Kings of Ruin (Kingdoms of Sand Book 1)

by Daniel Arenson

  "We can't defeat this army with the sword." Epher released his own hilt and placed both hands on a merlon. "You know what happened last time we fought the Aelarians."

  Atalia scoffed. "Ofeer happened."

  Epher winced. He was used to Atalia cussing, but these words stabbed him with infinite more harshness. One could talk of shoving swords up backsides—soldiers often spoke such words, hiding their fear behind bravado and vulgarity—but one never discussed Ofeer's heritage. The old war had been bad enough; to dredge up that memory seemed a pain too great to bear.

  And yet the words had been spoken. The memory was loose. Epher had been five, old enough to remember, old enough to understand. Again he felt the soldiers grip him and hold a knife to his throat. Again he heard his mother shouting, offering herself in exchange for his life. Again he saw the soldiers drag Mother off, saw the babe born nine months later, a dark child with the blood of Aelar in her veins. A child created in war and fear. A child created to save Epher's life. He never spoke of that day—not to his mother, not to Ofeer—but those memories had never left him.

  That summer long ago, Epher thought, the Empire burned our family's ships, seized our island, and yes—created Ofeer. If a second war flares, will it be my sisters—wild Atalia, haunted Ofeer, sweet Maya—the enemy claims as trophies?

  He stared at the harbor. The wall on which he stood plunged down, the height of many men, toward the beach. A cobbled boardwalk stretched along the coast, bristling with abandoned carts and stalls. Most days, peddlers stood on that boardwalk, hawking apricots, fresh oysters, and spiced meats on skewers, and many city folk wandered between them and lounged on the sand. Now they were gone, leaving the hot cobblestones to the stray cats and dogs. The land curved here, forming a natural cove of shallow green water. Two breakwaters, constructed of boulders as large as cattle, extended the harbor, engulfing the sea in a rocky embrace.

  Within these shallow waters loomed the Aelarian fleet.

  Fifty quinquereme ships towered, long wooden galleys lined with shields and ninety oars per side. They reminded Epher of centipedes with many wooden legs. Their sails were folded, but banners still thudded from their masts, displaying the Aquila—a golden eagle upon a crimson field, sigil of Aelar. Hundreds of legionaries stood on the galleys' decks, clad in lorica segmentata—iron strips fastened to leather. Many smaller ships floated among their larger brethren, swift machines of war, and on their decks rested ballistae—great metal crossbows that could fire bolts as large as men. Rams thrust out from the galleys' prows, shaped as eagles, beaks ready to crush the hulls of enemy ships.

  "As if we still have ships to fight with," Epher muttered.

  "We should never have agreed to disband our fleet," Atalia said. "We should never have agreed to send Aelar our lumers. We surrendered like whores to sailors the last war, leaving us defenseless. If we still had ships and lumers, we'd crush this armada and fill our harbor with eagle bones."

  "If we hadn't surrendered, we'd now be fighting as ghosts," Epher said. "We gave them our ships, our lumers, our gold . . . and our mother's womb. We kept our lives."

  "Then we'll undo that shame." Atalia drew her sword with a hiss. "We'll charge down to the beach. We'll fight—we still have merchant ships, and we'll fight with those. We still have swords and slings. We'll crush those cockroaches! We'll show them Zoharite pride and—"

  "Sister!" Epher grabbed her wrist and pulled her sword down. "Calm yourself. You're a segen in the hosts of Zohar, not queen. It's not for you to decide whether Zohar goes to war or not."

  Atalia spat again, aiming at the ships below. "They didn't sail in to buy our frankincense, tour our vineyards, and fuck our whores." She gave Epher a crooked smile. "They came here to fight. War is upon us, like it or not. Our parents lost the last war. This time we kill the bastards."

  Her dark eyes shone with bloodlust, her lips tightened, and the sun glinted on her iron scales. Atalia had served in the hosts for only two years now, and as third in line to Sela's fortune, she could hope to someday command the entire coastal garrison. Yet there her ascent would end. He, Epheriah Sela, firstborn son of Jerael, would someday inherit this port, the city that nestled it, and the hills and vineyards that sprawled for parsa'ot along the coast. His fate was to become more than a soldier, to learn more than warfare, and the yoke upon his shoulders was greater than Atalia could know.

  Her task is simply to kill, Epher thought. Mine is to protect life.

  A whistle rose like steam from a kettle.

  "Ho, brother! Ho, sister!" The cry rolled across the city. "Why are you here on the wall when all the fun's back on the hill?"

  Epher turned away from the harbor, placed his back to the ramparts, and faced the city of Gefen. A sigh ran through him.

  "Koren," he muttered.

  If there's anyone less responsible than Atalia, he thought, it's my younger brother.

  Second son of Jerael Sela, Koren leaped across the roofs of the city, clad in baggy cotton pants, leaving his feet and torso bare. He raced along the roof of a temple, incurring curses from priests in the windows, and vaulted across an alleyway. He thumped onto a granary and kept running, scattering the mourning doves who had come seeking seeds. Grinning, he leaped across the flat roofs of homes, hopping between the potted herbs and dried fruit the commoners harvested in the sunlight. Finally Koren reached the city's coastal wall, ran upstairs, and joined his siblings at the battlements.

  "Atalia!" Koren's grin widened, his teeth brilliantly white against his tanned face. A lion medallion, forged of gold, shone just as brightly against his bare chest. "How many ships did you sink yet?"

  The tall, raven-haired warrior grumbled. "Epher won't let me fight."

  Koren's eyes widened. He spun toward his older brother, indignant. "Epheriah! To deny a woman the pleasure of sinking an imperial fleet! Why, it's positively barbarous. What kind of brute are you?"

  Epher glanced down at his tunic, shirt of iron scales, and woolen cloak, then back at Koren. "A brute who at least can dress himself. Put on a tunic and some armor, brother. You're a son of Sela, not a fisherman."

  Koren raised his eyebrows. "What, and deprive the lovely ladies of Aelar the sight of my chiseled godliness? I hear they have marble statues in Aelar that look like me." He looked over the wall toward the ships and cringed. "God's sweaty balls, I'm actually not sure there are any lovely ladies down there. Just a bunch of stern legionaries with spears up their backsides. Almost as stiff and ugly as Atalia, they are."

  Atalia growled, grabbed Koren's ear, and twisted it. "Why are you here? Did they run out of booze in the city taverns?"

  Koren grimaced and pried her fingers off. "Tragically, with the embargo on our port a full morning old, I've already drunk this city dry. But no, that's not why I'm here. Father sent me to fetch you two. The little imperial pup's almost done hunting, and we're to negotiate back in the villa. Father wants us all there. God knows why. You'd probably just stick the boy with your blade."

  Atalia patted the pommel of her sword. "I probably will. Up his ass."

  "Atalia! Language! How could you speak such a horrible word?" Koren shook his head. "You mean that you'll certainly stick your sword up his ass."

  The two burst into raucous laughter, even as the ships harbored only a hundred yards away, even as a cruel empire threatened to engulf this land.

  "Enough!" Epher roared. "Atalia, you're not sticking anyone anywhere with anything. Not until we know this is war. Koren, you're not to antagonize the prince, and you're to remain silent and proper during negotiations. You two are children of House Sela, an ancient and venerated family, your blood noble. I want you to act like it." He began to walk down the wall's staircase, moving into the city of Gefen. "Now come with me, and be on your toes. We can still resolve this peacefully."

  "Said the hare to the hungry eagle," Atalia muttered, walking with him down the wall.

  As they crossed a courtyard, leaving the wall and ships behind, a shiver ran through Ep
her.

  For the first time today, Atalia speaks wisdom, he thought. A great eagle of the west has landed in our kingdom, and while a hare might flounder and bite in the grip of talons, sooner or later the beak will feast.

  Again the memories of that old war—a war too many years ago for his younger siblings to remember—pounded through Epher. As he walked through the city with Atalia and Koren, Epher could not stop reliving it, over and over: legionaries dragging him away, a cold dagger against his throat, and his mother screaming.

  OFEER

  As they walked across the hills, heading to her mother's home, Ofeer kept looking over at Seneca Octavius, Prince of Aelar, the handsomest man she had ever seen.

  In the taverns of Gefen by the sea, the sailors and soldiers scoffed at the Aelarians. Bearded brutes with dark skin, uncivilized and crude, the Zoharites would mock the Aelarians for their fine robes, clean-shaven cheeks, and polished jewels. Those sailors who'd been to the Empire claimed that Aelarian men knew not the difference between the holes, that they buggered their women like they buggered their little boys.

  Yet when Ofeer looked at Seneca, when she saw his eyes trail down her body, she knew those stories were false. The Aelarian prince knew all about women's bodies, and he desired hers.

  The hills outside Gefen rolled around them. They walked along a path formed of shattered chalk and granite, heading toward the sea that whispered a parasa away. Mint bushes, pines, and pomegranate trees rustled at their sides, the stunted plants of Zohar, so ugly compared to the lofty trees that surely grew across the sea. The turtle doves sang and wild goats wandered upon a distant hilltop, plain beasts compared to the noble animals that lived in the Empire. Seneca's soldiers—three tall men in armor—carried slain goats across their shoulders, all felled by Seneca's own arrows. The dog they had left behind.

  Ofeer looked over her shoulder and glared at her half sister. Maya walked several paces behind, still sulking over the death of the wall-pisser.

  "Hurry up, straggler!" Ofeer called. "Or we're going to stick you too with an arrow and carry your corpse with the goats."

  The young woman, fifteen years old but pouty as a child, quickened her step. Maya's black curls lay across her face, a vain attempt to hide her tears, and her fists clutched her woolen dress. The girl was an embarrassment. Surely the Aelarians thought this a land of mice, of weaklings who cried over a dead dog. Ofeer wished they could have left her sister behind with the corpse.

  I won't let you ruin this for me, Maya, Ofeer swore silently, clenching her own fists. For years I've waited to meet my people—my real people—and I will not let you shame me.

  Ofeer turned away from her half sister. She returned her eyes to Seneca, and her anger melted.

  Prince Seneca Octavius was beautiful—more beautiful, civilized, wise, and strong than any man in Zohar. Unlike the brutish men of this land, he wore no beard. His skin was pale, not dark like hers, and his hair was a brown so light it was nearly blond. Even Ofeer's own brothers—the stern Epher and the ne'er-do-well Koren—wore only rough wool, despite being sons of Sela, supposedly among Zohar's wealthiest families. Meanwhile, Seneca Octavius wore priceless armor, the iron filigreed with golden motifs, and a jeweled eagle clasped his richly woven cloak.

  "Your eagle brooch is splendid, my prince," Ofeer said. "May I touch it?"

  "It's a fibula." Anger flashed across Seneca's eyes. "Do I look like a fisherman's wife that I should wear a brooch?"

  Ofeer cursed herself, cursed her family, cursed this damn benighted land that hadn't taught her the proper words for royalty. With her plain cotton dress, tanned skin, and unadorned black hair, Ofeer must have seemed to him no more civilized than an ape. She had seen Aelarians in the port before, merchants and traders and statesmen, distinguished men with richly woven togas and graying hair. They had never looked approvingly upon her, would sooner fuck a wild ass than take her into their beds. Would Seneca too see her as nothing but a beast?

  "Forgive me, dominus," Ofeer said, using the Aelarian title for lord and master. She bowed her head. "I was never taught the proper words for the fineries of Aelar. Do not look upon me that I am crude, that I am swarthy. My mother made me the keeper of our vineyard, and the sun has tanned me. My father taught me nothing but the scrolls and songs of Zohar, the ancient scribblings of shamans, useless in this age of Aelarian enlightenment." She dared raise her eyes, dared meet his gaze. His eyes were the color of glory, of distant splendor, of home. "But though I am a dark and uncivilized to your eyes, Aelarian blood flows through my veins. My father was a man of the Empire."

  The prince looked at her, eyes narrowed, letting his gaze linger on her breasts, then stared back into her eyes. "Yes. Yes, I can see that in you. You're dark as coal but you're fair. Graceful. There's something of Aelar's beauty in you." He nodded. "You may touch my fibula."

  Ofeer's heart fluttered in her breast.

  He thinks me fair!

  Ofeer had lain with men before in the port, yet she had cared only for their cocks and cheap wine, nothing more. She had found some pleasure with them, yes, some distraction from the pain of being the half-breed, the shame of her family. But she had never found love with them. How could she? There was no tenderness to Zoharite men; they were uncivilized, mere beasts. But now, here on these hills, Ofeer finally found a noble man from overseas, civilized and pale, a prince who called her beautiful. A prince who could offer her more than a bed for the night; he could offer her a life of joy, a life in Aelar, the life she had always deserved. Her heart threatened to escape through her mouth, and her fingers—slender fingers, so dark by his white skin—trembled as she reached out and caressed the golden eagle clasping his cloak.

  "It's a very fine fibula, dominus."

  He stared at the pendant that hung around her neck. "You wear the Aquila too."

  Ofeer nodded, breath shaky, and felt lightheaded. "Would you like to touch mine, dominus? It's not as fine as yours, but its wings are just as proud. I forever wear the eagle of Aelar, not the lion of Zohar, for though I was born and raised here in the east, my heart beats for the west."

  Seneca reached down to caress her platinum amulet, then let his fingers stray down to skim the tops of her breasts.

  Fear pounded through Ofeer. She had been with men before but never a prince. Would he think her forward, a mere barbarian currying favor?

  Be brave, Ofeer, she told herself. If you ever want to leave this backward land, and if you ever want to see the Empire, you must be brave. You must dare. My brothers think themselves brave with their swords, yet I fight my wars with my words, with my body, and with the fierceness in my heart.

  "There's a cave nearby, my prince," she whispered, lips trembling, as his fingers caressed her—fingers not dry and callused like hers but soft, pale, ringed with gold. "The sun in the east is hot, and should you wish to rest on your way to my mother's home . . ." She let her words trail off, but she spoke the rest with her eyes.

  He understood. He stroked her hair, letting the smooth black strands flow between his fingers. "You are dark but fair, Ofeer the Zoharite, keeper of her mother's vineyard. Lead me to this cave."

  They continued walking down the path—a prince of Aelar, a half-breed bastard, soldiers bearing slain goats, and a weepy girl with a fragile heart. Ahead, Ofeer could see the vineyards and farmlands in the valley, beyond them the city of Gefen and the sea. When the path rounded a hill and they stood between pine trees, she could see her mother's villa in the distance. The house rose on a hilltop, the country retreat of the Sela family, overlooking the port city. A house of shame. A house of lies.

  For an instant Ofeer stood still and just stared. Fire burned inside her, and her fingernails dug into her palms.

  For the four other Sela children, this was a home of peace, of love. But to Ofeer it had always been a cage. She had grown up here knowing she was different, knowing she was a bastard—more than just a bastard but a half-breed. No matter how much Ofeer would scream, her mother woul
d never reveal the name of Ofeer's true father.

  "Your only father now is Lord Jerael Sela," Shiloh would say. "And he loves you, Ofeer."

  "He's not my father!" a bitter, sobbing girl would shout. "My father is a great lord of Aelar. And you can keep his name secret, but he'll come for me someday. He'll come here with a fleet and he'll burn this house down, and he's going to take me home. To Aelar. Far from this place. Far from you!"

  That old pain had never left Ofeer. For many years, she had fled that pain into the taverns of Gefen, seeking temporary pleasure in the bottom of her cups, in the hookahs of spice, and the beds of bearded men. And now, finally, after eighteen years of loneliness, they had come to her. The Aelarians. Her father perhaps did not sail here, but a beautiful prince had come from overseas. Come to rescue her. To tell her she was beautiful. To love her.

  "Are you all right?" Seneca asked, scrutinizing her. "You tremble."

  Ofeer forced herself to take a shaky breath, to loosen her fists. "I'm fine, dominus. Just . . . bad memories of this place."

  Once more anger flashed across Seneca's eyes, setting them astorm, and he clutched the hilt of his gladius sword. But this time his anger was not directed at her.

  "This place is a barbarous wasteland. It pains me that a woman so fair, so graceful, with the blood of Aelar in her veins, should have grown up here in the east." He looked around him. "A wilderness. You should see Aelar, Ofeer! The temples that soar into the sky, their columns engraved with reliefs of ancient battles, their capitals gilded, their beauty rivaling the gods they worship. The palaces whose very walls shine with jewels. The amphitheater where poets, playwrights, and gladiators perform for a crowd more plentiful than all the souls in this backwater city below."

  Ofeer could barely breathe, and her eyes dampened. "I would love to see Aelar, dominus. It's always been my dream to set foot upon the land of my father."

  He nodded. "Perhaps I'll take you there someday. But now—I see a cave before us. Is this the place?"