A Shattered Empire

by Mitchell Hogan

  He shook his head, dumbfounded and disturbed. There’d been so much lost during the Shattering. Invaluable knowledge that put civilization back hundreds of years, if not more. He’d thought the more unbelievable tales from before the Shattering were merely that: tales. But he had seen the jukari, fought them. And he had always been told they were nothing more than bogeymen, when in fact they were very, very real.

  What if the others were true as well?

  “Now that you’re conscious,” said Tamara, interrupting his thoughts, “I need to tell Kristof you’re awake, and not too much worse for wear. You’re lucky you weren’t affected badly. You put your body under a great deal of strain without trinkets to mitigate the effects. I saw someone once, early in my training: one of the Touched who pushed herself too far. She’d run a great distance, as fast as she could, reveling in her gifts. She . . .” Tamara paused, as if the words were difficult to get out. “She was bedridden for a few days, screaming with the pain in her legs. She was sure it would pass and she’d recover. As with all of you, she healed quickly.” The physiker shook her head. “But she didn’t—at least, not completely. The ancestors’ blood is potent, you see. Her muscles and tendons were damaged beyond repair. She never walked again. Or I assume so. The warlocks took her away to care for her—because of her condition. I haven’t seen her since.”

  Caldan was careful to keep his expression neutral. He could guess what had happened to the woman the warlocks took away. If she was useless, they would have drained her of her blood, likely keeping her alive as long as they could before disposing of her. In the end, that will be my fate. And the fate of anyone who is Touched. We’re just cows to be milked, then slaughtered.

  The canvas of the tent rippled as a gust of wind blew, causing the door flap to wave, and a waft of air brought with it a foul stench. Tamara’s face went pale, and she rummaged in a pocket, drawing out a kerchief, which she held to her nose.

  “It’s the bodies,” she said faintly. “There’s not enough soldiers to bury them. The jukari are causing problems, and it looks like we’ll have to deal with them first before worrying about Anasoma and the Indryallans.”

  Of course, thought Caldan. But shouldn’t the newly arrived mercenary companies—not to mention the warlocks and what was left of the emperor’s forces—be enough to cope? It seemed not. His body still ached as if he’d been trampled by a herd of bison, but he had to help, if he could.

  He sat up, letting out a pained groan, and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

  Tamara rushed to his side, placing her hands on his shoulders, and tried to push him back down. “What are you doing? Please, don’t sit up. You must rest.”

  Caldan shook his head and brushed her away. He stood on trembling legs. “I can’t. The destruction of the emperor’s army . . . it was . . .” My fault, he wanted to say. He’d brought Bells with him to Riversedge. And though he knew it had to have been her destination anyway, part of him couldn’t help but hold himself responsible. “A tragedy,” was all he managed. “Everyone needs to do their part. Whatever needs doing to help. I can’t just lie here and do nothing.”

  He exited and squinted in the bright sunlight as his eyes adjusted. The graveyard stink he had caught a whiff of hit him full-blast, and it was all he could do not to reel from the stench.

  Rustling sounded from inside the tent behind him as Tamara hastily packed up her herbs and implements.

  “Wait,” she called, voice muffled behind the canvas.

  Caldan checked the distance from where he stood to the walls of Riversedge. A few hundred yards, give or take. The clearing outside his tent was empty, save for the black coals and gray ash of the fire that Kristof, Edelgard, and Lisanette had been sitting around. The emperor must have been keeping them busy, which was no surprise. They wouldn’t be idle while waiting for Caldan to recover.

  He heard Tamara exiting the tent, and she came and stood beside him.

  “You shouldn’t be out of bed yet. Kristof will get mad at me if I let you exhaust yourself so soon.”

  Caldan felt his body tremble. He was weak, there was no doubting that. But not as feeble as Tamara thought he was. With none of the Touched around, and no idea when they’d be back, he could use the time to do a few things of his own.

  Like check on Miranda.

  “I’m not going to lie around,” he said to Tamara. “There are things I need to do. People I need to see.”

  “I can’t order you to do anything. But if Kristof were here, he’d—”

  “He can’t order me, either,” interrupted Caldan, more harshly than he intended. He rubbed tired eyes and ran a hand over his hair. “I’m sorry, but I’m not part of the . . . Touched yet. Nor am I one of the warlocks. My talents don’t automatically make me one of them. I’m not a possession to be owned. No human should own another. We’ll work something out. But not today.”

  It wasn’t clear who would even get to “keep” him. It wasn’t immodest to think that with his talents, the warlocks and the Touched would most likely fight over who held his leash.

  Caldan took a step in the direction of Riversedge, then turned to Tamara. She clutched her leather kit close to her chest, biting her lip and looking worried.

  “I’m sure there are others who could use your skills more than me today, Tamara. When Kristof returns, tell him I’ll be back. I have to tie up a few loose ends.”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Kristof said from behind him.

  Ancestors! cursed Caldan. He turned to regard the big man. There was no way he’d be able to escape from a Touched who had full use of his abilities.

  Should he risk it?

  No.

  For the time being, he had to show both the Touched and the warlocks that he was pliable and willing to serve. Caldan inclined his head in Kristof’s direction.

  “As you wish.”

  For now.

  A SHORT WHILE later, it began drizzling at the Touched camp, and Caldan kept blinking water from his eyes. He sheltered his face from the rain with a hand and examined the campfire. Nothing more than cold ashes surrounded by stones. A canvas tarpaulin had been stretched between two wagons, and the rain it collected poured off a crease at the back, creating a patch of sodden grass and mud.

  Tamara and Kristof both sat on stools under the makeshift shelter. She looked miserable, while he calmly drew on a bone pipe, smoke curling around him.

  When Caldan strode from his borrowed tent, Tamara stood and took a step toward him, before stopping and glancing at Kristof. Kristof said something to her Caldan couldn’t catch, and she returned to her seat, wringing her hands. Then he beckoned Caldan to join them.

  “Tamara said you wanted to leave to tie up some loose ends,” Kristof growled. “Mind if I ask what they were?”

  “I do mind,” Caldan replied firmly. “My business is my own.”

  Kristof grunted. “Your business is now the warlocks’ and the emperor’s. Best you remember that.” He took another puff on his pipe and let the smoke out slowly.

  Caldan caught the faint scent of hawksclaw buds. Expensive and rare. Normally used to deaden pain, they were also extremely addictive. The monks grew some in their herbarium to sell to the people on the island. Kristof’s limp and the hawksclaw pointed to only one conclusion: his body was failing him. Kristof looked to be in his fifties, but was he? Or was he just prematurely aged? A hard truth struck Caldan: This is my future as well. A slow, painful, debilitating slide into obsolescence. And then, in both their cases, they’d be drained and killed.

  That is what he would choose to remember.

  Caldan opened his mouth to ask if he could go into Riversedge to retrieve his belongings, then thought better of it. “How old are you?” he asked instead.

  The look on Tamara’s face told Caldan what he needed to know. Kristof’s mouth curled into a sneer.

  “Old? What does it matter? I’ve seen and done things ordinary people would be lucky to experience in a dozen lifetimes. I’
ve . . . we’ve kept the empire together, along with the warlocks, for centuries. How old am I?” Kristof’s voice rose in volume. “I’ve battled jukari and vormag in the Desolate Lands, along with other creatures that would have you shitting yourself. I’ve searched the Dareske Ruins for treasures and trinkets. I’ve killed too many to count, rulers among them. I’ve seen with my own eyes what the Shattering did to the world. Walked abandoned cities bigger than Riversedge.” Kristof poked his chest with a finger. “Me. The son of a baker who tarried with someone above herself. I’m thirty-one. And I don’t regret a single thing. What I’ve done, I’ve done for the good of the empire, and for the emperor, may he live forever. I won’t lock my gift away and die wondering what I could have been.”

  Tamara nodded all the way through Kristof’s speech. Her eyes glistened with tears, and she gazed at Kristof with pride.

  Is everyone mad? wondered Caldan with rising dread. How was he supposed to extricate himself from these fanatics? If he ran, they would come after him, and they wouldn’t stop. No matter where he went, how he tried to cover his tracks, they’d find him. Not using himself up in the emperor’s service would be a betrayal to them. All they saw was a tool, like a sword. One that, when it was old and its edges dull, could be melted down and reused.

  He didn’t understand how they could so blindly follow.

  But he said, quietly, “I understand,” and Tamara beamed at him with approval.

  “That remains to be seen,” said Kristof. “Tamara, you’ll need to check Caldan for any lingering signs. But I trust you won’t take long?”

  “No, Kristof. A few minutes. Maybe a little longer, to mix some herbs in order to ease any lasting effects.”

  “I’m fine,” Caldan said.

  “You’re fine when Tamara says you’re fine, and not before.”

  Tamara stood and reached for her kit on the ground behind her. “This won’t take long.”

  “See that it doesn’t,” growled Kristof. “Devenish has been asking after Caldan. I’m to take him to the warlocks as soon as I can. Which is now.”

  Kristof moved back and let Tamara poke and prod Caldan. She lifted his arms and ordered him to bend different ways. Caldan did as he was asked, telling her truthfully that he didn’t feel any lingering pains when she questioned him. She looked into his eyes, and even his ears. Apparently he passed her inspection, as she pursed her lips and frowned once she’d finished.

  “I don’t think I’ll give you anything at this stage. The less medicine you use, the better. If you develop any aches or pains, though, come and see me right away.”

  Her tone brooked no argument, and Caldan nodded his understanding. Tamara didn’t have an agenda, other than helping the Touched.

  “Come on,” Kristof said. “Time to see Devenish. He’ll decide what to do with you.”

  “I thought you were the leader of the Touched.”

  Kristof shook his head. “No leader. We’re all equals. Though some are more talented than others. Grab your belongings. And don’t annoy Devenish. He has a short temper, and more power than you or I will ever have. Both among the emperor and his armies, and as a sorcerer.”

  Caldan thought back to Gazija shrugging off what Devenish threw at him, and worried he wouldn’t be able to defend himself against any coercive sorcery Devenish tried. For what other way did Devenish have of controlling him?

  As they made their way to the warlock’s tent, Caldan paused briefly to take stock. He had Bells’s and Mahsonn’s craftings—his, now—and trinkets, in addition to a few paper birds he’d folded last night from paper he’d found in Lisanette’s tent. They always came in handy, but their simplicity was far removed from his smith-crafted automatons, and they certainly wouldn’t be able to weather the coercive or destructive sorcery he’d seen over the last few days.

  “Having second thoughts, are you?” Kristof asked, cutting through Caldan’s mental inventory.

  Caldan looked up to find himself being scrutinized intently. “Fine. I’m fine. It’s such a lot to take in.”

  Kristof nodded. “You don’t get something for free in this world. Our abilities come with a price. But the more useful you make yourself, the more trinkets you earn, and the longer you last.”

  Couldn’t someone just not use their abilities? The idea wasn’t without its problems, since Caldan himself didn’t have full control over his abilities, so far.

  But perhaps, with time . . . ?

  “Come on,” said Kristof. “Devenish has a job for us. I’m guessing he wants you brought into the fold quickly. This’ll be an initiation of sorts. Don’t muck it up.”

  Caldan did his best to look eager. “I’ll try not to.”

  Not that he thought it would be all that difficult. If Devenish wanted him to go out and kill a few jukari, he could do that. All he really needed for that was a sword and his shield crafting. Once they considered him one of their own, their suspicions would wane, and he could figure a way out of this mess.

  I wonder if this was how my parents thought about leaving, too.

  Caldan sniffed and realized that either the stench of corpses had lessened or he was getting used to it. With the combination of the rain and the fact many of them had been carried away to be burned, he suspected the former. According to Kristof, Riversedge’s poorest were helping dispose of the bodies for a coin or two a day, leaving the rest of the army to focus on the jukari. The horde had retreated even farther as the emperor’s forces gained ground, but they were still very much a threat, and one the emperor could do without, with the Indryallans still to be dealt with. Warning horns and trumpets pealed occasionally, and soldiers rushed past on their way to the front lines. Far in the distance, Caldan could sense outpourings of sorcery—flashes flickered and faint rumbles of thunder reached his ears. This far away, he couldn’t tell what was happening, but it looked like the warlocks and vormag were going hard at each other.

  As usual, the same two blond women were on guard outside Devenish’s tent. They eyed both Caldan and Kristof with suspicion, but Kristof paid them no mind. He pushed between them and held the tent flap open for Caldan.

  Inside, it was dark and musty. Caldan’s eyes adjusted quickly to the light, and he looked around. Maps still covered the center table, and Devenish was alone. The warlock stood next to a desk on one side of the tent, where he was fiddling with a glass vial.

  “One moment, please,” Devenish said. “I’ve caught a cold or some such. Just mixing something my physiker concocted.”

  Caldan shoved his hands in his pockets and watched as Devenish poured himself half a glass of water and unstoppered the vial. He added two drops of a reddish liquid to the glass, hesitated, and then added one more. As he moved, Caldan caught a glimpse of his face. He looked pale and haggard, and older than before.

  “I swear you always think you’re coming down with something, Devenish,” Kristof said, half joking. “But you never get sick. You need to get out in the fresh air. You’re always cooped up inside with hardly any light.”

  Devenish raised his glass and swirled the liquid. The water turned a pinkish hue. “Prevention is better than the cure, I find.” He smirked at Kristof and downed the potion in one swallow. His eyes closed, and he shook himself all over for a few moments. “I’ll never get used to the taste, but it keeps me healthy.”

  And indeed, Devenish’s face had already regained some of its color. His cheeks turned pink, and he stood up straighter.

  He couldn’t have, could he . . . ? wondered Caldan.

  Had Devenish just drunk some of the Touched blood in front of them?

  Caldan glanced surreptitiously at Kristof, who had wandered over to the map table and was peering intently at tiny markings penned next to strategic points. He seemed to have no idea that anything was amiss.

  Heat rose to Caldan’s face, and he felt his blood boil at what Devenish had done. He fought back a snarl that threatened to give him away. The warlocks were rotten to the core. Whatever they’d started out
as, they’d been warped into something . . . evil.

  Caldan clenched his fists in his pockets. It was all he could do to resist calling Devenish out then and there. Only the fact that Kristof wouldn’t believe him, and Devenish would likely kill him, stopped him saying something.

  He turned away, afraid to speak, face burning with shame. Calm down, he admonished himself. There will come a time when you can do something to stop this. But not now. There was nothing to gain by acting at this moment, and everything to lose. It took Caldan a while to stop himself shaking, and when he did, he looked up to find both Devenish and Kristof staring at him.

  “I’m sorry,” Caldan said quickly. “I’m still recovering from using my abilities the other day. Tamara gave me something to help, but I suspect it’ll take more than a day or two to recuperate.”

  Kristof nodded, but Devenish narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

  “Do you have need of me?” asked Caldan, hoping to move on. “I’m eager to prove my worth.”

  That seemed to allay any worries Devenish had, as his face lit up, and he smiled. A feral grin.

  “I’m sure Kristof has told you some of what he does, and why you are so essential to the Mahruse Empire’s protection. Yes?”

  “He has. And I understand.”

  “Such gifts as you have,” Devenish continued, “are easily abused. And it’s only by using them for the greater good that we can ensure they aren’t used for nefarious purposes. If one of the Touched thought to go off on their own, not only would they be abusing a great gift, but they wouldn’t last long. We have to take care of you. You’ve now seen the side effects of using your abilities for a prolonged period. There’s no hiding the truth. And that’s the reason the emperor, through the warlocks, must maintain strict control of certain trinkets. The more you show you will use yourself for the benefit of the empire, the greater trust we will have in you. And the more we trust, the easier we will feel about helping you mitigate the side effects of your abilities.”

  Yes—I get it. Toe the line, die, or be killed.