Dark Empress

by S. J. A. Turney

  The walls of Calphoris made M’Dahz look like a poorly-protected village. Inside, the tips of a multitude of white and bronze towers rose toward the azure heavens. The great gates themselves were clearly bronze-plated, and heavy enough to stop the hardiest of battering rams. Calphoris had money; glory; a past. He smiled. A future.

  Approaching, he took careful note of the two men in uniform standing in a bored fashion to either side of the gate, They were not members of the Imperial army, certainly. Ghassan had seen enough of the Empire’s soldiers in his youth in M’Dahz that he knew not only the insignia for the southern Marshal’s army, but also of half a dozen of the specific units based in the south, their rank insignias and their armour standards.

  While these two were clearly professional soldiers, their tunics and cloaks clean and pressed, their armour polished and correct, the insignia and some of the equipment was different. Ghassan was immediately impressed. These were obviously the militia as it existed in Calphoris. Certainly a step up on that of M’Dahz. Clearly, then, Imperial support had pulled out of the provincial capital too.

  Taking a deep breath, Ghassan straightened and tried to look as adult and serious as possible. The guard to the left of the gateway watched as he approached, his expression carefully neutral. Ghassan swallowed as he came to a halt, his pack over his back and the sheathed sword hanging conspicuously from the bundle.

  “Excuse me. I need to know where I would go to sign up?”

  The guard blinked, clearly surprised at the question, though his composure never faltered.

  “How old are you, lad?”

  For a moment, Ghassan wondered about lying. Would it stand him in any better stead? But the only real way forward if he was going to commit to this properly would be honestly.

  “I am almost thirteen, sir.” A slight exaggeration, but basically true.

  The guard nodded. Ghassan had truly expected the man to laugh and was further impressed by these men as the soldier looked him up and down with a professional eye.

  “You might be better coming back in a few years, to be honest, lad. If you sign on now, you’ll have seniority when you hit sixteen and we get the new recruits, but it means you’ll have three years of getting the shitty end of the stick; all the nasty jobs.”

  Ghassan shrugged as professionally as he could manage and almost lost control of the heavy pack on his shoulder.

  “I’m willing to do whatever comes my way. I just want to sign up.”

  The guard nodded again.

  “Fair enough, lad. Go through the gate and head up the street until you pass through the arch of the old walls. You can’t miss it. The next street on the right after that leads to the military compound.”

  He laughed.

  “And the spice market, but I’m guessing you’ll be able to work out which is which.”

  Ghassan smiled.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Why so determined?” asked the soldier as Ghassan shouldered his pack once more, preparing to set off.

  “I’m from M’Dahz. I’ve watched the place collapse under the Pelasians and I want to protect the Empire and make sure M’Dahz is as far as they get.”

  “I heard things in M’Dahz were pretty dire. If you’re hoping for revenge, this isn’t the way though.”

  Ghassan frowned and the guard shrugged.

  “This isn’t the Imperial army any more, lad. We don’t go conquering enemies now. This is the army of Calphoris and we fight to protect our city, our lord and our territory, whether it be from Pelasians, desert nomads, pirates or even other Imperial cities. You might as well know that before you sign your life away as a scout in the cavalry or a skivvy in the navy.”

  Ghassan smiled. There was no humour about his feral look and for a moment it even shook the guard at the gate.

  “Sir, I will do whatever is required of me for now, but I can assure you that some day I will march back into M’Dahz and I will kill any Pelasian who gets in my way.”

  He gave a small bow, his teeth still clenched in that non-smile.

  “Thank you for your assistance.”

  Taking a deep breath, Ghassan straightened once more and strode purposefully through the gates of Calphoris toward his future, whatever it may hold.

  In which Pelasia opens her arms

  Asima was tired of travel by the time the armed caravan arrived at Akkad, but not half as tired as she was of her companions. The journey had taken three weeks, most of which had involved travelling with interminable slowness through a constant, monotonous sea of sandy waves, punctuated by the Pelasian way stations.

  Though comfortable, these establishments, mostly built around oases or crossroads, were home to cackling old men who made their living from the government supplying shelter for the military and those who could pay their way. They made a healthy living, so she felt safe, knowing they would do nothing to jeopardise that, but this did not stop them leering and making vaguely suggestive comments.

  The seemingly-endless tracts of sand began to show signs of tailing off after two weeks and the last few days she had noted each morning a more fascinating world passing them by. They approached a low mountain range, passing through it across a saddle and from that point on, the landscape changed. Beyond the mountain range were low hills and, as they made their way toward the capital, reaching out on its promontory into the sea, she began to see farms and fields of wheat. She had been told by her father that Pelasia was the world’s greatest supplier of grain, but had always assumed this to be an exaggeration, given the fact that it lay at the edge of the Great Southern Desert.

  She might have enjoyed that last week, as they passed inhabited towns and actual rivers with fishermen. She might have marvelled at the almost miraculous changes in the landscape. Unfortunately, after two weeks trundling across the desert in the company of the vapid witches she had been saddled with she had almost lost the will to live, let alone any hope of taking interest in her surroundings.

  Asima’s fears that she would have to work to become the shining jewel among the gift sent to the God-King were soon assuaged.

  Sharra, clearly the eldest of her companions, was the only one that seemed to have been gifted with the ability to outthink a dormouse. She would be the only real competition, and Asima was hardly worried about her. Sharra was tall and elegant and had skin the tone of dark honey with long lustrous hair. She was well-spoken, educated and from a wealthy family of M’Dahz. However, she was also clearly mad. She had spent the entire journey separating herself more and more from the others and complaining and moaning to the escort. She had no intention of ‘abasing’ herself in Akkad. Prideful and rebellious, she had tried to escape no less than five times during the journey. Despite her looks and her intelligence, Asima smirked at the thought that Sharra would be lucky to last five minutes in the sort of situation they were heading for.

  Kala, the youngest, was… there was simply no way to put it kindly. She was a moron. Pretty, certainly, though not the prettiest of the four, she had been confused from the beginning. Unaware that Pelasia was not part of the Empire, she had smiled as they left and asked sweetly if she would get to meet the Emperor. Asima had sighed in despair. Kala was woefully unaware of her own gender and the role they were to play in Akkad. Indeed, Asima had, in a fit of sympathy, begun to try and explain why they were being taken to the God-King but, after having to explain in intimate detail some of the terms she was forced to use, she soon gave up and told Kala that she would find out soon enough.

  Nima completed the tragic group. Nima was the closest to Asima in age, appearance and social class. She could have been a real problem, had she not been prey to no less than three problems. Her speech impediment was subtle and no true issue until one was forced into, say, three weeks close confinement with her. And so long as she tried to avoid words with an ‘r’ in them, she would be fine there. Her memory, on the other hand, would cause more issues. She had continually forgotten her companions’ names throughout the journey
and often couldn’t think of the correct words for the simplest things. The great tragedy of Nima, though, was that she was friendly in the way an excitable puppy was friendly, and this led to her talking fast. Nima loved to talk, and when her companions finally became tired of the endless stream of prattle, she would look out of the wagon’s window and talk to herself. At these times, Asima would try her hardest to shut out the noise.

  The three of them had driven her mad throughout the trip. One sulking and complaining and trying to run away, slowing down the journey on several occasions; the other two chattering away like some sort of trained birds in a market and making about as much sense. At times she had found herself wondering whether the vizier Jhraman had selected the three prettiest and best-bred girls to send with her without actually speaking to any of them, or whether he had been exceptionally kind in sending her off with women that would be no competition to her.

  Asima sighed. When they arrived she would find out more of what she was up against. The women in the harem of the God-King would be a different proposition entirely to these three mindless drones that she had been sent with. It occurred to her briefly that if she really wanted to cause trouble for Ma’ahd, she should be equally disagreeable and make the satrap’s gift into a joke, angering the God-King. But M’Dahz was not her concern. Asima’s chief concern had to be her own future now.

  They arrived at the great gates of the Pelasian capital in the late afternoon as the sun sank behind the great white city. People said that Akkad was built of marble. It was called the ‘white city’ or the ‘city of cloud’ but, Asima realised as they passed through the bulb-arched gate, much of that was a façade. The city walls were of stone and mud-brick, whitewashed, while the gates were faced with marble. The various government, military, or wealthy buildings they passed were certainly white, either marble or faced with it, but the majority of the ordinary buildings of the working folk of Akkad were of brick.

  Yet Asima could see how the name had come about. From a first impression, the city dazzled the visitor’s eyes, with the walls, the high palaces and towers all gleaming in the sunset and the brick walls down at street level and hidden from view. The gate led to a wide boulevard, lined with cypress trees at regular intervals. The road was paved with perfectly flat, interlocking stones in a manner that Asima had never seen before. The pedestrian walkways to either side, where the trees marched ahead up a gentle slope, were of a white stone that looked a little like marble, but was a powdery white and failed to gleam. At regular points along the street, rings were driven into large blocks for the tethering of horses and the evidence of an advanced drainage system pointed clearly to the fact that Akkad, at least occasionally, experienced rainfall.

  The ‘Mese’ as she would later learn its name, passed through the city from the south eastern gate, criss-crossed by many other thoroughfares, major and minor, and met with another great road coming in from the south west. The resulting street, also called the Mese marched up a continual rise until it reached the great promontory that jutted out into the sea and held the palace of the God-King, along with the architecture of government and many gardens and terraces.

  The ride through the town was, she would have to admit, one of the high points of Asima’s life. Not only was Akkad magnificent in every way, visually and architecturally, with wide, clean streets, beautiful white towers, surmounted by bulb-shaped domes, temples and columns, statues and arches, but there was more than just the sight of glory.

  Used to dusty and dry M’Dahz, with its mix of animal and spice smells, Asima simply could not believe that a city that was home to more than a million people, a centre of trade and the home of one of the world’s greatest militaries, could smell so fresh. The gentle sea air was infused with a flowery aroma. Lotus and Jasmine filled the streets in carefully-positioned gardens and the smell was heavenly. There was a slight tang from the spice market, but the heady mix merely added to the fresh and scented air, rather than ruining the experience.

  Asima was astounded to find that she was relaxing, despite the constant prattle of her companions. Ignoring them, she leaned out of one of the carriage windows and cast her gaze over the people they passed.

  The Pelasians seemed to be quiet, gentle and happy; a far cry from the satrap Ma’ahd and his wicked machinations. It was more than possible that life here could even drive the memories of the past few years from her.

  The road finally reached the top of its incline, passing out onto the plateau of the headland. The centre of the promontory was given over to a great plaza of gleaming white, surrounded by fruit trees, laden with oranges, lemons and limes. Ahead, the most ornate gateway Asima could ever have imagined stood amid walls of white marble and bronze decoration. Above the gate, with its statues and friezes, its peacock-feather columns and golden lattice-work, rose a great gilded cage with its own bulb-dome. Songbirds twittered and flapped within, gracing the square with their musical dialogue. Off to the left, to this side of the great walled enclosure, stood the temple district, with the great temple of The Maker in all its pink marble glory and many, many slender belfries. The right hand side was occupied by the arcade that marked the near end of the great circus of Akkad, used for horse racing and public displays.

  She had little time to marvel, however. The carriage was escorted to the ornate gateway where the God-King’s personal guards stood. Here, the cataphracti on their armoured horses bowed and took the rest of the escort with them, riding off to the rear to some unseen barracks. As Asima watched with interest, a unit of the God-King’s guard appeared through the arch of the gate after a short pause, and took up position around the carriage and the wagon behind them. There had been a full minute in between guards when any passer-by could have approached the travellers and it was a testament to either the reputation of the God-King’s guard, or the law-abiding nature of the citizens that the carriage remained unvisited throughout the handover process.

  An officer gave the order and the guards began to march forward, the carriage trundling between them, beneath the great decorative arch of the Royal Gate with its aviary. Within, the palace was a maze of beautifully-tended and carefully organised gardens and lawns, punctuated by scattered trees that smelled of fresh citrus fruit. Between these gardens stood various ornate and beautiful white and pink buildings, with apses and arches and rows of windows. A grand theatre rose from behind a row of poplars, the seating visible between the trees.

  The carriage rolled forward along a wide pathway, between two great structures with ornate windows. Inside, the wittering of the two girls was becoming hard to ignore, overriding the sounds from outside. Asima sighed and pushed open the grill on the window, drawing aside the net that kept the sand out during desert travel.

  One of the God-King’s guards walked alongside only a few feet away. She smiled at him, though he kept his eyes firmly forward.

  “Am I allowed to ask anything?”

  The guard remained stony silent and Asima sank back into her seat. The place was beautiful and exciting, and she was genuinely interested in the buildings they passed. Still, there would be time for her to learn more later.

  The column continued on through the gardens and between buildings for a full five minutes before coming to a stop in front of a huge building. Square and unexciting, this structure stood at one edge of the peninsula, a steep incline running from its foundations down to the sea and the rocks below. Regardless of the inaccessibility of the slope, the defensive walls had been continued precariously around above the waterline on a ledge.

  After the wondrous buildings of the palace complex, Asima was a little disappointed by the great, grey, square edifice, which showed little evidence of decoration or exterior windows, they being few and far between.

  She made to enquire of the guard as the carriage door was opened but then changed her mind. He would not answer anyway and she had no intention of showing an enquiring mind in front of the vacant passengers that accompanied her.

  She had made sur
e she was ready and was therefore the first to exit the carriage. Stepping lightly down to the fold-out stair, she alighted with the soft crunch of gravel beneath her sandal. She raised an eyebrow questioningly at the guard but, before she could ask anything, a sharp feminine voice snapped from nearby.

  “Do not dawdle. Your belongings will be brought on. Now follow me and be quick about it!”

  Asima, keeping her face carefully neutral, stepped around the carriage to see that the doors of the great square building had opened. Guards stood by the entrance, but the figure addressing them from the doorway with its jarring hawk-like voice was not exactly what she had imagined. Instead of the gaunt, thin woman with a stern topknot that she had seen in her mind’s eye, the figure in the doorway was a middle-aged man, quite rotund and dressed in elegant silks and satins. As she hurried toward him, the other three hot on her heels, she studied the man. He was wearing makeup and, she had to admit grudgingly, it was beautifully chosen and applied.

  As she came to a halt before his upraised hand, she glanced through the door behind him and was relieved to see that the interior of her future home was, in fact, beautiful. Gardens and lawns could be seen within, surrounded by porticoes and balconies. Of course. This was not designed to be dull for the occupants, but to hide the glories that lay within.

  She smiled.

  “Wipe that inane grin off your face, girl!”

  The portly man sighed in a feminine fashion and placed his fists on his hips.

  “I am Mishad, your overseer and tutor. I can see we have a lot of work to do, so we’d best get started. You have a long afternoon ahead of you, ladies, but first we had best peel you out of these ‘things’” he eyed their attire with distaste, “and have you bathed, oiled and perfumed. Then perhaps my nose will unblock itself.”