Highlords of Phaer (Empire of Masks Book 1)

by Brock Deskins

  Highlords of Phaer

  Empire of Masks book 1

  By

  Brock E. Deskins

  Copyright ©2016 by Brock E. Deskins

  Dingo Dog Publishing

  Cover Illustration Copyright © 2016

  Copyright, Legal Notice and Disclaimer:

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Books by Brock E. Deskins

  THE SORCERER’S PATH

  The Sorcerer’s Ascension

  The Sorcerer’s Torment

  The Sorcerer’s Legacy

  The Sorcerer’s Vengeance

  The Sorcerer’s Scourge

  The Sorcerer’s Abyss

  The Sorcerer’s Return

  The Sorcerer’s Destiny

  BROOKLYN SHADOWS

  Shrouds of Darkness

  Blood Conspiracy

  Primacy of Darkness

  THE TRANSCENDED CHRONICLES

  The Miscreant

  The Agent

  OTHER BOOKS BY BROCK E. DESKINS

  The Portal

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  SNEAK PREVIEW OF NIGHT BIRD

  FROM THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1

  Jareen hurried down the palace halls with his head held high and his back erect. Despite his haste, it was important to maintain his bearing. He was Auberon Victore’s personal valet. Serving Overlord Alexis Victore’s second son made him one of the highest-ranking slaves in the city, just below the overlord and her consort’s personal attendants. It was a position he had held since he was just eleven years old.

  He strode past the few highborn wandering the palace halls this early in the day, neither party giving the other any notice. Despite the porcelain slave mask concealing his features, all knew who he was and whom he served and so carried on as if he did not exist just as they did all of the slave class unless ordering them about or showing their displeasure. The emblems carved into the gold disc set in the mask’s forehead identified his position, so no one short of the overlord would dare interfere with his duties.

  Auberon’s elder brother, Driscoll, might, but it was considered bad form and Jareen was required to ignore any commands anyone might give him until clearing it with his master. If such was not possible, then Jareen would report the infraction to Auberon as soon as he was able. Fortunately, Sah Driscoll did not cross his path. The brothers did not get on well and Sah Driscoll enjoyed upsetting his younger brother whenever possible, often by tampering with his servants.

  The two shared a powerful sibling rivalry that began the moment Driscoll realized that his younger brother would eclipse him in most every way their society deemed important. Driscoll enjoyed much favor as the commander of all Velaroth’s forces and was considered one of the best tactical minds in centuries. However, in an empire where battles were waged almost entirely for sport, such acclaim elevated only so far. Auberon, on the other hand, was a genius in a hierarchy that prided itself in intelligence and sorcerous power, and the younger Victore son had enough of both to spare.

  “Where have you been, Jareen?” Auberon demanded the moment Jareen cast open the bedroom doors. “I have been ready to get out of bed for nearly twenty minutes. I fear the entire day is ruined because of your tardiness.”

  “Forgive me, Sah Auberon. There was a situation in the kitchens I needed to straighten out and word of your wakefulness was slow to reach me,” Jareen said as he pulled colorful shimmersilk clothes from the wardrobe.

  Auberon yawned as he sat up. “It is too early in the day for you to bore me with your excuses. Just hurry. Mother is expecting me for breakfast, and you know how she is when anyone keeps her waiting.”

  “Of course, sah.”

  Jareen helped his master from the bed by gently guiding him by the arm and then fitting him into his flowing clothes and robe, ignoring the naked woman in the bed as if she were just another piece of furniture. Auberon was only three years younger than Jareen, but his sorcerous blood allowed him to weather the past thirty years far better than his slave had. Despite being just two years shy of forty, Auberon looked to be a man who was just settling into his twenties. If Jareen managed to a ripe old age of seventy or eighty, Auberon would still be a handsome, middle-aged man even as his slave’s body rotted in its grave. Shimmering like a peacock’s plumage, Auberon headed toward the dining room where his family were likely waiting for him, relishing every minute of his tardiness so as to devise increasingly better insults when he arrived.

  “Jareen, mind your place,” Auberon said when his servant began walking ahead of him.

  Jareen ducked his head and fell back several paces. “Forgive me, sah. I thought considering the time that haste would be prudent.”

  “We are already late. Appearing agitated is piling one foul upon another. I am above such unseemly behavior, and you know I expect the same of my servants.”

  “I do, sah.”

  “Good boy.”

  Jareen followed three steps behind his master until they neared the dining room. He quickened his pace enough to open the doors to allow Auberon to pass through without breaking stride. Auberon stopped near the end of the long table and bowed to his mother seated at the head, flicking his eyes toward his brother sitting to her left, giving him scarcely more consideration than the slaves standing against the walls waiting to serve their masters.

  Driscoll favored his father, Jerald, who sat at the opposite end of the table to his mother, Alexis. He was shorter than Auberon but bore a much more stalwart frame. He was broad of shoulder but dull and uninspiring of visage, an odd coupling considering the stern, shrewd woman he married.

  Auberon was tall and lean, his features as sharp as the intellect blazing behind his eyes. Where Driscoll would stab a man through the heart without hesitation at the slightest provocation, Auberon’s method of execution could take weeks or months, his victim possibly ignorant of his impending death until he was a hollow shell of a human being lying on his deathbed as everything he had ever built or took pride in turned to dust around him.

  “Ah, my truant brother finally deigns to grace us with his presence,” Driscoll said at Auberon’s arrival. “A bit slow getting out of bed, or was it a slave that had you trapped within its folds?”

  Auberon took a seat across fro
m his brother. “Were it the latter, then it would certainly be the former as well, so I suppose it is both.”

  “I will never understand you, Brother. One may as well bed a rammox as a slave.”

  “Is that why the herd always gets nervous at your approach?”

  Driscoll slammed the handle of his fork against the table. “It is not too late for you to attend the naval academy. If they cannot teach you how to be a man, at least you might learn to be punctual.”

  Auberon smiled at his brother. “Thank you for the offer, but I have heard what goes on aboard those airships during the long flights and would prefer the company of my slaves, or even rammox for that matter. I think one professional sword polisher in the family is sufficient.”

  Driscoll bolted to his feet, sending his chair screeching across the floor behind him. “You dare cast aspersions on me?”

  “I do and take great pleasure in it.”

  “No man, not even my little brother, can insult me in such a way. I challenge you to a duel.”

  “Driscoll,” Jerald interrupted.

  Driscoll forestalled his father’s protest with a raised hand. “No, Father! He has gone too far and needs to learn his place.” He pierced Auberon with his furious gaze. “How about it, Brother, will you for once act like a man and accept my challenge?”

  Auberon, his smile never fading, flicked a hand over his shoulder to wave a slave forward. A young woman broke from the wall and poured the master’s tea with a trembling hand before retreating back to her position and becoming invisible once again. Auberon raised the eggshell-thin porcelain cup to his lips and drank while absently fingering the tiny spot of tea now marring the tablecloth.

  He watched his brother’s mounting impatience with much amusement. “I accept.”

  Driscoll beamed. “Finally, you show some backbone. There is some hope for you yet.”

  “And yield to my challenger’s greater skill.”

  Driscoll’s face went slack and reddened. “You cannot do that!”

  “Try not to be stupid. Of course I can. Congratulations. You have won our dispute…the only way you know how.”

  “You coward!”

  “What you call cowardice I call pragmatism,” Auberon countered. “You are and always will be more accomplished when it comes to crossing swords. My skills lie elsewhere.”

  “What, sitting in your little laboratory brewing caustic mixtures together like some terrible scullery wench making stew?”

  “Driscoll, you are an excellent commander, probably the best since the founding of the naval academy, but you will die in obscurity. You play your little war games with the other cities, fighting over tiny patches of mostly barren ground, which accomplishes nothing more than stroking the overinflated egos of your fellow sailors, enriching and beggaring the gamblers who bet on the outcomes, and earning meaningless praise from the overlords and highlords. What I do will change the world. My name will far outlive me where yours will vanish, never to be spoken again, the day you die.”

  Driscoll turned plaintive eyes toward Alexis. “Mother!”

  “Oh, sit down, Driscoll,” she responded. “He conceded the duel. Be satisfied with your victory, for whatever it is worth. I am tired of your bickering and will hear no more. Highlord Nahuza is coming to the city next week in preparation for Tribute Day, and we need to prepare for her arrival. The last thing I want is for her to see the two of you squabbling like children.”

  Driscoll glared daggers at his brother but did as he was told. “It seems to me that the last thing you would want is for her to see these rabble-rousers plaguing the city.”

  Alexis beckoned to the slaves to begin serving breakfast. “It is hardly a plague. It is a cold at best, a few lowborn scum unhappy with their station and acting out like spoiled children sent to bed without dessert.”

  “I think you underplay the problem, Mother,” Auberon replied. “While they are mostly a nuisance, they are becoming increasingly bold. Several highborn have reported assaults on their person and vandalism to their properties. Just yesterday, someone firebombed a warehouse. Nor is the problem isolated to Velaroth. Last week, someone set fire to part of the shipyard in Nibbenar, damaging three new airships. I have also heard of vandalism and violence in Vulcrad. There are many reports of assaults in Thuum as well.”

  Driscoll gave his brother a contemptuous snort. “The Thuum are a savage lot that have never been fully domesticated. That is why I prefer them for my personal servants and ground assault forces. If you know how to break them properly, they make excellent slaves. You should get a few for yourself, what with all of these highborn attacks. They would serve you far better than the show animal you currently favor.”

  “I have never understood how someone with your tactical intelligence can be so single-minded,” Auberon replied. “Jareen’s skill set is vast. Not only is he suitably tailored to aiding me in my work, he is a more than capable bodyguard should the need arise, unlike your brainless, one-dimensional pets.”

  “Is that right? Perhaps you would like to make a wager.”

  “What kind of wager?”

  “You say that your man is sufficient protection; let him prove it. Have him fight my manservant and you shall see how lacking he is despite his—” Driscoll waved his hand dismissively “—superfluous other talents.”

  “I am an accomplished sorcerer. I have no need of lowborn muscle to protect me from thugs and hooligans and neither does my man.”

  “By the gods, Auberon, is there any conflict you won’t run from? I swear if you retreat any farther you will find yourself neck deep in your ass.” Driscoll turned to Alexis. “Honestly, Mother, how did you give birth to such a spineless creature? He must surely be of Father’s line.”

  Jerald glanced up from his breakfast, his mouth filled with half-chewed food. “Here now!”

  “Be still, Jerald, and finish your meal,” Alexis ordered. “He’s right, Auberon. While I do not condone fighting amongst brothers, you are descended from Emperor Arikhan himself and must therefore be willing to defend yourself and your family name. Hiding in your little laboratory playing with potions is ill-suited to a man of your lineage.”

  Auberon sighed and cast his eyes toward the ceiling. “Fine, Driscoll, what is it you want? What is your wager?”

  “Your man fights mine. If mine wins, then you have to serve aboard my ship for one year. Trust me, Brother, I do this for your own good.”

  “And if my man wins?”

  Driscoll shrugged. “What do you want?”

  “What is the standard of satisfaction, first blood?”

  “To the death, of course. Anything less is pointless.”

  “Fine, then I want one of your ships, the Voulge.”

  Driscoll’s face reddened. “No slave is worth an airship, particularly not my flagship! Stop being ridiculous.”

  “I am not being ridiculous at all. I have spent my entire life grooming Jareen to be the perfect servant. If I lose, it will take a decade for me to replace him. You can find a new dog in any Thuumian fighting pit.”

  “Mother, he is deliberately making a mockery of my wager!” Driscoll pleaded.

  “And you are insulting our family with your whining,” Alexis snapped. “You issued the challenge and set the standard of satisfaction. It is his right to wager what he feels is equal collateral. Accept or yield, Driscoll.”

  “It is nowhere near an equal wager!”

  Auberon shrugged. “It is to me, but if you are uncertain as to your man’s triumph, then I will accept your concession like a gentleman and neither of us will mention it again.”

  Driscoll’s lips curled into a predatory smile. “You are right. Your pampered pet cannot beat my fighter, so your ridiculous wager is meaningless. I accept. Let us retire to the north garden and have done with this. I have a battle set for next week against Overlord Caelen for which I must prepare.”

  Auberon dabbed the corner of his mouth with a shimmersilk napkin, cast it onto the table, and s
tood. “I hope you can adjust your strategy to account for one less ship on such short notice.”

  ***

  The two fighters and a handful of spectators converged on the garden for the duel. Jerald was there of course, he enjoyed such spectacles, but Alexis was never one for what she considered wasteful displays of ego and had more important things that required her attention.

  The garden was a terrace overlooking the north side of the city. Benches, potted plants and flowers, and colorful mosaics provided aesthetic decoration. A rack of weapons stood to one side of the terrace holding several swords of varying design.

  Jareen took little notice of the scenery or onlookers as he stripped off his light jacket, carefully folded it, and laid it on a nearby table. He then unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled them up over his elbows before turning his attention toward the rack of blades.

  Four palace guardsmen also attended the duel, and one of them handed Driscoll’s slave a talwar. The curved sword was similar to a scimitar but with a lighter blade and was probably the man’s personal weapon.

  Jareen owned a sword as well, but it resided at his home as he rarely had need of it. Bereft of his personal weapon, he chose a rapier from the rack that was nearest to its weight and balance. Jareen swept the blade in front of him and felt satisfied with its feel.

  “At least he seems to know which the dangerous end is,” Driscoll said as he watched the two men prepare.

  Auberon smiled at his brother’s barbed jape. “You truly know nothing about my man, do you?”

  “He is a slave accustomed to pouring your tea and wiping your backside. There is nothing else I need to know.”

  Auberon smiled. “That is why your ship is soon to be mine.”

  Driscoll turned an incredulous look to his brother. “You cannot think that your pampered pet can defeat one of my best warriors? It will be a miracle if he survives the opening gambit.”

  “If you knew him, you would not be so confident.”