Shel’wai and the old men and women behind him were left unharmed. Good, Ytan would still get his satisfaction, and Onir his promise.
Ytan gave Iara to one of the soldiers, letting her slump into the man’s arms, and turned to face Shel’wai. The man’s face had turned from cold anger to fear in the space of moments. Hopelessness had finally taken root in the man’s heart.
Ytan took the steps between them at a slow but inevitable pace. He had no reason to hurry. Shel’wai held up a hand to try and stop him, cowering where he stooped. “Ytan-”
Without a reply, Ytan rammed his sword into the old Archon’s gut. The man let out a squeal as the blade went in. Blood bathed Ytan’s hand as he withdrew his sabre and thrust again, this time higher, between the ribs and into the heart.
One for Onir. And one for me.
He let Shel’wai fall to the ground. The old man squirmed and groaned, bleeding out his last onto the pier.
“Kill the rest,” he told his soldiers. “All but one.”
The old men and women, dressed in simple robes, glanced amongst themselves, wide eyed. Some moaned, others cried. Only one stood her ground. A woman, younger than rest, perhaps forty. Her hair had yet to gray, and there was only the slightest hint of crow’s feet around her brown eyes. “That one. Take her.”
The soldiers slaughtered the rest without question, skewering them on spear or cutting them to ribbons with swords, leaving their corpses on the pier, lying beside their Archon. “Leave the bodies,” Ytan commanded when their work was done. “And take the woman with us.”
“Your Highness,” Tharn said, coming up beside him. “If you don’t mind me asking, who were they?”
“Curators,” he replied. “The keepers of the all of the Empire’s records, all its histories. With them dead, there are only four left. We have one. The other three are in Fanalkir, where for the time being, they can’t do us harm.”
Epilogue
Kareen wouldn’t have thought it at first, but the worst part of the Succession was all the paperwork. Every one of the Emperor’s possessions, from the Imperial Signet, all the way down to the quill with which he wrote and the pillow on which he slept, had to be catalogued. Hadan had been a private man. Even his closest advisors admittedly knew little about him. What secrets hid in even the most innocuous of his possessions?
She sat within the Emperor’s tent, using his writing desk of all things, cataloguing the last few items. Not many left now. She sighed and turned back to her work. It was essential she finish before it was time to move. This tent would be gone in a few hours, packed away on carts for the trip to Ytem and then to Kwell.
A pocket watch, she wrote, trying her best to concentrate. The maker’s mark reads V. K. Vitor Karlov I would assume. Kareen’s father had a watch made by the man. It had cost him an arm and a leg, and engraved and set with a myriad of emeralds. But the simplicity of this particular piece surprised her. It was plated in brass, not silver or gold. There were no adornments either, no jewels, fine scrollwork, or gilding. It was a simple timepiece, nothing more.
Little things like this no longer surprised Kareen. The most powerful man in the Corrossan Empire, the most powerful man in the world, had had simple tastes. He had been no glutton for life’s pleasures. Just the opposite, in fact: an ascetic.
No hidden compartments, she scratched in her book, turning the watch over in her hands. No decipherable writing on its surface or interior. It is, for all intents and purposes, just a watch.
She placed it in a velvet bag and then into an ironbound trunk next to the writing desk, along with the last of the late Emperor’s possessions. Only a few more things to check off her list, and she would be able to leave this accursed, stuffy tent.
Next was a small book, thin and covered in blue leather, creased along the seams. Clearly it had seen use. Kareen frowned, flipping it over in her palm. She blanched at what she saw written on the spine. Emblazoned in gold were four words she had never expected to see again.
The Argument of Empires…
Why in the name of Tirrak would Emperor Hadan have had a copy of this book, a book that had so vehemently decried his reign? Her head swam as she turned to the first page with shaking hands. This had to be some kind of trick. Didn’t it?
But there, pressed into the yellowed paper, were the same words her father had read to her so many years ago. The first words of a book that had sparked a rebellion.
In simply writing this text, this Argument, I have signed away my life. Understand this simple fact as you read these words, for I will be long dead. Hadan sits on a throne built of skulls and supported by the bodies of those beneath him. It is a construct fashioned over four hundred years, a construct that our dear Emperor will not see fall because of some foolish book. He will see me hang for this, or worse.
Despite the danger, this story must be told. This story precious few know, for those were dark days, and information is scarce, but not completely forgotten, not completely scoured away. Listen, if you will, for a moment, as I tell you the truth of Hadan—of Lyle Hada’s conquests, of his rule, and of his coming into power.
Kareen let out a breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding. She laid the book down and leaned back in her chair, staring at the tent’s high ceiling. This book, blessed Tirrak this book! She was happy she had never thought to flip through its damnable pages. It could only cause pain.
She should throw it into one of the bonfires outside. It would be a fitting end to the last copy of the text in existence, an effective death of the unnamed man who had written it. But it seemed wrong somehow. Hadan had kept this book for a reason.
She took up her pen and went to write a description of the small volume, but stopped herself. If Oranhur or Renna found out that a copy of The Argument still existed, they would destroy it without a moment’s hesitation, saying they did it for the “safety of the Empire.” She had almost done the same out of simple reflex.
But no. Perhaps somewhere within the lies and half-truths written in these pages, there was something that could help them win this rebellion, avoid the pitfalls that had spelled an end for Komay seven years ago, and for Hadan, in the waning years of his life.
Kareen glanced around the room one last time, making sure she wasn’t being watching. With unsteady hands she slipped the last copy of The Argument of Empires into her small satchel and then went back to work.
* * *
You can’t be dead. You can’t be dead! YOU CAN’T BE DEAD!
Paaken stumbled down the stone to where Xisa had fallen. Hours spent climbing had left his hands and feet raw and bloody, but he managed to ignore the pain. Xisa had been strong. He had to be too. That had been the last thing she had told him, before the battle.
Paaken glanced up. It was growing dark. He could just barely make out the bridge high above, like a tiny ribbon across the sky. So far… he had descended so far.
They had tried to catch him, those small soldiers in their gleaming armor. But he had been too fast, hiding among the women when they had been captured, and when no one was looking, started his climb down the vertical wall of the Divide.
Paaken vaulted a boulder that must have fallen into the canyon during a storm and made his way to Xisa’s side. He didn’t know what to expect. He had seen broken bodies up above. His people, slashed by sword and pierced through with arrows, or crushed by the hooves of those immense creatures Xisa had called horses. The monstrous beasts had terrified him like nothing else during the battle.
But the chieftain’s body was not broken where it lay next to the small stream that marked the chasm’s middle. That didn’t mean it was free of damage, however. There was a stark slash across Xisa’s throat, a pale line surrounded by dark bloodstains.
She must have still been alive when she fell, Paaken thought. He had held out hope that she might have survived. If anyone could, it would be Xisa. But her ches
t was still. No breath, no heartbeat. She was dead then.
He wanted to weep as he came to stand next to her. But he couldn’t summon the tears. After all he had seen… Earth and Sky, it was too much.
He wanted to turn away, but he remembered what Xisa had said. He was meant for great things. He choked back a dry sob and reached down a shaking hand. Her sword laid next to her, the formidable blade bent but not broken.
Paaken could fix that, couldn’t he? There was a strange energy, radiating for the blade, the same as he had often felt when near it. It was so similar to his own, but different enough, ancient. Whoever had blessed this weapon had been powerful and had done so many years past.
Paaken let his hand fall on the blade, felt the wellspring of energy there. It was so strong. This sword, it was imbued with the life-force of the man or woman who had empowered it.
He let some of his own energy flow into the weapon. He went suddenly cold, as if he had stepped out of his tent in the dead of night. The blade groaned, and straightened with a metallic pop, jumping a full foot into the air. Sighing and falling back on his bottom, Paaken watched the sword clatter back to the stones. It could have been cast yesterday for all the damage on its newly restored surface.
If only I could do the same for you, he thought, turning to Xisa. But he was no god or spirit. He could not bring back the dead, could he?
Still, the idea tempted him. He could give his strength to the sword. Why not another living thing? He had nothing to lose by trying.
He placed his hand on Xisa’s forehead. Her skin was so cold, as if she had been dunked in mountain water. He almost drew back… but forced himself to hold firm. He had to be stronger than this. It was what Xisa would have wanted.
He let his energy flow into her, a trickle at first, but then more and more. Soon, his body was as cold as Xisa’s, but he kept on until his vision began to grow dark at the edges and his toes grew numb. It could take days, even weeks, to bless an object, if one followed the proper procedures, but he didn’t have the time for procedures. He had to do this now, or not at all.
He pushed more and more of his energy into Xisa’s body. It was killing him, he knew, this deadly ritual, but still he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. Not now that he was so far.
Xisa’s skin began to warm under his fingers. Was it his imagination, or was…
The chieftain’s eyes shot open, and she let out a gasp. Paaken fell backward and nearly passed out from the sudden movement, but through sheer force of will, managed to hold onto consciousness.
“I was dead,” the chieftain whispered. Her voice sounded raspier than it had before, as if he she had gone long without water. “I remember falling, but…”
He could hear her rising to her feet before him. “But not hitting the bottom.”
Paaken lifted his head so that he could see her. She stood, her bare chest covered in drying blood, the wounds across her body stark and pale in contrast. The slash across her neck had healed, leaving an angry scar.
Yet despite the damage, she was powerful.
“Paaken…” she said, turning to him and reaching down a hand. He let himself be pulled to his feet. “You saved me, you beautiful boy.”
He nodded. He was too weak to even speak. Earth and Sky, she was alive! Alive! And Paaken had been the one to save her, to return from a land of dirt and worms and carrion birds that would have carried her to her rest.
Xisa leaned down and picked up her sword, cradling the weapon in the crook of her arm.
“Chieftain,” he began, but was cut short by her next words.
“No time for talk,” she said, glancing up at the darkening sky. “Not yet. We have to move, and soon.”
“Where?” Paaken asked. “The army is destroyed. Our people are dead.” He felt tears threaten to well anew. So many dead…
“Not all of them. We still have friends in the south.”
“Your plans… the ones you told me about-”
She held up a hand. “Can wait.” She flexed her shoulders and began to walk, south, down the canyon. “They will require and army. But still, I will have my vengeance. And we can still have our freedom. But first, it is time you went to meet your cousins.”
A Note from the Author
You’ve stuck it out this far, and for that, I thank you. Creating The Argument of Empires has been a labor as long as it has been emotionally and physically draining. And it is strange, almost unbelievable, to say that this particular labor has finally come to an end.
But the journey isn’t over. The story has not come to an end. It is only just beginning…
Grith, Kareen, and a new cast of characters will return for Book Two of The Corrossan Trilogy.
But before you leave, before you close this book or turn off your Kindle, I have a small request:
I would ask that you review The Argument of Empires on the bookselling platform from which you purchased a copy and spread the word on social media. Even more than sales, reviews are the lifeblood that keep projects like this alive.
If you want to learn more about the series, receive updates, or simply get in touch, follow me on Twitter or check out my Goodreads page.
So, to all you who supported me since I first posted on Kickstarter, to those who may have only learned of this book’s existence a few short days ago, I must say:
Thank You.
About the Author
Whether it was kindergarten tales of dinosaur-riding knights, or the first foolish scribbled outlines of novels in high school, Jacob T. Helvey has always been telling stories. When not writing, you can often find him playing games, working out, or obsessing over his diet. He currently lives in Simpsonville, South Carolina. The Argument of Empires is his debut novel.
The Argument of Empires (The Corrossan Trilogy Book 1) Page 47