“But my brother spared my life and the lives of my retainers… once we killed the first batch of assassins, at least.” The prince grinned darkly. “My brother should have known I would fight my way free. But in the end, he asked that I leave in exchange for my life and an end to the carnage. He did not want to kill me either even though it would mean a more secure kingdom. Or so he claimed. But he has held up his end of the bargain. I have never faced the blade of an assassin since we entered the Wastes.”
Banisu snorted. “So you gave up a kingdom and left the country, just so you wouldn’t kill your brother.”
“It’s more than that. Whether I won or lost thousands would have died or been maimed for the rest of their lives, just so one brother or the other could call himself king and the other could die.”
Banisu thought a moment. “I hadn’t really considered that.”
“When you take the commoners’ perspective most things we do seem downright detrimental. Warfare especially can seem to be pointless. They’re out there in the mud hacking away at their neighbors from the farm across the river and don’t really get the reward that we do.” The Prince of the Wastes grimaced. “But war is natural. I wouldn’t spend too much thought on that if you actually want your own kingdom. Hesitation slows the sword arm.”
“Hmm…” Banisu said, frowning at the campfire as it blazed away. One of the Gutharan exiles removed a pot just as it began to boil.
“I would give anything to be a true emperor.” The admission was a heavy one, and only the lack of anyone from the Three Clans around allowed Banisu to make it.
“But at what price is an empire?”
“Well, I don’t have a brother.”
Prince Sharnipur looked at him for a long moment. “You were the child of a consort, correct? Your father had several?”
“Yes…” said the Emperor, uncomfortable. “This is customary in the Three Clans.”
“Well. It may not have been your hand or your knowledge, but you may already have the blood of half-siblings on your hands. Even so, brothers have a way of turning up at the most inconvenient times.”
“You’re joking!”
“Dynasties take lineage very seriously,” Prince Sharnipur said, amused at the boy emperor. “I imagine your Abbot Cibu and the Lord Marshal were quite selective in picking the right candidate. They must have been appalled at seeing what a feisty little shit you grew up to be. It’s quite possible they have a backup.”
Banisu scowled. “Watch your tongue.”
The prince smirked and remained silent. Beside him one of the Gutharan exiles was pouring the steaming water into ceramic cups sprinkled with ground tea leaves.
After several long seconds, Banisu sighed. “No wonder they kicked you out of the country.”
The prince shrugged, extending a cup for the Guthara exile to pour tea into. It galled Banisu how casual and disrespectful they were to him. Somehow I thought meeting the Prince of the Wastes would be more rewarding. What was I expecting? He’d declare me to be a good lad and the spitting image of him at my age? I really am just a stupid boy in a man’s clothing.
“Oh fine, you may speak. But have the proper respect for your emperor.”
“You’re not my emperor, you’re my client,” Prince Sharnipur said in an idle tone as he waved the steam away, but now he leaned forward and studied Banisu, his eyes earnest. “Now to the business at hand. It’s clear you take this empire business seriously. Therefore we should strike quickly and eliminate the top-ranking members of the clan hierarchy, as well as culling any potential threats from pretenders in your family.”
“But I thought you were against this.”
The prince raised an eyebrow. “I said I didn’t want to kill any of my relatives. I have no problem killing yours.”
“Oh, well that’s very –” Banisu paused. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” Prince Sharnipur asked. They remained silent for several moments and then heard a distant rumble. The prince gritted his teeth. “South of here. By the river fort, isn’t it?”
After a few breathless moments, everyone falling into silence around the campfire, the sound of distant thunder could be heard once again. But I know that’s not thunder.
“Can your ship make that noise?”
Banisu shook his head. What else was there to say?
There was a flash of worry in Prince Sharnipur’s eyes. Just a flash, and then his look changed back to the same slightly disdainful expression. He gulped down the rest of his bowl, his motions efficient but unhurried, and set it to the side along with his untouched tea. The prince slapped his stomach, said something lighthearted in the language of the Guthara kingdom, and one of the men beamed and bowed low. Then the prince looked back at Banisu.
“I’m going to see to my men,” the Prince of the Wastes said as he stood up. “Be sure to sleep well, your majesty. I have a feeling tomorrow will be a very long day.”
Before Banisu could respond, Prince Sharnipur was striding briskly through the midsts of soldiers and laborers who had paused to stare toward the southwest. Banisu made as if to leave, but paused as he noticed his thane standing rock solid, his jaw clenched tight as he stared at one of the Prince’s men.
“I remember you, Kanastra Vargesh,” Thane Eigar said all of a sudden. One of the Gutharan men looked up from his meal, his scarred face shifting into a scowl as he looked at the Northern thane.
“I thought I smelled something foul,” the Gutharan said in accented Standard Dialect. “You’re working for him now?” The man barely glanced at Banisu, who frowned at the implied disdain.
“Your damned elephants are foul.” Thane Eigar said. “Let’s see you fight on the ground like a man.”
The Gutharans and Veldtlanders began rising to their feet, though it was clear most didn’t understand what was going on, looking at the Northerner and Kanastra Vargesh in confusion as they shouted at each other.
“Thane Eigar!” Banisu said, grasping the Northerner’s arm even as it gripped the hilt of his sword. “Let’s go.”
Kanastra was struggling with indignation, his bowl spilling over as the Gutharan struggled to draw his holstered sword, a white-haired Veldtlander stepping in between the two. Banisu tugged at the thane’s mailed arm with rising insistence.
Gods, is this really my army?
Banisu couldn’t even hide his relief as the thane backed away with Banisu on their way back to the Emperor’s pavilion. Still, he pointed to the man, scowling as he departed.
“You and me, you bastard. After the battle. Once this is over.”
Though it wasn’t a long walk back to the pavilion Banisu could feel the tension in the air like a dagger pressed to his back. I should have known. Get enough mercenaries together and there’s bound to be some bad blood.
“That was not fitting of an Emperor’s bodyguard,” Banisu said once they had reached the pavilion.
“My apologies, Emperor. That man and I have… differences. It will not happen again, though I will kill him later.”
Banisu grunted and entered his pavilion, an immense tent with its own cloth bed, camp tent and several camp stools. More spacious than my own cell in the monastery.
Banisu sighed as he began pulling off his regal cap and tunic. It was steaming hot even at dusk, the jungle outside already echoing with the noises of insects and wildlife. The camp curtains did little to stop mosquitoes, and Banisu made a half-hearted swipe at one even as he set his cap aside and began tugging at his tunic. Well, at least I can relax now. Gods, it’s been a long and frustrating day.
Banisu was fumbling with the intricate arrangement of buttons on his silk tunic when Abbot Cibu stormed in. Behind the imposing man Thane Eigar peered in apologetically and closed the curtains that led to the pavilion. Banisu blinked, his thoughts sluggish at the unexpected entrance.
“You’ve been acting up lately,” the abbot said without ceremony. “Were I your father I would give you a whipping so you know your place. You seem
to be acting as if you are an emperor in fact and not just in name. Well, you are not, and it seems you need reminding of that.” The abbot cracked his knuckles.
Banisu blinked, all of a sudden fearful. “It… it is forbidden to lay hands upon your Emperor.”
“Hands, eh?”
In a whirl, the old monk spun and kicked one of the camp stools, which flew through the curtains of the tent, and rolled off until it was lost from sight.
Thane Eigar stuck his head in again and appraised the scene with a long, searching stare. The abbot ignored him, standing up straight and frowning down at Banisu. After a few moments the thane shut the curtains once more.
Banisu gulped. Abbot Cibu is so old that I had forgotten he had trained in the martial arts for decades. He isn’t even out of breath.
“Stick to the rear of the battle tomorrow,” the abbot said, his tone ice cold. “Leave the fighting to the Lord Marshal and his generals. You represent the unity of the three kingdoms and are a potent symbol for the lower classes. That is your only role. Be majestic, regal, and, most importantly, satisfied with the role you are assigned.” The abbot loomed nearer, the pores on his bulging nose looking like angry little dots.
“Know this. After too many results like your uncle Prasert, dribbling messes born of continual inbreeding, the decision was made to open up marital candidates to any highborn women with traces of the power.”
“I am aware that-”
“Incest and witchery run in your veins, boy,” the abbot boomed, drowning out the frightened boy emperor, “but no trace of leadership or divinity. Keep that in your mind at all times. Your father was a lustful man and had a number of courtesans who possessed an affinity with the Reverie.”
“Don’t speak of my m-”
“And do you think you are the only one? Your mother at least knew her place. She pleased the emperor, bore a male heir, and had the decency to die in the conflagration your crazed father started. That was what made us decide on you, after all. You were the consensus candidate. A baby with an affinity for the Reverie and no parents. Very malleable.”
Banisu licked his lips. “Consensus… candidate? But… but I… I thought I was the only surviving child of my father.”
The abbot snorted. “That randy goat? Surely you cannot be so stupid. We have other options, secluded around the realm. Closer, perhaps, than you realize. Many of them quite agreeable options, yet the difficulty it would cause to replace you and coronate another would be… not insubstantial. And so this is what you must do. Show yourself to be malleable and content and you will have a long reign. Otherwise?”
The abbot shrugged as Banisu stood in silence. “I am always ready to kill if it protects the fragile unity of the Three Clans. A great many people will die in the coming days.” He frowned down at the small table Banisu kept in his pavilion as if noticing it for the first time and finding it an affront to his personal taste. “Take care you are not one of them. Sleep well.”
As he turned away, he spotted the copy of the Saga of the Lotus Prince laying on the table and paused, one finger reaching down to caress the bundled scroll.
“You are a monk, though you will barely make a lay priest at the rate you are going.” Abbot Cibu sniffed. “Your lack of scholarly progress is egregious. The Saga of the Lotus Prince will not read itself. I will see that you redouble your efforts once these barbarians are dealt with. Tomorrow morning I expect you to provide public words of support for the Lord Marshal. He was most aggrieved at the loss of face you gave him.”
Without a further word, the abbot turned away and strode out of the pavilion. Banisu found that he was trembling and steadied himself. He walked to the entrance, as if to reassure himself that the man was really gone, and nearly soiled himself at the sudden appearance of a huge Northerner brandishing furniture.
“Your stool, Emperor,” the Thane said, setting the camp stool just inside the curtains.
“Yes. Yes, good,” Banisu muttered.
Another rumble sounded in the distance.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Bekhar's Raid
The glow from the crude pitch torch illuminated Bekhar’s grinning visage, the torch held out beside him by a Hellfire marine, as Lajos and another Syriot soldier rowed their small raft towards the barely visible outline of the old fort. The torches hindered their night vision and made them clear targets, but the landing party had so far been undiscovered. Bekhar’s pirates and the complement of marines were arrayed in a half dozen rafts gliding silently on muffled oars towards the rocky beach which led to the fort. Past the fort were the docks where the two Hangyul ships were laying in wait. Bekhar had an unlit torch tucked in his belt, the sticky pitch already staining his weather-worn sack cloth pants. He planned to save his torch for the dragon ship.
They were about halfway from the anchored ships, rowing in a close arrowhead formation, when Bekhar heard a sharp yell of shock from the tower above. He looked up, barely able to trace the outline of the fort in the darkness. There was a flash from above as the crack of a musket broke the silence, the musket ball splashing into the water nearby with a solid thunk.
“We’re under attack!” The sentry cried out in Standard Dialect, Bekhar unable even to see him, only the very faintest glow of orange emanating from the tower.
“Row faster!” Bekhar hissed, his command heard by the soldiers on the nearby rafts. They strained harder, the creaks from the boats now amplified by their haste. The Syriot ships still held their fire, sitting black and motionless in the channel. Bekhar couldn’t hear anything from the shore and hoped that the awakened garrison was still unsure if it was an attack. He leaned forward, impatiently staring at the tide lapping at the still-distant shore. Bekhar clenched his hands around his glaive, which he had finally had call to bring up from his quarters.
With just a few spans left, he jumped off the side, rocking the raft as he went. His feet touched loose rock, and Bekhar slowly stumbled for a moment. Then he began wading through the water, glaive resting on his shoulder, and stepped onto the shore. He cast his eyes back toward the flickering lights and splashing noises of his unit.
“Hurry,” he hissed. “To the fort!”
With long steps, Bekhar strode forward, dripping water onto the beach and promptly collided into someone. Pausing, the form in front of him staggered back, and then began asking a question. Bekhar immediately shifted his glaive, swinging in a ferocious downstroke that clove through his obstacle. He pulled the glaive back out and continued in the direction of the fort. Two more figures materialized, one with the gleaming long barrel of a musket, matchcord lit and providing only the barest of illumination.
“Hey!”
The nearest figure pointed over as Bekhar reared back and responded with a decapitating strike. The musket-armed man staggered back a pace and then raised his barrel. Bekhar twisted to his right, legs pumping on the wet sand, fighting for traction. The musket cracked with a gout of smoke and the ball flew above him. Bekhar pivoted to charge the guard.
Cursing, the man dropped his musket and drew a long Hangyul sword, as below him the matchcord sputtered and burned out. But Bekhar had caught enough of a glimpse.
With a roar, Bekhar spun his glaive around in an angled descending blow from right to left. The Hangyul man read the blow, the man somehow parrying the axe head, the crushing impact absorbed as it glanced off the sword and thudded into the sand. Bekhar dodged to the side, scanning to make out the dim outline of the Hangyul guardsman, clenching his glaive tight.
“Who the fuck are you?”
The call came from the right, but Bekhar heard light footprints as the man danced to the side.
“I’m Black Bekhar,” he said, and swung his glaive where he thought the man was. The blow glanced off the guard’s left pauldron and sent him reeling back a pace. Bekhar grasped the glaive’s axe head, spearing the man in his mail-armored chest, driving the man further back as his feet dug into the sand. The guard feebly swung at the glaive, striking the w
ooden pole with the flat of his blade. Bekhar speared the guard once more as he crumpled and fell to his knees. Bekhar paused for a moment to breathe, then looked back up at the fort and pressed on.
Ignoring a few other blurred shapes, Bekhar darted forward to reach the fort’s wooden gateway, the solid wooden door open and lit only by the clouded moon above. The fort had clearly been neglected, with vines growing along the outside of the single stone tower. Bekhar strode in, his glaive resting on his shoulder, and behind him he heard the splashes of the landing marines. The main chamber was enormous, bigger than the tower itself, with wooden flooring covered by an elegant rug, and a long desk stacked with scrolls and pottery. Across from the desk was a low-stoked fireplace which gave only the dimmest of illumination to the room, casting long shadows from the few simple pieces of furniture. Bekhar began walking over to the fireplace.
Thuds of feet on wood echoed in the room as two figures rounded the corner, a man in nightwear looking comically befuddled and another in a simple tunic brandishing a long sword. Bekhar rushed at them, spearing the swordsman and cutting down the other surprised guard as he turned to run. Bekhar heard footsteps and rattling behind him, and turned, cursing. The tower staircase was in an alcove and had been unnoticed by Bekhar, but now he could hear the tread of guardsmen pounding their way down through the circling staircase. He also heard a sudden movement behind him and whipped around, bringing his glaive to bear.
Two Syriots had entered the gateway, one of them bearing a smoldering torch and saber, the other a readied musket. Bekhar grounded his glaive and pointed at the fireplace.
“Bring that fire there,” he said as he pointed at the stairs. “And… that sail,” he added, pointed at the rug by the desk. He did not know the Syriot word for rug, but they seemed to understand, and soon hauled the rug into the fireplace. Bekhar turned back to the stairs, to see feet in Hangyul sandals turning around the bend. He struck swiftly, glaive embedding in a foot, the man howling in rage as he collapsed down the stairs into Bekhar. Behind him came a number of guardsmen, trying to push through the cramped staircase and into the room. Bekhar paused from delivering the killing blow to the yowling guard, and instead speared the next guardsman, pushing him back.
Landfall Page 22