Phoenix Rising

by Jason K. Lewis

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Map of Adarna

  Chapter One - Martius

  Chapter Two - Conlan

  Chapter Three - Martius

  Chapter Four - Conlan

  Chapter Five - Conlan

  Chapter Six - Metrotis

  Chapter Seven - Ellasand

  Chapter Eight - Martius

  Chapter Nine - Wulf

  Authors afterword

  THE

  ADARNA CHRONICLES

  BOOK TWO

  PHOENIX

  RISING

  Jason K. Lewis

  Copyright © 2014 by Jason K. Lewis

  The rights of Jason K. Lewis to be identified as the author of this work have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in reviews or articles.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locations or organisations is entirely coincidental.

  For news and alerts sign up at:

  www.jasonklewiswriter.wordpress.com

  Follow Jason K. Lewis on Twitter:

  @JasonKLewisWrit

  Published by Oldhaven Publishing

  United Kingdom

  For my beautiful wife and son. Who else?

  We see many who are struggling against

  adversity who are happy, and more although

  abounding in wealth, who are wretched.

  Tacitus

  ***

  Admit to weakness, if not always to others,

  then always to yourself. This is true strength.

  Felix Martius

  ***

  What fate the man who conquers all?

  What fate the man who cannot fall?

  For no one, truly, can escape death’s pall.

  Xandar the Great

  CHAPTER ONE

  Martius

  THE HEAVY OAK DOORS slammed shut. They muffled the sounds of the massed citizens in Empire Square but they could not mask the shame that burned in Martius’s heart.

  He walked, shoulders back, head held high, as befitted the primus general, but inside he squirmed at the thought of what he had just witnessed and the terrible consequences it might have for the future of the Empire.

  The Twelfth legion was no more, and the blame rested with him alone.

  You should have stopped it. You could have stopped it. His subconscious railed against him. It was not true though. He could never have stopped it, and a small part of him at least knew the truth of it – that path was too dangerous.

  Revolution.

  Why not? There were many in the Empire that would support him. There were many who would positively encourage it. But it was not the Felix way. His house had ever been loyal to the Emperor; his soul knew no other option.

  The soul had won in the end, or perhaps he believed his own teachings too much.

  To be a good leader, one must know when to follow.

  They were his own words, drilled into every candidate at the academy. The legions were a great power in the Empire, but their function was to serve.

  The alternative was a military coup and dictatorship, and every particle of Martius’s being denied that path.

  The massed death of the Twelfth legion – their appalling decimation – would mar the history of the Empire for eternity. Nevertheless, it would also send a message to the army. Emperor Mucinas Ravenas was their master; and when they disappointed their master, they would pay a heavy price.

  “This is not how it should be.” He said the words aloud, yet he had not intended to. They felt right though, as they spilled from his mouth. They felt like release. “It should not have happened.”

  “There’s nothing you could have done about it, lad,” Turbis said quietly, forgetting as he often did, perhaps, that Martius was a grown man.

  Martius looked at his old mentor. Never reply in anger, he reminded himself. Turbis, in his own way, was surely trying to help. “It doesn’t make it any easier.” He clenched his jaw shut to ensure he did not say something he might regret.

  “I know that, Martius, I know that.” Turbis laid the stump of his arm on Martius’s shoulder. The tip of the hook hovered dangerously close to his eye. “This is not the place to discuss it, eh?” Turbis whispered so that only Martius could hear.

  Their footsteps echoed down the corridor, like legions marching to a dull and hollow beat.

  He slowed his pace. There was plenty of time to reach the council chamber. The Emperor could wait. Besides, Turbis was right. It would not do to be overheard.

  They gradually fell behind the group ahead, the so-called great and good of the Empire, who had just stood and watched as the men who had defended them from annihilation were put to death.

  Eventually, when he was certain that they would not be overheard, Martius vented his anger. “They didn’t need to die, damn it!” He waved his arm towards the retreating backs of the officers and politicians ahead. “I said it in the council chamber this morning and I’ll say it again.”

  “No you won’t. You can’t.” Turbis stared at him, eyes gleaming with anger or regret. “It is done. I’ve heard you say it yourself a thousand times. What’s the analogy you use? Something to do with ‘catch the king’, can’t bloody remember –”

  Martius shook his head. “You have to play the long game.” You have to wait until your opponent overextends himself before you can catch his king. Before you can win the game.

  He breathed deep, filling his lungs with the cool, perfumed air of the palace corridor. Turbis was right; it would not do to test the patience of the Emperor any further. This morning he had come close to the line and it had been clear in the eyes of Mucinas Ravenas – bright as they were with malice and glee – that this challenge to the Emperor’s authority would not be quickly forgotten.

  “Anyway, doesn’t matter.” Turbis waved his hook dismissively. “Never liked the bloody game anyway. The point is you need to be careful, eh?” He put his good hand on Martius’s shoulder and brought him to a stop, fixing him with eyes that had, despite the ravages of gluttony and the gods knew what else that his body had endured, never lost their strength, their iron core. “Eh?” He shook Martius’s shoulder gently.

  Turbis still had some muscle left beneath the layers of fat, that much was clear from the strength of his grip.

  “Don’t worry, old man.” Martius smiled to take the sting out of his words. “I won’t do anything stupid.”

  “Make sure you don’t, Martius. Think about Ella and the children... Make sure you don’t.” Turbis grunted and released his grip. “Now, let’s see what the little Emperor has to say for himself, eh?”

  “You may enter.” The skinny young servant sniffed disdainfully as he ushered them into the council chamber, apparently careless of the fact he spoke to two of the most powerful men in the Empire.

  Martius fumed. Another imperial lackey. His stomach ached with the sickening certainty of his own responsibility in it all. A small part of him counselled logic, urging him to place the blame where it truly lay – with the Emperor – but the image of his legionary brothers lying lifeless on the stones of Empire Square forbade any denial.

  The expression on Praetorus Kourtes’s face as he had watched the sickening spectacle painted a picture of the Empire for Martius, and it was a ruinous image that he could not erase. Kourtes ha
d appeared to enjoy the blatant horror of the decimation, and Martius wanted nothing more than to wipe the smirk from the nobleman’s face.

  There were many men now who considered themselves untouchable as part of the Emperor’s increasingly fetid inner circle.

  The old Emperor – father to the current sovereign – had always encouraged challenge around him, ruling the Empire as the first amongst equals, adhering to the traditions laid down centuries ago by the great Xandar himself… At least that was how it had felt to Martius all those years ago.

  He wondered if Turbis – silent now, perhaps lost in his own thoughts – would share the same recollection. Turbis, after all, had been the old Emperor’s favourite at court. Back then, Turbis had been vibrant and energetic, always willing to trade jokes with others, quick to anger but also to forgive. The court had seemed like a bastion of enlightenment shining in the vast dark of the world, as the old emperor and his subjects worked to improve the lot of the citizen and the slave alike, and re-order the Empire after generations of excess and neglect.

  Martius himself had thrived in the tolerant and progressive atmosphere that pervaded the court at the time, and his meteoric rise really began there. First, as proctor to Turbis, Martius had been educated in life at court and imperial politics.

  Then five years later, he had returned from a rotation in the Legions that saw him rise to become the youngest Legion father in recorded history. In addition, having just published his treatise on increasing the efficiency of the army, Martius was hailed on his return by the old emperor as a force for progress, and his changes were adopted wholeheartedly across the army.

  He had been privileged to enjoy the sponsorship of the great General Antius Turbis and the grace of the old emperor. The introduction of stricter training regimes and standardised equipment and tactics had helped the Empire to regain all of its former glory, and to stand again as the preeminent force in the world.

  Where did it all go wrong? Martius wondered. The old systems for governing the army and the Empire had made it wane and weaken. The corruption and debauchery at court had almost extinguished the light of civilisation. Now it seemed like those old traditions were being revived. The doom of the Empire was, perhaps, already written.

  Decimation. Martius shuddered at the thought of it.

  The barbaric practice was banned by him, under his ‘Martian’ reforms. Many had poured scorn on his ideas of tolerance and rehabilitation but with the support of the old emperor, along with Turbis and a few others, they had been implemented. Martius had empowered the common legionary soldiers to vote their leaders into position. What better way to choose a good leader than to ask the rest of the troops who they thought would be best at keeping them alive? At every level from sub-branch leader to Legion father, every leader was elected by a majority of their troops. He was proud of this meritocratic approach, but he knew that it had generated a lot of bad feeling amongst the upper classes, who had traditionally supplied the officer corps.

  The inherited power of the upper classes was pure idiocy. If a soldier wished to progress as a leader of men, that soldier now knew that if he completed officer training at the academy, he would be eligible to stand for election in the legion. Only after serving as a legionary for at least a year would he be allowed to stand, and even then he was unlikely to be voted in until he was much more experienced.

  Looking up from his reverie, Martius was surprised to find they had already approached the familiar semi-circular table that flared around the imperial throne, which was itself raised on a small dais in the centre so that the Emperor could survey his subjects from a respectable – but by no means imposing – height.

  The council chamber was full. Many senators were in attendance, along with members of the extended royal family. Come to see the show, thought Martius. Some – the most senior – were seated, but the rest were forced to stand, peering over others as they craned to get a view of their emperor.

  As commander-in-chief of the legions, Martius took his permanent seat at the table – almost directly facing the throne. He deliberately avoided acknowledging any other members of the court. The primus general of the Empire did not curry favour with anyone.

  Turbis, rosy faced and puffing slightly following the long walk from the palace balcony, stood behind his right shoulder until a kindly senator – Martius recalled his name was Gravo – beckoned the old general over and relinquished his seat to him. Turbis sat with a long sigh, and then mopped sweat from his brow with a cloth-of-gold handkerchief.

  Martius noted that dozens of the Emperor’s own Golden Legion lined the walls, fully armed and standing to attention. More than he had ever seen in attendance before.

  The leader of the court stepped into the room through a door directly behind the throne. He was dressed, as tradition dictated, in black from head to foot. Still mourning the death of the great Xandar, founder of the Empire, on behalf of its people. Frighteningly frail, the Leader appeared to stand only by grasping hold of his ceremonial silver-tipped staff. The staff itself was so thick that his hands could barely wrap around it.

  The Leader stood in silence. Gradually, people noticed him, and the room became hushed.

  The Leader’s arms shook as he lifted the staff and smashed its tip into the stone floor three times. “All stand for the Emperor, Mucinas Ravenas!” he proclaimed, his voice a dry husk.

  The seated dignitaries stood and the long wait began. This emperor liked to keep his subjects waiting. Martius thought it was probably a power game, but why the most powerful man in the known world needed to play power games was beyond him.

  He is not his father’s son, he thought, not for the first time. He had started to question the wisdom of hereditary leaders at about the same time he had developed his concept for elections in the Legions. It was an obvious leap to think that a leader chosen by the people might be better at running the Empire than a man who held the position purely through an accident of birth. The problem with his burgeoning theory was that the old emperor, who had also gained his position by an accident of birth, had somehow reached a level of enlightenment through which he became an excellent leader.

  Martius kept his theories to himself; to discuss them was high treason. Yet despite this silence, somehow rumours had grown that he wished for a republic. Even Turbis cajoled him in private about his ‘lunatic’ ideas. He considered it ironic that the harder he denied the rumours and swore allegiance to the throne the stronger they became.

  Dangerous rumours, they will be the death of you.

  Emperor Mucinas Ravenas appeared through a door behind the throne. He had taken to wearing high shoes, no doubt to hide his diminutive stature. He sat on the plain stone throne, and a slave placed a stool under his feet as he made himself comfortable.

  After a brief pause, Ravenas nodded, smiling in the general direction of the waiting throng. “Please, be seated.” He made a sweeping gesture with his hand, and nodded again, the very image of innocence.

  “My General Martius,” the Emperor said, examining his fingernails. “I trust you carried out my orders to the letter?”

  “Yes, sire.” Martius replied.

  “They are decimated then?” The Emperor looked up to meet Martius’s eyes, lips tight, small eyes gleaming in his cherubic face. “Purified of their shame?”

  “It is done, sire.”

  “The Twelfth have been disbanded?”

  “Yes, sire.” Martius’s skin prickled and began to itch.

  “Their standard has been broken and burned?” The Emperor tilted his head coquettishly.

  “Yes, sire.” Martius chewed the inside of his cheek. He felt a sharp sting as he drew blood, his mouth registering the metallic tang of it.

  “Hah. Good, good. That’ll teach the cowards, won’t it? That’ll teach them to abandon their posts!” Ravenas stroked a finger over the arm of the throne.

  Martius fought to remain calm. He seeks a reaction; give him none. Silence filled the chamber.

&nbs
p; “My dear Martius.” The Emperor’s voice trembled slightly, a red tide riding up his neck as his face flushed. “I said, That… will… teach... the… cowards… Won’t it?”

  Martius met the Emperor’s gaze. “Yes, sire.” Play the long game. Just play the long game.

  “Yes.” The Emperor produced a thin-lipped smile. “We don’t need that kind of soldier in the army. We need proper soldiers. This is what happens when you let common men take command. I would think so, yes. This is what happens when you allow a man to rise above his station.” Ravenas leaned forward in his throne. “Not a commoner yourself are you, Martius?”

  Martius shrugged and spread his hands wide. “Sire, I am ashamed to have to remind you that I am of your blood on your father’s side. I believe we are distant cousins. I could have the priests consult the genealogy but, as you probably know, house Felix has a long and illustrious history. Like you, sire, we trace our ancestry back to the great Xandar himself.” Be cautious; your pride always gets you into trouble. He lowered his gaze slightly, taking in the golden brocaded shirt the Emperor wore. It probably cost more than a legionary earned in a year.

  “Yes, yes of course.” The Emperor shifted back in his seat and crossed his legs. “Forgive me… cousin. Let us talk of other business. The mighty Third will be rebuilt?”

  “Yes, sire.” Martius forced a smile though it pained him. “The phoenix will rise.” Except maybe the boy. Conlan must be disciplined. The boy really had left him no choice.

  “Good, good.” The Emperor nodded approval. “They did well. They saved the day. I hear they are almost as good as my Golds.”

  “Almost as good as your six thousand, yes, sire.” The Golden legion had grown to double strength over the last ten years, perhaps, in Martius’s opinion, weakening them, diluting their mythos whilst mirroring the growing insecurity of their emperor. Three thousand had marched with Xandar when he first set out from Goya – three thousand golden men whose legend echoed triumphantly through the centuries.