“You think you can fight bravely, honorably… next to a man whose loyalty you doubt? Surely I don’t have to teach you about treason. The essence of it all was a dynastic dispute, unworthy of great bloodshed. But no… You had to rise in rescue of your precious emperor, your precious friend – the one who betrothed his sole heir to some savage girl from the far west. Trying to emulate a custom that was long dead and unpopular, not only with the aristocracy, but with the Temple as well. Rovines should have chosen a daughter from amongst the great houses. If he had done so, mayhaps we would not be standing here now. And Rovines would not be locked inside the dungeons beneath Castle Spire, beneath the very ground we’re standing on.”
The young lord chuckled, though, it wasn’t in mockery. It was rather the sadness of irony. The lord of Weiyenor had stayed out of the conflict. And there were many voices calling him a craven. Mayhaps even his own vassals? But the ram’s reputation was of no concern to him. Birus had nothing to say; no true words of better reason, save only those of closure. “At least, I didn’t betray my oath like the rest of you did.” And with that, he walked away from him, making for the hall’s doors. The usurper would see him first.
Birus imagined an exchange of sharp words with Amarius Mero, before eventually kissing his hand. That very thought left a wretched taste at the back of his neck. While keeping your honor, you’ve managed to prove that you’re a fool. That snake, Verwick, pulled at your strings like a brilliant puppet master – and you danced like the perfect marionette. You’ve not only failed Hagyai Rovines and prince Yoffis, but you’ve failed your people. It’s a miracle that you’re still alive in this world of poisonous serpents. You were not fit to lead, Birus. You were not fit to lead…
As the hawk lingered over those dark thoughts, scolding himself, the doors of the great hall opened, and from behind them emerged lord Blackway. The lord of Rogfort, like all of the knights in his retinue, wore his plate armor black. The only brightness he displayed was the white over his breastplate, outlining the sable warhorse. And above the house sigil, the creed of Blackway was carved within the armor. Flesh, iron, and dust. Edmund Blackway was a man of average height, but all clad in steel, he looked taller – and his expression denoted annoyance.
“A traitor draws near,” whispered the lord of Rivermark.
Blackway gave a snort of derision. “You should look to your own bannermen, my lord. If it’s any consolation to you, I actually came south to fight Soronius Mero, but fate deemed otherwise. I’m truly sorry for Wolfgar’s untimely demise. I would have enjoyed killing him myself, but in fair combat… not assassination. It was most dishonorable.” Blackway’s words were cold and betrayed no kindness, nor true regret for that matter.
“It might as well been you holding that dagger. He who witnesses an injustice, and does not intervene when he has the power to do so… commits the crime himself.”
The lord of Rogfort laughed and shook his head. “Do you truly believe your own words, Mandon, nephew? Heh. What was I to do? Fight both the usurper’s army and that of your traitor bannermen? If my intention was to turn on my oath, then I would have done so from the start. I would have changed course and rode out to pillage your precious Streamlands. I would have laid siege to your most proud strongholds and watch them crumble before me. I would have raped your women and fed their helpless babes to my hounds. And I would have killed you and your men – including those eastern invaders – before any of you would have set foot on the Plains of Woodheart. Then I would have returned to Rogfort with many a thrall and spoils.”
Edmund Blackway paused after those words. And he bore his queer silence with the faintest of smiles. A smile of regret, perchance? Birus wondered. Or a musing over the irony of it all? Whatever it was, Birus Mandon couldn’t be sure; and he didn’t want to know what this cold stranger of an uncle truly thought.
“I could have done those things,” Blackway continued, his strange smile now vanished from his lips. “But I didn’t. I marched south determined to fight the usurper and his mercenary army bought by slavers’ coin, as well as to battle those southern turncloaks. Not to find my death encircled by two armies, each of which outnumbered mine own. Wolfgar and I shared the same goal, both before and after the parley… Bellworth and your other traitorous stream lords didn’t. Forgive me, nephew,” he said it with the same coldness and empty pale eyes.
“Forgive me; but the honorable and sane thing to do was to prevent a slaughter. A slaughter you yourself couldn’t. For rumor has it, that Rivermark’s gates were opened from within. And all of its souls were butchered and put to the torch. I learnt what happened to lord Abelbrooke… a most horrible end for the poor man.”
Blackway drew a step closer and leaned forward. The lord smelled of a particular scent, iron and sage. “Don’t ever again lecture me of treason or honor,” he whispered in his hear. And with that, the warden of the Westlands shouldered around him, signalling his bodyguards to follow suit. His black knights did just that and followed their lord outside in the yard. There they mounted their coursers, and made for the castle gates. Their liege exclaimed in a most flamboyant tone, “To Rogfort!” And so they left.
Rogfort? He’s not staying for the coronation. Hmph. I wonder what terms he and the usurper agreed upon behind closed doors.
His uncle’s words had been cold and without remorse, but the man had the truth of it. It wasn’t the fault of the northlanders, nor the westlanders… It was his own. He should have assumed command of the larger regiment. He should have kept a closer eye on those two lords who had betrayed their liege once before, Bellworth and Merrick. His father had pardoned them, had showed them mercy; a mercy he was unwilling to bestow upon his own flesh and blood. These terrible events brought new life to those memories. And with the remembrance of tragedy came anguish.
Then the doors opened wide, pulling the hawk away from his thoughts, and the announcer spoke aloud. “Make way for Birus of house Mandon! Third of his name! Lord of Rivermark and warden of the Streamlands!”
The great hall was scarcely populated with courtiers. Those present were mere lordlings, staring with many a different face. Some looked tense, others preoccupied with mutterings, but most of them appeared indifferent... glad even. Is Amarius Mero trying to make me feel very small and insignificant in this particular audience? Or he is saving me the shame of having the high lords see me on bended knee? The latter thought made his jaw clench.
A short man stood on the usurper’s right, while on his left stood none other than Erasmus Verwick – the puppet master who had pulled at his strings with such wicked diligence. And all to attain more power for himself. What a fool you’ve been, Birus; just like your brothers. As he made for the throne, the hawk gave each of the four guards who protected the emperor’s golden seat a measuring look. Their stature was most impressive. And they were clad in silver plate from head to toe and wielded threatening pikes. Birus thought of it while on his way to the capital, thought of stabbing Soronius the usurper after kneeling to kiss his ring. It would have been a most fitting death.
A dagger in the neck, just like brave lord Wolfgar.
But now he had doubts as to his resolve. It wasn’t death he feared, but the pains of torture. Remembering the profanity committed upon his lord steward, Birus found himself reluctant… now… in this place infested by schemers and murderers. The dagger was concealed inside the hilt of his longsword. And if he would strike, the appropriate moment for it was fast approaching. The usurper beckoned him to stop and kneel. He was just a few steps away from the guards, at the base of the throne’s stairs. Birus knelt and waited for the inevitable exchange of words. Part of him wanted to scorn Amarius Mero sternly and out loud, but the other part wondered about the man’s motives. It was curious to know them.
“Rise, lord Mandon,” the usurper said in a strong voice; and so he did.
They looked each other in the eye, without a smile or blink. After he measured Soronius Mero, Birus turned his gaze to the archtraitor Era
smus Verwick. He, at least, did not muster the nerve to return his stare. Traitor’s bane was the name of his greatsword, and what other sword was more fitting to cut this man’s head off? Birus wished he had the blade with him. To unsheathe its cold steel before the old man’s eyes. To read his features, hear him pleading for mercy. And to smell his fear – the sourness of piss and sweat – before taking his miserable life.
“My lord of Rivermark, you are most wise to come seek my pardon. We should rejoice, for my return on the throne caused so little bloodshed in the great scheme of things.”
The wretch knows all too well what happened at my castle, with my people. He is trying to anger me, to test me. Birus decided then he would keep his wit about him and weigh the words with cautious measure, but not without some form of sharpness. Since Amarius wasn’t yet properly crowned, no one addressed him as imperial majesty. Instead, they addressed him as your grace. He deserves neither title. “Yours was the shortest conflict in the history of the Empire.”
The usurper gave him a thin smile. “I know you valued your oath to my brother. It was a great shame that your vassals didn’t… well, some of them anyway.” The thin smile turned into a grin. “But what is one man’s life and honor in exchange for peace, hmm? Don’t they say that peace is its own reward?”
“Indeed they do. So why have you returned to overthrow it?”
Soronius laughed. “My good lord, I didn’t overthrow anything. My brother did – five years ago, along with many traitors. But whom, in my infinite mercy, I’ve chosen to forgive and pardon. And I number you among them as well.”
“You were judged and condemned by a trial of your peers. You were sentenced to exile according to law – ”
“What law!?” Soronius almost spat as he uttered the word. “I was banished from my crown and name, from my rights and country! All on account of a lawyer’s trick of procedure. My so-called trial found no true spirit of law which I had broken. I was found guilty by arbitrary interpretation of the letter. My only true guilt was my pride. But it may not matter to you, that I can understand.” The usurper shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “The crown of the Empire is once again mine; this time not just by right of inheritance, but through the most ancient and respected of rights… that of conquest.”
Birus almost snorted. It took everything – every strength in him to keep his derision silent. What has he conquered? He thought to himself. I crossed more swords and spilled more blood than him in this conflict. What did he do? Nothing. He just stood and bargained his victory with murderous turncloaks. Everyone else simply bowed before the power of his promise, not that of his sword. The power of barter has won over numbers and honor, and over duty.
Soronius rose from the throne, and descended a few steps towards him. His green eyes appeared to glitter, as did the many emeralds which adorned his majestic warplate. Though he was older than his sickly brother, the man was taller, broader in the shoulders, fairer skinned, clean-shaved, and stern of jaw. With the ancient splendour of gold and bronze, which was the Sun Throne behind him, Amarius Mero looked more of an emperor than Rovines ever did.
“Well, my lord of Rivermark… I trust you understand my reasons for not allowing you to keep the title of warden. And I trust you know the words of fealty by heart.” He tilted his head to one side and smiled. “Utter them before my eyes and ears, before all these people here gathered and before the invisible presence of the gods.”
With a heavy sigh, the hawk settled his doubts, at least he hoped so. The words didn’t come easy or from his heart, but they came nonetheless. “I… Birus of house Mandon, third of my name, lord of Rivermark… vow my enduring and unquestioning loyalty to Amarius Soronius of house Mero – the true Sunborn emperor, so help me gods.” God, he thought. Does the god of struggle put any price on mere words?
Soronius returned to his seat, and offered his hand, his signet ring. Birus approached with uneasy steps. The guards were following him with their gaze, tightening the grip on their pikes. He knelt before the man. Hagyai’s signet ring had been a ruby, that of his brother was an emerald. The thought of kissing a usurper’s ring was bad enough; but to kiss the rock that traitors and murderers had kissed before him, only made it worse. Birus could taste bile at the back of his throat. Nonetheless, he made himself do the deed. The dagger concealed inside the hilt of his longsword remained undrawn.
After Soronius Mero waved him off, Birus gave Erasmus Verwick one more cold and measured look. He hoped that the evil wretch would catch a touch of evil eye; though he had never been good with curses. The emperor’s features seemed to harbor no true malice towards him, though. Strange. I thought living amongst slavers and returning from exile would make him wroth, not tempered. He seems a cunning man who lacks anger. But is this appearance entirely true?
On his way to the hall’s doors, Birus Mandon enjoyed the solace of one thought. All the lords who pledged their oaths of fealty had done so unto a man who had yet to be crowned. A trick of formality or no, Amarius Soronius Mero was still a usurper. And if the gods cared anything about justice and sacrament, the oaths he received were improper and void of lawfulness. With the gates of Castle Spire behind him, his bodyguards already mounted and ready to head for Sun’s Helm to settle within the swollen heart of the great city – Birus Mandon was granted opportunity. Sima Dragan, the man who had convinced many of the emperor’s soldiers to open the castle gates to the usurper and his invading traitors... the honorless devil was approaching them. The man was in a party of his own, harpoolian sellswords to his left and right. When their eyes met, the hawk grinned behind a stern jaw and he dismounted.
Though grimacing at his sight, the great champion of sparring stood his ground. He seemed not afraid. “My lord Mandon,” Dragan spoke as the hawk approached. “Strong may be your ire and justified as well; but what I did saved lives. Life can be measured in many ways – each one different. But death by the sword of honor cannot be.”
Birus wasted no effort in bringing about words of wit and wind to counter the man’s reason; he strode purposefully with grim eyes as keen talons. While the ground between them shortened, Dragan felt the moment’s inexorable outcome – and he made to draw steel to defend himself. But unlike his longsword, the hawk’s blade was short and quicker. With a simple forward stance and arc of fury by his hand, the former warden of the Streamlands opened the man’s throat – at the very edge of his beard above his gorget with the hiltblade’s righteous steel. Sima Dragan the lightning storm fell on his back; twitching and struggling for his life, for the last breath of air that would not come. The harpoolian mercenaries made no effort to intervene in Dragan’s aid or against his killer – they chose simply to watch.
“I spit on you and your deed, cur.” Birus sheathed the reddened blade, then turned on his heel to mount his destrier. He then looked to the sellswords, and to his own men, and to those souls from the ramparts who had witnessed the whole thing... Before he made to ride, the hawk shouted with vigor and vengeance, “Thus to all betrayers!”
Chapter XXVII: Amarius
Both inside and outside, Castle Spire was animated with lords and lordlings, knights, soldiers, squires, and servants. Every stairway, every alcove was filled with human breath and the sound of iron greaves. Inside the council chambers, in one of the castle’s lower spires, Amarius Mero had entertained several lords already – present allies, former traitorous vassals... now all seeking his pardon and protection. But his work for the day was hardly at an end. He still had to entertain other lords. And political craft was always tedious business.
“My lords, I welcome you,” he said with a smile in effort to help the others feel in warm company. Isador was standing by the right of his chair; his modest frame and stoic features making him the perfect menial.
The lords Soronius Mero entertained were six in number. Latten Reed of Stonerunner Creek. Rayken Bellworth of Rainhall. Old man Verwick, warden of the Eastlands. Maynard Tychos of Ironmoat. Jean-Maria Valdez of Griffin Height.
And of course, the dog-headed serpent of Stoneweed, the jumped-up pleb Tobias Findley.
“I’d like to begin by thanking the liege lord of the Eastlands for his tireless support of my cause. If it wasn’t for his brilliant and devious plan, the Empire would have suffered much loss of life and materials.” Amarius gave them a toothy grin. “But we are all fortunate; for a battle evaded is a victory without loss.”
“You are very kind to say so, your grace.” The lord of Findar’s Keep had aged much from what he remembered. After five years spent in exile, communicating with the lord chancellor only through spies and letters, Amarius had barely recognized the man when he had arrived with the eastern banners in aid of his cause. Erasmus was thin as a spear. His beard and head appeared more white than grey; and his constant coughing was utterly annoying.
“You all are responsible for this day,” Soronius continued, “that peace and true order is once again established. To show my gratitude, I shall bestow boons to each and every one of you.” He turned his eyes to lord Bellworth… The backstabber, figuratively speaking. He didn’t stab lord Wolfgar in the back, but in the neck; though the essence is all the same. “You, my lord of Rainhall… you were the one who averted bloodshed by convincing the other stream lords, most notably lord Reed – here present – to join in my cause, instead of opposing it. Though, I think… if we had battled, I would still have won.” Amarius chuckled, while everyone else smiled without a word.
Bellworth’s only reply was to bow his head with the utmost humility.
This one is smart, as well as ambitious. If I make him stronger, then he grows more envied by his fellow stream lords. “Though I have pardoned Birus Mandon for choosing to side with my brother – the false emperor… I cannot have the hawk of Rivermark as warden of the Streamlands. As such, this great honor I bestow upon you, lord Rayken.”
An Empire Of Traitors (Of Hate And Laughter Book 1) Page 31