Dark Empress

by S. J. A. Turney

  Behind the decorative door, Asima snarled. She knew exactly what sort of ‘escape’ and ‘freedom’ the man was talking about. Well, she was not going to curl up and accept her fate quietly.

  Outside she could hear girls rushing out of the doorways around the building and into the garden, chattering with excitement. Could they really be so dense and short sighted that they believed the masters of Akkad after leaving them to rot for three years actually intended to free them? Just how stupid were some of these women?

  She heard a hoarse chuckle from the officer.

  Without a plan; without forethought or even taking a breath in preparation, Asima ripped open the kitchen door and stepped out, directly behind the captain of the satrap’s guard. In that brief moment she took in the entire scene. The women were filing out into the open square from which Ma’ahd addressed them. The guard officer was armed, but the weapon was sheathed; Ma’ahd likewise.

  With no grace or elegance, Asima swung the heavy cleaver to her left, her eyes fixed on Ma’ahd and not even breaking her step as she tugged the gleaming blade back out of the man’s neck, hearing the unpleasant sounds as it snapped a tendon and left the spine almost severed.

  Behind her, captain Siva of the palace guard, his eyes bulging in shock, collapsed to his knees and then, one hand going to the huge chasm in his neck, toppled gently forward, making gurgling noises.

  The whole assault had been so brief that she had already taken her next swing before Ma’ahd, his eyes wide with surprise, had begun turning to see what had happened.

  Her blow took off Ma’ahd’s left arm just above the elbow, the razor-sharp, heavy blade continuing on to dig into his ribs. He stared at her, his mouth opening and closing as he registered the gruesome damage she had just inflicted on him.

  The whole world, having slowed to a crawl for Asima as she dived into her assault with no thought and delivered her initial blows, suddenly sped up and left her in a minor panic. What in hell’s teeth had driven her to do this? Before her, satrap Ma’ahd was recovering his composure. The wound was crippling but far from fatal. He roared and reached around with his right hand to draw his long, curved sword.

  Asima swallowed and sighed. No going back now; she had to finish it.

  As the wounded tyrant began to draw his sword, the blade rasping against the metal edge of the scabbard, Asima kicked him in the kneecap with as much force as she could muster. There was a satisfying crunch and, sword still half sheathed, Ma’ahd cried out in pain and fell heavily on to his back.

  Now they were fighting on Asima’s terms and not his. Like all of her plans, carefully constructed over many years of harem life, this one had to be played out in the appropriate steps and carefully. First: the element of surprise. Well, she’d accomplished that easily. Second: leave nothing for your victim to use against you.

  Taking a deep breath, she drew back the cleaver and let it fall with all the power she had behind it. The satrap, agonised and in shock, floundering on the floor with a missing arm and a shattered knee, could do nothing but watch in horror as his other arm, hacked off above the wrist, scraped across the gravel and came to a halt beneath a decorative rose bush.

  “What?” he managed, blood bubbling around his lips as he managed to speak in a wheezy whisper. “Why?”

  Asima smiled and the effect made the satrap recoil as far as his position allowed.

  “You invaded our town, burned our homes, killed our people, turned on your own country and usurped your King, among many other smaller failings. There are countless reasons, I’m sure, why people want to see you dead, Ma’ahd. But not me. You see, I have changed since the days you sent me away from M’Dahz.”

  As she spoke, she stooped and finished the job of drawing his curved sword from the sheath, flinging the cleaver, covered in viscera, into the bushes away from them. She became aware of the horrified silence that filled the garden and the increasing proximity of some of the other women, who were slowly closing in from behind her. They were hardly a worry.

  “Quite simply, Ma’ahd, you took a happy young girl and turned her into me. For that I suppose I should really thank you. I am far stronger and more powerful than I could ever have hoped to be as Asima the merchant’s daughter.”

  She paused in her speech for a moment to bring the long curved blade down in a precise blow that severed his other leg below the knee. The satrap shrieked. Third step: make sure you have them exactly where you want them and there is no escape.

  She turned and the women approaching her stopped in their tracks.

  “I’d wait there, ladies. I’m rather enjoying myself and I don’t know whether I’ll be able to stop at two.” She licked her lip hungrily

  Without paying any further heed to them, Asima turned back to the maimed and bloody mess below her. He was flailing, but not a single limb remained intact to obey his brain’s desperate commands to flee this mad woman.

  “No.” Asima stated flatly. “I’ve long ago got past hating you. I’m sorry if it bruises your ego, your lordship, but there are girls in this building that I consider more of a threat than you. No… I couldn’t have cared less about you.”

  She gave three light slashes with the blade, delivering random cuts across the man’s torso, eliciting new cries of agony.

  “No. This is quite simply self preservation. I will not go to my death, Ma’ahd. Some of these women may be stupid enough to think you might free them, but the only thing I’m not sure of is whether you would have had us shot full of arrows or simply locked us in a shed and set fire to it.”

  And the last step? Make sure the game goes on long enough to enjoy it. She delivered a few more painful cuts. He was bleeding quite profusely now and his face had become gaunt and grey, the hollows of his eyes taking on a purple tint.

  “More even than that, you see. Prince Ashar never liked me much. I don’t think I’ll thrive under his reign, but I may be able to begin closing the gap between us when I present him with your neatly severed head on a bed of rose petals.”

  Without taking her eyes from the groaning heap below her, Asima gestured over her shoulder with her free hand.

  “You girls… get me a few hundred rose petals and a silver serving dish. Satrap Ma’ahd’s reign is over.”

  The last thing the mighty satrap Ma’ahd, power behind the throne of Pelasia and conqueror of M’Dahz, ever saw was the happy grin on the face of a blood-spattered beauty as she went to work, sawing through his neck with his own sword and whistling a lullaby as she did.

  In which borders are redrawn.

  Asima stood glowering at the new King of Pelasia. Ashar, calm and collected, leaned back in his seat and placed his feet upon the table in a relaxed fashion.

  “I understand you have a problem, lady Asima.”

  She eyed him coldly and nodded.

  “I am well aware of the fact that you do not like me, Majesty. I never expected to fulfil the same place with you as I did your uncle, but this is madness. It flies in the face of tradition!”

  Ashar laughed lightly.

  “Tradition, Asima? You would lecture me on Pelasian tradition? Unless I am mistaken you are only partially of our blood, born and bred in Imperial lands. Who are you really to take the high ground with me?”

  Asima grumbled.

  “I am the woman who dealt with Ma’ahd for you and prevented you returning to a ruined city. At least give me that.”

  Ashar paused for a moment, a thoughtful look on his face.

  “I will give you that, yes. I do not believe for a moment that it was motivated by selfless honour, rather than self-preservation and personal gain. It so happens that our goals coincided for a time.”

  He sighed and sat forward once more, cradling his hands on the table.

  “Asima, the world has changed. Pelasia has changed. For all their greed and wickedness, the three usurpers have changed the role of the Pelasian ruler forever. I shall not be a God-King; merely a King. I also have no need of a coven of women to fulfil
my desires. There is one woman I have ever wanted and she and I will see out my reign together. I am disbanding the harem and that is all there is to it. You should be glad.”

  “Glad?” Asima said, her voice rising with a dangerous edge. “Majesty, I was plucked from a comfortable and innocent life, put through hell and managed through my own strength to claw my way to a good position. And now you, ostensibly the hero of this little play, wish to take that away from me again. What do you intend to do with all the noble and delicate women you cast aside and make homeless?”

  Ashar smiled.

  “The ladies of the harem will be given estates and titles. I have no wish to see my uncle’s wives go without. Nobody will suffer as part of this… rearrangement.”

  Asima settled to a quiet simmer.

  “Well at least that’s something. We can continue to live appropriately for members of the Royal court.”

  But there was something about the smile on King Ashar’s face that she didn’t like.

  “I think you’d better take a seat, Asima.”

  “I’ll stand.”

  “Very well,” the King continued, straightening. “I have just concluded a treaty with the Emperor Darius. He really is a very amenable young man. As well as supplying a sizeable force to help me retake Pelasia, he has given me a number of trade and political concessions and has asked for almost nothing in return; just the return of certain territories claimed by my predecessors.”

  Asima frowned.

  “You are giving M’Dahz back to the Empire?”

  “Yes. It is the least I can do. In fact, it was never worth fighting over in the first place. I suspect it was only ever to be a staging post for Ma’ahd’s rebellion. Yes, Asima, I am returning M’Dahz to the Empire. I am also making unsought reparations for damage and trouble caused by the presence of Pelasian control. We will supply funds and workers for rebuilding.”

  “Can you afford that? You’ve still got to rebuild parts of Pelasia.”

  Ashar raised an eyebrow and Asima was suddenly acutely aware that she had fallen into a very informal mode of speech with a very powerful man. Ashar shrugged.

  “The money and workers are coming from the estates of those we have overthrown.”

  Asima nodded.

  “If my father is alive, would your majesty be kind enough to inform him of my situation and to ask him to come to Akkad?”

  Ashar folded his arms.

  “That won’t be necessary, Asima. I’ve no doubt you’ll see him soon enough.”

  He noted the confusion on Asima’s face and smiled.

  “When I said that the ladies of the harem will be given estates, I was referring to the Pelasian ladies, Asima. You can call yourself whatever you wish, but you are a girl from M’Dahz and as part of the reparations, I intend to send back there anyone who was forcefully taken by Ma’ahd. You’re going home, Asima.”

  He watched her and gave a light chuckle as he saw her face drain of colour before filling once more with pink as anger replaced the shock.

  “You can’t!”

  Ashar grinned and tapped the circlet on his brow.

  “I believe you’ll find, lady Asima, that this says I can. You can go home to your family and friends.”

  “But I’m not that person anymore, King Ashar! I’m one of you now. I’ve been here since I was young. I may have been an Imperial girl, but I’m a Pelasian woman!”

  “What you are, Asima, is a dangerous woman. I am mindful of the fact that my uncle was very fond of you and that it is in all probability our fault that you have become this untrustworthy, twisted and self-seeking creature. That is why I intend to send you back in style, with money and a guard. I have no wish to see you suffer Asima, but I also have no wish to see you here any more.”

  “What?” Once again, her voice raised a notch as she approached the table and slapped her hands down on the wooden surface opposite the king.

  “You are too troublesome and dangerous to keep around, Asima. I do worry a little that setting you loose in Imperial territory probably violates some part of the non-aggression treaty I have just signed, but that’s all there is to it. Don’t fight me on this, Asima. You’re going home. Accept it.”

  The strength seemed to go out of Asima and she deflated slightly where she stood.

  “Do not make me beg, majesty. I am Pelasian and all I want is to stay. Send me to another city if you must, but do not send me back home. There is nothing in M’Dahz for me.”

  “I’m sure your father would be proud to hear you say that, Asima. You must go, for the peace of my realm and the security of my throne. Take some time to go through everything. You may take whatever you wish and have time to say your goodbyes if there is anyone in the palace that you have not manipulated and alienated in your time here. In three days you leave for the border and from that moment on you are forbidden from ever again setting foot on Pelasian soil.”

  Ashar eyed Asima’s hands on the desk where one had, quietly and unnoticed, begun toying with a letter opener in the shape of a knife.

  “Even when you are unaware of your actions, you are dangerous, Asima.”

  Reaching across, he took the small knife out from under her fingers and sheathed it.

  “Now go and prepare yourself.”

  In Calphoris, everything was chaos. Ghassan, captain of the Wind of God, strode through the governor’s palace gates, acknowledging the guards as he passed. He was becoming well known to them all now. The Imperial commissioner and his party had arrived yesterday and within an hour the raven flag of the Empire had been raised above the palace, the port and all the city’s gates.

  Over the last week or so, Ghassan had seen almost nothing of his former captain. Jaral had been busy in his new headquarters building, dishing out orders and charters to captains and mercenaries as though they were at war. Curious really, since Calphoris was currently more at peace than at any time in the last quarter of a century.

  He smiled and brushed aside the curl of black hair that made his brow itch. For some reason he never seemed to have time to get his hair cut these days and nothing he tried ever stopped the floppy curls from doing exactly as they pleased. Straightening in a military pose, he strode across the compound, saluted the guards at the palace door and climbed the white marble steps. With practiced ease, he trod the corridors of the great building until he arrived at the audience chamber of the governor.

  He stopped at the entrance and waited. One of the guards knocked at the door, opened it when ordered from within, and announced the young captain. Ghassan heard the governor shout him in and, smiling at the guard, ducked past and entered. Jaral stood at the wide desk with the governor and several people he didn’t recognise.

  As he strode toward them, he sized up the four strangers. One was a thin, reedy man with a large nose, dressed in grey robes; clearly an administrator or bureaucrat from Velutio. Another was a heavy set, bearded man in uniform; likely the captain of the ship that had brought them here. The other two were a peculiar couple. A young lady, slightly built and heavily pregnant, sat on the governor’s chair, while her hand was held by a man with a missing arm and missing eye wearing a uniform, with a tiger pelt over the shoulder, that clearly denoted high rank.

  In a very military fashion, Ghassan approached the table, came to a halt and saluted first the governor, then Jaral, and finally the two uniformed strangers.

  “Your Excellency sent for me?”

  The governor smiled at him.

  “Indeed, captain Ghassan. As I’m sure you’ve already guessed, this is minister Fulvis of the Imperial government, here to go through the details of reintegration with me.” Gesturing appropriately, he introduced the others. “Captain Harald of the Steel Claw, Marshal Tythias of the southern provinces, and his lovely lady wife, Sathina.”

  Ghassan tried not to stare at the marshal. It could be considered extremely rude, given that this was one of the most powerful men in the Empire. There was something vaguely hypnotic about the netwo
rk of old scars on the man’s face and staring was practically a requirement. He almost heaved a sigh of relief when the scarred commander smiled.

  “Captain Ghassan. I hear good things about you. I’m overseeing the reorganisation of the militia in the south. As you may be aware, the Imperial army and navy have been fully reconstituted. I am taking command of all the forces in the southern provinces and intend to set up my headquarters here in Calphoris.”

  Ghassan nodded professionally, trying to hide the sheer pleasure of the discovery that the militia were to become part of the marshal’s forces.

  “Beneath me, I have Pharus, who is being promoted to general and placed in charge of the Province’s ground forces and, on the recommendation of the governor here, I am accepting Jaral as commodore and commander of the navy. All current militia forces, both land and sea, will be reassigned to the appropriate service branches.”

  Ghassan nodded once more.

  “I understand, sir. I hope we will live up to your requirements.”

  Marshal Tythias smiled his strangely warming, broken smile.

  “I have no doubt, young master Ghassan. However, you’ve been sent for specifically for two reasons: firstly, I am reliably informed that you are both the best and the luckiest sailor in Calphoris. I approve of the former, but the latter is just as important. I myself am only alive through the judicious application of luck.”

  He took a deep breath.

  “And secondly, because of your… affiliations.”

  Ghassan frowned in incomprehension and the marshal sighed.

  “Captain, we are trying to get things back to the way they were under the old Imperial bureaucracy. With our position here and new trade treaties with Pelasia, we hope for a significant increase in mercantile activity. And that means the suppression of what has been called a ‘plague’ of pirates in the waters north of here.”