Andrew ignored the priest’s prattling, pushing further through the darkness. Raising Doom high, he brought the steel down upon the priest, but it was stuck. He pulled hard, but the blade would not move.
“Fool,” the priest said. “You try to seize the role fated for another.”
Shadows filled Andrew’s sight, and he was pushed back cross the darkened ground. Doom’s hilt was still in his hands, but the steel of the blade was gone. “My steel, what sorcery did you—”
“’Gainst Darkness, Black Wrath, the triumphs of the forge mean little. Stand and mount your horse.”
“No!” Andrew screamed. He could not, would not submit to this sorcerer. “No!”
The face of the priest seemed to change: lips parting to a rictus snarl and eyes turning to yellow. “Then you shall be made to.”
Pain raced through Andrew’s body. Tendrils of shadows wrapped about his wrists and ankles. The face of the priest grew larger and larger, and the twisted, yellow eyes shone like suns.
“Hubris of the Mountain.”
Darkness consumed Andrew.
“Off me, before I”—he screamed, flailing about.
“Open your eyes, Black Wrath.”
Andrew did. The darkness and shadows were gone. Stone walls surrounded him in a circle, and he was lying in a soft bed, naked to the waist. Linen bandages were wrapped about his torso, without discolouration. “The priest, where is the priest?”
“In the halls of the pious sheep, where such fools belong.”
Andrew turned to the voice. Imperator Argath Diomedes sat by the turret door. He was dressed in a long, flowing robe of burgundy, trimmed with black. Closing a leather bound tome and putting it aside, he uncrossed his legs and stared daggers into Andrew. “My lord commander discovered you near death, once more. I should hope that you took islander scum with you this time.”
Was I dreaming before? Andrew wondered, shaking his head. The imperator did not relent, and Andrew knew full well what silence wrought. “I have failed you utterly, my imperator.”
“What do you remember, Black Wrath?” the imperator asked coolly, his gaze unshifting.
“My imperator, the Corsair was never going to act against the overlord. He deceived me; claimed that he never retrieved a treasure, and what Damian covets is naught more than a large chunk of ruby.”
“And you believed him?”
“I had no recourse, my imperator,” Andrew said, more sharply than he intended. Imperator Argath never averted his gaze. “The Ruination’s sails were spotted. I hid beneath decks with this slip of a girl, Aerona, while Damian boarded the Black Tide. The Corsair never gave me away, but this girl, Aerona, offered the very treasure that the overlord desired, that which the Corsair could never find.”
“Black Wrath, you disappoint me in trusting to this girl.”
“She was no simple girl, my imperator. She is a Harkan.”
“Robett Harkan has the treasure, then?” Imperator Argath asked, anger lacing every word. “Is that what you mean to tell me?”
“He knows where it is, my imperator. I fought the captain, nearly slew him, until Aerona plunged a sword through my gut and left me for dead.”
The imperator leaned back in the chair and scratched his chin. “Lady Melany’s birds have reported the Hammer is not far from our western coast, though not alone.”
“Damian ordered the Corsair to the northern waters, and Robett in his place.”
“At the very least we know more of their fleet movements and where they are massed. Almost all.” The imperator seemed to stare off the distance, but the anger never left his eyes. “All save for the Ruination. There is risk, but opportunity.”
Silence hung in the air. Imperator Argath had slouched back in the chair, deep in thought. His eyes were sharp and cold, his gaze unflinching.
Andrew did not want to guess what waded through his sovereign’s mind. All too often men and women were thrown before the Mountain, awaiting judgment for their failure to the imperium. Doom, more than once, ran red with their blood.
Now he had failed the imperium. Damian and Daniel still drew breath and the treasure, wherever it was, still lay in islander hands.
Suddenly, Imperator Argath brushed down his robes, stood, and sat on the bed side. “Do you recall, Black Wrath, the lord commander’s trepidation with your allegiance?”
It was more than just the half-remembered dream, flitting further and further into a murky haze. Yet Andrew could still see the doubt in the eyes of Lord Commander Rafael Azail on the day that he swore allegiance to the Mountain. “No, my imperator.”
“He wanted to leave you bleeding in the southern waste. It is fear of my wrath that stayed his hand.”
The news did not surprise Andrew. None who lived did not fear the imperator. “He served you well.”
Agony laced through his body. The imperator had extended his right arm and dug fingers into the wound. Andrew clenched his fists, wanting to knock away his sovereign’s arm, but he could not. Would not.
“Your wound is still raw, Black Wrath.”
The linen bandages darkened. Andrew wrenched his eyes away from it, and looked into the steely gaze of the imperator. “I will bleed out for you, my imperator, if I must.”
“If you must …”
The imperator had pressed his fingers harder. Andrew closed his eyes and felt tears running down his face. This is where my service ends. I should have taken my chances on the Black Tide. Now vengeance, vengeance will—
“I did not ask for much, Black Wrath,” the imperator shouted. Murmurs from without passed through the agony, but none would enter the chamber without the imperator’s consent. “I asked for the blood of the overlord or the wretched Corsair, or, if you could not land the blow, the treasure they stole from us. I trusted you, Black Wrath, and for that trust you reward me with disobedience!”
Andrew opened his bleary eyes. He could not see the imperator clearly, but he knew that death had surely come. No man was spared the imperator’s wrath.
“I dispatched you, Black Wrath, for our sovereignty is at stake. Not since the days of Lord Theodore has our hopes been so downtrodden. The shites in white will not stay silent. The wretched islanders still have their boots to our throat. And, oh, and those oh so noble lords from across the sea brandish their steel, waiting for the moment when that fool overlord overextends his reach. The Mountain cannot stand when its wrath is so weak!”
“My imperator,” Andrew blurted out softly. It was all he could muster. “Forgiveness, my imperator.”
“Forgiveness? Will you ask the dead for their forgiveness? The mothers and the fathers and their children, dead and buried. We need blood and stone!”
“My imperator, please I …”
Imperator Argath released his hand.
Instinctually, Andrew covered his bandages, which now were almost black. Teary-eyed, he looked to his sovereign. “What can I do, my imperator, to right this wrong?”
Imperator Argath had his hand on the door, and a smile creeped across his face. “The healers will have you on your feet in three days. The Widow’s Wail and all the ships we can muster will be manned and waiting for you. Return to me only when Robett Harkan is dead and the treasure of my forefathers is in your possession. Not before.” The imperator left, slamming the door.
Andrew lay down, the pain still threading through him. The sound of pattered feet resounded outside the door, and three women in greys and browns scrambled in with fresh linen and what smelled like boiled healing herbs.
The tallest of the three put a bowl to his lips, and he drank it down greedily, though it was like fire on his tongue. He leaned his head down, looking towards the turret door, where Doom leaned against the wall.
Your daughter will not save you this time, Robett, he thought as he closed his eyes. My imperator must reign.
Darkness consumed him.
Western Winds
Dusk
10 September 15131
Andrew stoo
d on the bridge of the Widow’s Wail, looking out at the black, rolling sea.
He listened to the sounds of the night, but only heard the grunts from the oarsmen below decks, and a brief, flittering breeze scraping across the waves.
And the Hammer still lay beyond sight.
“Report, now!” he growled, and a bare-chested crewman scurried off to the deck, shouting to the man in the crow’s nest.
“Naught but the night,” came the bellowing answer from above.
Disgruntled, Andrew crossed his arms and stared resolutely across the water. The Hammer is out there, he thought, gaze unflinching. Robett cannot hide for much longer.
Little had changed for three nights. Lady Melany’s birds had the Hammer and a score of galleys anchored not far from the western coast, north-west of the port town of Naran. The voyage by sea should have taken no longer than a few hours, but there lay naught but shadows and darkness.
The crew aboard the Widow’s Wail obeyed utterly, even when Andrew barely allowed them to sleep, opting to pursue by day and night. The legion of sentinels—Lord Commander Rafael Azail’s sworn swords, Andrew would not forget—were much more agitated and uneasy. They did not openly question their orders, not yet, but he knew it would not be much longer.
“My lord.”
Andrew met the cold eyes of Sentinel-Captain Horace Dern. The sentinel kept his left hand on the pommel of his longsword, and the slitted steel helm in the crook of his right elbow. His hair was a rich, dark brown, cropped short, and his gaze was hard as steel.
“What is it?” Andrew half-grunted at the sentinel.
Horace Dern never dropped his frown. “We will see naught in this dark.”
Andrew shook his head. None knew what was at stake; he could not afford to trust any sod. “We will search until we find the Hammer.”
“At what cost?” Horace Dern asked strongly.
The navigator turned his shaven head towards them, but Andrew frowned at him, and he quickly returned to the steering wheel.
“Mind your tongue, Sentinel-Captain,” Andrew said pointedly, his face inches away from the man.
“You are no fool, Black Wrath, but this course is ill-advised. Robett surely knows by now that we are looking for him, and if he takes us by surprise, what then? Our strength at sea does not match his.”
“You were given an order, Sentinel-Captain, and I expect you to follow it,” Andrew whispered sharply. “Else my steel will feast on more than reaver blood.”
“Black Wrath,” Horace Dern said and turned on his heel, returning to the other sentinels on the deck.
The moniker rankled Andrew, but he did not give the man another thought or glance. He just looked out at the black, rolling sea. It was quiet, still, and breeze buffeted his skin. Reaching behind his neck, he squeezed Doom’s hilt. If only you understood matters, Robett. Damian is a monster who cannot be allowed to draw breath. My imperator has the strength to wield these ancient vestiges, and he will do what you and the Corsair cannot.
Time seemed to drag on. Every so often crewmen would ascend to the bridge and nod slightly to Andrew, though with hunched shoulders, before passing quick words to the navigator, then scurrying off.
Andrew paid them no heed. As long as the men obeyed, as long as the ship pushed through the night, what they thought or did mattered little.
The night began to darken; the hour must have passed midnight. He sighed, and his thoughts drifted to Prince Adreyu Marcanas. It seemed so long ago, when Lady Melany warned that King Marcus Marcanas heeded the words of his second son more and more, and that even Imperator Argath feared the ruin that a Trechtian invasion would bring.
Slowly, Andrew pressed his right hand against his gut. The wound was still wrapped in heavy linen, and if he shifted too quickly, his body throbbed in pain. It is a reminder of my failure, just like the scar upon my arm. I faltered before the strength of the overlord; I shall not, cannot, falter beneath the imperium’s banner. My imperator will set the realm aright, and to do that, I must see that Robett and his daughter reside in the Deep Below.
Crewmen came and went, reporting to the navigator, checking the lines and rigging. The man in the crow’s nest shouted down his empty report every half hour. The sentinels paced and muttered, though their captain had not returned to the bridge. Oarsmen continued to grunt below.
And the black, rolling sea stretched endlessly.
Robett, where are you? Andrew thought, gripping the side rail and nearly tearing off the wood. A fourth night now, yet you hide. I did not take you for a craven.
Stillness lingered, and then—
“My lord, a ship, off the port!”
Andrew grasped the spyglass and peered through. Shadows and darkness wreathed the gloom, but beyond it, grey shapes pushed through the waters, breaking the waves.
Battle had come at long last.
“Sentinel-Captain Horace Dern,” Andrew shouted down from the bridge. He saw the sentinels stood at the ready, their captain at the fore, with hands on their steel. “Rally your swords.”
Feet pounded upon the deck as crewmen, sentinels, and officers readied themselves. In the flurry, Andrew gazed through the spyglass once more, and more ships surged forth, the masts and sails breaking through the gloom. He still could not see a mark or design upon the vessels, but he knew it was not the Trechtians; no, they would not assail the imperium first.
“My lord.” The diminutive, rotund, and plain-faced captain of the Widow’s Wail inclined his head. “Your orders to the fleet?”
Andrew thrust the spyglass into the captain’s hands, then unsheathed Doom. “Close the distance and sink his fleet.”
“Yes, my lord,” and the captain began to shout orders.
The Widow’s Wail surged faster through the waters, and the other ships kept pace. The enemy fleet drew closer and closer; there were mostly war galleys with three tall masts, dark sails, and blackened stripes about the hull. Yet there was one war galley, cutting ahead of the others, sporting several smaller masts, unrelenting in its pursuit.
The Hammer, Andrew knew. Come meet your end, Robett Harkan.
Sentinel-Captain Horace Dern joined Andrew on the bridge. “The men are prepared, my lord, as is the guard that you requested. They will follow you when you board the Hammer.”
Andrew turned to face a score of sentinels, long swords drawn and helmets on. “They know that Robett is mine, Sentinel-Captain?”
“To a man, they know.”
“And you, Sentinel-Captain?”
Horace Dern inclined his head slightly. “I will see that all the other ships are sunken, their crews dead, and cargo retrieved, as the imperator commanded.”
Andrew waved a dismissive hand and walked to the port-side rail, never letting his eyes leave the Hammer. So much had come to this. The sworn swords would do what they had to. Robett would meet the Deep Below.
Cannon fire filled the gloom. None had landed on the Widow’s Wail, but one found its mark, piercing the deck of a galley off the stern. “Captain,” Andrew remarked quickly.
Orders were issued and the fire was returned, grazing two of the galleys beside the Hammer.
Then the night sky thundered.
Back and forth the torrent of metal and mortar rang out, and closer and closer the Hammer drew in. Screams and anguish joined the cacophony, ships burned and sunk, but nary a shot landed on the deck of the Widow’s Wail, or the Hammer.
Even Robett wants to mete this out by steel, Andrew thought, then turned to the captain. “All oars in the water. Take us to the Hammer.”
“My lord, if we do that then—”
“Obey your orders,” Andrew shouted, uncaring for the prattling fears of the captain.
The captain bobbed his head and gave the order.
Men cursed loudly when they realized the order that had been given. Andrew did not care. If a man among them sought to express their discontent openly, Doom would feed before the reavers were within reach.
“Lord Black Wrath�
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Andrew thrust Doom through the man’s bare chest. The sod vainly grasped at the steel, blood gurgling out of his mouth. Andrew swung his steel, to the side, and the man fell helplessly into the water.
There were no more curses, no more muttering.
“Faster, captain,” Andrew grunted.
The beat of the drum echoed louder, and the Widow’s Wail was cutting through the water harder, the thunder peeling the night sky, and the Hammer matched for speed.
No darkness or shadows could hide the Hammer. The large war galley was in full view; reavers armed to the teeth littered the deck, shouting and jeering.
The time had come to match them.
“Archers and sentinels, on my mark!” Andrew shouted, bounding down to the lower deck.
The archers were arrayed across the deck, the sentinels at the fore, swords drawn. He shouldered through them, standing at the port rail. Tightening his grip on Doom, the seconds stretched to minutes, the minutes to hours. He thought of all the years serving Damian Dannars, the humiliation he suffered, the deceit of the Corsair, Aerona, and then Robett Harkan; and most of all, he remembered that they left him for dead.
These reavers would regret that.
The Widow’s Wail slowed, as did the Hammer.
Fire-tipped arrows sailed through the night, planks were dropped, and Andrew ran across towards men and women in boiled leather, wielding long swords, claymores, axes, and sword breakers.
He swung Doom, meeting the long sword of a middling man. The man strain, barely able to hold his ground. Andrew smiled and swung viciously to the side, sending the man helplessly into the sea. Head on a swivel, he barreled into a fistful of foes, then arced a blow, severing heads from necks, the blood splattering against the wind.
Turning to meet another blow, he felt the wound in his gut scream out. He pushed his foe’s steel away, screaming as he dismembered the shite.
No pain would stop him.
The sentinels met the wall of steel hurdling forth, skewering, cleaving, and dismembering as they went. Yet for every foe that fell, another seemed to break forth, taking their place.
The Prelude to Darkness Page 36