Kindle edition Copyright 2012 by Brendan DuBois.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors' imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.
All Rights Reserved.
Cover art by Jeroen ten Berge
The Noble Warrior
Empire of the North: Book One
By
Brendan DuBois
This novel is dedicated to writer and editor John Helfers, who started this whole ball rolling some years back.
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains: round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
---- Ozymandias, by Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1818
Prologue
At an intersection in the southeast section of Quebec City, capitol of the Kingdom of Quebec, sixteen-year-old Sire Randall de la Bourbon watched the horse-drawn wagons and occasional electric coach pass by on the cobblestone streets, and checked his watch. Five minutes to go before his young life was to be changed forever, if he decided to follow through with the mysterious invitation he had received earlier this day, at his room at the Chateau Frontenac.
He took three paces, adjusted his cape, and then retraced his steps, looking up at the dusk sky as an airship slowly glided in from the south across the St. Lawrence River, heading to the Imperial landing field in Ancienne-Lorette, about 11 klicks away. All about him buildings of stone and brick were clustered on the narrow streets, and where he stood, the land quickly fell away to the banks of the wide river, where sailing ships and ferries were at work. Nearby was a wooden utility pole, and tacked up on the pole was a Wanted poster for a servant named O’Neill Helen, age fourteen, who had run away from her employer at 12, Rue de la Port. Randall gave the poster a quick glance before turning away.
Another check of his watch. Two minutes to go. He was nervous and excited, and knew his father --- if he had been here --- would have chastised him for pacing like this. It would be a sign of weakness, the old man would say. Father was always one for sniping, complaining, correcting everything and anything his only son did. But luckily for Randall, his father was no doubt hard at work at his ministry, back in Toronto, their home and the capitol of the Empire of the Nunavut.
He forced himself to stand still. He looked at the graceful lines of the airship, wondering where it was coming from, wishing he could have taken a quick airship ride here instead of the bumpy and loud train. And he recalled his arrival earlier today to visit a sickly aunt --- and had planned to see the old crone for about ten minutes before going someplace more amusing --- but a note had been left on his hotel room’s desk with a single typewritten sentence: If you want a chance to change your life and the Empire, be at the corner of Avenue St. Denis and Rue de la Port at three p.m.
So here he was. And he was about to check his watch one more time when a black electric coach hummed up and came to a stop before him. The windshield and side windows were darkened and there were no identifying tags on the polished wooden front bumper. Randall waited, to see if someone would come out and open the rear door for him, but no one emerged. He looked around, to see if anyone was nearby to see his humiliation, but he had the street to himself.
To change your life and the Empire. Randall thought a bit of humiliation was a fair price to pay for such chance.
He opened the rear door and got in.
The seat was smooth brown leather. The windows were all curtained and firmly latched, so he couldn’t see where he was going. A thin wooden partition hid the front seat. He gathered his cape about him and waited. His so-called chums back at his prep school --- the Upper Empire College in Toronto --- would be scared to pieces at what was happening, but excitement was overwhelming his unease. Randall stood apart from his classmates in so many ways --- from cheating to lying, events that usually meant expulsion but not for him --- and another was his love of betting, whether on horses, dogs, or hockey. This time, Randall was gambling for his life and the possible future of the empire. It was a fun, exciting, tingling feeling.
The coach made a stop, a turn, and then another turn, and then slowed down. He leaned forward, to the wooden partition. No sound. The coach came to a halt.
Randall leaned back in his seat. And waited. And then he opened the coach’s door, stepped out, blinking his eyes in the dim light. The coach was in a stone garage. Before him was an open wooden door, with a stone corridor leading out, lit by flickering gas lamps set on the walls. The place smelled of old things, old secrets. He readjusted his cape, wished he were carrying a knife or a short sword, and started walking.
The hallway curved and opened up into a small room, with a wooden bench in front of him. He sat down on the bench without being invited. Three figures sat on chairs on a rough-hewn wooden riser about three meters before him. The ceiling was cement and the walls were exposed stone. There were damp, weeping rivulets of water from the stone, and gas lamps flickered, casting odd shadows about them. Electrical lamps were based in the ceiling above the figures, partially blinding Randall, emitting a buzzing noise. All he could see was that they were wearing loose gray robes, like those belonging to a monastery. But he had a fair feeling none of them had taken vows of poverty or chastity.
The figure on the left said in an old man’s voice, “You seem to be a bright young fellow, so we’ll dispense with the usual threats and harsh words about keeping what you hear here confidential. Instead, we have questions. You’re due to attend the Imperial Service Academy in a few months. Are you looking forward to it?”
The buzzing noise from the electrical lamps partially disguised the man’s voice. Randall knew what his insipid fellow students would say, about the opportunity for learning, for meeting other young nobles from around the Empire, how privileged one would feel to be there. But even at his age, he knew those words wouldn’t work for these three.
“Not for a moment, monsieur,” he said. “I’ve had enough of school, of thick teachers, of equally thick classmates, of homework and assignments and mandatory sports. There are more important things for me to do. The Service Academy isn’t one of them.”
The center figure said in a softer voice, also partially disguised by the buzzing noise, “You feel, then, you are more suited for something else? Even at your age of sixteen?”
“I am, monsieur,” he said, his voice filled with confidence. “Otherwise, why would I be here?”
Although the trio before him didn’t say anything, he could see from their slight movements that he had made an impression. From the time he had gotten the note to when he was picked up by the coach, he had pondered why he would be chosen for anything. The only answer was his family background, as slim as it was
.
The figure on the right folded his arms, revealing a heavy red signet ring on one finger. The sight thrilled Randall. The man on the left said, “Self-confident young man, aren’t you.”
“So I’ve been told, monsieur,” Randall replied.
“But from what we know, you’re not so confident among your classmates, now, are you. Especially among the young girls. Is that true?”
He felt his cheeks burn. “Perhaps. I really don’t pay that much attention.”
“And your grades certainly don’t reflect any confidence, do they, young sire. You barely do well enough each semester to be passed ahead for the next.”
He suddenly wasn’t as excited as before. His voice sullen, Randall said, “I’m sure, monsieur, you know there’s more in being a success than just grades. There’s drive. Ability. Not being concerned about the past, but thinking about the future.”
“True enough,” the man said. “So we’ll talk for a moment about the future, as you noted. The empire is now facing challenges for its very existence. For nearly three centuries, ever since the War of the World, we’ve been living in splendid isolation. But now… sailing ships from lands beyond the Atlantic and Pacific are calling on our ports. There are more disturbances to the southern badlands, beyond our border. And some of the kingdoms to the west… such as Brit Columbia and Yukon, grow restless. There are also rumors of trouble within our servant class. For the empire to survive in these times, a strong hand is needed. And many feel we don’t have a strong hand at Court. Do you agree, young sire?”
For a moment, it was like he was facing an exam question from one of the dull professors at school. But he felt fine, knowing his answer would be the right one.
“I do agree, monsieur, that a strong hand is needed, for that’s what the people crave,” Randall said, feeling the sweet anticipation of a gift being prepared for him. “Or so I’ve been taught.” Hoping he wasn’t being too blunt, Randall added, “What can I do for you, then?”
The figures shifted slightly again in their chairs. The man on the left said, “Changes are coming to the empire, some of them quickly and some of them violent… and we want to know if you’re willing to play an important role in making sure these changes take place. To ensure the empire survives.”
Sensing a trap there somewhere, Randall said carefully, “Perhaps I can assist. I’m sure, monsieur, you realize I must carefully consider what you’re proposing. But if I may first ask, what about the Emperor’s nephew, Andre? I’ve heard rumors at school he may be in line to be Crown Prince.”
The figure in the center said with a surprised, high-pitched tone, “And what makes you think we’re concerned about the future Crown Prince? And you as well?”
Being careful indeed, Randall offered a shy smile. This was going well. “What else could it be, monsieur? I’m not old enough to hold my own title, my own family, my own influence. I have no real position or power… for now. What I have going for me is my name… and my lineage, thin as it may be, from my poor deceased mother. The Emperor has no direct heir, save for his nephew. And the fact you are here, hidden from view, tells me you’re not here to help me cheat my way into Imperial Service Academy. No, you’re here for something more important. True?”
Randall waited, thinking, wanting to roll his eyes before this group, because like all grown-ups, they thought that because you’re a teenager, you’re instantly an idiot…
The man on the left said, “Andre… yes, he is in line to be Crown Prince… but… things can happen. Especially if some believe he doesn’t have the necessary… background to do what’s needed to be done. So we need to know if you’re willing to serve the empire if that time comes.”
He crossed his legs. “Serve the empire… or serve you, monsieur?”
The center one said, “The more you learn, the more you’ll realize that one is the same as the other.”
So says you, Randall thought. Aloud he said, “Very well, you have my cooperation. But on one condition. At some point you will forget this funny work with lights and let me see your faces. I’m now in a position where my head may end up on pike in Government Square in Toronto. If that happens, monsieurs, I want to ensure my head’s not there alone.”
The man on the left said, “Fair enough. At some point all will be revealed. For now, we require you to do something for us.”
“As you said, fair enough. What will it be?”
“Armand de la Cloutier. He’s a year behind you in school, but due to his grades he’ll be going to the Service Academy with your class. I’m sure you know him. Am I correct?”
Automatically, Randall touched his chin, where there was a rough patch of skin. “I know him quite well, unfortunately.”
A flash of memory from last year. On the hockey rink at school. Legs wobbly, for he hated to be on skates, but his father had insisted he go out for one of the league teams. Armand had been out there as well, young but much more skilled, gliding around the ice like he lived there, able to crack jokes and skate backwards at the same time, his tanned face lean and muscular, black hair cut short, cocky grin on his face. During the first period, when Randall had the puck in view, Armand had slammed him to the side, pushing him into a snow bank, cutting his chin. A clean hit, everyone had said, but he had hated that athletic fop from that very cold moment. That hatred had grown and grown, as Randall started remembering a humiliating day at fencing school…
“Yes, I know him, monsieur,” he said, pushing the second memory away.
“He has a sister of dating age. We want you to start wooing her. Get close to the family. Let us know what you can about Armand and his beliefs, who he might be close to. Items of interest even his parents wouldn’t know. For at some point, he could be a complication. For you and for us.”
Randall nodded. “I’ll do that, then. And what kind of complication do you foresee?”
“One that could severely harm us and the empire. Do you understand?”
“I think I do, monsieur,” Randall replied. “But if he’s a potential complication, why not do something about it now?”
“Like what?”
The air in the small stone room now seemed stale and lifeless. Randall’s eyes started to hurt and water from the severity of the electric lights pointing at him.
“Toronto is a large city,” Randall said, trying to keep his voice filled with child-like innocence, knowing these adults would appreciate that tone. “Accidents can happen, can’t they? A mugging. A fall. Being run down by a steam or electric coach. Nothing permanent but enough to disable, if done properly.”
That seemed to knock the three of them back. Then the man on the left spoke again, his voice filled with admiration. “Sire Randall de la Bourbon, you’ve impressed us. But such direct action is not needed, not at this point. And we’ll be in touch later… and if all goes well, by this time next year, the Imperial Service Academy will not be part of your life.”
Sweet anticipation rose inside of him, of how he was going to avoid those four dull years before him. If these three were right, Service Academy and classrooms and endless drills and tests were out. No, instead the Imperial Palace would be waiting for him. That would be his life. Not dull, boring Service Academy… and Armand de la Cloutier. A young fop in the way. So what? If these three didn’t want to do something about Armand, maybe he would instead.
The center figure said, “You’re dismissed.”
Randall stood up, was going to give them a slight bow, but no. They were adults but in this matter of conspiracy, they were now equals, even the silent man on the right, who said not one word during this entire meeting.
He turned, hiding his wide grin from the trio. He strolled confidently back up the corridor, where the black electric coach sat in the stone garage. Randall went to open the rear door, hesitated, and then rapped his fist against the driver’s window. He had to strike his fist two more times before the window was rolled down, revealing the red, pockmarked face of the driver, a man about twice his
age.
“Yes?” he asked, in a daring tone.
“Just a moment,” Randall said, and he stepped back, and then slapped the man --- hard! --- across his right cheek. The man grunted and opened the door and Randall stood his ground. The man came out and stood, his hand against his cheek, wearing the common black and white uniform of the servant class. Around his neck was the traditional servant’s brass ring. The driver stood, breathing hard, yet he remained still.
Randall smirked at the older driver’s submission. “You. Open my door at once.”
The driver gave a slight bow, opened the door, and Randall got in. Before the door was shut, Randall spoke up. “If we ever cross paths again, and you treat me with this same level of disrespect, I’ll see that you and your family are sent to the northern reaches of the Yukon by week’s end. Have I made myself clear?”
“Absolutely, young sire,” he said, his face pale --- save for the mark of Randall’s handprint --- and the door was softly closed. Randall sat back with satisfaction against the leather seat, grinning again, knowing why the third man and conspirator in the stone room had kept quiet.
The man who had folded his arms, revealing that bright red signet ring.
The bright red signet ring belonging to his father, Sir Robert de la Bourbon, Minister of Security for the Empire of the Nunavut.
Chapter One
Hundreds of klicks to the south from his home city of Toronto, fifteen-year-old Armand de la Cloutier, the oldest son of a noble family from the Empire of the Nunavut, educated in skills from sailing to fencing to hand-to-hand fighting, less than a year from attending the prestigious Imperial Service Academy under early admission for his academic skills, was bored out of his skull.
He sighed with frustration, gripping the rusty black iron railing on the hotel’s dirty balcony, overlooking the stone and wood structures of this small town. This place was once the capitol of an extinct empire some called Amerka, and so far, this hotel was all he had seen of it. Armand thought of his Father’s earlier words as the warm air eddied about him, the sounds of the animals and birds in the nearby jungle unfamiliar and strange.
The Noble Warrior (The Empire of the North Book 1) Page 1