The black coach continued its hellish ride. Lucento bolted to the right, through the legionaries as they trampled each other, knocking people over before they could knock over him. The world is wild, and only the strong survive.
At last he reached the edge: a stone ridge that extended from the nearby mountains. The black coach, by the grace of the gods, had gone the other way. Lucento hopped toward the ridge. He clutched the rock, but scratched his hands and fell back into the screaming mass. He glanced over. The black coach turned the other way—toward Lucento. The ghosts swirled around it, eating the men’s faces. On the rocky ground, a legionary begged for help.
“Help me up!” he screamed. “Help me up!”
Lucento leapt toward the rocky ridge again, but again failed to gain a handhold. He slipped down, cutting himself and opening a small wound on his hand. “Damn it all!” he screamed. “Hieronus help us!”
Yet the god of justice and just war seemed to be on the side of the rebels. The coach rattled through the army, impaling men on its spiked wheels.
“Help!” the legionary on the ground screamed.
“Forgive me, Hieronus!” Lucento cried, and, using the wounded man as leverage, leapt over the rocky ridge seconds before the black coach skidded next to it, slaughtering all in its path.
Panting and trembling, Lucento staggered across the black earth. Though it was day, the dark clouds overhead turned all to night. Dubaquis was a remote city on the edge of the Iron Mountains. Help was many leagues away. Yet if he ran north, perhaps he could escape the rebels. Perhaps, if he ran many miles, he could reach Novica. Perhaps, if he kept running…
A blue spear of lightning flashed in the distance. A deafening boom of thunder roared across Dubaquis. Rain began, at first a drizzle and then a downpour.
I’m too old for this. I’m too old for war.
He ran as the dirt turned to mud, as the rain soaked his tunic. His sword, a standard Imperial issue, had once given him security. Now, it felt worthless against these forces of the underworld.
Lightning flashed again. A band of rebels ran across the road. Some of them were mortals. And of these mortals, almost all were escaped slaves. Their rebellion against their condition was understandable. Unacceptable, yes, but understandable. Yet they did not realize that they played with fire. The lord of the Underworld cared nothing about them. And when they were finally defeated, the Empire would torture and kill them all.
“Defeated?” a little girl’s voice said, echoing through Lucento’s mind.
“Defeated?” said a little boy’s voice.
Lucento turned his head. On the paved road leading toward Dubaquis proper, the leaders of the rebellion stared at him. The boy, Fabius, and the girl, Marcia. Ten years old, both born on the thirteenth of Anthanos. The Dark-Eyed Twins.
The girl spoke without moving her lips. “No more slaves. No more poor. No more Knights. No more Augusts. Just darkness. Just darkness. Just darkness.”
“Just darkness,” the boy said silently.
With dark, dead eyes they gazed at Lucento. His neck-hairs stood on end and he backed away from them; but they followed him off-road, onto the damp ground, stepping forward slowly with their little feet.
The boy, Fabius, spoke again in Lucento’s mind. “No more slaves. No more poor. No more Knights. No more Augusts. Just darkness. Just darkness. Just darkness.”
“Stop!” Lucento cried.
“Just darkness,” the girl, Marcia, said.
Lucento’s fear at last planted his feet on the ground. He stood there, shaking, as the twins walked toward him.
The last thing he saw was a shapeless, many-fanged face tearing toward his neck; and a hand dragging him into a black abyss.
The last thing he heard was, “Just darkness, forevermore.”
CHAPTER ONE:
Bad News
Claudio-Valens Adamantus
When the news reached Cipium—the Adamantus family ranch—Claudio’s mother, Catalina, sat down at the kitchen table and poured herself the last of the white wine.
The golden medal of service and the Imperial standard across the coffin were no consolation. Catalina no longer had a husband; he no longer had a father.
“I’m sorry, mother.”
“Do not be sorry.” Mother’s voice was strong. “We must get through this as we always have; we are of the knightly class… defenders of the Empire…” She broke into sobs.
“Damned rebels,” Claudio growled. He fought tears of his own. But expressing emotion was unacceptable as an Imperial Knight; and his mother needed his comfort. She needed a strong rock against this tempest.
“I knew he was too old for war, but he didn’t listen,” Mother wept. “He didn’t listen to me.”
“I will avenge him.”
“No!” Mother sobbed. “I will not lose you as well. You are my only son, and all your sisters have married…”
“Then I will not avenge him. I will do as you wish, Mother.”
“I love you, Claudio. Remember that.”
That night, as the setting sun painted the horse ranch in bronze colors, Catalina, Claudio, and the family servants decided on the time and place for the funeral. The honorable Lucento would be buried the next day at the family ranch, near the horses he loved so dearly.
The priest—a devotee of Hieronus, god of justice and just war—sprinkled the corpse with oil. “Hieronus, take Lucento Adamantus into your home. He has lived an honorable life, and was just in all his dealings. May his eyes look forever skyward until the end of time.”
They laid the wooden shell into the deep pit as Catalina sobbed and Claudio held her. Once the servants began shoveling dirt, they headed back to the ranch house. Along the road they walked. Mother’s sniffling continued, and Claudio, by grace of the gods, was able to hold his tears in.
The sound of galloping echoed through the air. Not unusual for a ranch; but it came from south along the road, not where the horses and foals were. Claudio looked back. A man in the purple-sashed white tunic of the Imperial court rode toward them.
Within seconds he had reached them. “Signore!” the man called out. “Are you Claudio-Valens Adamantus?”
“Yes,” Claudio stated.
“I am so sorry for your loss,” the man said.
Claudio said nothing.
“If you have not heard, the emperor has passed on.”
Catalina gasped.
“His will was read last week. The Imperial Council has conceded to the will and Giton Seánus Algabal now sits on the White Throne.”
Catalina gasped again, but Claudio held his reactions tightly in check. Giton Algabal—a distant relation of the emperor—had moved to the Imperial Palace with his mother three years ago. Rumors had already reached Claudio that Giton was the most cowardly, evil-hearted pleasure-seeker the Councilors had ever seen. In truth, he was barely of Imperial blood at all; his father was a barbarian from Khazidea, and his mother was half Easterner and half related to the emperor. Yet the Council held no real power to go against the emperor’s will. The Council, really, had no powers at all.
“Signore?” the man said, breaking Claudio out of his stunned silence.
“Yes?” Claudio said calmly. “Go on.”
“Your family is among the most revered of the knights,” the man continued. “His Undying Glory is hosting a grand reception on the seventh of Odens to celebrate his coronation. He wishes all his senior knights to attend… I extend the invitation to you as well, signora.”
“I do not think we will be able to attend,” Catalina said.
“Forgive me, signora, for giving you counsel. The emperor does not easily forgive slights… if at least one of you does not go, he will have a long memory of that throughout his reign.”
“I will go,” Claudio said abruptly.
“Very well,” Catalina said. “I shall mourn in private. But it is necessary.” She nuzzled her head into Claudio’s shoulder, dampening his shoulder with her tears. “Go, pack your
things.” She looked up at the rider. “Tell the emperor to expect my son.” She whispered in his ear as they walked toward the ranch house: “Be careful.”
He set out early in the morning with a handful of servants. He did not ride in the carriage, where all his things were; a knight rode horses, by definition. He would ride until he was saddle-sore, and beyond.
By late afternoon, they reached an immense wooden sign along the main road:
THE PATH OF TIDUS
Fort Martello… 55 miles
Aurelea… 75 miles
The sign listed more towns and cities below, but at the bottom, Claudio’s destination was written:
Imperial City… 531 miles
He sighed at the distance. Two weeks’ travel, if all went well. He would grow saddle-sore indeed.
CHAPTER TWO:
A Strange Girl
Marcus Silverus
Marcus Silverus wanted a huge house on a private island, a pleasure barge, nightly parties on the ocean, and a harem of beautiful women like the southern Padisha Emperor. Right now, all he had was a crammed room in the Imperial Palace and an annual salary of twelve hundred gold pieces. Not enough to buy a private island, unless he saved for years. And Marcus Silverus spent every last penny he made.
As he looked out his sixth-story window onto the light blue waters of the Middle Sea, the mansion-lined island of Dualmis reminded him of his lifelong ambition. Somewhere out there in the bright seas, there was an island for him.
A few fathoms below lay the garden. There, fig trees grew in abundance. He looked down and noticed a stranger there. A girl wandered through the gardens. She wore a dark red, ragged cloak. Obviously she was neither of the Knightly or August Class. So what was she doing in the palace?
Marcus could not resist curiosity. He could not resist much.
The girl was muttering to herself and Marcus couldn’t discern her words.
“Are you all right?” Marcus asked and walked over to her.
She was muttering something about Peregothius, founder of the Empire. Marcus removed her hood. She had bright red locks of hair. Her lips were full and colorful. Her eyes were a light, lush brown, complementing her even face well. She was beautiful. But her muttering and inability to respond indicated this girl’s stark, raving madness.
“What’s your name, girl?” Marcus said gently.
“The Trifold Goddess,” she said. “The Mother. The Great Mother.”
“Is that your name?”
“No…” She looked away. “My name’s Tivera. What’s yours? Don’t answer!”
Marcus laughed, not knowing how else to react. She must be a street-rat that somehow made it into the palace. She would not fare well if Antonio, Marshal of the Imperial Guard, found out.
“They’re after me,” Tivera said. “They’re all after me. I need help.” Her eyes darted this way and that.
“Who’s after you?” Marcus ran a finger along her cheek, and realized she was cold and shaking.
“Mother. Father. They are going to beat me again. Don’t let them beat me again.”
Marcus stifled a gasp. He put his arm around her shoulder. “Relax. It’s going to be okay.” If the Guard found her, she would be escorted back to her abusers. “Come with me.”
He would take her to his room. Marcus knew himself as a drunkard, a partier, and a man of loose morals; but he also knew he had a heart.
Marcus took her into his small bedchamber. “Are you cold?” He offered her a blanket, but she recoiled.
“No!” Her eyes darted about wildly. “I can warm myself. I am an augur…”
“An augur?” Unlikely.
She opened her hands, in both her palms, twin white lights grew in size.
Marcus shuddered. Magic never failed to frighten him; it seemed so out of the norm. But this magic was strange. “You create light… not wind, like the augurs. Maybe you are a magus… are you from Fharas?” She didn’t look the part.
The lights vanished. Tivera covered her ears with her hands. “Don’t say it! Don’t say it! La-la-la…”
If she is an augur, then she is an insane augur, Marcus thought. Power and insanity was not a good combination, as he learned from the history books.
He forced her hands off her ears. “I must take you to the Augur Collegium and see if they will admit you.”
“Mother and Father will find me,” Tivera whined. She started shaking again. “Please don’t take me there.”
“The collegium will not deliver you to your parents,” Marcus said calmly but firmly. “I will ensure it. Now come with me. You’re better off at the collegium than here, I tell you.”
Marcus looked into Tivera’s eyes and saw innocence, pure innocence. Anyone who wanted to harm this poor girl was a wicked person indeed. Somehow, because of her frailty he felt obligated to protect her. If the collegium would not take her, then he would take her in. If she ended up on the streets Marcus would never forgive himself.
The streets of Imperial City had grown less dangerous than a year ago, when Emperor Julio Seánus banned wheeled vehicles from entering at daytime. But light quickly faded from the sky, and soon night would set in. Marcus could not count the dangers of the night streets: murderers, muggers, wild dogs, chariots rattling through narrow alleys.
But he led Tivera as she whimpered, holding her quivering hand. The Augur Collegium was just a short walk away from the Imperial Palace. They passed the Imperial Hippodrome, several grim gray apartment blocks, and finally reached the collegium itself.
Above two propped-open wooden doors, etched on a stone lintel, was the collegium’s motto: “On the Winds of Fortune, We Speed to Victory.”
Tivera’s whimpering reached a peak. “I don’t want to go in.”
“Tivera, it’s for the best. It’s better than starving on the streets… being murdered in the darkness.”
At the phrase “murdered in the darkness” she shrieked. Marcus steadily led her through the propped-open wooden doors and entered the famed Augur Collegium.
They passed into the greeting room. On the colored marble was the insignia of the Augur Collegium: two crossed torches upheld by two hands. Against the wall was a desk, and behind it sat a man, obviously an augur. On his head, he wore a white-winged leather cap. In his hand he held a long, plain wooden staff. At once he stood up, and bowed. “Marcus Silverus, Guardian of the Wine Cellar.”
Marcus flushed in embarrassment at the miniscule title, but the augur’s eyes obviously held reverence… reverence, perhaps, for any Imperial title, even the lowliest of them all. “I come to admit this girl into the collegium. She is a magician, an augur, but she creates light.”
The augur’s eyes widened. “You cannot call her an augur if she does not wield the power of Wind. Light! That is strange; it is not seen much in magicians. Perhaps, among the magi of the south, but maybe not even among them.” In an instant, his eyes lost their wonder. “Now do not be insulted, my signora, but many try to worm their way into the collegium without having real power. Let me see your handiwork.”
“Show them,” Marcus urged her.
“I… No! No!” she mumbled.
“Tivera,” Marcus said sternly. She didn’t know what was best for her, or how vulnerable she was on the streets. “Show him.”
“Ah… all right…” She stretched out her palm and a small, wavering mote of light appeared, growing larger until it shone as an incandescent orb. The light relaxed Marcus, put his soul at ease.
The augur’s eyes lit up with fascination. “Ah! Yes! Yes, I am sure we would be interested in seeing her.” He smiled. “Will you join the Order of Augurs, my signora?”
“I—I don’t know,” Tivera stuttered.
“I will take that as a yes,” the augur said. “In matters of faith… do you pledge your faith to Animon, the Wind Lord, and his twin sister Celera the Quick-Footed?”
“No,” Tivera said with startling clarity. “I worship Mira, the Trifold Mother.”
The whom? Marcu
s never heard of such a deity.
“It is no matter,” the augur said. “We will accept her.”
Marcus wasn’t sure he liked the look in the augur’s eyes, but he knew intellectually that Tivera would fare better here than in the streets.
“Come with me, Tivera.”
She looked at Marcus like a sad dog abandoned by her master. As Marcus left the Augur Collegium, he—for a reason he did not know—fought guilt.
CHAPTER THREE:
Slaves Reborn
Silvestro Matteus, Legate
The mission verged on suicide: succeed where the Seventh Anthanian Legion failed. Conquer the rebel stronghold of Dubaquis, where the best of the legions had perished. Yet Silvestro would not enter with the same bravado that proved to be the Seventh Anthanian’s doom. He would use actual strategy when he attempted it.
Three thousand soldiers marched in Silvestro’s legion: two thousand, five-hundred common legionaries; three-hundred Imperial Knights; and a two-hundred strong auxiliary force of archers from Eloesus.
A fearsome force, one that could conquer and people the whole world; and yet, the Seventh Anthanian—almost twice as strong—had broken upon this rebel stronghold like water crashing against rocks.
As Silvestro rode with the Knights, he surveyed the region. This was Anthanian central valley, on the edge of the imposing Iron Mountains. Here, the sun baked the uncultivated yellow grass, and the rarer, arid fields of wheat. It was hot like southern Anthania, perhaps hotter, but without the respite of the sea. You could not strip your clothes and cool off in the water. Water, here, was a precious commodity.
The weather had been sunny and blue-skied, but now—the last leg of the journey—a dark spot hung in the distance, and just looking at it sent a shiver up Silvestro’s spine. Perhaps it was a cloud, but if it was a cloud it was an evil one. A man practiced in the art of divination may tell Silvestro more; but until recently—until just a few days ago, when the rumors started to reach him—he had not believed in that art or in underworldly powers.