The Noble Warrior (The Empire of the North Book 1)

by Brendan DuBois

  Jeannette whispered, “Brother… did you bring anything back for me?”

  “Yes,” Armand whispered back. “In my baggage. You’ll get it when we get home.”

  She slipped her arm into Armand’s. “What is it, then?”

  Armand patted her hand. “A monkey with black fur and a white tail. His name is Horace and you must feed him a banana, twice a day.”

  She laughed, eyes sparkling. “Oh, you’re lying.”

  “No, I’m not,” Armand insisted, as the two coachmen were now up front, leading the team of horses out onto the main throughway. “He’s in the baggage, but we must get home quickly, or he’ll suffocate.”

  There was the oddest look in her eyes, like she was hoping her older brother really wasn’t lying to her, so Armand took mercy on her and kissed the top of her head. “My dear, you’ve found me out. There’s no monkey, but there is a gift.”

  Another squeeze of her arm through Armand’s as they went home, the rubber-clad hooves of the four horses making a dreamy clip-clop sound on the pavement. Father and Mother were talking away, a blanket over their laps, as they went along the West Road. Armand’s mother was gossiping about the latest occurrences from Court --– “and I don’t know why you have to be incommunicado for all the time you were away, couldn’t you have sent a message to me from the Embassy’s wireless, or at least a telegram so I knew what you were doing?”--– and while Michelle hung on every word, Father maintained a level of blank enthusiasm. Meanwhile Jeannette leaned against Armand’s arm, as if she was about to fall asleep.

  For the next long hour, Mother continued her chatting and Father continued his tired nodding, until they came to a rise that allowed a view of Lake Ontario, and a simple three-story brick home, the Maison de la Couture, set within a private cul-de-sac.

  A black wrought-iron fence enclosed the grounds, and the main gate was open, with Windsor Senior, their family’s head butler, waiting to escort them in. Lights in every window were on, and the black shutters looked polished, as if they were made of stone. When the coach came up the curved driveway, before the white pillars flanking the main entrance, the doors swung open, as if on silent command. A dog emerged, barking, and Armand felt his spirits rise. Martel, his black Labrador Retriever, rushed out to greet Father, and then Armand --- he getting his hands and wrists sloppily licked ---- and then his sisters. Being a smart dog, Martel ignored Mother. Once done with his initial greetings, Armand patted Martel on the head and shoulders, as Armand looked up to the warm lights before him.

  Home.

  Suddenly, Armand was tired… quite tired… and he said nothing to Mother or Father or Michelle or Jeannette, as he entered the main hall and went up the curving staircase, to his own quarters. Martel followed him, jumping about his sisters and Father, other servants from the Windsor family now emerging to retrieve their baggage.

  Later, after bathing and changing into a clean nightshirt, Armand was in bed, the electric lights set low, the wireless on the nightstand set to one of the three channels available in Toronto. There was some mournful woman singing --– he didn’t know her name but was sure his sister Michelle would know her singing history, her background, and her marital status –-- and even after switching the wireless off, he found he could not sleep. He got out of bed and walked across the polished wooden floor, to the tall doors that lead out to the balcony, and opened them up.

  Stepping outside, the night air was quite cool, and Armand crossed his arms, shivering. There was a low hum of traffic and Armand knew he should return to bed, but the view kept his attention. Out beyond the lit buildings were the docks and man-made harbors on Lake Ontario that serviced Toronto. There were a few slow-moving lights out there, of merchant ships moving up and down the coast.

  The cool air made Armand shiver some more. Beyond that dark horizon were the lands of the barbarians, of Amerka, of Newyork, and every place that those in the Empire --- except those on official visits ---- were forbidden to visit. But seeing that dark horizon brought forth a memory from last year when he and Henri Godin went for that long, taboo sail. Being young and fearless, they had sailed into the unknown, at a point where all around them were the swelling waters of the lake, when Armand thought he would piss his trousers in fear. Henri, though, said he wasn’t afraid, right up to the point when they reached the dark, wooded shores….

  Those dark shores. But they weren’t always so dark.

  He recalled a class a few months ago, about the War of the World and the collapse of Amerka and the turmoil that led to the Empire of the Nunavut. Their instructor, a plump Jesuit priest named Father Joseph, stood before the class, holding a fancy glass vase in one hand and a plain metal bowl in the other.

  “Prior to the War of the World,” he explained, “we were a small country, overshadowed by our powerful neighbor to the south. They had millions of more people than us, a military that tried to rule the world, and industries that were the envy of so many rivals. They were bigger than us, brighter than us, and as such, had many more enemies. We, on the other hand, were considered small. Dull. Insignificant.”

  He paced to the other side of the classroom, his long black robes moving about him. “Then came the disorders, the rebellions, and the war, which used the sun bombs. Only a few sun bombs were used on the empire beneath us, but those few bombs… this is what happened.”

  Father Joseph suddenly dropped the glass vase. It shattered into dozens of pieces. “These bombs destroyed the power supplies, the information systems, the fuel systems, all across their empire. Imagine a huge city, with tens of millions of people, much bigger than Toronto. The nearest sun bomb was used hundreds of klicks away. You’re unharmed. But soon there’s no more fuel. No more trucks bringing in food. No power for the hospitals, the metros, the omnibuses, the tall buildings, anything. Your troubles are not your own, as well, for almost every city in that empire was abandoned, burned, as millions of desperate people fled, looking for food, for safety. But all was shattered, like this vase. And it couldn’t be put back together. And for us back then?”

  He dropped the plain metal bowl. It bounced, rolled, and came up right. His voice softer, Father Joseph said, “We were so dull, so plain, that we were ignored. So we survived. Oh, there were shortages, fights, and desperate measures to keep the millions of refugees away from our lands… but we survived. Because we were blessed. Special. Tough. Never forget that, gentlemen. Never.”

  The black stillness on the horizon still frightened Armand, but there was something else as well, something that awakened by his trip to Potomick, the tour of the ruins and the talk of slaves and servants. Some desire, some hunger, some need that he couldn’t even name or place now burned inside of him.

  Armand rubbed at his face. Should have never gone south, should have never left the safe confines of Toronto, should have never started asking questions. He doubted his best friend would have come back from a trip with such questions.

  Henri. He was set to go to Academy later this year with Armand as well, but he wouldn’t attend the classes on trade and merchants. Henri’s father was on the General Staff, and Henri was destined to serve in the Imperial Army. Last summer, when Armand served an internship at Father’s ministry, working in the adding rooms, Henri had a much more adventurous time, touring the western forts.

  Armand thought of that black woman, who called herself auntie. Henri’s fortune seemed to be coming true, of learning the ways of war. And Armand? Hunh, he thought. She had promised him strife with his parents, which was true, and great adventures… and if she had meant this quick trip to Potomick, well, maybe in her mind that counted. But it didn’t count to him.

  There was a knock, and turning, Armand saw the door to his quarters opening up. His personal servant, Windsor Tom came in, dressed in the same uniform of black trousers and a plain white shirt, with a shiny brass ring about his neck.

  “Sire,” he said. “Is there anything you desire before the household lights are dimmed?”

  Ar
mand stepped back into his room, closing the balcony door behind him. “No, I’m fine, Windsor Tom.”

  The boy nodded and then started tidying up Armand’s clothes. He accidentally dropped Armand’s leather pouch on the floor, the flap popping open and coins rolling out. He bent down, grunting, and as he scooped up the coins, he froze.

  By now Armand was brushing his teeth and spat into a washbowl. “Something wrong?”

  “Ah… sire, I’m sorry… may I ask you a question?”

  “Certainly,” he said.

  Windsor Tom stood up. “This coin… could you tell me where you got it?”

  Armand looked at the boy’s outstretched hand, holding the coin with the view of Father Abram. Fool, Armand thought, should have moved it from his pouch.

  “I got it when I went south with Father,” Armand said. “To Potomick. It’s a souvenir.”

  Windsor Tom examined both sides of the coin. “I see. Do you know who this man is?”

  Armand put his used toothbrush into the washbowl. “In Potomick they call him Father Abram.”

  “Yes,” Windsor Tom said, looking at the coin, talking to him without raising his head. “Yes, that’s right. Father Abram. And do you know what he’s famous for, why the ancients put his face and his temple on the coin?”

  The coin had traveled hundreds of klicks and yet it seemed Windsor Tom knew exactly who he was. Armand thought this was amazing. “In the old empire to the south, Father Abram freed all the slaves.”

  Windsor Tom nodded, his voice low. “That’s right. Freed all the slaves.”

  Armand still couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “How do you know this, Windsor Tom? The coin is so old, and it comes from so far away!”

  He carefully placed the coin on his bureau. “We know, that’s all. We all know who he is. Who he was.”

  And Windsor Tom didn’t say so, but Armand knew what he meant when he said ‘we.’ It was the servants of Toronto and other kingdoms in the Empire, and definitely not its citizens.

  It made Armand wonder what other secrets their servant class kept.

  He made for the door, carrying the washbowl and toothbrush in his hands. Armand called out: “Windsor Tom, send Martel up, will you?”

  He said, “You know your mother’s feelings about that, sire.”

  “I know,” Armand said. “But send him up anyway.”

  Windsor Tom didn’t say anything, going out the door, but the young boy’s eyes were now swollen with tears.

  Later there was a scratching at the door, and Armand got out of bed. Martel bounded in, tail wagging, tongue hanging out, grinning. Armand located a ball in some of his sports clutter, and tossed the ball back and forth, as Martel chased it, scrabbling around with his big paws, fetching the ball from under the bed or bureaus. Armand kept up the play until he got tired, and then went to bed, slipping under the covers, with Martel panting nearby.

  “Oh, come on up,” Armand said. “Why wait?”

  There was a thump as Martel jumped on the end of the bed. He circled around twice and then lay down with a thud across his legs.

  So Armand slept, with Martel snoring at his feet.

  Chapter Six

  Her name was Melinda Whitehorse, the oldest daughter of a clan that was part of the ruling class of the Kingdom of the Northern Territories --- part of the Empire of the Nunavut --- and she was the first in her family to attend the great Imperial University at Calgary, where she studied history, economics, and most importantly, anthropology. But instead of being at class this chilly morning, or studying in her dorm room, or going to one of the refectories for breakfast with her roommate, she was bruised, bound and beaten, wondering if today was going to be her last.

  The day before, she had been at a small farm in the southern reaches of the Kingdom of Manitoba, doing research for a term paper about the anthropological differences --- such as language, marriage customs, trading arrangements ---- between families that lived near the southern border, and those that lived in the far northern part of the kingdom. Her hosts were the Donovan family --- big mama, big papa, and eight children --- running a dairy farm and doing some private farming on the side. They had been cheerful and polite, even more so since the University was paying them a stipend to host Melinda.

  Last night, Melinda and the family’s two eldest daughters --- Christy and Tracy --- had gone a few klicks to a neighboring farm, owned by the Callaghan family, for a birthday celebration for the Callaghan’s eldest son, Michael. He was a tall, muscular lad, and Melinda secretly thought Christy and Tracy were both vying for his attention.

  Then, spending the night in a spare room at the farmhouse… disaster. Shouts. Screams. Gunshots. Angry men with shaved heads and beards, dressed in stinking clothes and furs, broke into the farmhouse, grabbed her and the two sisters and a daughter of the Callaghan family, and Michael as well, and dragged them all away from the burning farmhouse and barns, papa Callaghan dead, discharged shotgun in his hands. After being bound and gagged and tossed on the rear of a horse, the raiding party had ridden hard during the night, pausing only for a moment as they carefully negotiated a dry moat that marked the border between the Empire and the badlands, and here they were.

  She was tied expertly at the wrists and ankles, sitting up against a boulder, a leather gag against her mouth as well. The horses were hobbled, grazing where they could. Tracy and Christy, and Michael Callaghan and his sister Constance, were kept away from her. They huddled in a group, the girls sobbing, all of them looking at their captors. The girls’ clothes had been torn here and there, but it was Michael who suffered the most: during the raid, he had taken a sword blow across the head. Now he sat up only through the aid of Tracy and Christy, who took turns keeping a blood-soaked towel in place.

  There were bits of low brush and trees, and a fire burned in the center of the makeshift camp, overlooked by two of their captors. Although she was so scared that only her bounds kept her arms and legs from trembling, Melinda looked at the men with a student’s curiosity. All were bald, most had beards or moustaches, and their skulls, hands and faces were decorated with black, angry-looking tattoos, of wolves to lions to a strange hooked-cross shape. They wore leather trousers and fur coats or vests, and had lever-action carbines or swords draped over their wide backs.

  And violent… their voices were loud, booming, and twice during this brief encampment, brawls had broken out among the men. Their language was harsh as well, and Melinda thought it was some sort of debased old form of Anglish.

  Melinda tried to shift into a more comfortable position, failed at doing so, and groaned in pain and frustration. She was hungry, thirsty and cold, and God, she was so very, very scared. A few times one of the men had come over, had slapped his chest and talked loudly at her, smiling with broken and blackened teeth. Every time that happened, she felt like one of the dairy cows back at the Donovan farm, wondering what the man who held her life in his hands was going to do next.

  As one, their captors turned at the sound of an approaching horse. Melinda blinked and saw the horse draw near. It was well-groomed, with polished saddle and leatherwork, and she was amazed at who was riding the mount: a handsome man dressed in the uniform of an Imperial cavalryman, sword in his hand, peaked black cap on his head with a strap under his chin.

  Rescue!

  Her eyes teared up, she started sobbing against the leather gag. Melinda remembered one of the last nights she had back at home, before going to University, when she had been told that at some point in her life, she would be rescued just like this.

  A week before taking the once-a-week train to the south, Melinda had shared tea with her great-auntie Sophie, who was her tribe’s shaman --- Angakkuit --- and who said she was going to see what lay ahead for her great-niece. Melinda had good-naturedly gone along with great-auntie Sophie’s request, and on this cold night, in a corner of her cabin, Sophie had lit a small fire in the stove, along with candles on shelves. She had burnt incense and dried leaves, and had chanted f
or a long while, kneeling on old furs. Melinda had sat next to her, wondering if her packing for the long trip south was really complete or not, and curious about the boys she would meet in Calgary.

  The cabin was tiny, cluttered, and with old smells and belongings. Over the stove was Sophie’s proudest possession: a creased and repaired ancient black and white photograph, showing a young male, who was supposedly one of her ancestors. Instead of wearing traditional furs and boots, he had on trousers and some sort of puffy coat, and slung across his back was a rifle. But what was amazing about the photo was the machine the young male was riding; it had tiny skis up front but no ropes, harnesses or dogs. Sophie claimed that at one time, all the males in the territories had these machine sledges but Melinda couldn’t believe any clan or territory could ever be so rich.

  On that night, Sophie moved and chanted and stared into the flickering flames and the small curls of smoke, and once she gasped and put a wrinkled hand to her mouth, and then she stayed quiet. She patted Melinda’s hand and said, “All is well.”

  But there were tears in the old woman’s eyes. Melinda had said, “No, tell me the truth, auntie. Tell me what you saw.”

  Sophie was reluctant. “I know you, and your friends. You make fun of me, tease me, mock what I do. So go away then, and be happy. Don’t be concerned.”

  Then a cold finger of doubt worked its way into Melinda --- maybe she didn’t know as much as she thought about her great-aunt --- and she said, “I truly want to know, auntie. What did you see?”

  The strong old dark eyes looked at her, and Sophie said quietly, “Child… it was so hard to see… so confusing… but I am sorry to tell you this… you will travel… though many think you shouldn’t… and dark days await you… pain… suffering… so many tears… but there will be a chance for you when you are in the darkest of times… for a prince will rescue you… but in your future, loved one, you will destroy an empire.”