Empire Asunder BoxSet

by Michael Jason Brandt

  They found the others in the fourth chamber, examining a stone portal sealed shut. Covered in cryptic writing, its very method of opening a mystery—it had no doorknob, only three holes of various shapes spaced a man’s hand apart: a circle, a crescent, and a six-pointed cross.

  “See how there isn’t as much dust and dirt here?” Kluber pointed out. “Could it be a magical door?”

  “Until yesterday, I would have said that’s impossible,” Jak replied. “Today, I don’t know. I don’t know anything.” He turned away. Regrettably, whatever lay beyond would have to stay forgotten.

  “Come on,” he said. “We need to find a way out.”

  “Can’t we take an hour to explore?” Riff asked.

  Feeling like a disapproving parent, Jak shook his head. “Our priorities are escape and food, in that order.” He looked around to see if anyone disagreed.

  “My back itches,” Kleo said.

  “Come on,” Jak said again, before she could order him into more frivolous scratching. He led the way back out to the street. “This way.”

  “But that big one is over there,” Riff said.

  “That’s further into the city. We want to find the way out.”

  Riff hung his head, but followed the others without another word. Soon he was back in front, leading the way, staring at each new discovery with longing.

  The streets were cluttered with rubble, although never enough to block passage entirely. Smaller alleyways led off between buildings, but the group of refugees stuck to the widest thoroughfare, which seemed the least likely to get them lost.

  Calla stopped abruptly. “Did you hear something? I think I heard something.”

  They had been through a lot, and it was only natural for their minds to assume the worst. Jak’s own had played tricks on him at least a dozen times already. “You’re hearing our echoes. No one has lived here for hundreds of years.”

  Kleo put her hand on Calla’s arm. “I thought I heard it, too.”

  Jak looked at Kluber for reassurance. Their eyes met, but the older boy remained silent.

  “Riff!” Jak called out. “Don’t get so far ahead.”

  The farther they moved away from the library, the worse the condition of the buildings around them. The structures also became smaller and fewer in number, which hinted that the group was nearing the city’s outer edge.

  “Do you hear that?” Kleo asked. Jak stopped, and the others followed suit.

  “It might be running water,” Calla said hopefully. If so, it would be the first good news they had received in a while. Jak became aware of how desperately thirsty he was, and they all moved forward again with a greater spring in their strides.

  They heard the stream’s steady current long before seeing it. The buildings were now behind them, and the high cavern walls closed in not far ahead.

  The water could not have been more than a few inches deep, its banks about six feet apart. What once was a bridge had collapsed, and the stream wove between large, well-worn stones with musical trickling.

  Riff was first to refresh himself, dipping one cupped hand into the cold water and lifting it to his mouth. The others followed his example, and smiles quickly spread from face to face. Jak marveled at how such a simple thing could bring cheer in the midst of tragedy.

  “Look, a lizard,” Kluber exclaimed as he pointed.

  Kleo jumped into his arms, and he laughed.

  Jak frowned. Her abnormal fear for the scaly beasts was well known and frequently poked fun at, but though the mood had noticeably lightened, this was still no time for jokes. “There’s no lizard, Kleo,” he said disapprovingly.

  “I wish there were,” Riff said. “We could catch and eat it. I’m starving.”

  “We’ll worry about food once we get out.” The prospect of escaping this underworld was sustenance enough for Jak. He urged them forward, seeing how on the far side the trail continued in the opposite direction of the current.

  Riff jumped from stone to stone as he crossed. Jak followed with lopes rather than leaps. “It’s not slippery,” he announced, reaching back to help Calla steady herself on the first block.

  They stopped a minute later. The stream bubbled forth from a low tunnel in the side of the cavern where the trail abruptly ended. The current was deeper and slower here, but no more than a foot of clearance above meant that further progress would require crawling through the water. There was no passageway fit for travel. They would have to look elsewhere.

  He would not allow his discouragement to show, however. “Let’s follow the side for a while,” he suggested. “Maybe we’ll come across a new tunnel.”

  Movement off the trail was slower and more hazardous as they maneuvered around obstructing stalagmites and over uneven footing. The disappointment of the stream made the light-hearted conversation taper off to quiet sullenness. Jak almost wished Kluber would pull another prank on Kleo. Or, better yet, on him.

  Riff was wandering farther and farther away. Now they saw him come back, looking dejected. “It’s getting too rough ahead. We need to go back to the city.”

  Jak sighed. “All right. Don’t worry, there’s still a lot of cavern left to search. We’ll find a way.”

  All the cheerful optimism—even Riff’s—was noticeably absent as they made their way back to the buildings. Soon another wide avenue led them toward familiar surroundings. Just ahead, the plaza and great unknown edifice waited in silent malignance.

  “Well, Riff, I guess you’re going to get your wish, after all.”

  “What’s that?”

  “To explore the city.”

  Riff smiled without cheer. “I’d rather have food.”

  “Maybe we’ll find some,” Calla said.

  Kluber snorted.

  We’re going to need to, Jak thought. Along with a place to sleep. The notion of spending a night inside this vast, morbid mausoleum held no appeal at all, but none of them had slept in more than a full day, and his leg muscles were cramping from strain. He was certain the others felt the fatigue, too.

  “What’s that ahead?” Kleo asked.

  Jak squinted. There was definitely a shape in the twisting fog where the plaza formed a large open area between buildings. As they drew nearer, the shape crystallized into the outline of charred poles standing above a pile of wood. The setup was all too similar to the ritual pyres back home, where the acolyte of Tempus disposed of the dead. Which meant the hints of white just now becoming visible could be only one thing.

  No one spoke as they approached the blackened remnants of wood and the thin skeleton half-covered in soot. The skull remained attached to the body, but sagged toward the cold stone floor. Jak was relieved the empty eye sockets did not stare back.

  The crooked monolith loomed ominously on the far side of the plaza, a thin trail of cloud obscuring its peak. From this close proximity, Jak wondered how the entire unbalanced column remained upright. He also pondered what purpose it served. Was it a monument, the leftover remnant of some larger design, or simply a beacon of death?

  Kleo coughed, then covered her mouth as if wishing she could arrest the sound.

  No one else moved, and Jak’s senses became alert to the slightest disruption. He thought of the girls’ earlier reports of noises, and knew the others did, too.

  Silence surrounded them, but for the gentle lapping of lake waters on shore, close yet invisible in the darkness. Not even the sound of their breathing was audible, and Jak wondered whether their exhausted hearts had all simultaneously ceased beating.

  Then Kluber stepped closer, bent down, and rubbed his fingers through the pile of ashes beneath the skeleton. Then nodded. “Still warm,” he said softly.

  A sickening chill ran through Jak’s body, the terrifying implication obvious to even his stupid mind.

  “My back itches,” Kleo complained. Everyone ignored her.

  “I guess we’re not alone, after all,” Riff said.

  3

  Vilnia

  The c
aravan was not much—eight oxen drawing four overloaded wagons, carrying a modest load of Vilnian tin and Oster fur. Four harpa traders, two women, two men, a driver for each wagon. A pair of skinny, antagonistic black dogs alternately running underfoot or curling up to sleep on the rear of the wagons, barking passers-by off, as if the precious cargo were royal gold and they were the emperor’s own mastiffs. And one understrength squad of soldiers, seven misfit privates and one tyrannical corporal.

  Nay, the caravan was not much, and rolling alone through the unpopulated frontier between Vilnia and Gothenberg was enough to give anyone an overwhelming sense of isolation.

  For Yohan, however, the caravan was more than he wanted. There were conversations at every turn, often when he did not want them, his own sullen reticence never seeming to discourage the natural prolixity of others. The unending, meaningless banter often drove him away from the camp, seeking quiet solitude a few minutes at a time.

  This was one of those moments. He sat on a boulder, plate of warm beans in hand, staring east at the distant mountains. The Stormeres. He had spent half a lifetime on those hostile peaks, alone and yet not alone, preserving an unconscious then unfriendly woman who had come to mean more to him than anything else in the world. A princess whom he would still die to protect, despite the pain of abandonment.

  Yohan was strangely transfixed by those mountains, and not only because they accounted for the sum total of his time with her. He had been tested there, and was satisfied with the outcome. He had learned much of himself, and of others. The experience put things into perspective.

  These beans, for example. These beans were rubbish. Yohan could tell Brody made them, for they were as overcooked as they were underflavored. And yet Yohan welcomed each unpalatable spoonful, a far cry better than the intolerable hunger he had known.

  A tiger, of all things, had saved them. At the time, it had not seemed as crazy as it did on reflection. Now Yohan was convinced that tiger was his own personal guardian, that its spirit had somehow passed into his own. He felt compelled to return to Sky’s Pass, simply to thank the beast properly.

  It was comforting, knowing the mountains were nearby. Morn to eve, eternally watching over him. The caravan remained a respectful distance away, sticking to the flatland where the nominal speed of the oxen could be maximized. But Yohan felt with an uncanny certainty that he would someday find himself back amongst the frigid, rocky ridges.

  “There you are, Brother. Is there room for me?”

  “There’s always room for you, Brother.” He inched over on the boulder.

  Brody sighed as he sat. “How are the beans?”

  “They’re wonderful.”

  “Thanks, Brother. I made them.”

  “Well done. Perhaps you should take my next turn cooking.”

  Brody laughed. “What sort of a flat do you take me for?”

  “A rather large one, to be honest.”

  Another laugh. “I appreciate your honesty, Yohan. Someday you’re going to give me a compliment, and I’ll know it’s true.”

  Yohan focused on finishing the beans, allowing his companion to do the talking. The other soldier never ran short on words.

  “Kelsey says there is a Proving coming up in Threefork.”

  Yohan’s mouth was full, but he looked at his companion with a raised eyebrow.

  “I know, you never want to take these rumors too seriously. But it would be interesting.”

  Yohan swallowed. “You mean to watch.”

  “I mean to compete.”

  In the five days they had known one another, Yohan had learned to recognize when his friend was joking. This was not one of those occasions.

  “You want to be a Swordthane?”

  Brody appeared surprised by the question. “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “Not I.”

  Brody narrowed his eyes. “Nay, I don’t suppose you do. Perhaps that’s your problem, Brother. You don’t want anything. Or at least you don’t know what you want.”

  Yohan looked away, discomfited.

  Brody laughed. “I’m being unfair. Forgive me, Brother. You do want something, I know.” He waited expectantly, but Yohan said nothing, hoping the other soldier would move on to whatever new subject his whims willed.

  “I ask myself, ‘Why is Yohan sad? Does he grieve for his comrades lost on patrol? Is he guilty that he alone survived?’

  “But of course he was not truly alone. There was one other, and together they spent tendays fighting the evils of the barbarians, the mountains, the winter. Surely, they were…thrust together by circumstance. But the two of them were as different as night and day. Is such a thing possible? Nay, of course not.”

  Brody laughed again at the absurdity, and Yohan was relieved that his friend’s playful musings were reaching an end.

  Brody stroked his stubbled cheeks thoughtfully. “Then I consider that the princess is as beautiful as she is cold. And that my friend Yohan is not without a certain rugged handsomeness. And some women are sadly into that sort of—”

  “Do you ever stop to breathe?”

  Brody clapped a hand on Yohan’s shoulder. “You’ll find another, Brother. Then all will be well.”

  He turned his gaze toward the camp.

  “Why don’t you try talking up the short one? She’s unbelievably cute…maybe not so stunning as the other, but she seems to like you, though gods know why.”

  Yohan wanted only for the subject to change. “All right. I’ll try.”

  Brody’s head swung back to face Yohan, the guileless brown eyes studying closely. “Well, that was easy,” he said suspiciously.

  “There is much to admire of these harpa.”

  Brody smiled. “You’ve never spoken truer words, my friend. I am pleased to hear you say so.”

  The woman in question was Meadow, the youngest of the traders. It was true that she smiled an inordinate amount when interacting with Yohan, but the culture of her people was confusingly difficult to understand, and he did not know how to distinguish everyday cheerfulness from genuine interest. Nor had he much reason to care. His mind admitted that Brody was right in needing to find another, but that was not the same as compelling the heart.

  She might be someone he could fall for in time, however. She was as short as any adult he had known, reaching only the midpoint of his chest, but her soft features were a pleasure to view and her disposition as congenial as could be imagined. She used bright red wooden pins to rearrange her bountiful blonde hair, somehow failing to keep it from falling into her eyes no matter how often she adjusted them. The constant brushing back of hanging locks was as much a part of her as that easy laugh.

  Her full name was Fairmeadow Sonnet. The name alone made her intriguing, and their first conversation had been about the harpa’s strange naming conventions. Yohan had also quickly learned that they were a matriarchal people where women outranked men, and that they did not recognize the same gods as the rest of the empire. These traditions alone explained why the harpa were treated as second-class members of imperial society, with no homeland of their own, no privileges to participate in government, nor even an allowance to carry weapons. This last made clear the need for military escort, for the caravan was otherwise incapable of defending itself.

  The little he had heard of the harpa prior to this trip branded them as dishonest thieves. That reputation did not comport with what he had learned in just a few days of personal exposure. Indeed, he found himself in admiration of these four.

  The older woman, and thus the leader of the caravan, was an industrious sort named Summersong Maple. She could not have been far into her twenties, but she commanded the other three with a confident tenderness normally associated with aging mothers. Where Meadow was cute, Summer was an exotic beauty, with sharp features and dark hair. The confident, cheerful way she carried herself reminded Yohan of the best officers he had served under. Not tall, but self-assured to the point of intimidation. Yohan noticed how the other soldiers avoided lookin
g her way, afraid of getting caught.

  Her mate was a reserved young man named Patrik. Yohan did not know whether the same laws of marriage applied to their people and so avoided using the term husband, but their close association was clear to all. Every order from Summer was delivered with a warm smile, and received with the same. Witnessing that relationship forced Yohan to recall his own contentious behavior with Jena, and wonder how things may have turned out differently if they had treated one another with greater respect.

  The last, and eldest, trader was a large man who went by the name Silvo. Thick and heavy, as ugly as the women were pretty, Silvo kept his reddish cheeks clean-shaven, although a little facial hair would distract from the oversized nose and uneven blue eyes. Appearances aside, the man had a magnetic personality that was hard to resist. A storyteller and jokester, his deep voice was a main attraction of the caravan’s fun-filled nights.

  Along with the music. And the dancing. These were the true gifts of the harpa, the things Yohan most admired about them, and knew he would never forget.

  These things touched him in much the same way as the tiger had, forever altering him. With every reason to resent their lot, these people embraced it instead. They celebrated life with an enthusiasm that shamed his own petty unhappiness. He had much to learn from them, yet was too daunted to begin.

  “They’re doing the sadida tonight,” Brody said excitedly. “Come on, they’re starting soon.” He grabbed Yohan’s arm as he stood. As if Yohan needed encouragement. He would not miss this for all the wine in Liniza. They hurried back toward the wagons.

  Sunset blazing behind him, an audience of soldiers before, Patrik clapped out a steady beat with his hands. A small wooden fiddle rested in his lap, for later.

  After a few moments, Silvo added his own clapping, turning his hands one way then another as his foot kept time. Yohan watched Ledo and Bostik tapping their own feet in rhythm, unconsciously, their eyes riveted to the two stationary dancers standing with bowed heads and outstretched arms.