“More like violent thugs.”
“Cute. What’ve you done with the ledger?”
She shrugged as though discussing bland weather. “Don’t have it. Never did.”
“Then you’re justifying the torture option. It’s an efficient tool.”
Cyriana eyed the unshaven man dressed in shabby street clothes. Still no weapons were in hand, though she did not doubt each carried concealed blades. Lacking uniforms and discernible identification, these individuals could only call one organisation home.
“You must be Krypteia,” she affirmed. “I didn’t know Decius had enough influence with the Empire’s secret police. Got any proof you’re sanctioned agents rather than thugs? Or do I only have your word?”
“Doesn’t matter who we are. You’re getting dragged back regardless.”
“You’re right. I can’t coerce you to share names with me.” She tilted her head sideward toward the alley mouth and smiled. “But I suspect they’ll demand to see evidence.”
Confusion flickered across his scabrous face. “Who—”
Cyriana pounded one boot into the nearest crate, sending a rusted bucket crashing onto cobbles. Patrolling legionaries cast helmed gazes into the alley and even from a distance Cyriana glimpsed concern on their faces. The soldiers lowered hands to sword pommels at the sight of three ruffians shoving her against a wall.
“Help!” she howled, pouring desperation into her cracking voice. “They’re trying to kill me!”
“Shut your damned mouth,” her captor hissed, heaving Cyriana against the wall.
She smirked and hushed her voice to a whisper. “Yeah, keep abusing me. I’m sure it’ll look good to the soldiers.”
He yanked Cyriana forward, though kept a vice grip on her forearm. Five legionaries assembled in a line, their postures almost daring a challenge against army authority. “This is a misunderstanding,” one agent claimed.
“Open your hands,” ordered a soldier. She narrowed suspicious eyes and wrapped fingers around the hilt hanging from her waist.
The principle operative nodded and his companions straightened, lifting both arms with empty palms. Cyriana wanted to gloat and sneer, but she had to persist in her charade. Four legionaries donned helms crowned with white and black plumes, signifying common grunts. The final soldier wore the single red feather of an officer. She directed haunted eyes toward him.
“P-please. They threatened to hurt me.”
The agent restraining her shook with fury and tightened his grasp. “Lying filth!”
“Release her at once,” commanded the officer.
“You’re making a mistake.”
“I’ll struggle to live with the consequences. Do as I command and unhand the woman now.”
Fuming with anger, the man pushed Cyriana away and upraised bare hands. “My name is Trallis Sarlan. We’re Krypteian operatives tasked with apprehending this fugitive thief.”
“What’re her alleged crimes?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss details.”
A scowl stretched across the officer’s weathered skin. “Try again, boy. You’ll do nothing but implicate yourself in wrongdoing and piss me off if you stay tight-lipped.”
“Information. She absconded with valuable documents.”
“I don’t know what they’re talking about,” Cyriana pleaded. “I have nothing!”
The officer lifted a finger to silence her interruption and eyed the simple clothing she wore. “Don’t see where she could’ve hidden scrolls on her person.”
“She doesn’t have it with her at present,” Trallis said.
“How convenient. I’ll admit her tale is looking more believable with each answer you give.”
“If you interfere with our investigation you’ll be stripped of titles and imprisoned according to Imperial law.”
“Fancy words and nothing more. I don’t see you leaping to prove your case beyond threats.”
Another legionary flicked wavering eyes to his officer. “Krypteia agents carry medallions, don’t they?”
“We don’t have any with us,” conceded Trallis. “We’re under the command of Legatus Decius Thanren.”
“Aye, and anyone could claim they were,” the officer retorted. “Words alone are meaningless. And your remaining options limited.”
“Then take us directly to the Legatus and bring an end to this sordid affair.”
“A reasonable method for sorting fact from fiction. We’ll escort you and learn the truth one way or another. Should you be lying, our response will be unforgiving.”
Trallis thrust a forefinger at Cyriana and glowered. “She comes with us.”
Pawing at her collar, she uttered heaving breaths and tried to squeeze moisture from her eyes. “I need to get out of this alley. I can’t breathe.”
“Don’t let her leave your sight!” shouted Trallis.
The officer consented and guided her into daylight on the boulevard’s edge. Pedestrians ambled along storefronts while carts clattered behind lumbering oxen. Cyriana noted a horse-drawn brougham travelling closer along the road at a relaxed pace, mentally ticking off seconds in her head. Proper timing was an art form.
“Thank you,” she blurted. “I don’t know what they would’ve done to me.”
“I’m afraid your ordeal isn’t over. Regardless of that man’s intentions, he was correct. You’ll need to come with us until we can verify or deny their claim.”
“I understand.”
“Good.” He shifted his stance to stare back into the alley. “Then I need you—”
Cyriana clutched his helm in both hands, yanked downward and jammed a knee into his crotch. He crumpled to the ground wheezing and Cyriana rendered him insensate with a boot to his head. Shouts erupted from his companions and blades were unsheathed, threatening all manner of harm to her person.
A panicked screech echoed from Trallis. “Stop her, you imbeciles!”
She surged through milling crowds with a liberal use of her elbows, smacking unwary citizens blundering into her path. Clacking armor and drumming footfalls echoed close behind. The stagecoach rumbled nearer and its hapless driver glimpsed her audacious intentions too late for avoidance.
Cyriana leapt atop the carriage and slammed a shoulder into the startled man, ripping reins from his hands. She lashed leather at equine rumps, spurring the horses into a chaotic gallop. The stagecoach bounded over rutted cobblestones, tossing Cyriana amid an ungainly lurch. She held on for dear life beside a horrified driver wailing and hugging the bench. Charging horses hurtled beyond spooked oxen and screaming pedestrians while muffled shrieks echoed from within the passenger compartment.
A gauntlet crawled toward her boot and she squirmed aside, noticing a legionary clinging in desperation to the brougham. Cyriana frowned and indulged a moment to grudgingly admire his backbone. She respected tenacity coupled with a willful disregard for one’s own safety, though not as much today. The moment she granted him was fleeting. Then she planted a heel into the man’s face when it poked higher, knocking him into a tangled jumble of armor and bruised flesh skidding over stone. Harnesses and wooden components squealed displeasure as the horses swept through a curve, pitching the carriage aslant onto two wheels. Uttering a maniacal chortle, Cyriana straightened their course and sighted a suitable exit location.
She slapped reins into the befuddled driver’s hands once more and raised herself into a crouch. “Thanks for the ride!”
Cyriana dived clear and sprawled amid a vegetable stand, rupturing through wood and crushing produce. Juices spattered her face and rolling squashes enveloped her sunken form. She cursed and struggled to extricate herself, grimacing as she tore a finger-sized splinter from one thigh. Drenched with fluids and smearing footprints on stone, she limped for the nearest alleyway. Cyriana spat vegetable seeds laced with blood from her mouth and wiped a moist chin, relieved to find no pursuing soldiers.
She hoped the extravagant amount that courier charged was a worthwhile inve
stment. Destiran’s ledger had darn well better be waiting for her in Ercora when she arrived. Knowing the legionaries and Krypteians would seal the gates to foot traffic, she tore her gaze from looming land walls and retraced a path into the city’s heart. Absurd as it sounded, a river barge downstream was now the safest route.
She hitched her loose belt higher, plucked squash from untamed hair and slipped into a narrow passage, striding for the harbor. And the fortune that awaited.
* * *
Dear Reader
Thank you for taking the time to finish reading my story. If you made it this far then I’m grateful you gave an unknown author a chance. And assuming you enjoyed my work (why else would you even bother reading this section?), please consider recommending me to your friends or leaving a review online. Even a simple gesture can help me immeasurably.
About the Author:
Ian Blackport grew up in Canada, where the harsh winters created a love for staying indoors and writing at an early age. For most of his life writing was little more than an enjoyable hobby, until a high school English teacher suggested he might be able pursue a career doing what he already loved. He earned his Bachelor's Degree from the University of Toronto, specializing in history and classical studies, with a minor in geography. Because of this, Ian strives to bring historical authenticity to his writing while still maintaining subtle fantasy elements.
Don’t forget to find me on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ianblackportauthor
Be sure to read on for a preview of Swift Reprisal, available now from your favorite online retailer.
Chapter 1
When cities spanning the breadth of Encrin today were but grassy mounds and fallow fields, Adaven awed the world. Capital for the ancient My’shi, its towers touched the clouds while other cultures dwelled in mud huts and wore animal skins. Truths turned to myths and rumors long ago in the city of splendors.
Nytehl Hesina, Sojourns
274 Black Ruin, Year of the Nurturing Brook
329 Black Ruin, Year of the Unblinking Sky
19 Kilessin
Layara fidgeted with a doeskin glove and nudged the lacquered wooden door open, offering a brisk nod to guards poised beyond the entryway. Unbound brown hair swayed as she strode past heartwood columns into the First Hall. Gold and royal blue tapestries hung from stone walls above stern portraits illustrating her forebears.
Fading sunlight spilled through stained glass windows, splashing the chamber with dim hues. Flames whirled atop beeswax candles standing on bronze pedestals, the flickering illumination banishing shadows. Wreathed in a blazing fireplace, two figures stood before one table crowning a dais.
Lincema Erodin ran a hand gloved in cotton over a bushy auburn beard flecked with silver and grinned at his daughter’s approach.
“Littlebend remains the Empire’s sole foothold within our borders,” Brynn affirmed, rapping a bare knuckle on the vellum map. “Supplied well enough, but the city’s walls and keep are in disrepair.”
“And should it come to a siege?” inquired Lincema.
“Starving Littlebend into submission might last upwards of eight months.”
Layara glanced at her brother and glowered. “How many Almayans live there? Occupying Draugan troops will hoard what meager food supplies can be found. Then they’ll corral the populace into congested slums and leave them to butcher one another over scraps. Those are our people, Brynn. Don’t forget that.”
“War makes for difficult choices. I don’t glorify the decision, but I suspect they’d consider it a worthy sacrifice for the sake of their country.”
“Naturally, since corpses can’t tell you otherwise.”
Lincema cleared his throat, a habitual noise used to cease bickering siblings. “And storming the walls, what might that cost us?”
“A city of that size, with shoddy fortifications in some places and hardened veterans holding the battlements alongside recruits…say four or five thousand troops if all goes well. More if it does not.”
“A damn sight better than thirty thousand civilians,” murmured Layara.
“Our responsibility is to all Almaya, sister. Not only to those unlucky enough to be in Littlebend.”
“Even if we were able to batter down the walls and take the city in one night we’d leave a trail of dead civilians,” Lincema remarked, puncturing the words with a mournful head shake. “And you know this, Layara.”
“Better that we end the war in the field.”
“It would be ideal,” her brother agreed. “Perhaps the Draugans will even grant your entreaty. But we must prepare knowing details in war are rarely, if ever, ideal.”
Lincema folded arms across a chest ornamented with an enmeshed pattern depicting stylistic daggers in gold and blue. “I fear Brynn is right, though the admission grieves me. The Empire will cling to Littlebend with tenacity, and it will fall to us to evict them if we wish to see Almaya independent once more. Its dead inhabitants may well assure freedom for others. Our displeasure over the task cannot stop us from carrying it out.”
Layara gazed at the map before flicking gray eyes toward her father. “Thoran and his troop still haven’t returned from the Bearswood.”
“And what does Lord Arayla have to say for his wayward son?” inquired Lincema.
“That he’s most likely off trailing grizzlies. Thoran’s gone on similar excursions before. Sometimes for days on end and often at inopportune times. He thinks himself a dangerous hunter, apparently.”
“Only because the bears are tamer near Dalonthell,” Brynn muttered.
“I wish that boy acted more like an Arayla and less like a poacher,” affirmed Lincema. “I have little need for the impractical skills of the latter.”
Brynn scratched an eyebrow and shrugged with indifference. “Thoran’s a pompous twit. We don’t lose much if he forgets to join us on the march. Lady Tyona brought far more troops from Valmorra and her children have the decency to show a touch of propriety. Thoran can wander the woods sniffing bear feces for all I care.”
“I don’t disagree,” Layara confessed. “Lord Arayla didn’t seem all too concerned, either. I get the sense his younger son shoulders their father’s weighty expectations.”
A gravelly guffaw wheezed from Brynn’s throat. “Little wonder why. Morthan can attend fancy dinners and schmooze the nobility while his elder brother prances through meadows and smells daisies.”
Creaking groans pulled Layara’s stare to oaken doors. Flanked by soldiers bearing spears, iron hinges clanked as the barricade thrust inward. Lincema descended brief steps on the dais with a grin decorating his face and trod velvet carpet lining a stone floor to the entryway.
In strode an unremarkable man late into his fifth decade with slender, almost delicate features. High cheekbones brushed sunken eyes, his willowy brows colored like burnt chestnuts. Oils and moistened beads glistened on his shaved pate. A crimson cuirass rested against his chest, inlaid with spiralling gold and onyx, and a violet cloak cascaded over slim shoulders. Adorning his breastplate was an antlered elk head, the sigil for House Venshal.
A sheathed longsword strapped to his waist clinked against iron armor with each stride, its lavish ivory grip wrapped in supple black leather. Brath yanked off a gauntlet and clasped his palm into Lincema’s outstretched hand, a wry smile tracing its lines across the younger man’s dainty features.
Lincema clapped a gloved hand on Brath’s pauldron. “It is good to see you, friend.”
“And you,” Brath remarked with a faint nod.
“The army readies to march south and end this war. To have you riding beside me once again will be a welcome sight.”
“As when we were young men?” A smirk tugged at thin lips. “We waved the Empire’s banner then.”
“Aye, we did. Once.” Lincema beckoned for Brath to traverse the hall. “What news do you bring from Cingas?”
Sparkles shone on delicate golden wires woven into Brath’s armor as he paced beside Lincema. “Little news
these days, I’m afraid. The populace remains committed to our cause for now, though I fear they don’t have the stomach for this protracted war. Trade has dwindled and support is as precarious as it ever was. It would take scant more than a dust cloud from approaching legions to squash their resolve.”
“Regrettable, though not unexpected.” Lincema came to rest alongside the pine table and motioned with one hand. “You remember my children, yes?”
“Children? I thought them your senior retainers.”
“My firstborn, Brynn.”
“A man grown,” declared Brath. “Hardly the scampering, mischievous boy with skinned knees I recall from years past.”
Brynn grinned sheepishly at the friendly words. “I’ll be twenty years this winter.”
“I have difficulty remembering where all those years have gone. Will you be riding south in the main column?”
“Yes, my lord. At its head, with my father.”
Lincema gestured across the tabletop. “And Layara, my eldest daughter. Last month marked her seventeenth Naming Day.”
“Well met,” Brath said.
She inclined her head, keeping a hand on the bastard sword strapped to her left hip. “Likewise, my lord.”
“You must certainly be thirsty,” Lincema announced, stepping toward a side table. He unstoppered cork from one glass decanter and poured wine into a goblet. “Hesperian gold from the chardonnay vineyards beyond Bryony. A sweet variety from 321. The oaken fermentation gifts it with a rich flavor of cloves.”
“My thanks.” Brath accepted the proffered refreshment, sniffed sparkling liquid and sipped in delicate increments. “And where is your charming wife? I’ve missed her sharp wit.”
“Alas, Feyla is stricken by fever and bedridden for a time.”
“Nothing serious, I hope.”
“Galen Talfrey assures me otherwise; it is merely an imbalance in the humors. She was leeched two days past and doesn’t even require shadesong to dull the senses. My youngest daughter Ely sits at Feyla’s side, doing what she can to care for her mother.” Lincema waved his hand as if to shoo a buzzing insect. “But we’ve more pressing matters to discuss, I think. What troops have you brought?”
Starwatch Page 43