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

by Enache, Serban Valentin Constantin

  “I didn’t take you for a man of excessive superstition,” said lord Holton with a snide smile on his face. “Yet, ice and snow is their proper grave. Fengard and Wyrm are dishonored names – murderers, oathbreakers. Who became families of freaks born of incest after the emperor exiled them to live within the barren coldness of these places.”

  “Still, regardless of what the Faith says,” lord Nitzford intervened in a mild tone, “better to marry sister and brother than lowborn. No proper house would join outcasts such as them. That way at least, the Wyrms and Fengards kept their bloodlines pure.”

  Oakhard shook his head and frowned with his eyes closed. He put a hand on Nitzford’s shoulder. “My lord of White Ridge, that is sin according to the Faith. You shall not take your brother or sister to marry.” Then he turned his eyes to Brax. “And it’s not proper to speak ill of the dead; and certainly not at their resting place.”

  Sensing the moment’s import, Kalafar acted on it. “My lords, this is why I chose this place for our council. It is where we stand now that the sacrifice happened. It is here where women, and children, and men have died. Here on this ground… their blood hardened into ice, along with their flesh and poor bones. It is in this terrible rock’s shadow that the massacre happened. Of course we know the fable. But we are learned men, and believe not such tales. We may never know why the peace between Fengard and Wyrm never came to pass. We can only assume that wickedness and hate were their undoing. One house may have been the traitor, the other, or both. But in spite of that, the dead must be honored. The fruits of their toil is our heritage.”

  A faint wind rose up behind him. And he turned to look at the mound. The ice devil wasn’t frowning, nor smiling… It is sleeping, Kalafar mused.

  “Liege Sodomis,” the lord of Frosthelm finally replaced his silence with words. “How should we honor their ghosts?”

  Brax gave a snort of derision, and Oakhard muttered to himself another prayer.

  Kalafar ignored the two, and focused on Krakov’s question. “It is here that the heart of the Northlands was humbled with warmth. We have tamed these lands through much hardship; but the land helped us. The blizzards retreated. The vile winds faded. The snows melted – so did the ice, and the earth became ripe for plow and seed. A gift from the higher powers to our ancestors...”

  “We know the legend, my liege,” said Brax with obvious annoyance. “Please, do get to the point. We are losing precious daylight.”

  “And so I will…” Kalafar pulled out the dagger from his belt, and took off his right glove. His vassals were staring with mindful expressions… Fear, doubt, wonderment, curiosity, and falsehood. That was what he read on their faces. The ram turned towards the hellish mound. With the small blade, he cut in his palm a line of red; then made his hand into a fist and squeezed. The blood dripped onto the frozen earth. From his fist and from the white ground stained red, small threads of faint haze rose. And the words for the dead beneath the shadowy ground came to him.

  “Ghosts of Fengard and Wyrm. I offer you these drops of warm blood – the blood of Sodomis, warden of the Northlands and lord of Weiyenor. In my name and that of our people, I thank you, spirits… I thank you and honor your names – for it is through your sacrifice that the living dwell and toil upon these lands. Through the blood you shed, you warmed the north. May the Three forgive each and all of your sins, give you absolution and peace. For as long as men can remember, through songs and tales, they will remember the legend – your names…”

  “Fengard and Wyrm!” His vassals echoed in one voice.

  All the lords came closer, slipped out a naked hand and a blade; then their fists poured the drops. All of them, but for Joaken Oakhard; who shivered meekly as he witnessed the ritual before his eyes. While Kalafar Sodomis took note of the man’s refusal to participate in the honorary rite; he didn’t bother to scold him. A stubborn fool he is; wanting to rush into battle without first weighing the odds of each side. But stark in following old tales of superstition.

  After they finished, they left the mound as they found it – dark, empty, and cold. Even the resting place of the lost and damned needed silence. Even their cruel and ambitious souls needed remembrance. Even they deserve forgiveness, thought Kalafar. The council was held. The dead are honored. And the land will spare us in these uncertain times. Or so the ram of Sodomis hoped...

  Even with everything over, the lord of Greyford continued with his vexing thoughts. “What you all did was blasphemous. The word of the Holy Faith condemns any ritual that involves the spilling of blood to praise spirits. The gods will remember this day.”

  “Oh, spare me the clamor, Oakhard,” said Holton Brax. “What we did was nothing more than an empty gesture. Let’s be honest with ourselves... there are so many people on this earth who pray to and worship all manner of alien beings. You think they all go to hell for not believing in our deities? Get over yourself and your zeal, Oakhard. Too much piety clouds the reasoning mind.”

  “And too much pride spawns heresy.” He spat back. “I don’t care to what gods other nations bow to. I care about mine own soul and fate. I am no unbeliever; my faith in the Sun Father and Twin Mothers is strong and true.”

  Brax laughed and waved a hand dismissively. Other than that, the lord of Herron’s Keep kept his tongue – while the other men chuckled between themselves and whispered a jape or two. But wanting to set the man at ease, Kalafar addressed his nervous vassal in the warmest of voices he could muster.

  “Fear not, lord Oakhard. We’ve not betrayed, nor sinned against the Three. All we’ve done was a symbolic gesture; an honor for the first men who struggled against the barren land and the cold snows to make a livelihood. To build something. Something that’s worth holding on to and passing it away to those who will come after us.”

  “Yes, my liege, but you men have cut your hands. And left your blood in the frozen ground of the dead, in front of the cold shadow of that hellish mound of ice and rock. I fear you might have awakened it… the devil inside. I fear that it might come and haunt us. It would be a fitting punishment; for the gods harbor great ire to their unfaithful flock.”

  “Ahh! It’s no use with you.” Kalafar had had enough of the man’s dissent on the matter of war; he couldn’t stomach his lamenting on the preternatural as well.

  Back at the camp and inside his tent, Kalafar received lord Alghernon. They spoke on the matter of war, whilst eating. Grease dripped from the fingers of his uncle, as he indulged himself with the pork sausages on his plate and with the sweet red in his cup.

  “Mmm, I have to say you did good out there. Brax and Dagincourt approved of your strategy. While it does bring a certain stain to our honor, the prudent thing to do is wait. Wait and see how the conflict is played out in the south. And after the passing of winter, we’ll ride to join the side most likely to win.” The man gave a belch as he nodded thoughtfully to himself. “Besides, it’s nothing new. The north has chosen in the past another side to that sitting the Sun Throne. We chose the Inquisition against Zygar Ferus, and we won. This conflict is more or less the same. We are choosing between two brothers of the same house. Might as well pick the brother with the better odds.” His lord uncle uttered that word with obvious difficulty.

  Ah, just wait and see. The man’s going to begin about Arfaij. Kalafar had no stomach to continue this talk with Alghernon. I don’t have time to waste pondering on the whereabouts of my adventurous and military brother. He should have stayed with the Mores at their manor. It was his to inherit anyway. But no. He had to play the general. Before his uncle could begin the lamentation, Kalafar rose to his feet.

  “My lord, I need to use the pot, and not for my small business.” That was a lie, but a good one. “If you want to retain that food inside your belly, I suggest you leave me be. The hour of the witch draws near, and we should all be off to sleep.”

  “Very well,” the man said, as he licked off the grease from his fingers and finished his wine. “I will retire to mine
own tent. On the morrow we leave this place, and we have to be rested. And thinking on it, I need to shit as well. Good sleep, nephew.”

  “The same,” he replied.

  Hours passed, and the night found the warden of the Winterlands dreaming. Dreaming an enemy and a friend, a betrayer and a savior. But their visage was ethereal, shifting like quicksilver upon a mirror surface. And around him, Kalafar chased with his mind’s eyes the lost horses of the former lords and rulers of the Northlands, the houses of Fengard and Wyrm. The mares and stallions were wild and strong; their manes great and beautiful. Black and grey – fluttering in the wind, releasing snow sparks as they ran.

  He couldn’t know the betrayer’s face, nor make reason of his voice. And as for the savior... the ghost chose a form, a symbol. It was an animal, a ram lean of muscle and proud on a field of flowers, in the last month of spring. The ram was him. The season was Juni. Their fate uncertain and mercurial...

  Chapter XXI: Birus

  The white-grey sky blinded the sun, and the naked trees masked the horizon. Through sorcery he could hear them, the shed branches whistling ominous songs like wooden ghosts. Such knowledge and perception didn’t come naturally to a mortal man. Old forgotten magic at work, Birus mused.

  His hawk was inspecting the plains; ensanguined and auburn feathers splitting the air with grace and purpose. Its sharp eyes, like pale dry wood, studied the battlefield. The prey was legion. Their banners were tall and proud in the wind, Tychos and Verwick, Shellburn and Beckett. And other sigils upon cloth, oathbreakers who had risen against Hagyai Rovines for their own selfish ends. Eastlanders. Traitors one and all. From the multitudes, however, the hawk’s eyes failed to discern the lord of Ironmoat. The bastard is too much of a craven to fight his own wars; our sparring in the capital has left him mute of presence.

  The hawk retreated from the sky, landing on its master’s lower vambrace; it’s sharp talons coiled against steel. The bird pecked three times on the gardbrace, and the master raised his visor. Their gazes met, burnt sienna and pale dry wood – the flicker of their eyes spoke a thousand words. His gift was a marvelous thing; but many others would call it sorcery, devilry. Birus knew that very well. He knew how much ruin ignorance and fear could unleash at the slightest glimpse of the unknown and unnatural. That is why I guard it; why I keep it secret. For the fate of witches is cruel indeed.

  The bird’s head feathers bristled, as the sound of war horns filled the air. A loudness of terror impaled the hearts and ears of the soldiers and made the horses uneasy. The mounts erupted in neighs, banged their hooves, and jerked their heads right and left. Riders had to pull and twitch the reins to keep the animals in check. The barren gap between the two hosts seemed to shrink alongside the haunting echo of blown horns, which brought the moment of battle ever closer.

  “First line!” Birus Mandon shouted, his voice a touch of frost and fire to the ear. In his silver breastplate, the warden of the Streamlands felt not invincible. He felt himself a man, a mere fallible mortal encased in shimmering plate armor. But I must seem more than that, a beacon of unity and strength. “March on, turtle stance! Shield those crossbows! And remember to cover any gaps that may arise!”

  His first line had two thousand spearmen with tower shields. Between each spear, a crossbowman awaited the order to give volley. Their formation was a long box of four rows. Mandon’s host had only a left flank, two hundred horse archers strong. The enemy host had both flanks – many an impetuous lancer ready to charge and kill, supported by footmen. While its center consisted of longbows, light and heavy infantry.

  Those longbows are the real threat. If the turtle line stands and my flank collapses their own, only the right one remains. The turtle must hold. Birus looked to his hawk, into those all-knowing honest eyes. The bird tilted its head, as if to give a nod in agreement; then spread its wings and leaped to the air.

  “Auxiliaries, stand firm! We move only on my command! Those turncloak swine serve a vile man! A man without honor! A usurper! They betrayed the true emperor, Hagyai Rovines! They use the means of cowards and rogues – instigators, bribes, deceit in both light and shadow! Their vile liege lord, Erasmus Verwick, has betrayed the Empire and the Sun Throne! These soldiers, who stand against us now, have pillaged and burned our crops and houses! Their purpose!? To bring hunger and suffering to our realm in hopes of aiding their treacherous masters!”

  Birus paused for a moment, thinking on his next words and of the strength they ought to carry. “They’re traitors to our nation, traitors to our gods! They spit on your ancestors, on your families, on your lands, on your people! But we’ve chased them enough! The wretches have chosen to give us battle! Finally! This day we’ll best them in true combat and scour these oathbreakers from our soil!” We’ll defeat them under the warrior god’s eyes, Birus wanted to shout – feeling the fire he had felt before. It gave him strength; burned away all doubt and fear.

  All of his talks with Narak al Zull had forever changed him. But he could not openly admit to his bannermen, his fellow streamlanders… that their liege lord had embraced the heathen tenets of the fire god Allahr. The fools would think me uncanny, bewitched.

  To complete his fiery discourse, Birus raised the greatsword above him. They all knew it. They all knew the blade… the blade his lord father had wielded in the past great war – Traitor’s bane. “Brothers! Soldiers! This day we rid our lands of these invaders! We’ll cut them down and spit on their corpses! To battle! For Rivermark! For the Streamlands! For Hagyai!”

  “For the emperor!” The host cried out – thousands of voices in unison, a thunder of man covering the plains. The throats of mighty streamlanders.

  And that was where the battle would take place, on the fields of Woodheart. Birus Mandon had seen war, but from the sidelines, not from within. He had seen his father before and after a fight. He remembered how the man looked in his tent during the war councils, and how he looked after a battle – the sight of his armor anointed in blood and marked by the enemy swords. He was an ardent fighter, good tactician, ruthless in his pride and in what he deemed as justice. And with that reflection came another – one of purpose and life, one of strength and fortitude.

  “Pray to Allahr, god of fire, god of struggle, courage, battle, and honor. Only warriors may speak to him, for only warriors are worthy souls. The lord of hosts hears only their voices. And only through their backs and hearts does he give them strength.” Narak al Zull, commander of the Mounted Arrows Company, had said to him.

  Al Zull and his riders had proven their word of being tempered in the many battles east of the Alpian mountains. The skirmishes with the enemy along the Drape Woods, Riverspring, and Broad Hill – their ability to gather new vigor and haste after such fights had been impressive to say the least. “Onward, brothers! With song and fire!” Narak al Zull had shouted at every march that brought them closer to their goal; that of routing lord Verwick’s traitor puppets out of the Streamlands.

  The hawk gave out its cry, and Birus Mandon saw through the creature’s eyes; prescience made true and clear. Birus grabbed the short horn from his belt, filled his lungs with air and forced it out through the ivory cylinder – giving the signal to his men. The turtle came to a halt and prepared to face the wrath of enemy longbows.

  Swift and slender cuts of air sounded from the sky, and they all braced themselves. The enemy arrows stopped in the long brick line of shields. As it was to be expected, an attempt to pin the turtle, while the enemy advanced with flanks and center. Mandon’s left and only flank rode off to meet against lances and swords. May Allahr guide you true, my friend. May your arrows and blades cut past steel through flesh and bone.

  The enemy’s other flank was aiming to position itself on the right side of the turtle. After the longbowmen would finish their salvos, the center and the flank would strike jointly; Birus knew. The cries of the hawk were deafened now by the sounds of war drums, horns, shouts, stomping hooves, and the noise of loose arrows halting against s
hields. Yet, he remembered with a grin, the most beautiful of war sounds is by far the clash of sharp metal teeth.

  When arrows ceased to fall from the sky, the vanguard of pikes and swords charged frantically against the turtle, while the free flank aimed to shatter the shell from the right. “Auxiliaries!” Birus yelled out, tightening the grip around the hilt of his greatsword. “With me! Onward! And glory to the first of us to die!”

  At the same time, through the bird’s sight, the battle on the left flank had started. Narak al Zull’s horseback archers aimed their arrows at the enemy mounts. Not even a knight all clad in metal could hope to survive a violent crash, when the animal under his legs would fall against the ground at that speed. Despite the armor of the enemy mounts, the mercenaries had special edges for them; al Zull had showed him the arrows... tips barbed and made of steel.

  Let us cleave and smite, thought Birus, his limbs tensing with fear and fury. We have to resist. If my center holds true, the crossbows will take care of the rest.

  The enemy lancers approached in a fierce charge, but they were disorganized. Some aimed toward the turtle, while others aimed to charge the advancing auxiliaries, who appeared easier targets to dispatch. When they were close enough, the tower shields were lifted, and the sharp tipped bolts flew against the coming wave. The coursers came tumbling down along with their armored masters – their death coming under the weight of the dying animals. One threat gone; that of long and sharp lances. The footmen are mine. “Press the advantage! Now!”

  Fallen and kicking horses proved the perfect obstacles, giving his crossbowmen enough time to aim true and reload – all from the safety of the turtle’s shell. The enemy center also entered range. And the long line of tower shields, spiked by the enemy arrows, unleashed the crossbows once more. Wave after wave of deadly bolts.