lazuli. For twenty-four years since that summer, Shiloh had tended to this home by the true sea, and she had given her lord six children—one who died, five who had grown, who would soon fly away as the kingfishers did every winter.

  No, I did not give him six children, Shiloh thought, sudden pain stabbing her. I gave my husband five, and a sixth was shoved into me.

  And now the memories of blood resurfaced. Shiloh stood by her pine and stared westward. Beyond the line of cypresses, the farmlands and vineyards, and the city of Gefen it lay—the Encircled Sea.

  You sailed across the sea nineteen years ago, Marcus Octavius, she thought. You took our island. You took our fleet. And you took my womb.

  Shiloh placed her hands on her belly, remembering how it had swelled with the child of Aelar. How she had feared that the child would be a boy, that he would grow to look like his father, like the general who had demanded a night in her bed in exchange for her sons' lives. How Shiloh had wept tears of joy to see a girl emerge from her womb, a beautiful child who had inherited Shiloh's dark hair and olive skin, who looked like her and nothing like her father. Shiloh had vowed to love that daughter forever, and she had named her Ofeer, a beloved child.

  "I raised her in the ways of Zohar, Marcus Octavius," Shiloh whispered, gazing at the sea. "You became an emperor, and I remained here, a mother, a gardener, a haunted woman. And now your ships return to my port. Now your son hunts on our hills. Now this garden I've grown threatens to burn in your fire."

  A voice rose behind her, deep and soothing as the sea. "We will hold back this fire, daughter of Zohar. Your garden will bloom for many years."

  She turned around, and she saw him emerge from their home, the rock to her cyclamen. Though fear still filled her, that fear eased at the sight of him, like a wound under a balm. Lord Jerael Sela was a tall man, taller than his sons, and broad of shoulders, his arms wide. His hair was thick and grizzled, the white rivaling the black, while his close-cropped beard had all but surrendered to the frost of time. But his eyebrows were still jet black, bushy, and shadowing kind brown eyes. His skin was tanned a rich bronze, and his features were strong—the nose proud, the jaw wide, the upper lip prominent. It was a face both hard as stone and warm as a hearth, both noble as a soldier's and kindly as a father's.

  Jerael wore only a cotton robe over a humble tunic, worn sandals held his feet, and a lion medallion was his only jewel—but here before her stood the patriarch of House Sela, the most powerful man in Zohar aside from the quarreling princes in the east. This humble man in cotton ruled all the lands one could see from Pine Hill—the vineyards, the farms, the hills and valleys, and most precious of all, the port city of Gefen, the gateway to the Encircled Sea.

  Queen Sifora Elior, my dear sister, is dead, Shiloh thought. My nephews, Prince Yohanan and Prince Shefael, battle for the throne. Aelarians sail into our port. My husband is the one solid pillar we still have in the storm.

  "For a quarter century," Shiloh said, "I tended to our home, to our garden, to our children. We've withstood many storms together, my lord. We will face this one too, standing strong, as we always have, though fear beats in my heart."

  He stepped closer and embraced her. His arms were so powerful; she thought that they could hold the world together. She leaned her cheek against his chest, and her braid trailed down to nestle between their navels. Her braid too was no longer pure black but strewn with silver. Some of the elder women in Beth Eloh, even here in Gefen, had taken to dyeing their hair, but Shiloh saw no use in fighting age. She had lived for forty springs upon this earth, and she wore no cosmetics to hide the lines on her face, no color in her hair, no fine fabrics from overseas. Every line on her brow was a mark of strength, of a woman who had fought for her family, who had built a home.

  She turned her head and looked at their home, the ancestral villa of the Sela family. The house rose a parasa east of the city of Gefen, a country retreat for the lords of this land. It was a large house, built of brick and clay, with many bedrooms for her children, for grandchildren she did not know if she'd now have. Cypresses grew around its walls, and flowers bloomed on its windowsills. A house of so many memories—of babes smiling, toddlers running through the halls, of joyous feasts, of quiet nights spent reading or singing, of the Night of Lights when candles cast back the shadows and her family prayed together. Not just a house. Her life, the life of her family. A world.

  And one night, Marcus Octavius came into this home, Shiloh thought. Nineteen years ago. A general who had become an emperor. A man who would have killed my sons, if I had refused to let him place a daughter in my womb. I sent him back into the sea that night and now that sea rises again, its waves threatening to wash over us all.

  "The boys return," Jerael said, turning toward that sea.

  Shiloh turned westward. They came walking from the city below, traveling the dirt path toward Pine Hill and the house that stood here.

  Epheriah walked at the lead, firstborn of Sela, a tall young man with his father's broad shoulders and wide jaw, his black hair tightly curled, a sword upon his thigh. He was only twenty-three, yet already the burdens of an older man filled his eyes. Heir to House Sela and all her lands, Epher understood more than anyone the fragility of this port, the last free cove in an Encircled Sea where an empire swelled.

  Behind him walked Koren, second born, twenty-one years of age. Slender and quick, Koren walked bare chested and barefoot, whistling and grinning, even now with the storm rising. Shiloh knew her son, knew that Koren's jests and smirks hid a fear deep inside him. She could see that fear in the young man's dark eyes, colder than ever.

  Following her brothers walked Atalia, third born to Sela, geared for war, her scale armor clanking, her belt heavy with sword and sling, a bow in her hands. Jokingly, Shiloh and her husband often called Atalia one of the boys, for the girl would cuss and fight among them. Tall and strong, Atalia was more like her brothers than her sisters. She had none of Ofeer's grace, none of Maya's sweetness. Atalia was a lioness, a soldier in the hosts of Zohar, born for war.

  Yet if war flares, Shiloh thought, all the might of Atalia and our hosts would not hold back the wrath of Aelar. She clutched her lion medallion, raised her eyes, and prayed to the heavens. Please, Eloh, protect your children. Give us strength. Do not let this land which you have blessed fall to the enemy in our port.

  Yet her god was silent, as ever he was. In temples across Zohar, the priests prayed to Eloh, the Lord of Light who had chosen the Zoharites from among all the people of the earth. Yet Eloh had not saved Shiloh's brothers in the war two decades ago. He had not stopped Aelar from sinking a hundred Zoharite ships. Perhaps the children of Zohar had sinned, and perhaps their god had abandoned them.

  Or perhaps we've always been abandoned, she thought, orphaned children in a land that burns us.

  "Hullo, Mother," said Koren when he reached the garden. He planted a kiss on Shiloh's cheek. "Did you know that there's an army in our harbor?"

  Atalia shoved him aside and drew her sword. "And I say we fight them. Father!" She turned toward Jerael, eyes flashing. "We raise the banners. We summon the hosts from across the land. We burn the bastards down, and I will fight on the front line."

  Before anyone could say more, a shriek sounded above, followed by a pathetic mewl.

  They all raised their heads and stared skyward.

  "God's balls," Atalia cursed.

  Epher, stern and bearded, prayed under his breath, voice strained. "Hear, O Zohar! Ours is the light. Ours is the light. Ours is the light . . ."

  Shiloh stared at the spectacle above, and she felt as though her innards had turned to brittle glass, cracking, shattering, cutting her, all her hope breaking into glistening shards. An eagle flew above, heading to
ward them from the sea. Its screeches echoed across the sky, and its wingspan was longer than a man's open arms.

  "It's holding something." Koren squinted up at it. "What is it? A rabbit?"

  "Too large to be a rabbit," said Jerael, taller and wider than his son, frowning up at the aerial struggle. "It looks like . . ."

  A lion cub, Shiloh knew.

  The eagle flew closer, soon flying directly overhead. In its talons, the lion cub still lived, struggling, wailing. The eagle tried to rise higher, to glide toward the hills with its prize, but the cub gave a great twist, and its paws lashed. Blood dripped. Finally the cub tore free and fell, fell, fell for what seemed like ages as Shiloh stared, and in her mind she saw thousands falling.

  Finally the lion cub slammed down onto the hillside, only a few amot away, and lay still. The eagle flew onward.

  "Dead." Atalia stepped closer and poked it with a stick. "Poor little bugger."

  "It's a sign," said Epher, staring with dark eyes. More somber than his younger siblings, he often saw meaning in the doings of sky and land and sea.

  "Nonsense." Atalia snorted. "No such things as signs. You think sheep turds are signs."

  Shiloh wanted to believe her daughter, wanted to believe this was but a coincidence, yet she hadn't seen a lion in years, had never seen an eagle. Just a trick of the Aelarian fleet, she told herself. Just a game they played, releasing the animals from a ship.

  Yet when Shiloh gazed at that lion cub, its dead eyes stared back, and she remembered the thousands of dead eyes that had stared at her nineteen years ago, and she remembered the eyes of Marcus Octavius, boring into her as his naked body pressed against hers.

  The eagle gave a last cry and vanished into the east.

  They all stared toward the eastern hills, as if they could still see it. But instead they saw a sight even more disturbing, a sight that sent new icy shards cutting through Shiloh.

  "An eagle has flown away," Epher muttered. "Now a viper slithers toward us. Let us hear his hisses, and then we'll know if today we die."