An Empire Of Traitors (Of Hate And Laughter Book 1)

by Enache, Serban Valentin Constantin

  Arfaij grabbed a steel tipped spear, and gently tapped the courser’s flanks with his spurs. Peter Steinward followed. Before them, the trackers were afoot, with the lymers leading them on the trail. Unlike the woods surrounding lake Tisa upon Weiyenor’s domains – the Black Forest was indeed worthy of its grim name. Even with all the mud and snow, the dark spindles brought a strange contrast to one’s eyes. Legends from the old pagan times spoke of this forest, tales of wild men enthralled to demons and wraiths. Vile spirits hungry for slaughter and perversion...

  But Arfaij laughed at them, believing in his warrior heart that there was no foe a mighty sword couldn’t best. That a mighty fist of iron couldn’t bring down and strangle. Ghosts were just an illusion of the senses, a fear made real by a man’s lack of wit and courage. And the ram with hooves and horns ablaze harbored no such weakness, no such dread towards the immaterial.

  Into the deep of the forest, the moments passed with every change of the wind’s breath. And all of his senses were stretched out in anticipation. Their reward came fast, the hounds had picked up the scent of wolf. Alerted by their dogs, the trackers saw and shouted, “There! There, below the brush! A white one it is!”

  “I see it, commander!” Peter Steinward yelled out, as he took off before him to give chase to the revealed beast.

  Arfaij could see it too. The white devil bolted away; so he pressed his heels into the courser to follow the knight, his spear held ready. On into the chase, Arfaij had to lower his head several times to avoid the wayward branches. They lurked out of trees as if willful obstacles. Some of them scratched and bruised him on his cheeks and forehead. No matter. The blood was rushing inside him. And with every horse stride, Arfaij Sodomis felt his heartbeat quicken, and his breath a little more rushed. “That wolf is mine, Steinward!”

  “Not if I get to it first, lord!” But the man’s boast fell short of execution. The knight missed his spear throw, leaning too much on his left side to make up for the prey’s sly change in direction. At the same moment, the courser under him lost its balance, as it stumbled its hoof into a slippery patch of snowmud. Instead of getting crushed beneath his mount, sir Peter managed to let go of the reins in time; enough to escape the fall unharmed.

  Arfaij ceased the pursuit, as the knight’s horse blocked the way. He dismounted and gave sir Peter a helping hand. “Better luck next time, good sir. Through such narrow thickness and treacherous ground, a successful throw is hard indeed to pull off.” Just as he said it, the hounds and trackers caught up with them. Arfaij signalled the men to continue onwards, to pick up the trail once more. “Come, Peter. Your courser has finally risen on all fours.”

  “I think not,” the knight replied in a strange warm voice, sweet and alien.

  Arfaij Sodomis felt a stab of pain from his gut. Why? Why does it hurt. Such a weak thrust cannot pass through mail. But he wasn’t wearing his hauberk now – only boiled leather on top of wool. He had discarded his mail shirt to favor his mount, to favor speed. To lessen the ache in his back, a natural burden felt by any man wearing such armor for too long a time.

  “It’s nothing personal, my lord. It’s only about coin.” Sir Steinward pushed the sword deeper into his belly, again and again, until he pulled it out… reddened, and the wound flowing bloody. “And as for my bad aiming, let me demonstrate.” Steinward picked up Arfaij’s spear and gestured at a more distant spindle. He marked his target with words, then with the spear – a perfect throw of the weapon with sharp precision as well as grace. Steinward grinned. With such an act, he made his point obvious.

  “You bastard! You treasonous whore!? Why!” The more he spoke, the more his pain grew, until he could speak no more, but only gasp in stupor and fear. The pain in his gut was alive like nothing else; and Arfaij fell to the ground. He had never suffered such keen anguish before. He had never suffered such heinous betrayal.

  “As I said, my lord, it’s just good coin.” Steinward produced a cloth from his pouch to wipe the sword clean, then tossed it to him... his victim.

  The bloody cloth landed on his face. The smell of it was heavy, and its taste the same... Iron, he realized with even more anger. Arfaij saw the treacherous scum leaving, and then his eyes fell to the ground. The sound of the world seemed to shrink and fade, as did the light. Arfaij Sodomis was alone and dying. A weakness crept over him, over his eyes; they became heavy like his breathing. A strange sleep took him – a dreamless sleep, a blackness that robbed not the length of passing moments. But neither did the sleep enrich them; they seemed ages made heartbeats.

  A long howl entered his ears, and then his eyes reopened. A thought inside his head told him that it was the white wolf, which had escaped them, or the howl of his pack – calling him to answer. Arfaij saw nothing, then remembered the cloth. The blood on it had dried, and the rag stuck to his brow and over his sight. He pulled it away with one hand, and another howl came from beyond.

  “Where... what... what’s happening?” The sounds Arfaij heard next were different – all of them short, closer, and measured. Arfaij raised his head towards the sky; the twin moons were bright and beautiful. “It’s dark out,” he whispered to himself in a frail voice. “And the others... where... where are the others?”

  An odd wind revealed those sounds of queer movement. These were no human steps, these were animals. Beasts soft but heavy of foot; and hungry for warm flesh, no doubt. As he looked around the blackness of trees, his head turning from side to side, his vision and breath fading… he saw a pair, then two, then three. Eyes of red, orange, and yellow, gleaming in the moonslight.

  Arfaij Sodomis pushed his hand into the wound with all the strength he had left in him. Whether to keep the scent of fresh blood at bay or whether to feel pain, and thus confirm this wasn’t a dream, he did not know. He only did it; and felt little of the pain he had felt before. The red eyes were approaching. A horrible kind of beauty was about them; a beauty of promise and a horror of truth. The queer winds blew softly, as soft as the steps of these creatures. One shadow came closer, the moonslight unveiling its form. Upright it walked, the beast walked... and the others followed.

  Chapter IX: The Exile

  The old chamber was dark and filled with silence. But the soundless gloom had a peculiar taste to it; a guilty passion for revenge mixed with the bitter flavor of past betrayals. I was a fool then; but I am a fool no longer. He heard footsteps at his back, and with them came torchlight.

  “Master,” said Isador the slave, “how did you manage walking these stairs in such blackness?” He was a short man, at least two decades older than him, but a man of wits. He wore about his neck a metal band, which bore the name of his master and owner. The words were written in harpoolian.

  He had never owned a slave before. But his gracious host, lady Erasthene of house Mahari, had insisted. Amarius Soronius Mero lived his exile under her wide and opulent roof. He had to, of course, pay for all the unnecessary necessities of a noble’s life. And he paid with words of promise, as well as with his cock. Lady Erasthene was round of thighs, belly, and breasts; but she wasn’t ugly. In fact, Amarius found her quite beautiful. And on top of everything else, she was a widow. A dangerous woman if crossed. But a gracious one, nonetheless.

  “Master,” the short man asked again, this time in a wary tone. “Is everything alright?”

  “Forgive me, Isador. I have a fondness for dark places. Come, then.” Amarius took the slave’s torch and led the way. “Don’t be afraid of ghosts,” he said in jest.

  The room’s obscurity turned to moving shadows in the presence of the torchlight. Statues appeared from the brightened gloom, busts of men who had died long ago. Around them, white candles stood unlit, some more spent than others. He instructed Isador to grab a couple of the fuller ones, place them in each corner of the room and give them light. Every wall faced a long table. And all of them were filled with scrolls, trinkets, rags, and more busts. Amarius placed the torch on one of the wall stays, and began to study the sculpted
faces – tracing their features with his hands. They were covered in a grey layer of dust, almost black. Where his fingers touched the stone, it became white.

  Amarius inspected one bust, then another, then another one, and stopped. He felt the lips, nose, brow, and cheeks. He knew them… he knew them very well. What child would not remember his own father’s features? Zygar Ferus, the Sunborn tyrant, his father, the possessed sovereign, the worshiper of blood gods. And there were many other names – worse names. Amarius did not care to speak them out loud, nor dwell on them. It had been years, long years since he had last thought about the civil war. That stupid war...

  “Master,” the slave called, “I found this. Isn’t this what you were looking for?” Isador held in his hands a dusty cloth – its colours aged by time and forgetfulness. He cleared away the spider webs dangling at the edges of the fabric, and unfolded the cloth in the firelight.

  The black and gold, the colours of Mero, were faded alongside the heraldic device. The left fist, the Sunfist, holding a green strain with two green buds, and the six yellow sharp rays of the halo encircling the grip to its right. But the family words were not so indistinct. They still read clearly, ‘We Are Sunborn’. Though the forgotten founder of his bloodline had chosen the words, ‘I Am Sunborn’ – his descendants had changed the I am into we are. Amarius had always wondered what possessed his ancestors to enact such a change. How could history forget the founder of the Empire? The founder of the greatest of dynasties? The name of a once living god? But he had no answers for those questions; at least, no answers that appeased his reason.

  “Thank you, Isador. Your sense of perception is accurate, as always. I truly needed to see this cloth, to be reminded of my roots.” He gave the slave a faint smile. Isador nodded, and resumed searching the tables for other worthwhile things.

  Then Amarius returned his eyes on the faded cloth before him, the once proud banner. He had brought it with him five years ago; when he had landed in Harpool an exile – deprived of rights, titles, and honor. So much time had passed, but he still remembered that day; the day when his little brother, his own blood, had accused him of breaking the Crown’s laws. When he had accused him of illegal warfare, theft, and treason. That word, treason, stabbed his ears still.

  I didn’t thieve anyone’s money, only borrowed it on good faith. It had been a spoken agreement. No note of credit was asked of him to sign, so he had never signed one. After all, what principle could be more tangible, more trustworthy, than an emperor’s own word? The lords and knights he took... they had joined him of their own free accord. For he was the emperor; and his invasion of the so-called Free Kingdoms east of the great Alpian mountains had been in the Empire’s best interest. A venture for glory and spoils, all to be divided equally amongst themselves. For after the civil war, many a nobleman’s coffers had been left empty of treasure.

  Amarius had not claimed victory in that campaign, which took him two whole years to prepare. But that wasn’t my fault, now was it? During his siege of the fortress of Cutrass, he had received a message bearing the seal of the Imperial Chancellery. The message said that he should immediately stop all acts of warfare against the Traitor Kings on account that his campaign was not sanctioned by… by the Imperial Crown.

  It came as an oddity to his mind. But afterwards, in the cold air of his tent and with a bladder filled with ale – Soronius had laughed so hard that he was afraid he’d piss himself before his war council. The message also stated, that he should return with haste to answer the charges brought against him. The parchment, however, had not specified the names of his accusers.

  Like any proud soldier, Amarius had ignored such drivel and continued with his war. By the time the fortress of Cutrass fell, the supply ships from the Empire had stopped arriving. He could have pushed forth without those provisions by pillaging the countryside. However, his lords had not agreed on such course of action, fearful as they were in regard to the unknown politics being played out in the five realms. And had persuaded him to abandon the war and head home. The shortest campaign in the recorded history of the Empire was his.

  A shameful thing to be recalled for by future generations, Amarius now reflected. Few will care that I fought against so many despotic kingdoms. Against Golgotha, Laraven, Trysagia, Barahorn... My outlander foes will remember me through songs of rancor. Only their old men will recall my exploits on the field of battle, at Apulia, at Cutrass, at the sacking of many a fasthold. But the people of mine own lands will remember me through songs of mockery, if at all. Unaccomplishment is not easily forgotten, but it quickly becomes unspoken of.

  Naturally, the war spoils had been few. There wasn’t enough to loot from those domains, not enough to pay off his loans. So on top of it all, his lenders had accused him of theft. Ultimately, he had been a great fool, but an honest one, a fool of good faith. Soronius was brought with his hands in chains before his younger brother, Hagyai Rovines, the new emperor. He was found guilty of all charges and sentenced into exile. He had been usurped. And the lords who had fought by his side during his campaign had also faced trial; but of a different sort.

  They were not brought forth in chains, though, were they? Amarius smiled to himself, thinking on the blasted memory. All of them except for two, lords Lukanus and Tychos, had discarded their former loyalties by swearing fealty to Hagyai Rovines. His sworn generals, his own bannermen, they had participated in that criminal farce. Had betrayed their lawful sovereign with no shame. The cowards sought to enter the good graces of his usurper brother by going back on their oaths, by embracing dishonor.

  But Tychos and Lukanus, they didn’t shed their loyalty. They kept true to their word, and thus joined in my fate. Out of all those memories, there was one Amarius savored greatly – the image of his nervous brother, little Hagyai, wearing their father’s crown, misuttering the name of his own house…

  “You are now banished from the Empire of the Sunborn! You are no longer my brother; no longer do you bear the name of Nero… ahem, I mean… Mero!” How he had laughed there and then; laughed all the way on the ship that took him to the place where he was to spend his exiled existence. Here in the Lowlands, in Harpool, Soronius had found allies... unlikely allies, as well as old ones.

  “Ah, I found it.” Isador showed him the scabbard of his weapon. “It’s a greatsword. It’s quite heavy. You remember it surely, don’t you?”

  Amarius grasped the hilt with one hand, unsheathed a quarter of the silvery metal, then grasped it with both hands. He pulled the blade free of its scabbard, which Isador held skillfully as any proper squire would. The greatsword’s edges were sharp and mirrored the light of the torch and candles. But that light seemed cold to his eyes, not warm. The last time Amarius had held it, he was not living in exile; but in the royal chambers of Castle Spire. The weapon didn’t feel as familiar as it once did in the practice yard. For on the battlefield, mounted upon his warhorse, the weapon of his choice was the flanged mace – not very popular among the southlander nobility. But oh, how effectual it was against mail, plate, and bone.

  Isador grimaced at the sword’s length. “Does it have a name?”

  “No, my friend, it does not.” Amarius narrowed his gaze, staring at the torchlight’s reflection in the weapon’s surface. “Huh... Why name an object which already has a name? A sword, a mace, a bow, a spear, a shield – they’re just tools. Objects have no vanities, only men do… I am not like most men.”

  “That is very true,” said Isador with a smile. “You were once an emperor who ruled over great lands and much wealth. Now you are an exile, presiding over trifles... including myself.”

  Amarius put the sword back in its scabbard, and reflected for a while on the slave’s words. He couldn’t scold him for speaking them, for they were true. A change of fate is in order, he said to himself – teeth working behind silent lips. The fateweavers weave many threads; and I need to cut those of my enemies in order to lengthen mine own. “I am still an exile, true. But I won’t
be one forever. ’Tis time I returned home, my friend.”

  Isador was of a short height. Somehow, if he had been taller, mayhaps Amarius wouldn’t have tolerated such impudent words coming out of his mouth. But nonetheless, Isador wasn’t tall, and he did tolerate them. The slave wasn’t witty and free tongued in foreign company, only in his own. And that spoke volumes of the man’s character.

  “Ah, home,” Isador nodded a tilted head. “Quite right. But you’ll require a conflict beforehand, your majesty. If it’s not too early to use that title. You’ll require a conflict before the actual invasion. Schemes are the heart of warfare, according to the great Gaius Marius Mero.”

  He smiled at the slave’s argument. “It’s not an invasion, my friend; but an effort of sanctity, of lawful retribution and justice. It’s a campaign of... restoration.”

  The slave giggled in reply, and turned to the table – his fingers fumbling upon the many dusted parchments. “And what do you intend to restore, I wonder?”

  “Why, the imperial throne, of course… the dignity of mine own house and name. And afterwards, I shall pledge myself to the province of judicial mercy.” His response again made the slave chuckle. Words are cheap, Amarius, deeds are not. But they don’t make an ambition any better or worse. “I will do all those things, my friend. I will unseat the proud and raise the humble.” This time they both laughed, and with quite the vigor.

  “Are you prepared to make the concessions that, no doubt, will be asked of you to make?” On top of being a learned scholar, the slave had a talent for pleasant and insightful conversation. Amarius always enjoyed the small man’s wit.

  “But of course, Isador. I’ll do whatever is necessary. I’ll offer bribes, exempt harpoolian merchants from paying fees on their wares; forgive promises and burn the books of debt. I will abstain from taking vengeance on my former accusers. I will pardon those who surrender and swear fealty to me. By the gods, I’ll even bring back the bloody Inquisition; if that’s what it takes.”