The translator explained. “He says, ‘I don’t understand.’”
“I wish to make an official apology on behalf of the Imperial Council,” Kerius said. “I wish to express to the King of Kings, God Manifest—glory upon him!—that we act as one. That we are equals.”
When the translator finished, the cataphract shouted something in return. He sounded angry, and Kerius got a sinking feeling.
“He says, ‘You are not equal to the King of Kings. You are dirt, and he is a living god.’”
“Tell him, I should not speak so rashly.” Kerius improvised his response. “We are not equals. But our nations… we wish to make changes in our strategy. We wish the Empire to respect Fharas.” He fumbled over his words. “We wish for the Empire and Fharas to act as one, to be allies, and—”
The cataphract said something else, and the translator explained. “He says, ‘It is not for Fharas to be anyone’s ally. It is the natural order for Fharas to dominate. One day, everyone under sun and moon will call the King of Kings his lord.’”
“I agree, it should be so,” Kerius said. “I despise my own countrymen. They are arrogant and violent. They are eager to war and greedy. They have no respect for authority. They…”
The cataphract cut him off, saying something else.
“He says that he agrees with you on all those things,” the translator explained. “He says ‘Your people are dogs. But I still do not understand why you have come. You are one of those people; one of those dogs.’”
“I am not,” Kerius replied. “I am above my people. I hate my people. I think they are a force for ill in the world; I think the Empire has acted pridefully. All the people who died during Archamenes’ invasion… they deserved it.”
The cataphract shouted something, and before the translator could speak, the Fharese warriors galloped forth and fell upon the Imperial soldiers with their scimitars. Kerius shut his eyes and crumpled to the floor. Screams, whinnying, and the sounds of slicing flesh echoed through the air.
When Kerius opened his eyes again, he noticed—in addition to himself—the translator was left alive. The Imperial soldiers and their hacked-off limbs lay strewn about the grass in bloody pools.
The scimitars’ curved blades dripped with blood. Kerius felt cold, yet he realized the cataphract had left him alive. The Imperial soldiers were symbols of oppression. Perhaps this noble warrior understood. Yes, he understood.
The cataphract spoke again.
“He says, ‘Did they deserve that?’”
Kerius answered, “Yes!” He could sense bloodlust in the cataphract. Fharas’ hatred for the Imperial citizens was well deserved. “I hate the Empire!” Kerius continued. “Long live the King of Kings! May all our cities fall, and may our people die from his spears! Archamenes is rightly called God Manifest!”
The translator’s own voice trembled as he relayed the message in Fharese.
The cataphract gave a loud belly laugh. He shouted something else.
“He says, ‘You have proven to me what Fharas already knew. The Empire is weak. It is crumbling. You have proven to me the Imperials are the lowest of dogs, and you the lowest of the low. The Empire is in decline, and its people are cowards and not men.’”
Kerius gasped and stumbled backward to catch his breath.
The cataphract galloped forward and arrowed his spear through the translator’s chest. Hot blood spattered Kerius’ face. In a thick, barely-understandable Fharese accent, the cataphract spoke in the Imperial tongue: “Did he deserve that?”
“Yes!” Kerius shouted, overcome. “Yes! He deserved it too!”
The cataphract raised his visor. A wide grin was on his dark bearded face. He hopped off his horse. He stepped forward and kicked Kerius to the grass with a steel sabaton.
Kerius screamed. This was impossible. “The Empire deserves it, but I do not!” he shrieked. “I hate my countrymen. I hate my people! Don’t you understand—?”
The cataphract thrust his spear into Kerius’ chest; the steel head went through him like soft butter. Again and again, the Fharese warrior slammed the spear into his chest.
Kerius tried to scream but only gargled blood. If hating my own people will not endear me to the Fharese, then what in the world can?
As he took in his last blood-drowned gasps, the cataphract spat on him, then mounted his horse and rode away. Like a piece of garbage he lay there, food for vultures.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO:
A Bad Wind
Regent Antonio Laureana
The fleet passed within sight of the island of Acronesis. Its steep cypress-covered mountains projected far above the gray sea. Antonio knew that to its southwest was Peregoth, birthplace of the Sea Kings and the Empire. Far away, many miles to the direct south, lay the city of Zoar and the surrounding client kingdom of Kheroe.
Around him, the winds had grown stronger, and—as he patrolled the deck—Antonio detected unease in the sailors’ eyes. The sun had not shown its face all day, and the waves swelled bigger and bigger with each passing hour. The air grew chill, and a constant misty rain made everything colder.
Antonio gulped. He could no longer deny it. The regent—emperor in all but name—was afraid. He hurried across the deck of the war-galley and approached the captain, Florens.
“Signor Florens.” Antonio tried to look tough. “I think we should perhaps winter in Tiverium.” The main settlement of Acronesis was small compared to most cities of the Empire, but it had a good harbor and could probably provide for the men.
“Yes, yes, my lord,” Florens answered. “A storm is coming.” He raised his voice. “Head for Tiverium at once!” He gave the signal, and the other fleets turned south. Tiverium faced the Middle Sea, but it would be long before they could reach the safe harbor.
It seemed they had drawn no closer to the slopes of Acronesis when a wind of hurricane force ripped across the sea. The rain picked up. The ship lurched southeastward.
“We must ride it out!” Florens shouted over the howling wind. “We will let Lorenus take us where he will. Take shelter, Antonio. It will be a rough ride.”
Below deck, Antonio’s prize lay bound in lengths of chain. The ship careened and Antonio stumbled. She rolled, revealing her bare, welt-covered arms.
Such a beautiful face, he thought. Those dark eyes and the curves of her body would make her the desire of any man. Yet Antonio wasn’t any man. He was a bad man. Like the widow spider, he liked to hurt his prey.
He stalked over to her. She cried out. The ship careened again, this time to the other side. Antonio stumbled and hit the wall.
The hurricane winds howled from above. I will not survive this storm.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE:
Wreck
Anthea Abantes
Antonio slammed his fists onto her shoulders, onto her arms, creating new welts, new bruises, new wellsprings of pain. “Filthy whore!” Antonio cussed. “Filthy as Issa’s loins! That’s what you get for poisoning the emperor.”
You aren’t the emperor. You aren’t even a man. Anthea almost said it, but she had to act wisely. She curled up, ignoring the pain. She raised her head skyward as Antonio had his way with her. She prayed again to Hieronus, god of honor: Let Claudio save me.
It was no use. If Antonio doesn’t kill me, the storm will.
The next morning, the pain paralyzed her. She tried to raise her finger but pain shot up through her arm, through her near-broken bones. She retched.
Standing up would kill her. The winds wailed all around her. She wondered whether it was morning or noon, or the middle of the night. She shut her eyes and drifted to sleep.
For three hellish days the winds continued. Three days of lying in the cold; three nights of Antonio’s torture. Anthea decided on the second day that she wanted to die. She could not move. She could barely breathe without pain. Her only human contact was Antonio, whose only goal was her misery. He had succeeded.
Some time on the fourth day, a deafening crack rocked the ship. Anthea skidded across the wooden floor and struck her already-aching shoulder. She yelped. Then all was still; the waves beat the ship this way and that. They had run aground.
For an hour she lay there. The winds steadily died down, but the damage to the ship was done.
Eventually, Antonio appeared before her. She greeted him with neither a groan nor a whimper. She shut her eyes, and didn’t cry out until he grabbed her and hauled her into his grip.
He carried her up the steps, and, for the first time in many days, the light of the sky reached her. The rain had died to a drizzle; the skies were somber and gray. But light! Light, at last! Despite the chill of the air, she was gone from the dank darkness below-deck and into the fresh air, into the bright, life-giving light.
Outside, beyond the split ship, lay a wilderness: rocks and tall, newly-green grass. Though the ground was still slick with rainwater, the storm clouds had begun to retreat.
The rush of the waves, for the moment, put Anthea at ease.
“Gods be damned!” Antonio’s eyes widened; his face went red. “Where are we, Florens?”
The captain, a thin waif of a man, answered. “The wind has blown us many miles off course… southeastwards. Looks like we’re somewhere in Kheroe, probably the east. But I do not know exactly where. I am not a Kheroan, after all.”
The once sixty-strong crew had dwindled; apparently a few had fallen out of the ship in the midst of the storm. In the damp chill, Anthea surveyed the greenery and took in the wondrous scent of lavender and pines. She had never been to Kheroe. She had never been outside of Imperial City since she arrived there. Anthea’s birthplace was Imperiopoli; her mother, a sacred concubine at the Temple of Issa, was unable to take care of her, neither financially or emotionally. At age seven, Anthea had gone with a troupe of Imperial officials; they had delivered her directly into the hands of the dark madam Lady Ciutta.
And now, here she was: soon to be food for the basilisks. Covered in welts, doomed to death and to hellfire soon after. As Antonio and the sailors left to find the other ships, Anthea prayed again: Lord Hieronus, let Claudio save me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR:
The Throne of the God
Claudio-Valens Adamantus, Grand Legate
Claudio thanked the gods that his men had left the lord of Sur alive. He could not speak the Imperial tongue, but he could speak the tongue of Fharas. One of Claudio’s soldiers—the tribune Milo—had learned the language of the southrons, and Claudio spoke through him.
He said the lord of Sur was named Shen, and that Shen did not like the emperor Archamenes any more than Claudio did. Shen said that he had no choice but to serve the Fharese, and, in doing so, serve the treacherous satrap Faridún.
Claudio didn’t believe a single one of Shen’s words. But he ordered Shen to lead them via the best possible route to Seshán, and that—if Shen took them to the ancient city without quarreling—he would earn a share of the plunder.
Shen agreed.
For twenty days, they followed the River Khazan and the flourishing farmland that sprouted from either bank. There was a sizeable village every square mile. The temples were composed of columns and domes, built of red sandstone like the other public buildings. On the walls of these great temples, masons had carved faces with strange, primitive features and flaring tongues; or humans with the heads of animals.
It struck Claudio how well fortune had smiled on these people. In time beyond remembrance, they had settled into one of the richest farmlands in the world. And it struck Claudio, too, that the further south they went, the more out-of-place he felt. The Khazidees were not like the Imperials; their gods were strange to Claudio, and the people stared at the soldiers with dark, painted eyes.
Yet it was more than just the physical aspect. A feeling came over Claudio that he was truly marching to the edge of the world, to a land beyond northern knowledge. And indeed, he was. Only Tarchon the Mad had attempted to conquer Seshán; and he had failed.
Yet the flame in Claudio’s heart would not extinguish until he had utterly subdued the King of Kings and brought his realm under Imperial rule.
At dusk of the nineteenth day, the river took a sudden turn east, where, if they followed it, they might someday reach its impossibly distant source. Once again Milo translated for the lord of Sur: “In another six leagues, past the land of the Rock Forts, are the fields of Gor Ilán.”
“We will commence tomorrow,” Claudio said. He needed to rest his bones, anyway. Imperium, Spirit of the Empire, had set a difficult task before him.
At dawn, they left the security of the river and went directly south. The Asa, on their multitude of horses, obviously tired of traveling so slowly. But Claudio would not leave his soldiers behind.
They marched through a yellowish land of natural rock pinnacles and wide canyons. With the advice of the man of Sur, they took the least-traveled road. Claudio had no doubt the main thoroughfare was heavily trafficked, and he wanted to minimize the risk of alerting Archamenes. Still, Claudio could not avoid the Fharese merchants that traveled along the road he chose, nor could he avoid the forts, carved from rock, which peered over the countryside; but he had no other option.
At dusk, the rocky land ended and—below a five-foot cliff face, a rolling yellow plain stretched into the horizon.
Thus they began their journey through the fields of Gor Ilán. On the night of the twenty-first day, the lord of Sur spoke to Claudio within the Grand Legate’s tent.
“Great lord of the north.” Milo translated for him. “Seshán lies just sixty miles to the south. There, on his throne, the King of Kings sits proudly. A crowd of worshipers live there, existing only to venerate him. But if you expect a city like the wonders of the north, you are mistaken. The city exists only to serve the Padisha Emperor, worshiping his name. I warn you… the magi have long predicted that if an unworthy man comes in sight of the King of Kings’ throne, he will melt.”
“Tell him that his superstitions mean nothing to me.” Claudio looked into the lord of Sur’s narrow eyes. “Tell him that I do not fear the King of Kings, and do not consider him a god.”
When Milo explained Claudio’s words to the lord of Sur, he paled. Perhaps none in the southern kingdoms had ever dared utter such words.
For three more days they passed through the open plains. Only impoverished mudbrick villages and small cattle-ranches broke the monotony. They had avoided the more populous parts of Gor Ilán—or more accurately, the lord of Sur avoided it at sword-point.
Thus it was late morning of the twenty-fourth day when they finally neared Seshán. At last they could no longer avoid the roads, nor could they avoid the merchant caravans and the small clusters of population that surrounded the city proper. Already Archamenes was doubtlessly alerted to their presence but despite the unease building in Claudio’s heart, he would come upon the King of Kings with the fury of a storm.
A red colonnade lined the southbound road. Colossal statues of past kings towered above the soldiers as they passed by. Yellow grass sprung up in the few places that brick and stone did not cover. Seshán seemed a collection of monuments rather than a real city, but people did pass through the roads: brown-garbed worshipers laying votive offerings before the statues of emperors; and magi in their purple silk robes. They all fled before Claudio.
It seemed a mountain appeared before them. But quickly Claudio realized it was not a natural formation; it was a series of steps, a ziggurat, leading up to an immense stone chair. The figure of Archamenes was barely distinguishable from his titanic throne.
At the sight of him, the lord of Sur whimpered.
Claudio drew his sword. “He is undefended. It seems strange for someone called God Manifest.”
Milo, standing behind him, grunted agreement. “Perhaps they do not believe any man would dare to touch him. The people of Fharas are enslaved by the fear of him; they are fed his lies from bir
th through adulthood. To speak against their god is sacrilege.”
“I will face this ‘god’ myself,” Claudio said, and began climbing the steps.
The throne was a half-pyramid, with small steps leading up to a great height and then abruptly dropping off. On the stone chair was Archamenes himself. His long gold neck-brace might give him the appearance of might and godliness in his own culture, but anywhere else would make him look strange. Jeweled bracelets covered his arms; gold anklets ran the length of his legs. Dark blue eye-shadow and bright red lips might indicate his status in Fharas, but it only made him look womanly in Claudio’s view.
“You are not a god,” Claudio said. He looked deep into Archamenes’ brown eyes and saw, behind the façade, a mortal who knew the statement was true.
“Adiwan!” Blasphemy. The shouting of the word could not mask Archamenes’ trembling voice. In a heavy accent he spoke the Imperial tongue. “I am Archamenes Well-Born, Beloved-Of-My-Father. My father was also God Manifest but he has now ascended to heaven; and yet I will be greater than him. On the day of my birth, the magi saw a brilliant star and foretold my destiny: to destroy the arrogant Northern Empire. Do not insult the God Manifest, barbarian.”
Claudio struck him across the jaw. Archamenes cried out; such an act was unthinkable among his own people. Touching him, even ascending the throne steps, was so incomprehensible that Archamenes did not employ a bodyguard.
“Adiwan! Adiwan!” Archamenes cried again. He sobbed in pain and slumped further into his stone chair. “I hold your life in my hands. If I clench my fist, I can snuff out your life… I can control the storms and summon cyclones, and bring on the night.”
Claudio spat on him.
“Adiwan!” Archamenes’ eyes lighted with anger. He tried to stand up but Claudio forced him back into his seat.