Highlords of Phaer (Empire of Masks Book 1)

by Brock Deskins

  He wished he had the time and bladder control to piss over the parapet onto their heads. The imbecilic peasants weren’t even aware that another entire kingdom resided on the far side of the world, and only the fear of him and his highlords kept them from invading and enslaving them all.

  The emperor reached out to the culminated arcane power and directed it at the Bastion. An explosion rocked the tower hard enough to toss him and the highlords to the floor. His concentration fouled, the iridescent beam struck the aft section of the ship. The twisting metal cried out as if in pain but weathered the brutal assault.

  The sorcerers collected themselves and stood on shaky legs. Their ears rang with a sound like wind howling through a gorge. Arikhan stumbled back to the parapet and seethed at the sight of the onyx airship still afloat before it vanished behind the screen of rising smoke and dust.

  Several flashes, like lightning in a thunderhead, flared from within the dusky cloud. Cannonballs shattered the remnants of the ward protecting the tower as well as the stone beyond. Arikhan thought they might well simply collapse the tower around them until several bright flares streaked through the haze in what must have been a signal to cease their merciless bombardment. With their lives spared for the moment, Arikhan shuffled over to stand with his highlords at the dais.

  Smaller explosions of musket fire echoed up the staircase set in the floor at the far side of the tower. For the first time since the battle began, true concern etched the highlords’ faces. Even Arikhan began to consider the possibility that his reign had finally met its conclusion. He shook the treasonous thoughts from his head. He had set about winning such a potentially disastrous invasion more than a century ago. Thanks to his preparation, the worst case scenario presented to him this day would be little more than a moderate inconvenience despite the unexpected attack forcing up the timetable by several years.

  “Stand steady and ward yourselves,” Arikhan commanded. “We shall squash them as they skitter out of the floor like roaches.”

  Within minutes, the sound of men scrambling onto the landing below them issued from the stairwell. The sorcerers readied their formidable magic, all prepared to incinerate any who dared show themselves.

  Only the sorcerers’ breathing, sporadic musket shots outside, and the muffled sound of the invaders’ voices broke the relative quiet inside the tower. The tension in the room was thick and palpable. Sweat beaded on the highlords’ brows as they waited to join battle with their executioners.

  Nearly a thousand years of combined knowledge and discipline kept the highlords from lashing out at the first sign of movement. It was not the heads of their enemies that first appeared through the opening in the floor but several iron balls the size of pomegranates, each of them trailing sparks from a burning length of cord poking out from them.

  The sorcerers had seen and studied every manner of weapon and warfare, but even their learned minds were unable to fully grasp and counter the manufactured fire and explosives the usurpers hurled against them.

  The highlords stared dumbly at the sparking, metal spheres as they rolled drunkenly toward them. The sorcerers’ wards saved them from the flesh-ripping shrapnel and searing fire but it only dampened the concussive force. The shockwave still packed enough force to lift them from their feet and toss them back onto the floor.

  Their ears rang and their noses bled. When their vision cleared, they found themselves staring down the barrels of a dozen muskets tipped with long bayonets. Five figures stood at the fore, eyes blazing their hatred behind sculpted porcelain slave masks and silk face wraps. Jareen stood over the emperor who braced himself on his hands and knees.

  “Your reign of cruelty is over, Arikhan,” Jareen declared as he centered his flintlock on the back of the sorcerer’s head.

  Arikhan coughed out a broken laugh as he used the low, circular plinth-like structure to lift himself to his feet. “You fool. Your pathetic revolt was doomed a century before you conceived of your plan. Kill me, and you seal the fate of not just you but everyone who walks this world.”

  “The only fate being sealed this day is yours and the rest of your highborn overlords.”

  “We are indeed highborn, unlike cowards who hide behind masks created to conceal their filthy, lowborn faces. Why hide if you are so certain of victory? Are you afraid to let me see your face so that I may know you when you join me on the Tormented Plane?”

  Jareen lifted his mask from his face. “No one shall fear you or your kind ever again.”

  The pistol’s hammer dropped with the crack of thunder. The lead ball tore into Arikhan’s chest and through his heart. The emperor flopped back onto the plinth, impaling himself on the central spire.

  As his blood poured out onto the stone, the highlords reached beneath their robes, pulled out small, ceremonial knives, and drew them across their own throats. They struck the floor in unison, their blood pouring out and joining to create a crimson ocean around their island bodies.

  “Why did they do that?” Venetia asked with a quaking voice.

  “To deny us the pleasure of executing them,” Brelon answered.

  Rayna looked at the dead sorcerers and the strange dais upon which Arikhan’s body lay. “No, this was premeditated. What it is supposed to achieve I cannot guess, but I think it is time for us to leave this place. We can reduce it to rubble from the air.”

  A deep toll reverberated through the tower.

  Jareen looked at his cohorts. “I don’t know what that was, but given Arikhan’s final threat, I think Rayna has the right of it. Let us signal the airships and quit this place. The highlords are finished, their city shattered. We shall return to our homes and help liberate our people from the overlords.”

  Several of the soldiers dug flares from their packs and launched them from the crumbling parapet in hopes of getting them over the slowly dissipating cloud of smoke and dust. Jareen led his group out of the tower and back into the plaza. The ringing of bells heralded the airships’ approach and signaled to the men and women on the ground that it was time to regroup and withdraw.

  The airships descended with no more sound than a whisper on the wind with the exception of the signal bells. Rebels began filtering into the plaza in groups, many noticeably smaller than when they had started. Jareen noted a number of former slaves amongst them as well and sought out an officer to inquire as to why they were coming into the plaza mixed with his soldiers.

  “Jareen! Jareen!”

  Jareen turned toward the voice calling his name. He made out the silhouette of the man shouting for him when he was a stone’s throw away but could not identify him until he cut the distance in half. Daric, a man Jareen had appointed as a lieutenant, hurried toward him.

  Jareen laid a hand on the agitated man’s shoulder. “Daric, what is going on? Why are all these people here?”

  Daric swallowed to catch his breath. “They want to flee the city. I think we have to take them.”

  “We can’t possibly. We lost the Deliverer.”

  Daric shook his head. “We’ve lost more than a ship’s contingent in the fighting. We have to make room for them.”

  “Why? The highlords are dead. The sorcerers are broken and soon the overlords shall be as well. We won.”

  Daric wagged his head more forcefully, his eyes wide. “Not broken, dead. The bell.”

  “You mean the toll? I think it heralded Arikhan’s death.”

  “Not just his death. All of them. They’re all dead!”

  “Who, who is dead?”

  “Everyone! When the bell tolled, the sorcerers, every one of them, stopped fighting or fleeing, took out a small knife, and cut their throats. I saw mothers and fathers cut the throats of their children before turning the blades on themselves. They’re all dead. I don’t think it is over. I think something is just beginning. Something more horrible than we can imagine.”

  Jareen’s gut churned. It was the same feeling he got when he heard the toll only greatly compounded. Arikhan’s ominous wo
rds echoed in his mind once more and filled him with dread.

  “Spread the word. Get everyone on the ships. As many as we can hold. Stack them on the decks if we have to. There must be some lowborn sorcerers able to pilot a ship even if inexpertly. Seek them out and send them to the mooring yards. There are thousands of people here and we can’t possibly take them all.”

  Daric flashed an improvised salute and hustled away. They were not a real army and had little in the way of a rank structure. The gesture was simply an evolution of circumstance, and it made Jareen proud.

  “Jareen, what is happening?” Venetia asked. “I’m hearing something about all of the highborn committing suicide like the highlords did.”

  Jareen met the eyes of his fellow revolutionary leaders now gathered around him. “Not suicide. Not in the simple sense. I think it was a ritual killing. One with very ill intent. We need to get everyone out of the city. If anyone can pilot an airship, send them to the nearest mooring yard to commandeer any vessel they find. Venetia, gather your people aboard the Drake. I do not know what the loss of your airship will mean for the liberation of Glisteran, but it is the only ship going that direction.”

  Jareen turned to Brelon. “Brelon, I know you and your people will want to return to Thuul with all haste to assist in ousting the overlords and highborn, but without the food Glisteran provides, we all risk deprivation.”

  “You are asking me to abandon my city and her people.”

  “I am asking you to think bigger than any one city, but I can only ask. It is your ship and your decision.”

  Brelon opened his mouth to say more, but a high keening cut through the air. The wind began to howl and the arcanstones atop the spires encircling the city began to pulse, their cadence increasing. A countdown had begun.

  “To the ships!” Jareen shouted above the howling wind now whipping through the plaza.

  Lightning crackled through the air, arcing between spires with tiny electrical tendrils streaking through the dust cloud. A bolt of lightning struck the Voulge’s mainmast at the same time as a powerful gust of wind blew it to port and dashed it against one of the tall buildings surrounding the plaza.

  The sundered wood let out a horrible shriek as the ship’s ‘bones’ cracked and shattered. People scrambled out of the way as the vessel sank into the plaza and landed with a heavy crash. Jareen raced to his stricken ship, clambered up the rope webbing draped over the side, and sought out his pilot. He found Irna leaning on the ship’s wheel.

  “Irna, can we still fly?”

  The pilot looked up, the stress and exhaustion of controlling the airship’s hard landing evident on her face. “I think so, but I don’t think she is battleworthy. Firing her cannons will probably tear her apart. Hell, a strong wind gust might splinter her.”

  “We have no other choice. I’ll take our soldiers aboard the Bastion and use the Voulge as a refugee ship. Your only duty is to get the people away from Phaer. Toss the cannons overboard if you have to lighten your load.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Jareen left command of his ship to Irna and sought out Atin aboard the Bastion. Even amid the chaos, he could not help but be awestruck with the ship as he made his way across her deck. He found Atin standing next to his pilot on the aft deck.

  “Jareen,” Atin called out at his approach.

  “Atin, I’ve lost the Voulge as a battleship and ordered my men to board the Bastion.”

  “As long as you don’t expect me to abandon Vulcrad as you do Brelon with Thuul.”

  “I would not ask such a thing. The circumstances are different. As much as I want to race to defend my city, I know she holds no higher importance than Vulcrad. Given your mines, it hurts me to admit that it is likely less. My men and I will help you free Vulcrad and together we will do what we can for Velaroth.”

  “It pleases me to hear so. I have told Lorbash what the highborn sorcerers have done to themselves. He said it was certainly a type of ritual death magic. Being lowborn, he was not privy to what the resulting spell entailed, but it is very powerful magic and necromantic in origin. We would be wise to lift off as soon as we can and get very far away.”

  “You will get no argument from me. Have him sail the moment all of our men are aboard.”

  Atin looked over the railing at the crowd pressing toward the ships. “We will be leaving a lot of people behind.”

  Jareen’s face went slack and he nodded. “There is no help for it. As I told Brelon, this is bigger than any one city.”

  Minutes later, with their hulls and decks brimming with survivors, the airships lifted off. Jareen could see figures grasping onto ropes and webbing dangling over the other ships’ sides. Those on deck tried to help hoist the climbers up. Some of them made it, others did not. He could not hear over the howling wind the cries of those who fell, but he felt them stab into his heart.

  With the airships clear of the plaza, the crowd began to push toward the mooring yards in earnest. Jareen prayed they all made it and found ships and pilots that would carry them to safety, but in his heart, he feared few if any would.

  CHAPTER 34

  Gale-force winds buffeted the airships, flinging them about like dandelion blossoms on the wind. Jareen saw a few unfortunate souls on the Celestial tossed overboard before he lost sight of the ship in the gathering dust storm. Even the Bastion’s pilot struggled to keep the vessel steady and pointed in the direction of Vulcrad.

  Jareen looked back toward Phaer. The dust clouds had turned day into dusk. Miles away and hidden behind the veil of blowing sand, he could no longer see the once glorious city. His rapture nearly cost him dearly as scintillating rays, each as bright as the sun, stabbed into the sky and seared away the dust from around the city.

  For a moment, Phaer stood in stark contrast to the miniature nova’s brilliant backdrop before the light fell like liquid fire from the heavens. Jareen turned away lest he be stricken blind.

  Jareen opened his eyes and stared dumbfounded at the wall of sand and lightning racing toward them. “Pilot!”

  Lorbash peered over his shoulder and his eyes went wide. “Oh my! Strike the sails and grab hold!”

  Soldiers and refugees clung to anything secured to the deck as crew grabbed at lines and cranked windlasses. No one could have anticipated the speed of the unnatural storm. The wall of wind and dust hit them like a slap from an angry god, lifting the stern and driving them forward faster than any airship had ever traveled; even those few that had suffered catastrophic failure and had fallen from the sky never reached such velocity.

  Lorbash fought to keep the bow pointed in the direction of the storm but it was as if he were wrestling a dragon. Were it not for the belt securing him in place, the wheel would have lifted him from his feet and dashed him against the deck, if he managed to keep his grip.

  The storm finally swallowed them whole and moved on to gobble up everything else in its path. The wind lifted several men from the deck and flung them out into the abyss, their screams unheard over the raging tempest. Being inside the maelstrom and having its sails torn to shreds, the ship slowed but still ran and bucked like a terrified beast.

  The storm raged around them for the next hour or two…or three—it was impossible to mark the time. Every minute spent on the Tormented Plane was an eternity, and that was certainly where they were. Lorbash was almost beginning to feel in control when a dark shape loomed ahead of them and grew larger with every passing second. With the sails in tatters, steering the heavy airship was like dragging a boulder across the ground. The pilot knew he would not be able to go around the mountain, so his only choice was to go over.

  He urged the airship upward, but the blowing wind was like a hand pressing down upon them. It was not a tall mountain, little more than a hill, but failing to clear its height by even an inch or two could prove disastrous.

  They struck the mountain’s crest with a resounding crash and the peal of metal. The airship shuddered and slammed Lorbash into the wheel. The crest w
as a sharp ridge that fell away on the far side. What he had thought was a ridgeline was the rim of a dormant volcano with the leeward side blown out ages ago.

  Atin leaned toward the pilot and shouted. “Can you drop us into the caldera?”

  “I shall try!”

  As Lorbash guided the ship down below the crest, the wind relented. The caldera was not large but it was rather deep, and enough wind still found its way inside to buffet them around. They dropped below the section that had been blown out by the ancient eruption and carried away as magma.

  A powerful downdraft struck them from above and sent the ship smashing into the volcano wall. Rocks broke free and crashed onto the deck, killing or wounding those unable to dodge away in time. A boulder the size of a horse-drawn cart splintered off and struck the deck amidships with the sound of a sledgehammer pummeling an enormous bell.

  Had the Bastion been a wooden vessel, it would have spelled the airship’s end and killed most of the people aboard. Being made of iron and void steel, she shrugged off the blow like a knight in full armor. While the hit was not immediately fatal, the strike staggered the great vessel and drove her to her knees.

  The Bastion’s controlled descent turned into something just shy of a freefall. Fortunately, they had nearly reached the bottom of the caldera when the boulder struck them. The landing was hard but they and the airship survived. Men and women moaned and cried out on the deck, and frightened voices called up from the hold.

  Atin unbuckled the straps securing him in place. “Lorbash, will the ship still fly?”

  Lorbash gripped the wheel and closed his eyes in concentration. “She’s gone dead. We hit hard. I suspect that the heart stone is damaged. Either that or some of the rune-scribings.”