Archeologist Warlord: Book 2

by E. M. Hardy

  Martin listened, glad that the priest didn’t know everything about him. The priest would probably try to exorcise him if he knew that Martin could absorb the souls of the fallen, allowing evil spirits to possess their bodies in turn. The jinn called these spirits shayateen, malicious entities that were murderously jealous of the living. Martin saw the spirits of the dead dancing around, welcoming the prayers of the priest and using those prayers as a guide. They rose up into the sky and vanished as the priest completed his incantations.

  Entreaties finished, the priest then gathered chi into his joined palms. The chi spun faster and faster, igniting into a ball of fire as the now-sweating priest separated his palms. With a shout of focus, the priest launched the fireball into the pyre, setting it and the diseased corpses it carried on fire. Martin watched numbly as the flames caught, silently whispering his own prayers to the dead.

  ***

  Martin’s walker read the note quickly, its blank face scanning the text once more from top to bottom.

  “Alright, Mister… Naseer al-Ghazi. That’s it. Miss Geng Hua should receive your letter later this afternoon. Can you confirm where she lives in the Red City?”

  “Yes.” The artisan sniffed. “In the Orchid District, a shop called Elegant Silks. Or at least, that’s what it’s called in Bashri. I forgot its Renese name.”

  “Youya Shi,” Martin repeated, this time switching over to Renese.

  “Yes.” Naseer nodded. “It sounded a lot like that.”

  “Alright, Mister al-Ghazi. The postal office will send a runner to get in touch with you if she sends a reply.”

  “Perfect.” He smiled before backing away and letting the next person in line take his place. The artisan fished a coin out of his robes and dropped it into the waiting hands of the cashier. A sweating runner walked into the office, empty satchel swinging off his hip. He eyed the stack of letters on the counter, picked them up, and ran off again into the ever-oppressive heat of the Bashri sun.

  Martin sighed, already hating himself for suggesting a postal service using himself as an intermediary. Sure, he could instantaneously transmit information between his constructs no matter where they were. Yes, he knew that it would make it easier for the peoples of both the Ren Empire and the various emirates of the Bashri to get used to him. Heck, it would even bolster his standing with the Empress and League of Merchants since their seals were plastered all over the various postal offices sprouting up all over their respective lands.

  The only problem was the tediousness of it all. He looked up, saw the snaking line of people waiting to avail of his postal service, and sighed to himself. Public service was boring and thankless, but the public needed to be served if it was to come together as a unified entity. He wasn’t entirely comfortable with reading people’s letters, but they avoided posting private or confidential stuff anyway. Well, at least most of the time.

  He eyed the artisan leaving the post office, remembering the rather sordid details of his torrid love letter. Naseer al-Ghazi did not seem disturbed at all about Martin learning how cunning a linguist he was. Martin shivered, remembering to stay classy and professional as he refocused on the next person in line.

  “Name, please.”

  “Jalaal Dogan. I have a letter for Asli Dogan, my sister. She lives in Nur, in the Sulba Emirate…”

  ***

  “They should be here in about an hour,” Martin reported to Oben, the caravan master, through one of the walkers escorting the caravan. “Forty-eight bandits. Well-armed, mounted on horse, and riding straight for your group.” The gruff old man grunted and began issuing orders to the rest of the merchants and their guards. They pulled their camels and wagons into formation, creating a half-circle with wagons to the front with tall rocks shielding them in the back. The guards took up positions behind the wooden planks of the wagons, bows and swords in hand, while the merchants, their apprentices, and their families hid behind the wagons. Some of the pluckier merchants joined in with the guards, holding up spears to help push back anyone brave or stupid enough to jump the wagons.

  A dozen of Martin’s walkers stood defiantly in front of the wagons, spears and javelins readied. These javelins were a far cry from the simple ones he experimented with a few months ago. They were no longer simple piles of hardened clay with the point ground off to a spike. No, these were lighter weapons with metal points, supple wooden shafts, and feathered fletching to help stabilize them in flight. They looked a lot like arrows—except they were far larger and were thrown by hand, not by bow. Trade with both the Ren Empire and the Emirate of Ma’an had given Martin access to a whole batch of new materials. This trade had also allowed him to study with masters of various trades and professions—including a small group of martial artists in the southern cities of the Empire, proficient in the use of war darts.

  Martin cleared out many of the previous bandit groups that set up lairs near the roads. Those were a shoddy bunch, wearing slapdash armor that was either stolen from garrisons or salvaged from their unlucky victims. They were also poorly organized, preferring opportunistic hits on independent merchants rather than carefully-planned operations against larger caravans.

  These ones weren’t real bandits, though. Their fine horses allowed them to outrun his walkers, and their equipment was far too pristine. They pressed on even when they knew that Martin’s floating eyeballs were tracking their every movement. No, these looked a lot like professional akinji raiders, hired by some upstarts in the cartels—or the League of Merchants, as they liked to call themselves.

  Martin readied his walkers as soon as the raiders thundered toward the caravan. His walkers held their ground as he picked out his targets, horsemen bearing down on the clustered merchants. Martin loosed the war darts, which whispered through the air as they found their targets. Two raiders ducked away, evading the deadly projectiles heading their way. Six raiders crumpled off their mounts, long shafts protruding from their chests, stomachs, and shoulders. Two raiders grunted when the javelins landed shallowly enough for the lamellar armor plates to deflect the sharp heads. Two horses thrashed in pain as the pointed heads of the darts lanced into legs and flanks.

  Martin’s walkers picked up the pikes beside them, braced their butts on the ground, and held their position as the raiders crashed into them.

  ***

  “Yes, Your Highness. I’m currently sandbagging the banks of the Ni River. Damage from the floods is minimal so far, and the food caravans from other provinces as well as the various emirates are converging on the Wo Plains as we speak. We should be able to lift the state of calamity in a few weeks, though the areas hardest hit by the monsoon will no doubt end up reeling from the extent of the damage. A trade caravan from the Emirate of Ma’an is on its way, which should help provide additional supplies while bolstering the local economies, help them rebuild. We can expect additional caravans as well, since quite a few merchants from the other emirates around the Bashri Basin are interested in setting up trade agreements of their own.”

  Martin’s walker shifted uncomfortably as he touched upon the last part of his report. “I’m also quarantining the villages infected by the Hei Jian plague, feeding the living and burning the dead on pyres. I’m talking to one of the chemists in the Bashri right now. She says she has seen this illness before, that it is caused by the bite of mosquitos, and she has a few tinctures that can help ease the symptoms. She also suggests shipping opium for those in the advanced stages of the disease. It can at least ease their suffering before… before they go on their way.”

  “We see,” the Empress Zi Li said simply, imperiously, and without emotion, as she looked down at Martin’s kneeling walker.

  Martin didn’t dare look up. This was an extremely formal affair, with the Empress holding court as proof of her strength. She had purged many of the attendants in her court, along with various peers who had collaborated with the Three Sages. Those who had sought her death and replacement with a puppet had been s
wiftly executed by noose, blade, or by poison depending on their stations. The Empress now surrounded herself with Balancer agents, masked martial artists exceptionally skilled in both combat and intrigue.

  “We are thankful for your contributions in aiding our Empire,” she finally said, after an extended period of silence. “Our most trusted advisors, the Three Sages, attempted to tear our Empire apart, whispering sweet nothings into the ears of those surrounding them. The weak-willed remained silent, fearful of retribution from the Three Sages. The craven-hearted slavered at the chance to rise above their station through treachery and deceit. Treachery has weakened us in the past, but it has also strengthened our commitment to ensuring the future of the Empire. Your aid, your work healing the wounds of this great betrayal upon our empire, is greatly appreciated.”

  Martin kept silent, noting that the Empress was speaking not just to him but to the entire court. She aimed her words at both the new and old nobility alike, instilling fear into their hearts. She was stepping up into her own woman, discarding the image that the Three Sages built for her: that of a sheltered princess hiding behind screens, silently approving all that they thrust upon her. She was impressing upon the courtiers and aristocrats alike that she was their Empress, with the blood of traitors serving as the foundations of her rule.

  Martin wanted to laugh out loud at the Empress’ hypocrisy. She had sent one of her Balancers, Cui Dai, to iron out a plan with the League of Merchants to betray him not three short months ago. Only chance allowed Martin to eavesdrop on a conversation shedding light on the whole thing. It was through Yao Xiu, the liaison assigned to watch over him, that Martin learned of the whole affair.

  And he had Yao Xiu to thank for staying the Empress’ hand. Empress Zi Li’s plans to backstab Martin ended up being just that—plans. She simply laid the groundwork for whatever she had in mind, but she never pushed through with them.

  Good, because Martin did not relish the idea of having to overthrow the Empire with endless waves of clay and blood. He was no longer weak or confused, for he had the numbers and the industry to deal with any who would attack him. Just because he could end her, however, didn’t mean he wanted to.

  “Still,” the Empress continued, as she turned her gaze back to Martin’s walker. “There is another matter of great importance where your aid will be required.”

  This time, Martin allowed himself to glance up at the Empress’ petite figure. Wasn’t this summons supposed to be a quick ‘thank-you’ for what he did helping with the famine and plague?

  “One of the former Sages, Ye Heng, has betrayed the Empire and carved out his own little gang of bandits out on the Isles of Taiyo. This traitor is the last surviving conspirator behind the murders of the previous Emperor and his family… our family.” The Empress’ voice remained smooth and steady, though her words wavered ever so slightly with a hint of bitter hatred.

  Martin guessed where this was going, and he did not like it.

  “He spent years whispering into the ears of many, plotting our death and destroying the Empire we have worked so hard to keep intact. One of those traitors is the Venkati of the Sahaasi peoples. This self-styled Maharaja has conspired with Ye Heng for years, convincing those around him to rise up against our rule. Both Venkati and Ye Heng now stand as the greatest threats to the Ren Empire. Our brave generals and their courageous soldiers have held off their relentless attacks as we healed the land from the betrayal of the Three Sages, and we have regained enough strength to strike back. It is time to bring the fight to these rebels and put them down like the dogs they are.”

  The Empress stood from her cushioned seats, waving her attendants away as she approached the cover of her throne. Everyone in the court, from obscure courtesan and fresh nobility to standing guard and scurrying servant, gasped as the Empress stepped beyond the protection of her guards. Her bald, brawny bodyguard stepped up to shield her, to prevent anyone from getting close to her. She gently but firmly laid her hand on his elbow and pushed him away.

  She was still a young teen—little more than a girl, really—except her eyes were filled with duty and determination you could rarely see in others her age. The Empress glared back at Martin with gravitas, focusing on the eyes painted upon its blank face—eyes that made it easier for humans to interact with, giving them a facial feature to concentrate on.

  “We call upon your obligations as vassal to defend the Empire against its enemies. Send your forces south to deal with the rebels from the Sahaasi state. We lift the limits we imposed upon your walkers, and you may raise as many as you deem fit to deal with our enemies. Defeat their armies, bring them back under Imperial rule.”

  Martin held his non-existent tongue, waiting for more. The Empress knew Martin could contribute more than fifteen thousand walkers to help deal with the rebellions. He had told her this himself in a private meeting, just after his thwarted attempt at taking over the underground facility in the desolate sands of the Bashri Basin. He also knew that General Shen Feng had twice that number in garrisons spread out all over the heart of the Ren Empire. He waited for the Empress to say that the General of the White Tiger would march with Martin, help him strike a swift and decisive blow to end the rebellion in the south. He waited for her to reassure him that he would only need to hold out long enough for the General of the Black Turtle to arrive with reinforcements.

  The Empress said nothing else, waiting only for his answer.

  Martin realized that he would have to do this on his own, that the Empress wanted him to grind himself against an enemy so that he would be no threat to her anymore.

  Damn your paranoia, Martin thought to himself. I’ve been stretching myself thin, contributing walkers and resources to help your struggling people as much as I can, and you STILL don’t trust me?

  Instead of sharing his thoughts, instead of insisting on his loyalty, Martin simply lowered the painted face of his kneeling walker back down to the ground. “Yes, Your Highness.”

  Chapter 02

  The young man trembled in barely-controlled rage as he knelt, the fabric of his robes grinding against the skin of his knees. He bit down hard on his tongue to control himself, tasting blood in the process. He dug his nails deep into his palms, so hard he could feel hot liquid running down the gouged skin.

  Inagaki Nobumoto, previously known as Sage Ye Heng, stood before him. The new Shogun loomed over the headless corpse of the young man’s father, the previous Daimyo of Chishima Island and the Ishida Clan.

  “Ishida Nagatoshi.” The Shogun’s deep voice grated upon Ishida’s ears, and it took every ounce of self-control the young man had not to spit at the Shogun’s smug expression.

  “Know this: the price of resisting my rule, questioning my claim as the Shogun’s heir, is death. By all rights, I should cull you and your traitorous family. You and your craven liegemen should be put to the sword for daring to voice your opposition against my birthright.” The Shogun flicked the blood off his sword, sneered at the stains it left on the ground, and proceeded to wipe the remaining blood off with a fine cloth.

  Ishida wanted to sneer right back at the old man. He styled himself as a Shogun, as the pinnacle of swordsmanship and military power of the old Taiyo Shogunate. Yet his sword was so poorly crafted, his swordsmanship so clearly lacking, that he couldn’t even properly flick the blood off his blade with a single stroke. The blade itself was dead, lacking the crimson veins of a true blood-bound blade, yet none in the room dared point this out to his face. The other Daimyo around him were too enamored by the glittering prizes Inagaki had offered them that they ignored these ‘minor details’ of his shortcomings as Shogun. Nobumoto possessed the blood of the previous Shogun; he spoiled his people with money and arms he had secreted away from the Empire during his time as Sage, and he promised his lackies all the position and power they wanted as long as they swore loyalty to him. This was all that they needed to grant him legitimacy in their eyes.

  These craven ‘Dai
myo’ were no more noble or capable than a common thief or overblown charlatan. The only reason they held their positions was because they had turned on their previous lords while unquestioningly obeying Inagaki Nobumoto’s every command.

  Inagaki continued speaking as he finished cleaning off his weapon. “But pragmatism must win out if we are to keep our mother isles free from the clutches of the evil Empire of Ren. The simple fact is that I need more swords to fight for our independence, and you will help provide those swords. This is the only reason that you still live and breathe. You have a chance to start anew, to redeem the sins of your family, of your clan and your liegemen. Your actions in the coming war will determine if you wash away the sins of your father… or if I will have to reconsider the mercy I show at this moment in time.”

  The Shogun thrust out an open hand in front of Ishida’s face. “And so I offer my hand in friendship. Serve me, serve the New Taiyo Shogunate. Help me free our enslaved people, and I will forget all these sins. You and your family will rise once more to reclaim the honor that your traitorous father squandered by standing up against the rightful ruler of the Isles of Taiyo.”

  Ishida stared at the hand before him. Free the people? Reclaim honor? Forget his sins!? Pah! Ishida wanted nothing more than to steal back the blade Inagaki’s guards had taken from him. He wanted to cut off the offending limb and skewer the old man in the gut, even if it meant a slow and painful death afterward. He wanted to do this not just for murdering his father but for twisting bushido, the ideals of honor and loyalty Ishida sought to live by. Ishida’s father was old enough to remember how things were under the old Shogun, where might was the only recognized law and brutality was the order of the day. The Shogun would preach honor and elegance while simultaneously butchering entire villages, encouraging his soldiers to rape and plunder, and for his most loyal cronies to empower their blades and armor with the blood of vanquished innocents.