Kings of Ruin (Kingdoms of Sand Book 1)

by Daniel Arenson

  Yohanan drew his sword and held it high. Ishay raised his sling.

  "It is time for war," Yohanan said. "It is time for blood, for fire, for walls to tumble down. It is time for lions to roar."

  JERAEL

  In the darkness of starless night, the sea moaning like an unfed beast, Jerael Sela stood alone.

  Around him lay the corpses of his comrades, men and women—some his old friends from the war nineteen years ago, others born since those dark days. Dead legionaries lay among them—many of them corpses he had made. In alleyways, on rooftops, in doorframes, across windowsills they lay—the fallen. The sun had set upon a city that had once bloomed, that now bustled with flies and crows.

  A fallen city, Jerael thought. Gefen is lost.

  No more warriors of Zohar fought around him. He could hear only scattered sounds of battle from deeper in the city, soon fading under the victorious chants of Aelar. Not even the hillsfolk, their hope from the dawn, had been able to stop this tide. The eagle banners rose from the temples, from the city fortress, from his own home. And here, on the boardwalk by the sea, Jerael stood alone to face them. His final battle.

  The waves rose at his side, spraying across the cobbled boardwalk. In the water swayed the ships of the enemy, lined with oars, emptied vessels that had spilled forth their venom.

  Along the boardwalk they approached him, coming from both sides. Hundreds of legionaries, many astride horses, their spears pointing his way. Jerael knew that he would die this dawn, and death would have come as a relief if not for the terror inside him.

  Where are you, my family? Jerael's eyes stung. Where are you, my wife, my beautiful and wise companion? Where are you, my boys, my Epher and Koren? Where are you, my brave daughters, Atalia, Ofeer, Maya? Have you fallen?

  The legionaries advanced closer, surrounding him. A spear stabbed him, nicking his side. Another spear scraped across his leg. Jerael was too weak to cry out, and his sword could not stop them. Another spear thrust. They would kill him slowly, cut by cut, bleeding him drop by drop.

  "Stop!" rose a shrill voice. "Lower your weapons. I told you I wanted him alive, damn it."

  The legionaries on the boardwalk halted and parted, standing at attention. A noble stallion walked forth, black as sin. Prince Seneca rode in the saddle, resplendent in the dawn. His rich crimson cloak billowed behind him, embroidered with eagles. His filigreed armor shone in the morning like a second sun. A laurel rested upon his brown hair, and his lips twisted in contempt. No blood yet stained his blade.

  "Make room, make room!" Seneca said. "Let me see him."

  When the horse reached Jerael, the young prince dismounted, and a soldier took the stallion aside. They stood facing each other on the boardwalk. A ragged lord, his armor torn, his flesh cut countless times, gasping for breath, struggling to stay standing after so many days of battle. A young prince in the prime of his youth, his armor spotless, his eyes bright with vigor, a gladius in his hand, the blade gleaming and sharpened to a razor's edge.

  "We should have ended this at my home." Jerael spat out blood. "On Pine Hill."

  Seneca nodded. "Oh, we will. But first we dance." He hefted his sword and gave the blade a few swings, slicing the air. "Eagle's Talon, I've named her. A blade forged in the heart of Aelar. A lumer infused her steel with luminescence, did you know? She shines with magic, stronger than any other blade. Funny, isn't it? That a blade forged by one of your own whores should spill your blood?"

  "I will never fear the light of Luminosity," Jerael said. "For it's the light of the kingdom and God that I love."

  Seneca's face twisted with a snarl. He raised his blade and ran toward Jerael.

  Jerael could barely stand. He had fought for too long without sleep, food, or water, had lost too much blood, had seen too many die. Even now his wounds dripped, and his body begged to die. But he refused to fall. He raised his sword. Eagle's Talon swung toward him, and Jerael parried the blow.

  The blades clanged—a broad, steel sword of Aelar and a curved, iron sword of the east.

  The blades pulled back. The legionaries formed a ring around the combatants, enclosing them within walls of shields. Seneca thrust his blade again. Jerael parried the second blow, his feet sloshing in his own blood, and reposted.

  The sickle sword slammed into Seneca's breastplate, shattering an embossed, golden eagle.

  The prince screamed, face red, and swung his blade down hard. Jerael raised his sword, just barely parrying. Seneca hacked again and again like a butcher with an axe. The boy wasn't particularly large, but Jerael was surprised at his strength, at his skill. The prince had trained with the best swordmasters in Aelar, and Jerael was too weak, too hurt, too old. A blow from Seneca's gladius sliced his shoulder, ripping the armor, tearing the skin, scattering blood. The prince hooted.

  "Do you like the taste of my steel?" Seneca laughed. "Come taste it again."

  The blades swung again, clashed together. Jerael grunted, managed to hit Seneca once more, but his sword could not penetrate the prince's fine armor. His curved blade was forged of Zoharite iron, for the secrets of steel—harder, sharper—were known only in Aelar.

  "You grow tired." Seneca grinned savagely. "I see it in you. You can't defeat me."

  Jerael bellowed and swung his blade with both hands, but Seneca sidestepped, lashed his sword, and cut Jerael's flank. With a groan, Jerael stumbled aside, barely parrying another blow.

  Please, God, he prayed silently. I do not expect to live today. But let me slay this tyrant before I perish.

  "Are you praying?" Seneca narrowed his eyes. "I can see your lips move. I spit on your god, Jerael. I spit on Eloh."

  The blades clashed. Sparks flew.

  "Then his judgment will be upon you," Jerael managed to rasp. The two circled each other, blades red. "In the next life, if not in this one."

  "Oh, and I intend to quite enjoy the rest of this life." The blades clashed again. "I told you that I fucked Ofeer, didn't I? She loved it, and afterward, she confessed to me how much she hates you. I will do the same to Atalia. I have her captive, did you know? I will fuck her every night in your bed, and I won't let you die before you hear her screams." The prince's blade lashed. "And she's going to love it."

  Jerael tried to parry, but he was too slow, too hurt. The prince's sword, shining in the dawn, drove into his arm.

  Jerael's blood splattered the cobblestones.

  Sneering, Seneca swung his blade again, hitting Jerael's leg.

  He fell. His knees banged against the boardwalk. Another blow knocked the sword from his hand.

  "So this is the fabled Lion of Zohar." Seneca stared down at him, sword dripping, and scoffed. "This is the famous Lord Sela." The prince spat on him. "Not much of a lion at all."

  "Hear, O Zohar," Jerael whispered, trembling, bleeding, staring up at the prince. "Ours is the light."

  And the lion gave his last roar.

  Jerael leaped to his feet, arms lashing, knocking Seneca's sword aside.

  The prince squealed and stepped back, eyes widening.

  Jerael barreled into the prince, putting all his weight into it. Seneca cried out and stumbled, crashing down, and Jerael grabbed his head, slammed it against the cobblestones, again, again, cracking the helmet. He bellowed, grabbed Seneca's throat, and squeezed, squeezed, crushing the neck, watching Seneca's face turn red, then purple, pinning the boy down, fingers tightening, and—

  Pain.

  Pain blazed across Jerael's shoulder as a spear drove into him. He fell, gasping, clutching his wound. He slammed onto the cobblestones, and legionaries raised spears above him.

  "Stop!" Seneca's voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper, and the prince gasped for air. "Stop. He's mine. He's mine!"

  Seneca rose to his feet. Jerael tried to rise too but could not. His strength was gone.

  I'm sorry, my wife, he thought, lying in his blood. I'm sorry, my children. I'm sorry, Zohar. I failed you.

  Seneca grabbed a slave's collar a
nd chain from his horse's saddlebag, stepped forward, and knelt. He closed the iron around Jerael's neck. The prince stared down at him, sneering, his face still red, blood trickling down his temple.

  "Now, sand rat," Seneca said, "it's time to go home."

  MARCUS

  He sat in the midnight gardens, risen from the dead, embers in his belly.

  The crickets sang around him, and the moon shone above. After so long abed, shivering and hallucinating, Marcus welcomed the chill breeze, the sound of rustling trees, the stars above.

  I still live. If not for my dear memento mori, I would truly think myself immortal now.

  The past two weeks were a blur, a fever dream of vomiting and shitting every morsel he dared eat—had ever eaten in his life, it seemed—of shivering in heat, even the icy cloths his slaves brought him unable to cool him. For those days, Marcus had felt like a demon lived in his gut, cutting, biting, burning. He had become an oven full of flame, a wracked mind trapped in a blazing shell. Marcus had survived injuries in his campaigns—a spear to the thigh in Leer, an arrow in the back in Phedia—but those had felt no more painful than a playful maiden's pinch compared to the fire of poison.

  But I lived.

  He rose from the bench and breathed in the cool air.

  I survived. And they will pay.

  He stared past the garden's columns toward Imperium Hill. In the moonlight, he could just make them out. A hundred crosses. Upon them hung the dying bodies of the temple's cooks, butchers, waiters, and their families. One was still screaming. Marcus could hear it even from here.

  Movement caught his eye.

  Marcus turned his head. A shadow was moving down the portico of columns to his left, behind the fig trees. Dark robes fluttered. The figure emerged from between the columns, glancing from side to side, and walked across the grass toward him. In the moonlight, she pulled back her hood, revealing a slender face, dark eyes, and long black hair. An iron collar encircled her neck.

  "Iris." Marcus nodded to her. "Thank you for meeting me here, my darling."

  The Zoharite was trembling, eyes darting. She knelt and bowed her head. "My emperor. I serve you, dominus, as always."

  He stepped closer and stood above her. He caressed her hair. Silky, dark hair that flowed between his fingers. "Did she come to you with questions?" he asked.

  The lumer tried to rise, but he placed a hand on her head, keeping her kneeling. "Yes, dominus." She stared at the grass. "Princess Valentina came to me, as you said she would, asking of her . . ." She swallowed. "Asking of her father."

  He lowered his fingers to stroke her cheek. "And what did you tell her?"

  Iris glanced up at him, then quickly down again. "As you instructed me, dominus. I told her the truth. The truth you told me. That you are her father. That Mingo lied. That he poisoned you."

  "Excellent!" Marcus said. "Well done, my darling. As always, you serve me well."

  "I always seek to serve you, dominus."

  As she knelt before him, Marcus pulled open his toga, letting the chilly night air cool his naked flesh. He reached under her chin and pulled her head up. "And you will continue to serve me."

  Iris nodded and she served him, his hand in her hair, as the crickets chirped around them, as the breeze blew the sweat off his brow.

  "You've proven yourself invaluable, Iris." He pushed her head back, knelt before her, and lay her down on the grass. "Such a sweet Zoharite, a precious little bird in my court."

  He grabbed her tunic, as he had grabbed it many times before, pulling it free from her slender, swarthy body. This night he ripped it, shredding the cotton, exposing her breasts, the dark nipples firm in the cool breeze. He mounted her, twice her size, nearly crushing her, thrusting into her.

  "Yes, dominus," Iris whispered beneath him, lying on the grass.

  Marcus moved faster, and he knew she wanted this. She craved this. She was eager to accept him, and her body moved beneath his, her hips grinding against him. She moaned, and he grabbed her hands, and their fingers coiled together.

  "Do you think I don't know, sweet dove of the desert?" he asked, moving faster now.

  Iris moaned louder, eyes closed. "Know what, dominus?"

  He squeezed her hands in his. "That you're fucking my daughter."

  Her eyes opened. Fear suffused her face. "I—"

  "Hush now." Marcus pulled one hand free and placed a finger against her lips. "It's all right. I've known that for a long time. The whole palace has known, I dare say. You two have been making quite a ruckus at nights." He thrust harder into her, again and again, like a beast. "I don't mind. I don't mind taking you where my sweet daughter has kissed you so many nights."

  Her eyes closed again, and her hips moved faster now, and sweat soaked her body. "Take me, dominus. Take me harder. You are better than she is."

  His fingers moved down toward her neck. "And do you think, sweet dove, that I didn't know your second secret?" Sweat dripped from him, and they moved in a rhythm, crushing the grass and flowers beneath them. "You really think I don't have lumers of my own? That I didn't know that you—you, Iris, my daughter's sweet pet, and not Mingo—poisoned the pine nuts?"

  Her eyes snapped open, and she opened her mouth to scream.

  He wrapped his hands around her throat, cutting off the sound.

  "Oh yes, sweet turtle dove." His thrusting only intensified. "I knew all along. That it was you who wanted me dead, you who poisoned me, you who thought that if only I were dead, you could gain Valentina's love for yourself. But you failed, sweet little dove. How you failed!"

  She thrashed beneath him, trying to free herself, but he kept moving atop her, kept squeezing her throat, using both hands now. She gasped for air, finding none. She clawed at his back, ripping the skin, tried to shove him off, could not. His hands tightened, squeezing, constricting, cracking, snapping. Her face turned blue, and still he fucked her, hard, fast, fucked her like he'd never fucked another woman, and when he climaxed it was into her corpse.

  He pulled out from her, and he lay at her side. Gods, that had felt good. For the first time in weeks, maybe in years, Marcus felt healthy, felt young. He stroked Iris's cheek. Her eyes stared up, lifeless, her mouth open and seeking air that would never come.

  "You had the Sight." He pushed back a lock of damp hair from her forehead. "But you failed to see the most important truth. That none, sweet turtle dove, defy Marcus Octavius and live."

  VALENTINA

  When she woke up, it was still dark outside, and her bed was cold, unnaturally cold for spring. Valentina rolled over, seeking Iris's warmth; like so many nights, she had fallen asleep in her lumer's arms. But she found only emptiness, only more cold.

  "Iris?" she whispered.

  Valentina blinked the sleep out of her eyes. At first, she thought nothing of it. Iris must have just snuck out before dawn. Often Iris had spoken of slaves entering these chambers too early, gossiping about the lumer they found in their princess's bed. A note lay folded on the pillow where Iris had lain, a pale square in the moonlight.

  Valentina's heart gave a twist. A chill filled her, colder than the night, a deep fear she could not explain. She lit her oil lantern, unfolded the note, and read.

  Her chest constricted. Her jaw tightened. She dressed hurriedly, folded the note, and placed it into her pocket.

  She left her room, barefoot, shivering.

  Gods. Oh Gods. No. Please no.

  Her fingers wouldn't stop trembling. Valentina could barely breathe. She had to find her. She had to stop her.

  We have to leave. We have to escape this place. Together, Iris. You and I. Tears flowed down Valentina's cheeks to her lips. We'll run away together, to Zohar, like we always wanted.

  Valentina ran.

  She raced through the sleeping palace, down marble corridors, between statues of gods—cruel gods who had allowed this to happen. Her heart threatened to leap from her mouth. Lies. All of it—lies. The entire palace, the Empire, all her life seemed to c
ollapse around Valentina.

  She was racing down an arcade of columns when she saw her father standing in the gardens.

  Valentina froze.

  There he stood. The man she loved. The man she dreaded. Marcus Octavius, Emperor of Aelar.

  He turned toward her, the moonlight limning his form. A lump lay at his feet, dark hair spreading out in a puddle.

  Valentina approached slowly, the grass wet beneath her bare feet.

  She was beautiful in death. She lay where they had often lain together, two girls on the grass, gazing up at the clouds, dreaming of faraway lands. She was naked, her mouth open in a silent scream, her eyes bugging out, but she was beautiful. She was her Iris.

  "It's a funny thing," Marcus said. "It wasn't a rebel. It wasn't an assassin from a distant land. It wasn't even a disgruntled cook." The emperor sighed. "I shudder to think that the lumer I allowed into our palace, the one who often entered your own room, is the one who poisoned me." He turned toward Valentina and took her hands in his. "I'm sorry, my sweet daughter. I'll get you a new lumer. Two if you like."

  Valentina nodded, biting her lip, refusing to shed a tear. She embraced the emperor, hiding her turmoil against his chest.

  "Thank you, Father," she whispered. "I love you."

  "And I love you, sweetest daughter."

  When dawn rose, Iris was not given the honor of a loyal slave. There was no burial for her in a cemetery, not even a burning in the pyre like the funerals of the pagans of old. Trumpets blared as horses carried the remains across Aelar, hanging a piece from each gate. Arms. Legs. A torso. And finally, in the Acropolis itself, Iris's head upon a spike, food for crows.

  Valentina did not return to the garden that day, nor to her chambers. She did not gaze upon the remains of Iris, nor upon the cooks and cleaners and cupbearers crucified on the hill, some still alive. Instead, she went to the library. That place where Iris had summoned her magic, where, perhaps, she had chosen this path. Among scrolls from ages lost, Valentina unfolded the note she had found on the pillow, and she read it again and again.