Empire Asunder BoxSet

by Michael Jason Brandt

  Yet that inspiration was sadly short-lived, for he had spent long hours through the night contemplating his worth, the good and the bad, and was still not altogether sure which side of the ledger he was on.

  But he had a duty to perform, and if he could unite these two rival provinces in common cause and action, then perhaps honor might truly be earned.

  He passed alone through the lines—alone but for Lancer, who carried him to the place where this one war would be resolved. He had thought to come just as dawn broke over Cormona, simultaneously with today’s opponent, but Nico’s natural inclination for punctuality brought him here a few minutes too early.

  Alone and apart, he dismounted and studied the field, where soon one man would die. Nothing but Asturian clay and rock, flat and uninteresting.

  He expected a dull fight as well, at least compared to his last duel against Arturo. Nico remembered Thane Zenza well from three seasons before. Though the warrior must have some skill, he had certainly not improved in the intervening time as much as Nico had. His own star was still rising, straight toward the heavens. From prince to king, Thane to Third, onward and upward.

  Zenza had already been past his prime nearly a year ago, and Nico believed himself the better swordsman even then.

  The fight should not take long. Yet there was always risk in a duel, and overconfidence had been the downfall of more than a few champions.

  Zenza was brash, arrogant, and lazy. No proper representative of the Order. But at least his death would have value.

  For the first time in his life, Nico was not bothered by the prospect of killing. Deserved or not, he held the Asturian soldier responsible for a great deal of the animosity and misunderstanding between the two kingdoms. If a civil war could be ended by the death of one man, that was a small price to pay.

  Besides, it was a favor to Zenza. By falling to the blade of another thane, the soldier’s honor would be restored.

  And what of Nico’s honor? What of his family’s? Fate would have its say in this, as well. If he won this duel and united the empire, perhaps his family’s dishonor could be left in the past. If he lost…well, perhaps that was for the best.

  Now the warm sun began to spread across Nico’s shoulders, bringing to mind the immense heat of this summer. The unnatural malignity of the climate, too, he had taken into consideration. There were two opponents to face today—a swordsman and the weather. If taken too lightly, the latter would be the more dangerous.

  To combat it, Nico had left his mail behind. The decision was not without risk, but he trusted that his shield would suffice. Unburdened, Nico need not fear for his stamina, while the thought of an overweight, out-of-shape Zenza tiring quickly in his own armor almost brought a pang of sympathy.

  That was an emotion with no place on dueling ground or battlefield, and Nico was quick to push it away.

  Arriving early was a mistake. He realized that now. There were too many sights to trigger the mind, and too many memories to hold back.

  There, less than a mile away, was the field of his first battle. At the time, he had been too upset by the loss of his soldiers—and his only friend—to appreciate the tremendous import of the occasion. Only in hindsight did he see how that one decision and its aftermath forever altered him as a person, and the trajectory of his life.

  The tower visible beyond the walls was the site of the castle, where Nico had received his first exposure to the culture of Asturia—its rich and varied food, its beautiful women, and its fierce pride.

  He had not lived there long, but in a very short time that castle had started to feel like a place to belong. It was where King Anton had gone from rival to father figure and back again. The castle had housed the ceremony honoring Prince Nicolas of Akenberg for heroic services rendered to Asturia, and the great banquet where he had shared a drink with a man he respected, the man Leti saw as an uncle, the man Nico had later killed.

  Princess Letitia. He had met her here, and fallen in love, and promised he would never be her enemy. And look at him now.

  Yes, arriving early was a mistake. He found himself not just halfway between their lines, but halfway between Akenberg and Asturia in heart as much as body. Both sides had marked him with friendship and turmoil, respect and betrayal, love and pain.

  He was as close to the pinnacle of success as a man could get, yet he was sad.

  There was movement, at last, from the city gate. A single horse and rider trotted through, then began to canter toward Nico.

  At one hundred yards, he could see that the man was not Zenza. Perhaps the Asturians had reneged on the agreement, or were sending a messenger to buy time.

  No. This was a swordsman, his longsword sheathed and roundshield slung over his back.

  At fifty yards, Nico recognized the tall, slender figure. A full beard altered, but did not fully disguise, the youthful appearance.

  Nico waited for the rider to stop and dismount, his movements much smoother than when last they had seen one another. The boy had grown into his body.

  Their eyes met at last, and they nodded to one another. “King Nicolas.”

  “Prince Tobias.”

  Each waited for the other to speak. For his part, Nico had hundreds of questions he would like to ask, and a dozen sentiments to express—pride for a student, joy at seeing a friend again, love for one he had hoped would be family.

  “They’re watching.”

  “Yes. We should begin.”

  The one relief was that he saw no hatred on Toby’s face. That would have been hard to accept.

  Nico drew his sword and raised it in salute. His shield—a targe, slightly smaller than his opponent’s—was already up.

  Toby saluted back, and Nico saw that the hand trembled. Nico gritted his teeth, wishing he had brought a bit like some fighters used.

  “I expect a fight worthy of a thane, Toby.”

  “Yes, Nico.”

  So the universe had finally turned against him completely. So long an ally, fate had at last declared itself an enemy.

  Nico hoped the other would initiate the action, but a few seconds of waiting was enough. So he lunged forward to give Toby’s shield a good test, and both naturally flowed into their tactics.

  With great satisfaction, he noted that Toby opened with Hansa’s Gambit. This was the first routine Nico had taught his young pupil, just as it was the first Renard had shown him.

  Of course, the sequence was useless against Nico. He not only had taught his opponent but was more proficient with its strides and strokes. He knew Toby’s motions as well as the prince did himself, and the duel became something closer to a choreographed dance than a disordered combat.

  Nico fought not to kill but to delay, to gain time to think, for there was an endless supply of threads to unravel, a blur of action and consequence starting far in the past and stretching into the future.

  “You defeated Zenza?” he asked, ignoring one feint before parrying the following slash. He stepped back, less to recover than to give Toby time to respond.

  “He called you a murderer. I thought…” Toby blocked a halfhearted thrust with his shield. “Thought it my duty to challenge him.”

  “That was foolish. You weren’t ready.”

  To punctuate the point, Nico launched a series of attacks from Grimaldi’s Second Measure, driving Toby step after step until the point of fruition. Then Nico backed off just as fast, focusing on his breathing.

  “You are much improved, though.”

  “All I’ve done since you left is practice.”

  That explained much. The young price’s reflexes were quicker, his movements more polished, his muscles more defined. His instincts were improved, as well, for he had detected Nico’s comfort with Hansa’s Gambit and began to improvise more.

  All of that added up to a fine swordsman, but not anywhere near the level of a Third. In little immediate danger, Nico found the opportunity to think.

  He now recognized Lord Jacinto’s motives for arranging
this duel. It was a wonderful opportunity to eliminate his only rival for the throne. In part due to wishful thinking, in part ignorance, Nico had played right into the old schemer’s hands.

  Koblenzar should have informed Nico of the new thane, of course. Perhaps he had known, perhaps not. Either way, the blind spot created by the general’s disdain for the Order had finally proven decisive.

  “Keep your blade up,” Nico said, castigating his former pupil as the prince clumsily allowed a thrust to get through his defense. Had Nico chosen to press the advantage, he could have ended the fight quickly with a cut to the unarmored neck.

  Toby responded with a vigorous attack of his own, a high slash that Nico blocked with the shield, followed by a sudden thrust toward the front leg. Nico defended with his own blade, then rammed his shield against the younger man’s torso, knocking him off-balance. A well-guided swipe to the thigh could have weakened or even crippled the prince, but Nico decided not to risk an attack of his own just yet.

  Each took a step back, then they circled in the blazing sun, thousands of eyes watching their every move.

  Toby had worn his armor, with the inevitable result. He was tired, and the more tired he became, the more he stopped improvising and fell back on rehearsed sequences. The ability to learn an opponent’s habits and take advantage of them was one key distinction between the great swordsmen and the mediocre masses.

  Nico was learning one of Toby’s now. Every time he forced the prince’s shield up then threatened to attack the exposed leg, the response was always the same—a downward swipe of the shield followed by a chestward thrust. Yurian’s Courtship, so named because the heart was the intended target.

  Against a fast, prepared opponent like Nico, the Courtship was ineffectual—little more than a desperate attempt to regain distance. The move left Toby’s swordarm exposed for half a second, however. More than enough time to disarm or disable.

  For one long moment, Nico had in mind to do exactly that. Perhaps he could leave Toby alive, after all. And perhaps Leti might not hate him as much.

  But Toby surely would. No, Nico could not speak of honor while taking another man’s away. And the war between the kingdoms had to take priority. They had to unite, as agreed, for the future of the empire.

  The time to end the duel had come. There remained questions aplenty, but no time to answer them. This would be far, far easier the less Nico thought.

  He lunged forward, sweeping at Toby’s front leg and forcing a jump backward. Unlike his previous attacks, Nico followed one aggressive move with another. He feinted middle then slashed high, then spun and reversed the sequence, feinting high before slashing middle. Toby blocked, parried, and retreated, using his last reserves in a frantic defense.

  Nico broke that defense down with a few repeated blows to the edge of that shield, hammering it back, then left, then right. Toby was down to pure instinct, his mind slow to process what was happening.

  By contrast, Nico’s mind was all too focused, more aware than he wished to be. He could see Toby’s muscles tensed in hope of a last-gasp counterattack.

  This is a shame. There are things I would have liked to have done.

  One more step forward, one more swing of the sword, and Toby’s shield was forced upward at last. Then Nicolas feinted toward the nearest leg, turned his own shield away, and accepted his fate.

  Not unlike the battle from the previous autumn, one she had witnessed from this same tower, Leti could not bring herself to watch the duel. A few passes between the two combatants were all she could bear before closing her eyes. And so the noise of the crowd told her the outcome.

  That noise—an unambivalent, exuberant cheer—made her want to scream. This waking nightmare would soon end, she knew, but the sound of this cheer would haunt her dreams for the rest of her life.

  But she could display no conflict of emotions, no complexity of thought. She must behave as a proper noblewoman, for there was much at stake.

  Improbably, her brother survived, and that was cause enough for relief. More importantly to those who stood with her, the kingdom could rejoice in a second victory in as many years.

  Aware that eyes were watching her now, as they were always watching her, Leti reopened her own.

  Sight only reinforced the moment’s nightmare quality. She stared at the people who filled the tower, watched them sway back and forth, wondered if perhaps she was dreaming after all.

  Strangers all, but not strangers. Faces she recognized, belonging to courtiers Leti thought she had known but did no longer. If they had ever been friends, they were now friends with knives.

  One stood out among them all. Lord Jacinto, her father’s longest-serving and most trusted adviser. The broad smile on his amiable, white-bearded face exemplified the joy of a city.

  Leti despised him. Her brother merely feared him, and with good reason. But she felt hatred of a kind she had never known before.

  As their father’s health diminished, Jacinto’s power had grown in equal proportion. Neither of Anton’s children had dared oppose the man openly, for he had a lifetime of connections with which to spin his webs of intrigue. All they had was the blood of the king.

  They were safe while their father lived, but possibly not beyond. Toby might easily have survived this duel, only to fall to an assassin’s dagger. Then she would be next.

  Not that she cared anymore. She was utterly numb, body and mind.

  Leti heard her name, but all sound receded into the distance. If a question had been posed, she had no idea what it was. So she smiled pleasantly, hoping that might suffice for an answer.

  The faces were still swaying, as were the battlements themselves.

  She panicked as she felt strong hands upon her shoulders. She had lost sight of the lord, and wondered whether that dagger was coming already.

  Though she had not meant to do so, she found herself looking up at the concerned face of a guardsman. She knew him, of course, but what was his name?

  Rafa, the son of a sutler. He was only a year older than she, and had been sweet on her in their youths. She remembered how proud he had been to be accepted into the castle guard, and in that moment she had thought him handsome.

  “I’m sorry, Rafa. I didn’t hear you.” Leti realized he was holding her firmly, and only his grip had stopped her from falling.

  “I said are you all right?” He let her go as she straightened herself. “I thought you were fainting.”

  “The heat,” she said. “And the excitement.”

  “Little Letitia, you should return to your suite.” Lord Jacinto looked down on her, still smiling but very much in control.

  Leti shook her head. “I must see Tobias. He will want me.”

  She took a step, but Jacinto took her by the arm. His grip was firm, like the guard’s had been, but far less benign. She knew the others were watching now, though no one intervened.

  Leti tried to pull her arm back, but the old man was stronger than he looked.

  Absolutely nothing was going to stop her this morn. “My brother—your future king—needs me. You would be well served to remove your hand.”

  He did not. “You are not well, My Princess. This heat is not good for a young lady. But do not fear. Your brother is well. The traitor is dead.”

  She slapped him.

  He released her arm then, moving that hand away to cover the mark she had made.

  Calmly, Leti raised her voice for others to hear. “This heat is not good for a man of your age, Lord Jacinto. That is why you forget your place, and why you should rest.

  “Now, I am going to see my brother. Guardsman Rafa will escort me.”

  She turned to the young man, holding his eyes with her own. “Rafa, if he stops me again, you will stop him. Is that clear?”

  “Aye…yes, My Princess.”

  “Come on. I want to hurry.”

  Casting Jacinto aside for the moment, a single thought now dominated her mind. I must see him, painful though it will be. I m
ust see him.

  They rode at a gallop, but others had gotten there first. She saw a small crowd forming, obscuring the view of both combatants.

  Then she saw her brother, looking as distressed as a winner could. He was looking for someone, and she knew it was her. She dismounted and ran to him.

  “Leti, he pulled his shield out of the way. I didn’t mean—” Then he lost the words.

  She hugged her brother, as much for herself as for him. His tall body bent down to hers, and she felt his wet face on her shoulder.

  She closed her eyes, wishing she could weep, too. But too many people were watching. A struggle was brewing, Tobias would never again be as revered as today, and she herself had embarrassed the enemy. Mourning would have to come later.

  “Toby, you cannot—”

  She reopened her eyes and stopped talking, for there was the body. Her own went cold in the sweltering heat, and the numbness returned to her mind. She wished it might spread, for her heart began squeezing so hard it was painful.

  Leti stared, wanting to hate him, for this pain was his fault.

  He made a promise to her, and she had trusted him. Then he made war on her people, and still she believed in him. Even when she found out about the duel—when Toby had come to her, in tears then as now, torn between fear of death, his duty to Asturia, and his bond with the man he most admired in the world—she had assured her brother that all would be well. Even after Toby reminded her of a Swordthane’s code, she had not believed Nico really meant to fight.

  Not until the blades were drawn that morn had she been willing to see her own naïveté. That was the moment the world stopped making sense.

  “He didn’t know.” Toby had gotten control of his tears, though his eyes remained misty.

  “Know what?”

  “About Zenza.”

  Suddenly it all made sense again, though the pain did not lessen.

  She was thankful, then, for this brief moment, when she could look one last time upon Nico’s face with unclouded love.