by Brian Murray
“Those are fighting words, blacksmith Platos,” said the Chosen stiffly, narrowing his eyes. “Yet I have to agree, if this sword breaks the blades of my guards, then I have been taken for a fool. The finest metals go into making my guards’ swords, so I am told. As you say, there should be no known blade better than theirs. So if my guard’s sword breaks, your claims are true.”
“This is outrageous!” shouted the nobleman, Barnash, surging to his feet.
“Sit down, Barnash,” hissed the Chosen calmly. “This is a fair test by my decree, is it not?”
Slowly, the man sat down, sweat gleaming from his balding cap and above his top lip. He took out a bright yellow silk cloth and mopped his brow.
The Chosen rose from his throne and all the standing priests and commoners, including Platos, fell to their knees; only his personal guards remained standing. He pointed to his closest guard. “Raise your sword,” he ordered.
The warrior instantly obeyed. The Chosen bunched the muscles in his right shoulder and arm and swung the short sword. There were two distinct sounds; the sharp clang of steel against steel, then the clattering of steel bouncing against the marble floor. The guard stood holding his broken blade, staring down with his mouth gaping.
“I’ll be damned,” muttered the Chosen in amazement, looking at the unmarked blade in his hand. “I’ll be damned.” Turning, the Chosen said, “Blacksmith Platos, you are now Master Armourer to my personal guards and I will order three hundred of these blades. That should keep your little forge busy for a while.”
“Yes, Sire. Thank you, Sire,” replied the new Master Armourer, bowing and beaming with pride.
“And if I may, I would like to keep this particular weapon.”
“You do me a great honour, Sire,” replied Platos, bowing again.
“As for you, Barnash,” added the Chosen, his voice hardening with a cold edge. “You will not, from this day forth, supply weapons or armour for my guards. That honour passes to Master Armourer Platos. You will pay Platos for a new furnace, as he will have to expand his operations. That should cover the damage you have caused to his family name. Furthermore, you will be banished and all your possessions confiscated, for lying to me.” The Chosen paused as the whimpering Barnash was dragged away. “Now, Master Armourer Platos, I would like to know, who commissioned you to make this sword?”
“Your Highness, it was made for the gladiator Thade of Rhaurien.”
The Chosen stood motionless for a moment, staring at the blacksmith. “Court is over,” he barked sharply, then spun on his heels and strode out of the temple hall.
***
The Chosen felt furious with the Barnash family, who had cheated him. Since the Empire had not had a major conflict with outside forces such as the Kharnacks or the Rhaurns, their weapons had never been truly tested in anger. Barnash had insisted the weapons had been tested against other blades acquired from rival forces, and that his swords were proved to be superior.
The seething emperor passed between heavy black satin curtains, down a white, brightly lit marble corridor to his private chambers, with six of his guards and two pages following. Each warrior knew where they should stop along the corridor, leaving the final pair to stand guard outside the Chosen’s study.
“Send General Gordonia to me now!” the emperor bellowed at the nearest page, then entered his study and slammed the door shut. He sat at his desk and gazed in awe at the sword. The blade was four fingers wide, a full arm’s length, including the hilt, and a small finger thick tapering to a point with layer upon layer of black folded steel tempered together during the forging process. It was undoubtedly a thing of beauty.
A knock at his door sounded.
“Come in, General Gordonia.”
The unarmed warrior entered the room, removed his helm exposing his white hair matted with sweat, then bowed on one knee. General Gordonia, a Dar-Phadrin clansman, led the Chosen’s Imperial Guards and was the emperor’s senior military advisor.
“Rise, my friend.” The older man rose from the floor with a grunt of pain. “Are you still having problems with your knee, Gordy?”
“You know, Roo, I am getting old, damn it! This bending down is not good for my joints,” snapped the older man with humour.
“Now, is that the way you should be talking to the Chosen?”
“If my knee was any stronger, I would haul you over it and give you a good solid spanking,” countered the general with a chuckle. General Gordonia was Rowet’s mentor and, in truth, his only true friend. Being an emperor proved a lonely life, so those friends he found were held close. Apart from his wife and children, Gordonia was the only living person allowed to speak to the Chosen in such an informal manner but this, of course, was only permitted in private such as now.
“Is that the blade, Roo?”
“Blacksmith Platos is a master at his craft,” replied the Chosen, nodding in admiration. “The question is, why has he not been making our weapons in the past?”
“Ah, Roo, you know the politics of the city. Since your father issued the commission there has been little call to question Barnash’s judgement. Anyway, let me look at the damn thing.”
The Chosen chuckled at the old man’s irritation. “Why are you in such a bad mood today, my friend?”
Reaching for the blade the general answered, “Standing all bloody day with the weight of this armour, listening to rubbish, is not good for my old knee as it causes me pain.” He paused and smiled. “My word, what a beautiful weapon.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Thade, he said.”
“Pardon me?”
“It was commissioned for the gladiator Thade. A very likeable man; that is, for a Rhaurn.”
“Oh yes, a good gladiator if I remember rightly.”
“Good? Damn it, man, he was the best, the only one who may have bettered him was Dax. Remember, you banished him for refusing your personal commission.”
“Yes, yes. So what do you think of the blade?” snapped the Chosen rather more harshly than intended. That was an excuse; the real reason for the banishment still caused Rowet discomfort. So much so, he had not told his friend the true details.
“Beautiful. A work of art.”
“I want Blacksmith Platos to get a good commission. I like a man of steel, and he seems true and honest. I like him.”
“Yes, walking into your temple with a weapon, knowing he could be executed, and then striking Barnash’s legal representative. He is either a man made of steel or he suffers from extreme stupidity.”
The Chosen chuckled. “Too be honest, I am not sure which, but I would like you to visit him personally and finalise matters. He should be proud and honoured to have our general visit his forge.”
Handing back the sword, hilt first, the general bowed his head. “Of course, your great Roo-ness, sir.”
The Chosen laughed aloud but his voice became serious. “Gordy, make sure Platos is well looked after. I will leave it to your discretion.”
“I will take care of him, Roo. On another note, I have received some news that we need to discuss. I believe it is of great importance.”
“Can it wait until you return? I have not read my reports yet, Gordy. Let us discuss it in the morning at breakfast.”
“But . . .”
The Chosen waved off the general’s questioning expression. “In the morning, Gordy.”
The general bowed and left the room, leaving the Chosen to his thoughts. A picture of a young gladiator grew in his mind. Thade had annoyed him, but the Chosen had to agree – he was a great fighter. And then there was Dax . . .
***
The Chosen settled down to review the reports provided by his priests, including information on neighbouring nations, internal city and national reports, taxes and revenue statements from the treasury. There were also military reports from Gordonia and local clan chieftains living near to the country’s borders. The paperwork went on and on. A light knock sounded on the door.
“Come,” called the Chosen, without looking up.
The door opened and a beautiful young woman stood silhouetted in the doorway. “How are you, Father?”
The Chosen peered up with a beaming smile and rose from his chair. Now, he was not the emperor of a nation but a loving father. “Ireen, you are back. Come here girl and let me see you. Forgotten how to give your father a hug?”
The girl stepped into the man’s open arms and they embraced for a long moment. Then the Chosen held his daughter at arm’s length and admired her beauty. Just like her mother; long dark hair, lightly tanned skin, full lips, and large emerald green eyes protected by long lashes. She was tall and slender, with all her well-proportioned curves in the right places.
“How was your journey, daughter?”
“Wonderful. The lands of Rhaurien are full of rolling green hills and everyone was very hospitable. Especially the men,” she added with a wry grin. That part of her character she inherited from her father, crafty and cunning. Ireen had a very clever and quick mind, which she knew how to hide when necessary, so she could act the docile female when occasions demanded. However, on such occasions, she was always alert, listening and learning – a woman’s better traits, sly and devious. Ireen’s shrewdness made her dangerous to some people, if they knew of her academic talents.
“Courting already, my daughter? Who is the poor soul? Their prince?” the Chosen asked hopefully, secretly desiring a union with the Rhaurns, but not wanting to force his daughter into any form of arranged marriage. He knew she would obey him if instructed but being a devoted parent, and by nature a romantic, he wanted his daughter to marry for love.
“Oh, the prince was nice and I believe he would make a good husband . . .”
“There’s a ‘but’ coming? Out with it, child,” replied Rowet, trying to hide his disappointment.
“But there was someone else. I saw him again, Father.”
“I have heard his name once today, I don’t want to hear it again,” said Rowet, throwing his arms up, his mood darkened. “I thought you were over him. Childish puppy love, was it not, daughter?”
“Oh Father,” she said with a beaming smile. As usual, when a daughter beamed that smile at her father, all anger would fade. Rowet was no different. “He looked very handsome, Father, and he’s not a fighter anymore. He’s now a powerful land owner and respected by his peers.”
“Come daughter of mine, let’s walk in the gardens, but no more mention of him.” Father and daughter linked arms and strolled out through glass doors to the emperor’s private gardens.
“He’s still unmarried, Father,” added Ireen with a giggle.
“Enough talk of Thade, child,” snapped Rowet, instantly regretting the tone used. His voice softened. “Tell me of the prince and your adventures.”
Behind the departing pair, on his desk, lay the next information report from Rhaurien, compiled during Ireen’s visit. As the door opened, a gust of wind lifted the parchment and wafted it from the table to the floor, where it rested with the reports the Chosen had already dealt with. This evening it remained unread.
***
After an hour in his private gardens, the Chosen returned to his study, where his mood darkened. Even after three years of banishment, Rowet still could not quash his daughter’s love for Thade. Their romance had developed uncommonly quickly; both were deeply in love, but to ask for her hand in marriage? The cheek of the man, only a gladiator. He knew Thade was strong, skilful and very kind, but had a quick temper.
Bonds had to be made between the Phadrine and the Rhaurns; that was the future. But what if she married the gladiator? Rowet dismissed the thought. It would have to be the Rhaurien prince . . . he hoped.
The Chosen’s thoughts shifted to his son. If anything happened to Rowet, his son, Tucci, would inherit the throne. The thought made Rowet physically cringe. Tucci was too much like the boy’s grandfather, the Blood Emperor: twisted, wicked, and edging towards evil and insanity. The emperor had received reports about his son and they did not make good reading, but confirmed the emperor’s opinion. He kept the details secret from his wife, knowing it would upset her. Rowet was unsure if Tucci would be fit to be emperor. With his wife now barren they could bear no more children, so he had to make a decision.
The Chosen shook thoughts of the distant future from his mind. His son would learn or there would be an empress for the first time in Phadrine history. However, in such a situation, trying to avoid a clan war would take some delicate diplomacy. He cleared his mind and turned his attention back to the paperwork on his desk. It was going to be a long night.
Outside, jagged streaks of lightning lit up the sky as the Chosen picked up the next parchment. Distant thunder rumbled.
***
Prince Tucci watched his father and sister walk arm in arm around the garden. Hatred oozed from his body, wanting, willing, praying for both of them to be struck down then and there. Tucci dragged himself from the window, wiping crystallised saliva from the corner of his mouth. He always over-salivated when he became over-excited. The sound of his sister giggling made Tucci shiver with rage and again he wiped his mouth. Sitting down at his desk, he reached for the note that had been smuggled to him earlier. He read the simple message, the lettering written in blood.
We are ready.
My man will make contact with you tonight.
Our reign will begin.
The note was signed – your friend.
Tucci smiled as he recalled his secret meetings with his one and only friend. The small old man spoke words of wisdom and showed Tucci new and unbelievable delights. Naats Flureic had introduced the young prince to drugs that heightened his pleasures, his favourite joy being the sounds and smells of torture. Even now the thoughts made his skin tingle. The sounds of screams, whips lashing against flesh, people groaning, begging, the smell of burning flesh, blood bubbling up a victim’s throat, choking him, the sensation of strangulation, the sounds of fists thumping against flesh, the snapping of bones . . . Tucci hugged himself at the memories, then shivered with delight at the thought of the children. Oh, what joy, he thought. “When I am emperor, I will have it all and more. Much, much more,” he whispered softly to himself.
Blood on my hands, on my face, all over my naked body, he thought. Joy. He giggled and took another black crystal given to him by Naats Flureic. As the hallucinatory drug rushed through his body his pupils widened, his breathing shortened to rasping pants. That’s all for tonight, he told himself. He needed to be there to plunge the blade home. He laughed softly – a cruel, twisted sound without any humour.
“I hate you, Father. I will have your rotting head on a platter and placed before me at every meal,” he whispered, and the babble of the madman continued. “I hate you and you will be my first pleasure. You are base and I must crush your evil. I will cut you for each wrong you have done. You will bleed slowly. Many cuts, thousands of cuts all over your detestable body. Yes, many cuts . . . Thin lines . . . No, no I’ll cut your fingers off first, then your toes and your manhood, then smear the cuts with salt. Yes, yes use a blunt, rusty knife. No . . . small cuts smeared with honey, and throw you out into the Steppes for the ants. No, first your tongue, no screaming allowed. Yes. Put out your eyes with a red-hot poker. Ears, yes, cut them off. Oh, and beat you, yes, fists pounding your body, cave in your face. No, use a club . . .” The crazy gibberish continued into the night.
As the prince continued to rave, lightning lit up the dark sky outside. Distant thunder rumbled.
***
The Chosen finished making notes on the last report and leaned back on his chair with a heavy sigh. Now well past midnight, he had consumed his meal alone at his desk. The remains of his supper had long since disappeared, silently removed by one of his servants. Strange, he thought, his last cup of tisane had not yet arrived and the old one had not been taken away. Every hour on the hour a fresh pot should be placed on his side-table, not so for the last hour. Annoyed, the Chosen swore softly.
He enjoyed tisane sweetened with honey and flavoured with spices from northern Phadrine. He reached across his desk and lifted the short sword, smiling as he gripped the soft leather hilt and stared at the blade shimmering in the dancing candlelight. The beautiful blade reflected a rosy colour, highlighting the folds of metal from its forging. His smile broadened as he stood and rolled the blade in his hand. With another deep sigh, he pushed open the door leading to his private chambers, swinging the blade absently at his side. He did not notice. There were no guards at the door and none followed him on the short journey to his bedchamber.
***
Fury had received instructions from the Darklord confirming that he would receive help from Prince Tucci. Once his task had been completed, Fury would remain in Kal-Pharina until the Darklord’s arrival.
He had left the Grey Castle with five hundred Dark Brethren and journeyed to Kal-Pharina three weeks before the Darklord made the journey to Evlon. They had made good time across the arid Steppes and travelled unseen. The Dark Brethren luckily spotted any nearby Phadrine trackers and scouts, enabling them to change direction. Only once had they exchanged sword blows, when two Phadrine scouts accidentally wandered into the Dark Brethren’s camp. They were mercilessly dispatched for their trouble, their bodies carefully hidden and their steppe ponies slaughtered.