Horns of the Ram (Dominion Book 2)

by Austin Rogers

  Cristiana felt the muscles in her back tighten as Eagle approached the steps to the castle. The crowds became larger, flocking in great masses through adjacent streets and on rooftops. Hovercams whizzed around overhead. One paused ahead of her, matching her pace as it moved backward and trained its lens on her. It was all she could do to refrain from smirking as she imagined millions of people watching her on the newsvids around the Regnum. She hoped her example would inspire the few noblewomen born and bred for battle.

  Yes, a woman, even a girl of only twenty-two years, could compete with the big boys.

  As the mounted Eagle warriors curved around to trot parallel to the castle steps, Cristiana reached a hand across her body to rest on the hilt of her blazer, waiting for the right moment. Together, the five rows of Eagle horsemen unsheathed their swords and raised them into the air.

  Cristiana peeked across her armored shoulder at the royal court, looking down on the procession. Many of them bore wide smiles or pointed at various members of the cavalcade as they conversed with their neighbors. But then Cristiana glimpsed Zantorian. A chill ran down her spine and tingled through her limbs. The Grand Lumis’s face was hardened in a frown as he watched the passing procession. No, not just a frown. Ascowl. Those standing closest to him looked equally dour.

  Cristiana directed her eyes forward so none of the cameras would catch her gawking. Still, the sight unsettled her. Why did the Grand Lumis seem so unhappy? Especially while witnessing such a grandiose display of the Regnum’s power? This was the Royal Showcase, the exhibition of Sagittarian strength and opulence. Yet Zantorian brooded like a lonesome widower.

  Why?

  Chapter Three

  Zantorian strode through the marbled halls of his castle while Aermo, a dozen courtiers, and another dozen Guardians of Court trailed behind. The holographic image of Velasco, the mutinous Lord Regent of Swan, floated in the air above his wrist cuff. Zantorian watched, jaw hinged tight, as the Swan Lord calmly spoke before him.

  “Every lord in the Regnum has the right to act in defense of his manor’s established interests,” the electric-white-haired, holographic man said in the holo message. “Swan hasn’t merely been insulted. We’ve been harmed. If the lord of any other region were put in the same situation—if the lord of Fox were put in my position—I’d expect him to react no different than I.”

  Queen Raza appeared in front of the entourage from out of a drawing room. She saw the hologram, then eyed Zantorian knowingly. A half dozen other queen matriarchs sat on the couches and chairs of the drawing room, sipping fruit juleps and chatting carelessly.

  “What news?” Raza asked in a low voice so as not to hinder the nonchalance behind her. “Has Swan betrayed us?”

  Zantorian ignored her. His queen wished for a greater role than entertainer of ladies, which he understood. Raza the Tireless hadn’t garnered her epithet for no reason. Give her a task, and she would pursue it with relentless focus until it had been fully accomplished with a plaque fashioned in her honor. But she knew little more about astropolitics or strategy than the ladies behind her. Zantorian was engaged in a game few knew how to play.

  Aermo sped his pace and paused beside Raza.

  “We know nothing right now,” he whispered. “I’ll message you if we learn anything.”

  Zantorian refocused on the holo of Velasco.

  “With all due respect, Zantorian, you need to decide if you want a Regnum where lords are allowed to exercise their rights under the law or one where lords are bound to obey your edictsregardlessof the law. Whether you approve of my actions or not, I havenotviolated the law of the Regnum. Yet you dispute my claim to the systems of Lagoon. You condemn me for taking the proper steps to defend Swan’s honor. Those are theonly reasons I have not sent representatives to the Royal Showcase. You know I am loyal to you, but I am also loyal to the Regnum. Don’t make me choose between the two.”

  Zantorian growled in his throat and closed his fist, making the holographic image of Velasco blink out.

  “Aermo!” he called.

  “Here, my lord.” The retainer caught up to him.

  “Convene the lord generals. Immediately.”

  #

  Zantorian extended his hand toward the gleaming floor of the Royal Court from his place on the throne dais. A map appeared in a wave across the floor as if he had tossed it out. It depicted the galaxy as a tapestry of color and light, billions of tiny stars coming together to form strokes and crescents like a pointillist painting, detailing every nebula, every star cluster, every white giant and wispy, iridescent supernova.

  In the upper balcony, the lord generals, each donning the unique uniform of their respective manors, brought their conversations to a close and found places to stand at the balustrade. Forty-six pairs of black prong-painted eyes, representing every military organization in the Regnum, large and small, gazed down on the galaxy map.

  Zantorian turned his hand over so that his palm faced upward and raised it higher in the air. The map corresponded by zooming in on humanity’s corner of the Milky Way, the roughly sixteen thousand lightyear diameter around Earth. The Grand Lumis worked his fingers to make a scattering of names and dots materialize across the Sagittarius, Carina, and Orion arms. The eleven major regions of the Regnum received labels:

  Serpent on the far northwest. Colossus directly under it. Condor flanking the southwest corner all the way to the border with Orion, where the Corona manor began, running along the Orionite border to Fox. Fox territory ran along the border to Trifid in the corner of the Regnum that touched both Orion and Carina. North of Trifid lay Minkowski’s Wings, which Sagittarians simply called “The Wings.” Northeast of Trifid, Owl carved a wedge into Carinian space and curved up to Lagoon—or what was once Lagoon. Now Swan controlled all territory once ruled by Lagoon, stretching from the northern Carinian border to the middle of Sagittarius. Northwest of Swan, Eagle took up the northernmost—most coreward—peak of the Regnum. And Mallard hung in the space between Eagle, Swan, and Serpent.

  The Grand Lumis pinched his fingers together, highlighting Swan’s new borders on the map, which included the former Lagoon. It took up almost a fifth of the Regnum’s territory. Zantorian let his hands drop to his sides. Silence hung in the cavernous space as Zantorian swept his gaze over the lord generals lining the balcony.

  “I believe in our system of government,” he said in a rich, commanding voice. “I believe in the order it creates. I believe in the justice of our hierarchy.” Four dozen pairs of curious eyes looked down on him. Such simple, obvious statements had not been uttered in the Royal Court—by the Grand Lumis, no less—in some time. They were worth reiterating in times like this.

  “But our system is predicated upon a balance of power.” Zantorian’s voice resounded in the vast chamber. “No manor is greater than all the others. No region is larger than all the others. The collective keeps the individuals in check. This is the way it has been for two hundred and fifty years. During that time, the Regnum has enjoyed peace and prosperity. There have been no widespread wars within our arm. That isnot an accident.”

  The lord generals stirred, but none spoke.

  Zantorian pointed at the highlighted depiction of Swan. “This threatens the balance of power. It may seem innocuous, but it spells division and chaos, the downfall of our glorious order.”

  He put his hand forward again and raised it, making the map zoom in further. A cluster of blinking red dots crept through Trifid space toward the border with Orion, and another line of dots trickled down from the center of Swan—supply ships and troop carriers angling to join up with their armada.

  “I don’t know all the details of what happened at Upraad,” Zantorian said. “But regardless what happened, regardless who supported the Upraadi commoners, Velasco must not be allowed to claim title over Lagoon. And hemust not be allowed to invade the Terran Confederacy.”

  “With respect, my lord,” a voice uttered from the balcony—Didacus, Lord General of Trifid. T
he three-tone uniform gave him away. “You brush over the facts of the Battle for Upraad as if they are unimportant. But they are of theutmost importance for regions bordering the Terrans.” A muttering of agreement spread through part of the gathering. “Perhaps the reports from Swan are inaccurate. Perhaps the Terrans had nothing to do with the battle. But supposing the reports are correct, and that they did play some part in the rebels’ defense, what then? What actions will the Regnum take in response?”

  Men muttered louder and rattled their sabers as a show of approval.

  Aermo stepped forward and slashed a hand through the air. “This meeting isnot about the Regnum’s stance toward the Confed. It is about Swan’s excessive ambition!”

  A few dozen lord generals shook the sabers at their sides and uttered, “Hear, hear!”

  “First, they unilaterally annex Lagoon,” Aermo continued, voice as intense as his eyes, “withoutpermission from the Grand Lumis, claiming the entire region for themselves. And now they move on the Terran Confederacy, which they will undoubtedly seek to annex as well. Where will it end?”

  Applause, muffled by ceremonial gloves, picked up among most of those present.

  “No one here doubts Velasco’s ambition,” Didacus replied. “But he does not act without provocation. Just look at the facts.” He twisted the cuff on his right wrist and flicked his hand out over the floor. A window overlaid part of the galaxy map, showing images of an aerial defense dish system. “A deflection array—the Skyshield V-Six. Carinian design. Sagittarian intelligence estimates the Terran Confederacy has purchased several dozen of these over the last few decades.”

  Didacus brushed his fingers to the side to make a new image appear in the window overlay. It was a post-battle picture of a lustrous, black combat rifle laying on rocky ground beside a limp and blood-stained hand. “The ALR-Nineteen. Orionite design. Produced by a company called Armacor deep in the Orion arm—on one of the anarchist planets. The Terrans have done a number of contracts with Armacor.”

  Aermo rolled his head in an exaggerated expression. “Come on, Didacus. You have a few pieces of a large puzzle. Don’t pretend you know the whole picture.”

  Mutterings of agreement circulated around the balcony, but Didacus ignored them, brushing his fingers to the side one more time.

  “Hold on, now,” he said. “I was just coming to the best part.” The image in the overlay showed the tail fin and rudder of a gunmetal-gray spaceplane, a faint emblem peeking through the paint. “Your eyes aren’t fooling you. It’s exactly what it looks like.”

  A concoction of anger and frustration gripped Zantorian as he looked out on the image in the overlay. Of course it would be the symbol of the Terran Confederacy. And of course he would have no evidence to prove its inauthenticity. Only a hunch, along with the sense of what he would clandestinely do if he were one of Carina’s more aggressive leaders.

  “Anyone can paint an emblem on metal,” Zantorian said.

  “But not everyone would try to cover it up,” Didacus retorted. “Anyone but the Terrans would have no issue with that symbol on their planes.”

  “It’s only thinly covered,” Aermo objected. “As if it was meant to be found.”

  “Or as if the soldiers had limited time to cover it up.” Didacus shrugged. “Besides, Swan reports that both planes attempted to escape. One almost did.”

  Drazen, the fibrous and steely-eyed Lord General of Eagle, spoke up from across the chamber. “What of the soldiers? The mechanical men? What do we know of them?”

  “Interrogations of rebel prisoners indicate that the leader was a Carinian by the name of Victor,” Didacus replied. “A false name, probably. He wouldn’t tell the Upraadis who had sent him, but he assured them it wasn’t the Carinian government. He seemed intent on the Upraadis knowing they had friends outside Sagittarius.”

  “We must all remember,” Zantorian said in a loud voice, calling attention back to him, “that it is in Carina’s interest to drive a wedge between the manors of the Regnum.”

  Glove-dampened applause pattered from the balcony.

  “But we must also resist the urge to blame Carina too quickly,” Didacus shot back. “We mustn’t underestimate the Terrans. They aren’t the puny, local power they once were. They’ve become one of the great powers of the galaxy, with all the paranoia and survivalism that comes with. Yes, Carina would like to see the Regnum weakened. But so would the Terran Confederacy.”

  Another bout of applause picked up in the chamber. Lord generals nodded and clinked their saber sheaths.

  Lord General Wyatt of Owl placed a meaty hand—fingers choked in the white glove—on top of the balustrade and leaned over it. “I must second the lord general from Trifid. More so than any other man in this room, save Didacus, I know what it’s like to live in the shadow of both the Carinians and the Terrans, and let me tell you all, they both hate us in equal measure.” The statement garnered light applause. “More attention is paid to Carina, and rightly so. They’re bigger. Stronger. They watch their border like hawks. But so do the Terrans! I can’t tell you how many military exercises our recon probes have seen just fifty lightyears from our space!”

  Sabers jangled in the gallery.

  “Trifid has seen the same,” Didacus added, building on the Owl lord’s energy. “And not merely a few ships practicing maneuvers. No. We’ve witnessed full-scale mock invasions—huge formations involving hundreds of warcraft.”

  Four dozen voices reacted at once, some murmuring agreement while others jeering. Zantorian couldn’t tell which side had more support.

  Aermo shook his head disapprovingly and shouted over the fray, “You don’t know they were mock-invasions! That’s absurd! We’d crush any invading force the Terrans threw at us. They know that.”

  Applause pattered in the Royal Court. Probably more a show of patriotism than support.

  Didacus wasn’t placated. “You underestimate the Terran Confederacy, especially if they ally with the anarchists. If you hear nothing else from me, hear this: the Terrans are no force to be trifled with.”

  More murmuring approval and saber clinking.

  Zantorian planted a foot forward and raised his voice to cut through the noise. “You speak of the Terrans as if they could be dealt with on their own. You are wrong.” He gave the silence a moment to work through the court. “If Velasco invades the Terran Confederacy and approaches Earth, Carina will declare war on us to protect their ‘Sacred Planet.’ If you wish to speak of nations preparing for a possible war, speak of this one. Carina has been preparing for war with us for decades. Pining for it. Waiting for a justification.”

  No one applauded or rattled sabers, but they all knew the Grand Lumis was right. “If Earth is threatened, Carina will intervene, and they will do so with the backing of their entire population, some seventy billion people. Seven hundred systems. The largest unified space force in the galaxy.” He paused, and no one objected. “Compared to Carina, it doesn’t matter how much power the Terrans wield. And it doesn’t matter whether they aided the Upraadis or not. All that matters is Earth. If Velasco threatens Earth, we will be at war with both the Terran Confederacyand Carina. That is not a war we want to wage.”

  “Pray tell,” Lord Wyatt interjected, “what wardo we want to wage?”

  Zantorian relaxed his shoulders, pleased at the question and the many eyes now looking upon him for the answer. Exactly as it should be between a lumis and his vassals. He wheeled around and sat on the Diamond Throne.

  “The better question is, ‘Who shall we enlist to wage it for us?’”

  Chapter Four

  Cristiana rested sideways on a suede sofa in her bedchambers, legs stretched across the cushions and crossed at the ankles. The hilt of her whip flail was lodged between her thighs while she ran a scrap of sandpaper along the edge of the half-meter-long blade at the end of the cord. She squeezed her legs together to keep the button on the hilt pressed down. That kept the retractable blade from snapping back into the h
ollow handle.

  It took concentration. She couldn’t let her thighs ease up or the blade would tear out of her hand, probably slicing through her fingers on the way. Again and again, she clamped the sandpaper around the base of the blade and slid it to the tip.

  Across the room, Milosha sat cross-legged in a velvety, deep purple chair shaped like a half teacup. He sipped at the merlot in his silver chalice and watched Cristiana work.

  Bouncy music and laughter wafted in from down the hall, unhindered as it passed through their open bedroom door. An Eagle warrior passed by them, gripping a bottle of white wine at the neck and leading a slender, underdressed courtesan by the hand, both of them laughing at some joke Cristiana hadn’t heard. Milosha’s eyes, rimmed in the black liner popular among his fellow financiers, flicked up at the passing couple, then back to Cristiana.

  “Go join them,” Cristiana said. “You’ll find their company more stimulating than mine.”

  Milosha took another sip of merlot and put on a smile. “How could a man find any company more stimulating than his maiden’s?”

  Cristiana kept her eyes on the blade. “How, indeed.”

  “Come with me,” he said. “Drink. Laugh. Relax. Be sensual. It’s good for you the night before a competition.”

  “Why don’t you let the competitor decide what’s advisable the night before a competition. I didn’t get all this way by accident, dear Milo.”

  He smirked and pushed up to his feet. His translucent white shirt parted down to the Eagle-embossed button at his sternum, revealing dark, neatly cropped chest hair. “Of course you didn’t. But you did it in spite of your restlessness, not because of it.”

  He stepped across the plush rug stretched in front of the wide canopy bed, where feathery, white curtains hung from the top bars, tied off at the rubbed bronze posts. Milosha’s fingers ran down Cristiana’s jaw to her chin, lifting it up and making her pause her sharpening. His hazel eyes captured hers.