Rise Of Empire: The Riyria Revelations

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “Who are you to defy Erandabon?” chanted the crowd. The warlord waved his hand in the air and the chattering grew loud again. The guards moved in with spears.

  “Now we know what the empire has been doing with the elves they’ve been rounding up,” Royce muttered as he ran his fingers lightly along the length of the doorjamb.

  The Tenkin had locked them in cells buried in the foundation of the fortress. There were no windows. The only light came from the small barred opening of the door, beyond which torches mounted in iron sconces flickered intermittently. Hadrian and Royce were fortunate enough to share a cell with Wyatt and Wesley, while the others were in similar cells within the same block. The sounds of their independent conversations echoed as indiscernible whispers.

  “It’s ghastly,” Wesley said, collapsing on the stone floor and dropping his head in his hands. “Admittedly, I’ve never held any love for those of elven blood”—he gave Royce an apologetic glance—“but this—this is loathsome beyond human imagining. That the empire could sanction such a vile and dishonorable act is … is …”

  “And now we also know what that fleet of ships in the bay is for,” Hadrian said. “They’re planning to invade Delgos, and it would appear we delivered the orders for them to attack.”

  “But Drumindor is impregnable from the sea,” Wesley said. “Do you think this Erandabon fellow knows that? All those ships will be burned to cinders the moment they enter the bay.”

  “No, they won’t,” Royce said. “Drumindor has been sabotaged. When they vent at the next full moon, there will be an explosion, destroying it, and I suspect Tur Del Fur as well. After that, the armada can sail in unopposed.”

  “What?” Wesley asked. “You can’t possibly know that.”

  Royce said nothing.

  “Yes, he does,” Hadrian said.

  Realization crossed Wesley’s face. “The seal was broken. You read the letter?”

  Royce continued exploring the door.

  “How is it going to explode?” Hadrian asked.

  “The vents have been blocked.”

  “No …” Hadrian shook his head. “Only Gravis knew how to do that and he’s dead.”

  “Merrick found out somehow. He’s doing the same thing Gravis tried. He’s blocked the portals. When they try to vent during the harvest moon, the gas and molten rock will have nowhere to go. The whole mountain will blow. And that’s what Merrick meant about turning the tide of war for the empire. Delgos supports the Nationalists, funded largely by Cornelius DeLur. When they eliminated Gaunt, they cut off the rebellion’s head. Now they will cut off its legs. Destroying Delgos will mean the New Empire will only need to deal with Melengar.”

  “But those ships we saw in the harbor were not just Tenkin. The vast majority were Ghazel,” Hadrian pointed out. “Gile thinks he can use them as muscle, as his attack dogs, but goblins can’t be tamed. He can’t control them. The empire is handing Delgos over to the Ba Ran Ghazel. Once they entrench themselves, the goblins will become a greater threat to the New Empire than the Nationalists ever were.”

  “I doubt Merrick cares,” Royce said.

  “You stole the letter from me and read it?” Wesley asked Royce. “And you had us deliver it to the warlord knowing it would launch an invasion?”

  “Are you saying you wouldn’t have? Those were your orders, sanctioned by the regents themselves.”

  “But giving Delgos to that … that … insane man and the Ghazel, it’s …it’s …”

  “It’s your sworn duty as an officer of the New Empire.”

  Wesley stared, aghast. “My father used to say, ‘A knight draws his sword for three reasons: to defend himself, to defend the weak, and to defend his lord,’ but he always added, ‘Never defend yourself against the truth, never defend the weakness in others, and never defend a lord without honor.’ I don’t see how anyone can find honor in feeding a child to goblins or handing over a nation of men to the Ghazel horde.”

  “Why did you let him deliver the letter?” Hadrian asked.

  “I just read it tonight during the water break. It was my last chance to get a look. I figured if we showed up completely empty-handed, we’d be killed.”

  “I won’t be party to this …this … atrocity! We must prevent Drumindor’s destruction,” Wesley announced.

  “You realize interfering with this would be treason?” Royce told Wesley.

  “By ordering the delivery of every man, woman, and child in Tur Del Fur into the bloodthirsty hands of the Ba Ran Ghazel, the empress has committed treason to her people. It is I who remain loyal … loyal to the cause of honor.”

  “It might comfort you to know that it’s highly unlikely that Empress Modina gave this order,” Hadrian told him. “We know her—met her before she became empress. She would never sanction anything like this. I was in the palace the day before we sailed from Aquesta, and she’s not in charge. The regents are the ones behind this.”

  “One thing’s for sure: if we foil Merrick’s plan, we won’t have to look for him anymore. He’ll find us,” Royce added.

  “This is all my fault.” Wesley sighed. “My first command, and look where it has led.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up. You did fine.” Hadrian patted him on the shoulder. “But your duty is done now. You completed the task your lord set for you. Everything after this is of your own choosing.”

  “Not much of a choice, I’m afraid,” Wesley said, looking around their cell.

  “How long before the harvest moon?” Hadrian asked.

  “About two weeks, I would guess,” Royce replied.

  “It would take us too long to travel back by land. How long would it take us to get there by sea, Wyatt?” Hadrian asked.

  “With the wind at our backs, we’d make the trip in a fraction of the time it took us to come out. Week and a half, maybe two.”

  “Then we still have time,” Hadrian said.

  “Time for what?” Wesley asked. “We are locked in the dungeon of a madman at the edge of the world. Merely surviving will be a feat.”

  “You are far too pessimistic for one so young,” Royce told him.

  Wesley let out a small laugh. “All right, Seaman Melborn, how do you propose we sneak down to the harbor, capture a ship loaded with Ghazel warriors, and sail it out of a bay past an armada when we can’t even get out of this locked cell?”

  Royce gave the door a gentle push and it swung open. “I unlocked it while you were ranting,” he said.

  Wesley’s face showed his astonishment. “You’re not just a seaman, are you?”

  “Wait here,” Royce said, slipping out.

  He was gone for several minutes. They heard no sound. When he returned, Poe, Derning, Grady, Dilladrum, and the Vintu followed. Royce had blood on his dagger and a ring of keys in his hand.

  “What about the others?” Wesley asked.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t forget about them,” Royce said with a devilish grin. When he left, the others followed. A guard lay dead in a pool of blood and Royce was already at the door of the last cell.

  “We don’t need to be released,” Defoe said from behind the door. “I could open it myself if I wanted to get out.”

  “I’m not here to let you out,” Royce said, opening the door.

  Bernie backed up and drew his dagger.

  “Stay out of this, Bernie,” Royce told him. “So far you’ve just been doing a job. I get that, but stand between me and Thranic and it gets personal.”

  “Seaman Melborn!” Wesley snapped. “I can’t let you kill Mr. Thranic.”

  Royce ignored him and Wesley appealed to Hadrian, who shrugged in response. “It’s a policy of mine not to get in his way, especially when the other guy deserves it.”

  Wesley turned to Wyatt, whose expression showed no compassion. “He burned a shipload of elves and, for all I know, was responsible for taking my daughter. Let him die.”

  Dr. Levy stepped aside, leaving Thranic alone at the back of the cell with only
his dagger for protection. By his grip and stance, Hadrian knew the sentinel was not a knife fighter. Thranic was sweating, his eyes tense as Royce moved in.

  “Might I ask why you’re killing Mr. Thranic?” Bulard asked suddenly, stepping between them. “Those of you intent on fleeing could make better use of your time than butchering a man in his cell, don’t you think?”

  “Won’t take but a second,” Royce assured him.

  “Perhaps, perhaps, but I’m asking you not to. I’m not saying he doesn’t deserve death, but who are you to grant it? Thranic will die, and quite soon, I suspect, given where we’re headed. Regardless, our mission is vital not just to the empire, but to all of mankind, and we’ll need him if we’re to have any hope to complete it.”

  “Shut up, you old fool,” the sentinel growled.

  This caught Royce’s attention, though he kept his eyes on Thranic. “What mission?”

  “To find a very old and very important relic called the Horn of Gylindora that will be needed very soon, I’m afraid.”

  “The horn?” Hadrian repeated.

  “Yes. Given our precarious situation, I don’t think it wise to give you a history lesson just now, but suffice to say it’s in all of our best interests to leave Thranic alive—for now.”

  “Sorry,” Royce replied, “but you’ll just have to make do without—”

  The door to the cellblock opened and a pair of soldiers with meal plates stepped in. A quick glance at the dead guard and they ran.

  Royce sprinted after them. Bernie quickly closed his cell door again.

  “Go, all of you!” Bulard urged.

  The party ran out of the cellblock and up the stairs. By the time they reached the top, the hallway was filled with loud voices.

  “They got away,” Royce grumbled.

  “We gathered that from the shouting,” Hadrian said.

  They faced a four-way intersection of identical narrow stone corridors. Wall-mounted flames burned from iron cradles staggered at long intervals, leaving large sections of shifting shadows.

  Royce glanced back toward the cellblock and cursed under his breath. “That’s what I get for hesitating.”

  “Any idea which way now?” Wyatt asked.

  “This way,” Royce said.

  He led them at a rapid pace, then stopped abruptly and motioned everyone into a doorway. Moments later a troop of guards rushed by. Wesley started forward and Royce hauled him back. Two more guards passed.

  “Now we go,” he told them, “but stay behind me.”

  Royce continued along the multitude of corridors and turns, pausing from time to time. They climbed two more sets of stairs and dodged another group of soldiers. Hadrian saw the wonderment reflected in the party’s faces at Royce’s skill. It was as if he could see through walls or knew the location of every guard. For Hadrian it was nothing new, but even he was impressed at their progress, given that Royce was towing a parade.

  A door unexpectedly opened and several Tenkins literally bumped into Dilladrum and one of the Vintu. Terrified, Dil-ladrum fled down a corridor, the Vintu following. The stunned Tenkins were not warriors and were just as scared as Dilladrum. They retreated inside. Royce shouted for Dilladrum to stop, but it was no use.

  “Damn it!” Royce cursed, chasing after them. The rest of the crew raced to keep up as they ran blindly through corridor after corridor. Rounding a corner, Hadrian nearly ran into Royce, whose way was blocked by Tenkin warriors. The dead bodies of Dilladrum and the Vintu lay on the floor, blood pooling across the stone. Behind them, a small army cut off their retreat.

  “Who are you to defy Erandabon?” chanted the crowd of Tenkin warriors.

  “Get back!” Hadrian ordered, pushing Wesley and the others into a niche that afforded a small amount of defense. He pulled a torch from the wall and together with Royce formed a forward defense.

  The Tenkin soldiers charged, screaming as they attacked.

  Royce appeared to dodge the advance, but the foremost warrior fell dead. Hadrian drove the flame of his torch into the second Tenkin’s face. Using his feet, Royce flipped the dead man’s sword to Hadrian, who caught it in time to decapitate the next challenger.

  Two Tenkins charged Royce, who simply was not where they expected him to be when they arrived. His movements were a blur, and two more collapsed. Hadrian advanced as Royce kicked the dead men’s weapons behind them to Wyatt, Derning, and Wesley. Hadrian stood at the center now.

  Three attacked. Three fell dead.

  The rest retreated, bewildered, and Hadrian picked up a second blade.

  Clap! Clap! Clap!

  The warlord walked toward them, applauding and grinning. “Galenti, it is you. So good to have you back!”

  CHAPTER 18

  THE POT OF SOUP

  Amilia sulked in the kitchen, head in her hands, elbows resting on the baker’s table. This was where it had all started, when Modina’s former secretary had brought her to the kitchen for a lesson in table manners. Remembering the terror of those early days, she was staggered to realize those had been better times.

  Now a witch hid in Modina’s room, filling the empress’s head with nonsense. She was a foreigner, the princess of an enemy kingdom, and yet she spent more time with Modina than Amilia did. She could be manipulating the empress in any number of ways. Amilia had tried to reason with Modina, but no matter what Amilia said, the girl remained adamant about helping the witch find Degan Gaunt.

  Amilia preferred the old days, when Modina had left everything to her. Sitting there, she wondered what she should do. She wanted to go to Saldur and report the witch but knew that would hurt Modina. The empress might never recover from such a betrayal, especially by Amilia, whom she trusted implicitly. The loss would surely crush her fragile spirit, and Amilia saw disaster at the end of every path. She felt as if she were in a runaway carriage racing toward a cliff, with no way to reach the reins.

  “How about I make you some soup?” Ibis Thinly asked her. The big man stood in his stained apron, stirring a large steaming pot, into which he threw bits of celery.

  “I’m too miserable to eat,” she replied.

  “It can’t be as bad as all that, can it?”

  “You have no idea. She’s become a handful and then some. I’m actually afraid to leave her alone. Every time I walk out of her room, I’m frightened something terrible will happen.”

  It was late and they were the only two in the scullery. Long shadows, cast by the flames of the cook’s hearth, traced up the far wall. The kitchen was warm and pleasant, except for a foul smell coming from the bubbling broth Ibis cooked on the stove.

  “Oh, it can’t be as bad as all that. Come on, can’t I interest you in some soup? I make a pretty mean vegetable barley, if I do say so myself.”

  “You know I love your food. It’s just that my stomach is in knots. I noticed a gray hair in the mirror the other day.”

  “Oh please, you’re still just a girl,” Ibis laughed, then caught himself. “I guess I shouldn’t speak to you that way, you being noble and all. I should be saying, ‘Yes, Your Ladyship,’ or in this case, ‘No, no, Your Ladyship! If you’ll allow me to be so bold as to speak plainly in your presence, I beg to differ, for I think you’re purty as a pot!’ That would be a more proper response.”

  Amilia smiled. “You know, I never have understood that saying of yours.”

  Ibis drew himself up in feigned offense. “I’m a cook. I like pots.” He chuckled. “Have some soup. Something warm in your belly will help untie some of those knots, eh?”

  She glanced at the pot he was stirring and grimaced. “I don’t think so.”

  “Oh no, not this. Great Maribor, no! I’ll make you something good.”

  Amilia looked relieved. “What is that you’re making? It smells like rotten eggs.”

  “Soup, but it’s barely fit for animals, made with all the worst parts of old leftovers. The smell comes from this horrid yellow powder I have to use. I try to dress it up as best I can. I th
row some celery and spices in, just to ease my conscience.”

  “Who’s it for?”

  “I’ve no idea but in a little while a couple of guards will come by and take it. To be honest … I’m afraid to ask where it goes.” He paused. “Amilia, what’s wrong?”

  Amilia stared at the big pot, her mouth partially open. Noise on the stairs caught her attention. Two men entered the kitchen. She knew them by sight. They were guards normally assigned to the east wing’s fourth-floor hall—the administration corridor, where she and Saldur worked. They recognized her as well and took a moment to bow. Amilia graciously inclined her head in response. Their looks revealed they found this courtesy odd but appreciated it. Then they turned to Ibis.

  “All done?”

  “Just a sec, just a sec,” he muttered. “You’re early.”

  “We’ve been on duty since dawn,” one of the guards complained. “This is the last job of the night. Honestly, I don’t know why you put such effort into it, Thinly.”

  “It’s what I do, and I want it done right.”

  “Trust me, no one is going to complain. Nobody cares.”

  “I care,” Ibis remarked, his voice sharp enough to end the subject.

  The guard shrugged his shoulders and waited.

  “Who’s the soup for?” Amilia asked.

  The guard hesitated. “Not really supposed to talk about that, milady.”

  The other guard gave him a rough nudge. “She’s the bloody secretary to the empress.”

  The first one blushed. “Forgive me, milady. It’s just that Regent Saldur can be a little scary sometimes.”

  Amilia agreed in her head but externally remained aloof.

  His friend slapped himself in the forehead, rolling his eyes. “Blimey, James, you’re a fool. Forgive him, milady.”

  “What?” James looked puzzled. “What’d I say?”