by Ashley Fox
“Well, my lady, that part was rather vague. Protection for the innocent, and to bring criminals to their feet is what was said. Now as to how? Charges, I don’t know, not so fancy as that revelation of a light Salvias had.”
A young lord of House Foxglove had taken aside the King, engaging him in muted conversation for a moment, a resolute expression on his face, before Coleus, Cleome and Lord Gentian descended upon them followed by a host of lesser nobles. As the vision of the King faded beneath a swirling tide of silk and gauze, Tomas noticed that the high priestess Vervain and Anise had slipped easily through the crowds to join Iris and Water Lily, the Houses that sought the old ways.
“Times are once more changing”
“What will become of us now?”
“A new power has been born, squalling onto the earth.”
“With life, comes death,”
“And out of darkness, comes light.”
CHAPTER FIFTHTEEN
The Ten of Swords, Reversed
The drums beat in the valley.
Above the air hung heavy, charged with electricity. The storm clouds stacked high above the south and eastern ridges of the mountains that ringed like vast elliptical arms grasping at the churning charcoal towers lit by internal lightning. Sight dimmed to a harsh white light, swiftly fading. The pass at the distant northern point was pierced by the great river Vorath, which escaped its deeply carven bed in a myriad of waterfalls and smaller tributaries, before wending its way through the centre of the broad fields, until passing through the pass at the southern point, eventually thundering its way into the Sea of Sorrows.
This was the valley of the broken Farrahnaan Empire, now more commonly known as the Grain Bin. It’s entirety taken up with intensely farmed fields, even the mountain’s feet terraced to yield. Instead of grain the valley held people, soldiers, a vast army camped amidst the stubbly fields. The harvest gone, sold, and sent to the Empire. Rations packed securely in long winding rows of carts, corrals of mules, the cavalry’s horses near by. For every armoured, scarred soldier there was a meagrely outfitted slave. Some corralled like the cattle, others bustling through the hordes.
All seemed infected by the frenzy of the approaching storm, whose chill breezes broke through the humidity to pass over clammy skin. All across the fields tents were being taken down, their canvas snapping as if they struggled to escape, supplies being securely fastened and checked once more, soldiers checking weapons and armour. The hissing multitude of whetstones adding tension to the distant rumbles of thunder, to the drums. Fires spotted the terrain, ruddy glows belching smoke, over them hung iron pots full of uncommonly good stew. The last meal.
The storm clouds rolled inland, closing over the eastern ridge of mountains, creating a roof over the valley. The underside traced in the orange of the fires, the black bodies with theirs flashing blue entrails pressing down, adding an ionised tang to the ripe air. The eastern ridge was punctured by three passes, the central pass leading to Merida proper. The gateway to the broken Empire. Here the last vestiges of power still clung, the faded line of Emperors still dwelt, though their reaches only extended to the valley and the wealth they wrung out of it. Their one time glory was evident in the palace that spanned the Farrahnaan Pass.
Inverted and heptahedral the seat of Farrah hung suspended within the natural fissure between the two mountains that created the pass. Four of its sides ended in points driven into the very sides of the mountain, a third of their total height. The apex of the palace buried in the earth at the very centre of the pass, two roads leading around it a sharp angles. From this apex the building grew floor by floor, each taking up a greater area than the last, and all ringed in lavish balconies. The top floor was roofed by the very sky itself, around its edges broad steps led up to columned walkways offering views of the mountains and valley, of Merida. In its very centre a great raised bed of stone, on which was carved and painted a map of what was once the Farrahnaan Empire and surrounding lands. The map itself was exquisitely to scale, and highly detailed, it would take thirty men to circle it. It was the last pride of the old days and was maintained, even the bodies of water kept filled to the correct level, the pond like seas kept free of plants and fish, the ancient mechanism still kept the rivers flowing. It was here that Teza of Farrah, the last son, stood and betrayed his people.
He had been born into generations of resentment, of loss. Always reminded of what was, surrounded by faded glories and the legends of his bloodlines, knowing that his family were now little better than merchants. Wealth they still had, but only a remnant of power. Upon the map lay newer marks, river beds, even scars where hills and mountain tops had been removed, scars from the time of Lightnings, when the Stars Fell and the Empire was broken. Their people scattered to join the mass migration that followed that time as everyone desperately sought some safe place. Always that reminder of what was, and what is. But he would change that, he would win back some glory! Once more Farrah would be powerful, and his name would shine with that renewed glory… even if he had to bow to a different power to achieve it.
Once more an Empire would reign, and even if he was not the Emperor at least his family would rule the lands what were once theirs. It was a compromise that weighed heavily on his pride, yet not nearly as much as his desire for greatness, for power. And so he found himself here, thunder thrumming through his heart and the glow of the lightning reflecting in his black eyes, staring across at Alas, the General of the Black Dogs, the Emperor’s Personal Guard and Primary Army. The man to whom seven eighths of the masses below answered, the man who would lead this campaign to victory. And upon whose word Teza’s reward would lay.
He was a giant of a man, unusual for an Imperialist, the ruddy paleness of his skin suggested origins from an unknown place, but his dark eyes and hair were typical. His hair was shorn short to his scalp, strange to Teza, leaving a surprisingly handsome face bare, the cheekbones standing out. Thick eyelashes framing those dark eyes, which watched everything with a certain quite calm. He had a powerful thickly muscled frame, not a scrap of fat left, yet moved with a sense of controlled grace. When he spoke it was in a clear, quiet way, giving respect without ever submitting. He never showed any inflection of emotion, his face unreadable.
Not at all what Teza had expected, yet watching Alas in control had made him respect him, and he was told that the soldiers spoke of him with fear, pride and an almost worship. There were rumours that all of the Black Dogs were slaves, but nobody ever asked them, and he was willing to let the matter go.
Around the map stood his own nobles, and captains, and the leaders of the Imperialist Legions. All knew the plan, how the campaign would go, but Alas had called them to gather for one last meeting before they used the coming storm and night’s darkness to hide their attack. Using a pointer he gestured to Farrahnaan Pass.
“Here, we stand, the greatest army the Empire has ever amassed. We will conquer these lands for the Emperor’s glory, as he wills it. I will lead the Black Dogs through here, the Secondary shall sweep forth from the pass of Vorath’s Way, the Tertiary from the Aumorran Pass. The Aumorrans are an unsurety, though unlikely to defend Merida. A garrison must swiftly be formed here. Each army shall fracture and sweep outward. There are four Great Families, twelve lesser holdings. These will be subdued by dusk tomorrow-”
Teza spat and interrupted. “The Great Family, here outside my pass, they are treacherous, but brave. I advise you show no mercy to these, kill them all, except the daughter. She will be mine. In fact, do it with all the Great Families, mayhap keep one alive, a small hope. Fear will spread ahead of us, we can offer to let the Families live, if they surrender.”
Alas calmly regarded him. “You believe such terror will work? The command on high is for a swift beginning.”
“Oh yes, the Meridans love their Families.”
“So be it. We strike swiftly, and deadly. The Great Families are to be eliminated in the first offensive, save one to be held ransom, a possible
heir. Any who fight are to be killed. Of the survivors a third are to be put in chains and sent to the slave block, the rest will be offered a choice. Death, slavery or indenture. Those who choose indenture are to be placed under an overseer and supplemented with our own slaves to work the land. Any produce is to be seized, tallied and sent to the Empire, save what is needed to survive the winter. Each holding will be made secure, a squadron, or garrison left as necessary. I want our backs protected.”
His pointer swept to the north to the point where impassable mountains of Alhion separated the cultured world from the North, from the Empire, across the top of the Sea of Sorrows, into Merida, curling around the pasturelands of the Ceurans, separating the rolling lands of Merida from the North. The pointer rested near where the jagged mountains joined the pastureland.
“Here will the Eagles Legion descend, from the secret way through the mountains. The Ceuran are a ferocious people, the Emperor is not interested in their lands but knows them for the deadly warriors they are. The Legion will march through their lands, burning their Trees and taking what horseflesh is in reach. They will not veer from their path. A sally to show the Empire’s might, to damage their defences, but not a war that will linger. If they are wise they will pay heed. To the Vorath they will march. Here, the river runs wide and there is a good ford. A garrison will be established. The Eagles Legion will merge with our own, providing a relief, and the means to push further. By spring I want the locals subdued, fields cleared and ready for planting. There will be no rest, no succour. We push, we push hard. We have the element of surprise. We take it and we deliver them a great blow before they have time to gather. Clear?”
A grizzled, hook nosed captain grunted, his fist tight around the hilt of his sword.
“What of the other Great Families? Shall the manoeuvre on the first offensive hold?”
“If they fight, they die. Let it be known that if they surrender they will be allowed to live, in servitude to the Empire. My Lord Teza, do you agree?”
Teza lifted his eyes from the map, from the lands that should have been his. The first rains began to fall, lightnings flashed over head as the storm broke above the valley. It felt, finally, as if he could breath easy again.
“Oh yes, it is done.”
Notes
Here in reads a shall we say, much refined and poked at version of my early works that originated as a simple idea of Mera, tentatively entitled The Fall, how her life would unfold and the difficulties she would face. I was 21, escaping abusive relationships and an impoverished single mother. I thought of fairy tales and freedom.
I joined a writers circle, a rag tag collective of writers, poets and musicians. This was the decision that guided my literary inclinations and love of reading toward a career, with priceless feedback. From posting on MySpace to starting my own blog, and all the endless research, editing, and revising. Members came and went; the Americans quickly bounding into the shiny new era of self publishing, as the Brits continued to tinker away, to develop our styles and artistic direction. Leanne Moden, spoken word artist, and John Clay, writer and rocker, without your steadfast support and commentary I honestly do not think anyone would be reading this.
These are good people, making good art and you should check them out.
I also spent time lurking around the online community, indulging in speculation of beloved stories, understanding how audiences approach narrative, and watching as a need for social change became increasingly reflected in discussions. This can be seen in movements such as #DiversityinSFF and the intersection of community with online activists, feminists, writers, poets, playwrights, critics, academics, gamers and fans. Genre is at the forefront in tackling representation, tradition and illusions. I salute you. To the beta readers found there, not only did our public convo distracted me from some rather dark days, your advice led to changes that ensured tropes were examined and not merely upheld.
After years, and edits, and edits, and edits, I plucked up my courage and started submitting to agents and publishers. And was summarily rejected. Fair play, as advice pointed out, the writing was simply too verbose and I needed to find the heart of the story. I got critical, refined and applied a little writerly alchemy. Open is the fat that was trimmed from the bones of that first draft. At first I left it to gather digital dust in a file, until, exhausted from battling systematic failure of social systems, loss and hardship, I wrote the words of Olkis.
Fairy tales, within the historical context, are arguably the origins of literary endeavour. As told by and woven into working class oral traditions, until some middle class white guys started writing things down. with grim interest, often through christian constrictions. I wanted to pull through modern awareness and philosophical musings via a framework of fantasy, which unfortunately is often kinder than reality as there are more shields. And magic. (Ink is everywhere.)
In the early days of my blog my writing, perhaps a wee bit grandly, was compared to Kafka and Angela Carter whom epitomise the blurring of lines between genre and modern literary philosophy and who remain relevant to this day. Carter explores the feminine, the strengths, the gendered enforcement of roles, and sexual suppression and liberation. The Elf King's birds yet flutter through modern syntax, and the teeth of misogyny bite just as sharply. Kafka's The Penal Colony has an eerie resemblance to Serco's immigration detention centres, including Christmas Island, in Australia where human rights are abolished, and human life held with such capitalised barbarity, that the inmates begged to be gassed. To find freedom in death, when only half a turn of a century before such horrors provoked a world war.
The royal house of Rosalind has much privilege but is perhaps on par with the reality of western wealth. Open touches upon class and gender with Mera and Tansy’s friendship, on gendered expectations and privilege with Llew’s psyche and the division of knowledge with Tomas. Then there is Olkis, a contrasting voice who calls out from these conflicts and offers the reader a critical prism to apply.
What is freedom? What is reality? Illusion? Is the desire to be free a childish one?
Whilst it may not be truly possible to be free in absolute we should at least seek liberty. Thank you to all of those who have read and advised, to those who have offered friendship and an ear to rant in when chaos got the better of me. You are rare, and all the more valued for it. I continue to write, I continue to fight. This story continues in the OTHERSIDE: Of Bloody Reflections.
In solidarity,
Ashley Fox
Twitter: @_AFox_
Facebook: AshleyFoxReflections
Blog: ofbloodyreflections.blogspot.co.uk
Smashwords: Ashley Fox
Cover artwork, design, and illustration using photography and Word Paint, Windows Photo Gallery and Serif DrawPlus Starter, formatting using Mark Coker’s excelled guide on Smashwords, and editing were done by myself as I was too poor to hire. Leanne Moden had a hand in ironing out the grammatical errors in early drafts, and any that remain are entirely my own responsibility.
Stay in touch lovely reader...
