Seven Deaths of an Empire

by Matthews, G R

  “That’s what war is, lad,” the old man said, shaking his head. “Never stood the ranks, have you? Young people today have no idea what it is to serve and do your duty.”

  Before Kyron could respond they were carried away and through the gate, spilling out onto the road beyond. Here the crowd widened and spread around the base of the hill where a ring of soldiers kept them at bay.

  He stopped with Emlyn beside him and looked up. The grey clouds made sluggish progress across the sky and on the crest of the hill, the Emperor stood next to his grandfather. To the side, Godewyn and Master Vedrix kept a respectful distance.

  “No,” Kyron whispered.

  “Only good end to a traitor,” said a woman stood next him. She pointed up at the hill with a bone thin finger. “Hope he screams. I like it when they scream. Teaches the youngsters to behave and keep out of trouble.”

  Emlyn’s hand gripped his wrist and he found his own hand had wrapped around the hilt of his pugio.

  “No,” she whispered, and he shivered, taking a deep breath. The woman darted a look at his face, her eyes widening as she backed away, into the crowd.

  “Silence!” the Emperor roared, and the people obeyed, though a glance up at the hill showed the instruction had not been directed at them.

  Kyron could see the Emperor, dressed in armour, speaking with his grandfather though he was too far distant to make out what was said. As he watched, his grandfather shook his head and spoke back. Neither Vedrix nor the High Priest moved or spoke. Whatever was being said was between the General and the Emperor and it was only making the newly crowned heir angry.

  The conversation ended when the Emperor pointed at something on the earth and workmen, previously out of sight, gripped his grandfather’s arms and lifted him. There was a drawn-out silence and then the chime of a hammer driving nails into wood.

  Kyron did not need to see what was happening. The process was well known to all in the Empire, its most painful, most feared punishment. The victim’s heels were nailed to either side of the upright timber and more nails were driven through the two bones of the lower arm to hold the prisoner to the crosspiece. When lifted into position, those nails kept the condemned from falling too far forward and the slow loss of blood, the pain of all their weight pulling at bones and flesh unfailingly drew screams from their throats.

  “I have to get up there,” Kyron said, rushing forward, book under his arm, and pulling Emlyn with him.

  “It’s too late,” Emlyn said.

  “No,” he shouted and the people in front turned his way, shock on their faces. “Get out of the way.”

  On the hill the cross was raised, and Kyron stopped once more, all the breath in his lungs escaping in a great gust. His grandfather was pinned to the beams and blood flowed down the upright from the ruins of his feet and wrists. Strangely, there were no screams and no look of anguish upon the old man’s face. Instead, there was wonder and peace.

  “That ain’t right,” one man muttered.

  “He’s not screaming,” said a woman.

  “Mama,” a small voice said, “I can’t see. What’s going on?”

  Kyron inhaled and pushed forward once more. Letting go of Emlyn’s hand, he grabbed the clothes of those in front, dragging them aside. Fear and panic lending him strength which had never been his. Those who fought, who refused to move, suffered an elbow to the ribs, a foot to the back of the knee and Kyron surged forward through the crowd.

  “No.” His grandfather’s scream cut through the crowd’s muttering and the angry voice joined those who Kyron had shoved, pushed, and felled.

  He looked up to the hill once more to see his grandfather staring back down at him.

  “No,” his grandfather called once more. Not a scream, but a strong, parade ground voice which carried across the landscape like a trumpet’s call to war. A hush followed in its wake.

  “You’ve something to confess,” the Emperor called, her voice pitched high. Around Kyron, the crowd leaned forward to catch his words.

  “I confess,” his grandfather said. “It was me.”

  “You confess,” the Emperor shouted, the sibilant ending drawn out and savoured. “Does it matter, General? Will your confession save your soul?”

  “I did it,” his grandfather called. “I confess to being a traitor. I confess to organising the death of the Prince and Empress. It was me.”

  Kyron could not breathe. His grandfather’s words condemned him before the city, before the soldiers who would have aided him, could have saved him. The words in the journal were worthless. The last slim chance to convince Vedrix and Godewyn was gone. No one would believe a confessed traitor’s written words. They would be dismissed as nothing but excuses, the raving of a desperate man, an attempt to get away with the highest of all crimes.

  All those years of service and duty were washed away in the storm of confession. Soldiers were even now turning away from their General. Godewyn’s head bowed and Vedrix shuffled in place.

  “No. No. No,” Kyron muttered, repeating the word as if it could change things. “Why? Why? I could have saved you.”

  And it occurred to him in the cold spray of reality that this was exactly why he had confessed. To save the last of his family, the boy he had raised.

  “No,” Kyron breathed, a cavern of despair opening in his mind and his heart thudded in his hollow chest. He wanted to move, to raise his hands to his grandfather, to stride forward and take hold of the old man for one last time, but he was frozen by the sight on the hill.

  “Confession.” The Emperor turned to the crowd, both arms raised high to the sky. “He confesses for an easy death, for the Holy Flame to forgive him.” There was a pause while the Emperor stifled a giggle. “And we should be forgiving while justice is done.”

  The Emperor drew the gladius at her waist and stabbed into his grandfather’s stomach. The old man went rigid and every cord, every muscle in his frame strained against the pain he must have felt.

  “No,” Kyron screamed aloud.

  Withdrawing the tip of the sword, the Emperor held it high so all could see it coated with blood which began to trickle down the blade. His grandfather sagged on the cross, not dead, not yet, for Kyron saw his head move, look up and catch his eye.

  Even from the bottom of the hill, it was clear who the General, the condemned and dying man was looking at. His own call had marked him out and the crowd parted around him, creating a circle an arm’s length distant.

  “No,” Kyron shouted again, the book under his arm falling to the summer grass, and he started forward. The despair deepened, excavated the rock of his being until it broke open his core. A sea of hot lava roiled in his centre, his soul was anger and it burned hotter than the Holy Flame.

  Everything was gone. His family was dying upon a hill. Innocence, already wounded by the experience of war, was ripped to shreds by injustice. Trust was torn apart by the Emperor’s hands which wielded the sword. Faith, such as it had been, was ground into dust below the High Priest’s unmoving feet. Hope was extinguished by Master Vedrix’s inaction.

  What was the point of learning, knowledge, of trusting others, of relying on people, of magic, if it made no difference in the end, if it could change nothing? If it all came down to the disappointment and pain of this moment, then it was worth less than nothing.

  A priest who watched his friend die upon a cross. A magician who had the power but did not exercise it. An old man, a soldier, a General, who could have saved himself with one simple word.

  An Emperor who had killed her own family for power. Who had manipulated and schemed to become the ultimate power in the Empire. A woman to whom justice and truth meant nothing. A Princess who had stepped on the lives of so many just to be crowned. All those soldiers, Astentius, Padarn, and now his grandfather. All for power.

  “It is not true power,” Kyron whispered, all sense of control crumbling, despair bubbling upwards in a wave of heat and flame.

  The world changed. Definitio
n fled and his sight became only that of the motes which swirled, cavorted, danced and battled all around him. He drew them to him, stealing them from the earth, from the people, from the air, mustering his power.

  The shouts of alarm, the screams, were nothing to him. He swelled, filled his body and mind with the magic, building it into a construct of instinct and anger, feeding it every last bit of power he could.

  Even so, as his power rose, he felt something pressed into his hand and looked down. A single rod, a stick of twisting motes, carved to channel and funnel the power which was his.

  Kyron felt its purpose and lifted his arms, taking hold of the carved stick in both hands and pointing it at the hill.

  He cried out, a sound torn out of the elements which made up his world, added his pain and loss to the call, and released the construct.

  The ground shook under his feet and on the hill the people staggered. Clumps of earth were torn from the ground and screams rose all around him.

  “This is power,” he muttered, tying off the construct.

  The shaking stopped and for a moment there was silence. Nothing moved, not a cloud, not a person, and no birds flew.

  A narrow pillar of flame rose from the hill, engulfing the Emperor alone in a corona of yellow and white. The woman’s armour melted and flowed down her body, burning, searing the flesh. It was her turn to scream as her flesh charred and turned to ash. For a heartbeat, in that blinding column of fire, a dark skeleton formed of shadow and it was gone.

  “That is justice,” Kyron said, letting the knots unravel. A wave of heat and wind crashed down the hillside, bowling over people, staggering the soldiers and breaking against the city walls behind him.

  There was wailing, fear-driven screams, panic-induced shouts, and a calm voice which cut through it all.

  “We need to go.”

  LXI

  The General

  Three years ago:

  The streets thronged with people, but he saw none of them. The door to his home opened and he stepped in, numb, a deep pit of loneliness in his stomach.

  “It’ll be quiet without him here,” Decima said, taking the cloak from his shoulders.

  He nodded.

  “He will be fine, General,” Gressius said, forcing a cup of wine in his hand. “He’ll come visit.”

  “I know,” he said, “still… I’ll miss having him around.”

  Heat washed over his exposed skin and the acrid stench of hair melting assaulted his nose. Even the power of Vedrix’s pill was unable to dull the pain. Bordan screamed.

  Bright flames blinded him and the crowd at the bottom of the hill vanished behind tears. The afterimage of Kyron’s outstretched hands, the clearing around him, was imprinted upon the inside of his eyelids as they snapped shut a moment late.

  The heat intensified, and he felt the sword wound in his side open further as he writhed upon the cross. Even the breath he drew into his lungs was hot, turning the moisture inside his mouth into steam, burning the soft flesh of his throat.

  Between one beat and the next of his pounding heart, the heat vanished. A great wave of wind buffeted him on the cross and he heard the wood rattle in its hole. There came a creak and tearing rip as the timber gave way.

  He fell, the crossbeam striking the earth and his body jolted against the nails holding him to the wood. Flesh tore and blood pulsed from the open wound as another bolt of pain broke past his dulled thoughts.

  For a moment, he hung, balanced, poised between falling forward on his face or backward onto the earth. The grass below, he noticed in that frozen second of time, was charred and wilted, turned brown like autumn. A cool breeze picked up, brushing against his reddened skin, sweeping past him, and he fell backwards, slamming into the ground, his head bouncing from the wooden beam he was nailed to.

  It should have hurt more, his sluggish brain said. You should be unconscious.

  Staring up, just the grey clouds and little flecks of ash drifted on the breeze. A lone bird took flight and crossed his vision, flying north.

  “Still with us, I see,” Godewyn’s voice intruded into the silence and a moment later the High Priest’s face came into view.

  “Just,” Bordan mumbled, a warm ache between his shoulder blades.

  “I don’t think they made the hole deep enough,” Godewyn said, and the crucified man saw his friend’s eyes glance towards his feet.

  “Emperor?” Bordan croaked and coughed. Something warm and wet coated his tongue, but it had no taste.

  “Dead,” Godewyn replied, holding the amulet up in the General’s vision where it appeared untouched by the flames which engulfed it.

  “Not war,” he tried to say.

  “I’ll order the soldiers to secure the city,” Godewyn said, staring at the amulet. “This wasn’t my plan, you know.”

  “Plan?” The grey clouds darkened.

  “To have the Emperor dead,” Godewyn answered.

  Bordan watched as the High Priest lifted the chain of the amulet over his head and settled the jewel in place on his chest.

  Godewyn cocked his head, took a breath, and his expression changed from calm to puzzled. “It seems the amulet does not work for me. No dead Emperor is talking to me. No memories. Perhaps your grandson’s magic has damaged it?”

  “Kyron.”

  “Quite an impressive feat,” Godewyn said, kneeling and Bordan could hear the man’s hands raking through the grass. The High Priest held them up and rubbed the ash between forefinger and thumb. “I will have to advance my plans somewhat due to his somewhat heated interference.”

  “Your… plans?” Bordan coughed again and felt a kick of pain in his lower back. He groaned.

  “You can feel some pain? I hoped Vedrix’s pill would have numbed you completely. You’re a stubborn man, my friend. I had hoped to save you the pain, for the sake of old times, which is why I allowed Vedrix to visit,” Godewyn said, glancing over his shoulder and down the hill. “Alhard would not listen to me. He worshipped you, you know. The great General of the Empire. The foremost tactician and warrior. He wanted to be like you. Tried so hard, but kept falling short.”

  Slow thoughts brought the truth to the surface. “You killed him.”

  “Of course,” Godewyn smiled. “I learned strategy and tactics from the best, did I not? What you taught in the battlefield, the Church honed to a sharper edge. I used Abra, gave him money, threatened him when necessary, and offered promises of power. Priests are everywhere, General. People tell us their darkest fears, their sins and desires. From servants to nobles, they tell us everything. I used it all.”

  “Why?”

  “The Church has worked towards this for over hundred years,” Godewyn said. “The High Priest has had this sacred charge laid upon them upon anointment. A Holy Empire of the Flame, General. A Theocratic Empire. One in which everyone worships the Flame and the High Priest has ultimate power.”

  “For power?” He coughed, spitting out the liquid which threatened to clog his throat.

  “I knew I could rely on you not to call for civil war,” Godewyn sighed. “Though I had hoped to let you retire and fade away. Your replacement, Maxentius, is a Church man through and through. I have built up Aelia’s trust since she was young. She was a fervent worshipper of the Flame and as High Priest she looked to me in all matters. I advised her, fed her stories of myth and legend, poetry and treatise on faith, made sure she would only listen to me, but even I cannot plan for every eventuality. When you delayed, I spoke in her ear, urged her to action. When you cautioned, I told her to be bold.”

  The grey clouds above turned to black, scudding across the sky, each tendril a clawed hand reaching for him.

  “Kyron,” he whispered.

  “Your grandson has done me a favour, but condemned the magicians,” Godewyn nodded. “I would save him, out of respect, but killing the Emperor is not a crime I can ignore.”

  The world dimmed, but Bordan heard footsteps approach.

  “There you are, L
ivillia. Be so good as to see to the Gymnasium. Our plans must advance more quickly than I had foreseen,” Godewyn’s voice was faint and far away, an echo only. “General, are you still with us? I never knew you to run from a fight, but this is one you cannot win and the struggle will only cause you more pain. You should know, the magicians and their precious Gymnasium are finished. I would not save them, even if I could. It is an abomination to the Flame. The Empire will continue. Take that with you to the Holy Flame. A small comfort, I realise, but it is all I can offer you. Strange as it may seem, my friend, I will miss you.”

  “No,” Bordan whispered, coughed, and died.

  LXII

  The Magician

  Two years ago:

  The Grammaticus was droning on once more about the history of the Empire on the Southern Continent. Occasional flashes of interest came when a magician or some battle happened, but other than that there was nothing to hold his attention. His eyes gazed through the windows and out onto the garden of olive trees, orange trees, and shrubs.

  If he let his eyes lose focus, the motes and particles of magic would stream from those leaves and rise into the air. Their dance and play was a much more interesting spectacle.

  “Why have you come back?” Vedrix shouted as he burst into Padarn’s room, spittle flying from his mouth and cheeks red with anger. “You’ve sentenced us all to death. Magic killed an Emperor, Kyron. Magic. Now the Church has everything it needs to finally be rid of us. You gave it to them. For what?”

  “The Emperor killed my grandfather,” Kyron snapped back.

  “Your grandfather knew what he was doing,” Vedrix shouted. “You spoke to him. I know you did, there were traces of your magic everywhere. He told you his wishes. You should have respected them.”

  “He didn’t do it.” Kyron stood, clenched fists at his side and his own face flaming.

  “I know that. He knew that,” Vedrix sighed, and the old man’s shoulders sagged, the anger draining from his face. “He saw you coming, Kyron, from the cross. He confessed to save you, to stop you doing something stupid and you did it anyway.”