Blood of the Emperor

by Tracy Hickman

  Betjarian shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  “Does that not please you?” K’yeran asked.

  “Half of my Legions sitting in this city while the rest of the army rushes north without us?” the Praetus frowned. “No, I am not pleased!”

  “You think his force is in danger, then,” K’yeran asked. “The warriors under his command are of the same type and strength as the army that this rebel army destroyed.”

  “The fall of those Legions was because the Aether channels were disrupted,” Betjarian said with a casual and dismissive wave of his hand.

  “Perhaps as the Aether is now being disrupted in the east?” K’yeran suggested.

  “The Occuran do not think so—although why I should take council from that lot is a mystery,” the Praetus said as much to himself as to K’yeran. “The Legions fell before the rebels because their Devotions were interrupted. When the Devotions failed among the Impress Warriors the Legions dissolved into chaos. We’ve taken steps in the last month to deal with this sort of thing; Devotions altars that function specifically for the Legions and can maintain Devotions for almost ten weeks should there be a disruption in the flow of Aether. We won’t lose control of our warriors like that again.”

  “Then relax, Betjarian,” K’yeran said with an easy smile. “You and your Legions may yet find your war. In the meantime, you are in Tjarlas the Beautiful for tonight. Take a bath and find something clean to wear. You can move your armies northward tomorrow.”

  “It was not part of the plan,” the Praetus frowned.

  “Nothing ever goes as planned,” K’yeran said, giving the Praetus her best, sharp-toothed smile.

  Book 2:

  THE TIDE

  CHAPTER 27

  Dawning

  THEY ROSE UP OUT OF THE PLAINS with the dawn.

  Word had gone out to each Legion of the Army of the Prophet through the night with orders and objectives for each. Drakis had re-formed the army into ten Legions utilizing the god names of the Encampment for each. While each was called a Legion, by elven standards they were terribly under strength; each one being comprised of just over three thousand warriors compared to a full strength Rhonas Legion of eight thousand. These ten “Legions” had shifted up and down the Rills during the night to form three army groups. Group North was commanded by Belag and comprised of three Legions: Jurusta, Quabet, and Elucia. Their objective was to assault the Northreach Gate and secure it as soon as the Aether Well was inverted.

  Group South was under Hegral’s command. They were to mirror Group North’s actions, flanking the city wall on the south side and move against the Emperor’s Gate. Also like Group North, they were three Legions in strength: Abratias, Heritsania, and Aremthis.

  Center Group, under Gradek’s command, was the largest of the three. Comprised of four Legions—Aegrain, Khorithan, Tyra, and Pythus—their task was to lay siege to the Old East Wall of the city and breach it when possible. More importantly, they were to draw any remaining garrison troops to the wall so as to leave the way clear for the dragons to assault the center of the city.

  Each of the Legions was made up of manticorian warriors in the lead elements with mixed troops behind. Each was supported by three Aether Mages—all that could be spared.

  It was a fine plan. Every warrior who marched up the ravines out of the Rills that morning knew it as they formed up on the steppes. Properly arranged, they marched forward toward the city in the morning light. The Rhonas Army, they believed, was three days’ north of their position with only the city garrison left to stop them. They could already taste the victory on their lips.

  Over thirty-two thousand warriors set out across the flatlands toward the city.

  Jugar stood next to his dragon atop a small rise.

  Before him was set the entire vista in the morning light. The shining towers of Tjarlas lay across the flatlands at the foot of his mountains.

  His mountains.

  The dwarf’s eyes shifted over the spectacle before him. Eight thousand or so warriors of the Army of Drakis marching as one across the flats so that they might tarnish that jewel of an elven city forever. It was a superb moment.

  You are the last king of the dwarves, Jugar thought to himself. How can you question what you have resolved to do with your every breath?

  The dragon could not hear his thoughts and, not for the first time, Jugar was glad.

  All of this because of a naïve Bolter slave.

  The truth was that Drakis had been a gift from the gods though Jugar had not recognized it at first. When the dwarf had emerged from the treasure hole beneath his throne, Jugar had latched on to the human more out of desperation than out of cunning. Yet the pieces had fit so well with the myths he knew about the humans and their ridiculous prophecy that he had not only been able to save his own skin but had come to realize that he could use this man as his best weapon to exact vengeance on the elves.

  Not just the elves, he thought as he watched the troops marching westward in a great line toward the city. Vengeance on all of them. Vengeance on the manticores who sold their honor out to the elves and dwarven sovereignty with it. Vengeance on the chimerians and their reclusive queen hiding behind their silent forests. Vengeance on humanity for failing to stop the elves when they had the chance. All of them had conspired in their own selfish ways against the Nine Thrones under the mountain. But the dwarves survived deep in the roots of the world. And when the world was in ruins and tearing itself apart, the dwarven nation would emerge and have the last word over all the other races.

  The old world was teetering on the point of a needle in a delicate balance that Jugar had worked hard to achieve. All the pieces were in place. All he had to do was tip it in the right direction and it would all start crashing down. It would set in motion the collapse of the Rhonas Empire as well as the destruction of the rebellion. Order would leave the world above and only the dwarves of Aerkan would remain to pick up the pieces.

  A tear came to Jugar’s eye. It was such a beautiful vision.

  Jugar saw the three dragons of the other riders approaching his hilltop flying low over the Rills from the southeast.

  A moment of doubt entered his mind. Drakis had been a gloriously fortunate accident and the dwarf had no love for the humans as a whole, but he had come to feel some fellowship with the human he had so thoroughly deluded over the past few months. He felt no real connection to the Sondau clanswoman and that chimerian Ethis was certainly not to be trusted but Braun…

  Braun was a strange case indeed. The human as often as not infuriated Jugar with his knowledge of a force of magic which the dwarf had never supposed to exist. Their relationship was a rock-strewn road at best, yet there was something of a kinship between them; a bond forged in the magic which they were both struggling to understand. That Braun’s and the dwarf’s objectives were at complete odds—the human to master it and the dwarf’s to destroy it—had led them on parallel courses. The dwarf grudgingly admitted that he had come to feel an appreciation and something like a brotherhood toward his nemesis.

  “No going back now,” the dwarf muttered to himself through a frown. “For my kingdom and for my people. That’s all that matters.”

  The dwarf grabbed the harness around the dragon’s neck and pulled himself up, swinging his leg over and settling into the saddle harness. He laid his hand against the dragon’s neck and urged him into the air to join the others in flight.

  Ghenetar Praetus Betjarian eased into the steaming bath with a sigh.

  The Vash Barracks maintained a modest but well-appointed avatria adjacent to the barracks for the use of visiting members of the Imperial Court. It not currently being in use, the Praetus decided that he should occupy the suite of rooms for the single night of his stay. It featured an impressive bed and a parlor of sufficient size that he was able to meet with his command staff without descending from the floating structure. It held a library and a private Devotions altar, both of which Betjarian availed himself.
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  But it was the private bath that beckoned him the most. His aide saw to it that the oversized pool was filled with properly warmed water and a number of scraping implements of assorted sizes and shapes. Betjarian was an old campaigner for his military Order and he suspected that the onerous realities of the road ahead would make such luxuries as a cleansing bath only a fond memory in the weeks to come.

  All the more reason to avail himself of it now. There were hours left in the day before he could finally lead his Legions northward out of the city. Plenty of time for one last scraping of the skin and to let the hot water relieve the aching in his joints.

  He carefully leaned back, trying to ease the tip of his elongated head onto the polished stone surrounding the bath.

  The doors of the bath banged open.

  Startled, Betjarian slammed the back of his head against the stone.

  “Praetus!” Tribune Galoch rushed into the room. His face was paler than usual, the veins on his long forehead pulsing nearly to the back of his skull. His mouth kept working but only formed the same word over and over again. “Praetus! Praetus!”

  “By the gods!” Betjarian cried out, thrashing about in the water for a moment before his hands gripped the sides of the pool, steadying him. “I’m here! Have you lost your senses? What could possibly excuse…”

  “Praetus! We are under attack!”

  “Attack?” Betjarian tried to wipe the water off his face. “What are you blathering about?”

  “An army is approaching from the east,” the Tribune said, his words rushed despite his obvious effort to gain control of himself. “They are moving quickly and in formation.”

  “How many?” Betjarian asked at once, reaching for his robe at the side of the pool.

  “We count ten Legions…”

  “TEN Legions???” Betjarian turned and stared with disbelief at the Tribune.

  “There are ten Legion divisions in the approaching army,” the Tribune answered, correcting himself. “They appear to be about half strength—or perhaps less. Perhaps forty to fifty thousand total warriors.”

  “Could they be Chaenandrians?” Betjarian spoke his thoughts aloud. “Perhaps they’re trying to take advantage of the displacement of the Legions.”

  “It’s a mixed force, Praetus,” the Tribune responded. “Manticores in the lead elements but there is also a mixture of chimerians, goblins, and gnomes. There is also a rather large proportion of humans among them as well…”

  “The Army of the Prophet!” Betjarian exclaimed in wonder.

  “The Drakis Rebels?” Galoch gaped. “How, by all the gods, did they get here?”

  “It doesn’t matter how they got here!” Betjarian shouted as he wrapped his robe around him, cinching the sash tight. “Muster the warriors, Tribune, and on my order! I want both Legions in the city mounting the city wall and the defenses at once…at once, do you hear?”

  “Yes, Praetus!” The Tribune bowed. He started to rush from the bath then stopped suddenly. “Should we sound the city alarm?”

  “By all the gods of my House! The Emperor himself would have demanded the alarm be sounded before you ever reached my rooms!” Betjarian screamed as he rushed to gather his uniform. “Go! Do it now!”

  “Glodock!” Belag shouted, trying to be heard over the rumbling march of the Legion arrayed before him. He wore Chaenandrian battle armor that had been presented to him by Ethis although where the chimerian got the armor Belag knew better than to ask. It was beautifully made and fit the manticore with near perfection but Belag felt awkward in it. Manticorian armor is handed down from generation to generation and is part of their heritage and their honor. That Belag should go into battle wearing the honor of another clan was unsettling to him.

  More than that, it was considered an ill omen.

  “Yesss, Grahn Aur!” hissed the goblin as he urged his the wyvern saddled beneath him closer to the manticore.

  “Get word to the Jurusta and Elucia Legion commanders to form ranks on either side of Quabet Legion about two thousand yards out from the Northreach Gate,” Belag said as clearly as he could and slightly slower than he normally would. Glodock was a fine and dedicated messenger. He would always guarantee that the message would get through although his understanding of the Imperial language was not good and the message often arrived a bit less clear than it originated. “They are to wait there for my signal to charge the gates. Standard Chaenandrian formation.”

  “Chaenandrian…what?” the goblin squawked.

  “Manticores in the front, pike and sword warriors advancing after them with archers behind in support,” Belag explained quickly. The walls of Tjarlas were getting closer with every step. “Have them keep the mages with the archers. They are not to use the mages or archers until the charge begins. The signal will be a single bolt of flame cast toward the wall by my mage.”

  “But, glorious Grahn Aur,” the goblin stammered, apparently confused. “If the mages are not to cast their fire until the charge begins and the charge can only begin if a mage casts fire…”

  An unnerving wail, low in pitch but then rising abruptly split the air with a piercing clarion call. The manticores all winced, instinctively ducking from the horrible noise that rolled out over the walls of Tjarlas to wash through the air over the steppes. It suddenly was choked off only to begin again…and again…

  “I guess they must have seen us,” the goblin chuckled darkly.

  “We’re a bit hard to miss,” Belag replied without humor. “Deliver the orders and then…”

  Far to the south, a gout of flame leaped into the air, arching toward the city wall. The flame exploded above the city wall in a blinding flash. The report followed three seconds later, a clap of thunder that startled the manticorian ranks at the front of his central Legion.

  “Gragrach!” Belag swore. The forward manticores of the central group were already charging toward the wall. “Not yet! It’s too soon!”

  Already the manticores of his own Jurusta Legion to the north were charging forward in a ragged line, eager for glory and battle.

  “Release the charge!” bellowed Belag. His command of the army was coming apart, slipping out of his hands and dissolving into the bloodlust of the warriors’ charge. More arching balls of fire trailing heat and flame took flight behind him from his own mages. One landed short of the wall, exploding in a blossom of flame and dirt thirty feet into the air. The second was long, plunging down beyond the wall. This vanished for a moment before erupting in a cloud of fire and smoke. The fire continued to burn beyond the wall, its dark, greasy smoke roiling up among the avatria towers of the city and blemishing the achingly blue sky.

  “Charge! Charge!” Belag cried as he ran forward, following the manticores as they gripped their blades in their teeth, clawing across the ground on all fours with tremendous speed.

  Still, the Grahn Aur glanced to the skies.

  Where is Drakis? Where are the dragons?

  The muffled whooping cry of the city alarm penetrated the deepest rooms of the avatria in Serenity House.

  K’yeran bolted from the lounge, instinctively snatching up her Matei staff as she went. She had been halfheartedly reading a book—a rarity in itself—from the archives of Serenity House with little interest. It had been an exercise in passing the time only until she could approach the Occuran Foldmaster at the Emperor’s Gate fold and, at last, start making her way south with her prize. Now the book was discarded and forgotten as she ran with long strides through the library doors and down the short, curving hallway. She threw open the doors to the balcony and stepped outside, the alarm suddenly blaring as it echoed between the towers and through the street below.

  K’yeran gaped at the vista before her as she leaned against the ornate railing of the balcony. The avatria of Serenity House floated, by design, high enough so as to present an unobstructed view of much of the southern part of the city below and, more especially, the plains to the east and south.

  The streets below wer
e filled with panicked elven citizens of the Second, Third and Fourth Estates. Their slaves followed them as best they could but there was nowhere for any of them to go. The city gates were locked and barred and the Occuran Foldmasters had sealed the folds into and out of the walled city.

  But it was the sight beyond the city walls that drew her breath in through clenched teeth.

  “By Anjei’s Eyes!” Jak’ra swallowed in wonder. “Is that…? Could that be…?”

  “Yes,” K’yeran said, her anger barely held in check as she spoke. “The Army of the Prophet is paying us a call and it looks as though they mean to stay whether they were invited or not.”

  “Mistress, Inquisitor,” Indexia Chik’dai called, rushing to join them on the small balcony. “Look to the east!”

  “Where?”

  “There, moving just south of the sun,” Chik’dai said, pointing with her right hand as she held her left up to shade her eyes. “Flying just a finger’s width above the horizon.”

  K’yeran held her own hand up, peering into the distance. At first she could only make out the dark shapes moving across the sky and thought for a moment it might be just a trick of the light.

  She suddenly dropped her hand, taking a step back from the balcony. “Are those…?”

  “Dragons, yes, Inquisitor, I believe they are,” Chik’dai answered. “How do we fight dragons?”

  K’yeran rocked back and forth, her head shaking in thought. Suddenly she screamed in rage, the sound cutting above the shrill alarm as she brought both her fists down in frustration against the railing.

  She spun around, facing the Indexia.

  “What do we do, Inquisitor?” Jak’ra asked, his words sounding more like a plea.

  “We do what we have to do,” K’yeran said. “How charged are the Matei staffs?”

  “The Matei staffs are all fully charged,” Chik’dai responded. “We were prepared to leave for Rhonas at your word.”