Dark Empress

by S. J. A. Turney

  And then her boys began to follow in his footsteps. They had prepared themselves for death this morning; it had seemed inevitable. She had ordered and then cajoled and finally begged Samir and Ghassan not to go with the militia, but they had been defiant and proud. Strong. Like their father and their uncle. And then they would be dead like their father and their uncle. Likely their mother had spent the morning preparing to be utterly alone.

  But miraculously, they had survived. Nadia wiped the tears from her face and blinked.

  “Samir? Ghassan?”

  As the boys ran across the room and threw themselves at her, their mother opened her arms and turned to them.

  “Then there is no invasion? But I can hear fighting…”

  Samir hugged his mother with rib-breaking force. Ghassan sat back a little. His face was not the mask of joy she had expected.

  “Not entirely, mother. The governor has surrendered M’Dahz to Pelasia, but their army is laying waste to the town anyway. It is the Pelasian way when victorious to sack the conquered town. They will harm us and destroy our property throughout today and tonight. Tomorrow they will stop.”

  Samir nodded.

  “It is horrible, but it is true, so we must leave here. We are a way down the slope of the town from where the army entered, but they will reach here long before nightfall and when they do…”

  His voice tailed off, but all of them knew what would happen when hungry Pelasian soldiers spotted the still-handsome Nadia. According to some stories that were told about the Pelasian men, it was possible even that Samir and Ghassan would also be in danger.

  “We’ve been thinking as we came back” Ghassan said, grasping his mother’s wrist. “Nowhere in M’Dahz will be safe until at least dawn, so we must leave the town.”

  Nadia shook her head. “You think fast, my boys, but their army surrounds the town. There is nowhere to go.”

  Samir grinned.

  “Yes there is, mother. There is only one place that is safe tonight.”

  He shared a glance with Ghassan and they both nodded.

  “The satrap led his entire force across the desert. This means he has no navy. We take two or three of the small fishing boats, some heavy blankets and food to last a day or more and we row out from the port and along the coast until we find somewhere safe to moor.”

  Ghassan smiled at the relief on his mother’s face.

  “We can return once the town has settled.

  Nadia had to smile at her sons. They were often a source or worry or grief but then, when troubles seemed insurmountable, they were also a source of wonder and pride.

  In which Asima denies the Gods

  Asima crouched by the window, hugging her knees and gazing out between the filigree shutters. The past eight months had plodded by in a blur of misery; not only for her, but for every captive soul in this benighted place.

  Governor Talus had visited the satrap in the wake of that disastrous first day and made his case for the safety of the people in his care. His presumption had cost him his left eye, burned out with a heated blade on the floor of the council chamber of M’Dahz, and yet the sacrifice of that eye had bought the safety of those in his house. The satrap had granted sanctuary to anyone in the governor’s mansion but had made it perfectly clear that this rule applied solely to the building itself.

  The looting, burning and abuse had slowed through that first night and had stopped the next morning, leaving M’Dahz damaged, burned, and in a state of shock. One or two of the more daring refugees in the house had taken this as a sign of safety and had collected their belongings, despite the warnings of the guards, and left the complex, returning to the town. Severed heads both old and young decorated the main gate for weeks thereafter as a reminder that sanctuary stopped at the governor’s doorstep.

  As the weeks rolled past and the captives mooched around their packed quarters, despair became the theme. Every morning was greeted with sobbing from somewhere in the building and every night ended with a tense and oppressive silence broken only by the Pelasian temple bells.

  The first two months saw a thinning of the crowds in the house. A few brave adults had left at night, climbing down the outer wall and running through the maze of alleys in an effort to flee the cursed town and reach Calphoris. Perhaps they made it; certainly their heads never returned to the spears above the gate. Others, enterprising as they were, had brought great wealth with them to the palace and had visited the Pelasian overlord and bought their freedom with breathtaking sums.

  Sadly, others had succumbed altogether to despair and had taken their own lives quietly in the night. The months had not been kind.

  Asima sighed. She had no idea what was happening out there. Were her friends still alive, she wondered? What of her house? This whole situation set her teeth grinding. Her mother was Pelasian and had been a beautiful and kind woman. Merchants from across the border had traded at M’Dahz for centuries. The Pelasians she had known had always been a kind and exotic people, so why had the Gods seen fit to send the most heartless and twisted son of a whore in the whole world to crush the people of M’Dahz? Three satraps held lands at this border, so why him and not one of the others?

  She knew why not, of course: because Gods did not exist and misery and cruelty were the baseline of the world. She had toyed with the idea that Gods were a fiction when her mother was taken from her years ago, and nothing she had seen since had given her cause to change her conclusion. As she sat staring across the roofs, something fell into place in Asima’s mind. She had always been fast and smart; perhaps not quite as fast or smart as Samir, but she would always come out on top, because Samir was soft. Asima was, and she recognised this in herself, quite capable of hardening her heart and combining an iron will with her other talents to achieve her goals.

  And that was why she would survive all of this. Maybe the boys would, or maybe not. She could no longer afford to gaze longingly out of the window and hope for them. Whether they were alive and well or not, they were lost to Asima now and, unless she wanted to sit here and wither away in the shadows, she was going to have to do something to save her father and herself.

  She turned to look at him, sitting dejected in the shade by the wall. She had not seen a hint of a smile in eight long months and the light had all but gone out in his eyes. A quick glance around told her that they were practically alone, the only other occupants of their living space currently standing out on the roof and breathing clear air.

  “Father?”

  “Mmm?” The man looked so much older now and had lost a great deal of weight.

  “Father, I want you to listen to me.”

  He turned to frown at her. A year ago he would have disciplined Asima for speaking to an adult in such a fashion. Now, even the thought seemed absurd. He merely frowned and shrugged.

  “Father, I am going to do something and I want you to be prepared, as I am not sure how this will work out. You won’t like it, but we have no choice.”

  A raised eyebrow only; she squared her shoulders and went on.

  “There is no magical solution coming, father. No Gods or heroes are going to strike down the satrap and save us; he is not going to have a sudden change of heart. If we do not do something we will slowly wither away in this building until we crumble and die.”

  For a moment it looked as though he might argue, but slowly, unhappily, and silently, he nodded.

  “So, father, I intend to seek an audience with the satrap. I am the daughter of a Pelasian. I have Pelasian blood in my veins and I need to make him see that.”

  “Asima…”

  “No, father. I know what you are about to say, but this is the way. There is no luck and no fate, father. We make our own futures and I, for one, do not intend for mine to be as a prisoner.”

  “Asima, you cannot…”

  His voice tailed off as the girl stood, proud and defiant. She was eleven years old; still a girl. In two or three years’ time he would normally have been looking for a
husband for her but now, while there was no longer any hope of that, she had blossomed in captivity; grown adult too early. There was something about her that reminded him so much of her mother; and the thing that he knew clearest, without a shadow of a doubt, was that he could no more stop her now than he could stop the sun setting. Biting his lip, worried, he nodded.

  Tenderly, she reached down to where he sat on the floor and placed her hand on his shoulder, leaving it there for a moment before she straightened, held her head high, and strode from the room. In a mix of pride and fear, he watched her go.

  Asima strode from the room and round the corner into the corridor before she stopped and allowed the violent shaking to take hold. She could force herself to appear confident in front of her father; had to, in fact, or he would stop her. But now that she was alone, she could allow the fear she felt rooted in her belly to manifest, just for a minute.

  She leaned against the wall and rubbed her temples before folding her arms around her chest and fighting the rising gorge of fear. She couldn’t allow herself this kind of weakness.

  Straightening, she shuffled along the wall to the large mirror, where she examined herself carefully. Despite her complexion, she looked decidedly pale, she thought. Pinching her cheeks, she carefully re-pinned her hair and, re-appraising herself, nodded in satisfaction.

  Bracing herself and clenching her teeth, she strode to the stairway and began to descend. On the ground floor half a dozen white-clad soldiers eyed her with surprise as she approached. The one nearest the door, bearing a black and white striped crest on his helmet, stepped in front of the doors.

  “You need to stay in house. Dangerous out.”

  Asima found herself blinking in surprise. In her time here, she’d not heard any of the northern guardsmen speaking her language though, now she thought about it, some of them must do in order to communicate orders. She smiled at the guard officer.

  “Thank you for your warning, kind sir, but I must insist on being allowed out.”

  The guard shook his head and smiled a condescending smile in return to her own.

  “Run along, girl. Go to father.”

  Bridling, Asima felt the heat rise in her cheeks. How dare this man talk to her like that? She made to step forward, but the guard reached down and gently held her back. She stopped struggling and stepped back. This was both ridiculous and undignified. The guard would clearly not accede to the demands of an eleven year old. She could hardly face her father and ask him to speak to the guards. Biting her cheek and then chiding herself irritably for it, she glared at the guard officer and then turned and stalked away, back up the stairs.

  Months of being trapped in this luxurious prison had given her endless time to explore. With the exception of the governor’s own rooms on the top floor and the temporary guard quarters on the ground, she had examined every nook and cranny of the building and, with her customary cunning, had long since discovered three private routes out of the building.

  Frowning as she reached the top of the stairs, Asima glanced this way and that. The easiest exit, from the first floor balcony onto the roof of the stables, was blocked as a couple of other prisoners occupied the terrace looking out across the compound. Clicking her tongue in irritation, she made her way up the next flight of stairs. The third route would be dangerous and should be avoided if at all possible.

  Hurrying now, she turned along one of the corridors on the second floor and rushed along to the end. From here, she could edge along the roof of the balcony below where the couple stood and reach the exterior wall. From there she could walk safely around the perimeter, high above the stable block, and descend next to the council buildings where the satrap now held court.

  Asima was so busy planning her route from the window that, as she rounded the corner, she walked straight into the elderly nobleman and his wife.

  “I am dreadfully sorry, master… ma’am.”

  The man barely glanced at her, passing her by and hurrying along the corridor toward the stairs. The woman, however, grasped her by the shoulders.

  “Whatever are you doing alone, child?”

  Asima floundered.

  “I… ah…”

  “Come with me. We must find your father.”

  Shaking her head, Asima tried to find words, an excuse to deny this lady.

  “I have something to do, ma’am. My father knows…”

  The lady turned her forcefully and began to propel her along the corridor in the direction from which she had come. Asima blinked in surprise and made protesting sounds. The lady stopped, turning her by the shoulders and glaring at her.

  “This is not the time to throw a tantrum, young lady.”

  Asima was so surprised at the force in the older lady’s voice, that she stopped struggling as she was turned once more and directed along the corridor behind the old man.

  “You are the daughter of the merchant that resides in the room of glittering peacocks, yes?”

  Again, Asima was taken aback. Had she been that noticeable?

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The woman nodded and gestured to her husband.

  “Pass the word on. I will return this wayward stray and then join you.”

  The man nodded and made his way toward the higher level and the governor’s rooms, while Asima and her escort made for the descending staircase.

  “Ma’am…” Asima began in a questioning voice. Something about the lady’s manner was beginning to alarm her. The noblewoman cut her off with a waved finger.

  “It is not becoming of young ladies to question their elders. Come along.”

  Asima hurried on with the lady as they turned corners and marched along corridors until once more she entered the room where her father sat staring into nothing. As the two approached, the man looked up in surprise.

  “Lady Shere’en?”

  He struggled respectfully to his feet and bowed his head. Even in their current circumstances there were matters of etiquette when dealing with someone of the lady’s stature.

  “I have come to return your precocious little jewel. She is, I fear, up to no good, given the desperate attempts she made to lie about her reasons for sneaking around the corridors.”

  Asima’s father nodded meekly.

  “I apologise for her, lady.”

  The woman shook her head.

  “That is not necessary, master merchant. She is headstrong and clever, this one, and in our dire circumstances, she can be forgiven many things.”

  She sighed.

  “Now, however, is a bad time to be wandering alone. Something is happening in the great square. We have seen from the roof. There is fire and the noise of combat. Pelasian soldiers are mobilising in the courtyard. We may all be in danger.”

  Asima blinked again and craned her head to stare at the lady behind her. Now that she concentrated, she could hear many things. Distantly, across the roofs of M’Dahz, there were sounds of fighting and screams. Closer by, on the balconies above, she could hear worried conversation and groans. Warning bells chimed around the Pelasian barracks of the city and soldiers gathered in the complex outside, shouting orders. Something was happening and, from the sound, it was something dreadful.

  In which unrest occurs

  Samir and Ghassan crouched in the shadow of the vine-covered pergola on the roof of a low building fronting on to the great square of M’Dahz. From their earliest days out and about in the town, they remembered the square as a place of life, colour, noise and commerce. The grand bazaar was located here on an almost permanent basis, only closing up when the public space was required for festivals or parades.

  In these oppressed times, however, the bazaar was strictly controlled and only licensed on two week days. Flags of Pelasia and the satrap Ma’ahd festooned the walls and poles; a constant reminder to the people of their new master.

  But not today.

  It had begun only a few minutes ago, although the boys had been aware of the plan for some time. The resistance, which
had begun on the night of the invasion under the mercenary captain Cronus, had been slow and careful in developing. As Pelasian soldiers had burned, raped and murdered their way through the town that night, Cronus, already disenchanted with the manner in which the government had yielded and capitulated to the invaders, had gathered the militia near the docks. A decision had been made and the resistance movement that resulted had steadily grown in strength and number over the succeeding months.

  After just two days hiding out in a secluded cover two miles from the walls, the boys and their mother had, slowly and cautiously, taken their boat and returned to the town under cover of darkness. As soon as Ghassan discovered what the militia were doing, he and Samir had approached Cronus and volunteered. The grizzled mercenary had accepted them as scouts and since that day the boys had quietly gone about their business in M’Dahz, attracting no unwanted attention and yet gathering information through watchful eyes and attentive ears.

  The resistance was now twice the size of the militia who had initially stood on the walls and watched Ma’ahd and his men arrive, whereas three quarters of the satrap’s force had returned to the family holdings in Pelasia. The odds, while still steep, were considerably better now than they had previously been.

  Many of the members of the resistance, spurred on by Pelasian atrocities, were twitching with the need to make a move, but Cronus had expressly forbidden any such activity. It was all about subtlety and timing. The force had picked up more and more members over the months and had received illicit caches of arms from both seaborne and desert sources and had kept them in hidden locations around M’Dahz, preparing for one great event.