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

by Enache, Serban Valentin Constantin

  The dray horse had fled behind them, knocking down one of the cutthroats with a hoof to the head. And the man holding Pop threw the boy to the ground – rushing at her, knife in hand. The lazy eyed bastard and the other two came at her, this time all at once. She tried to parry with the short blade, but against three adversaries there was no chance. They overpowered her and sent her to the ground; the short blade escaping her grip with the fall.

  “You fucking bitch!” The lazy eyed bastard spat, eyes filled with venom. “I’ll be sure to peel the skin off your bald head, when I’ll fuck your cunt bloody!”

  She tried to roll to her left, but she ended up catching a boot’s sole in the face. This time, the swelling she felt was filled with pain, and the familiar taste of iron appeared once again in her mouth. Even through pain and fear, Drakanes shouted against the madness with madness – screaming both words of reason and curses. Imploring for mercy and peace, as well as damning their foul eyes and souls. Damning the Triune god himself. The vile devils got her on all fours, as they worked with their knives to slit the joints of her armor… so they could undress and rape her.

  Fate give me death, not this.

  Suddenly, one of the cutthroats screamed. It was her short blade; Drakanes recognized it as the thing came out red from inside the man’s skull. While the boy, Pop, pushed at its hilt from the other side. One more corpse, Drakanes thought a bitter thought, as she was struggling against them; even though it seemed pointless now. Only three left and no escape. I couldn’t even kill two of them. The gods are so cruel.

  And they were, for a cutthroat made a slash at the boy… a slash that took off Pop’s hand. Blood sprayed from the stump, as the loose limb fell to the ground; the boy screamed as he collapsed in pain and fear. The men cursed at him. The lazy eyed bastard chuckled too, as he was pulling down her breeches and readying himself to take her – as if she was some bitch to be mounted by a pack of rabid mongrels. The moment’s defeat and barbarity engulfed her senses. The taste of fear and bile, the sensation of ruin; they were so alien, yet so real...

  A strange swift sound reached her ears then, and Drakanes noticed that Pop had ceased to cry, and that the others had quit their evil laughs and curses. The lazy eyed bastard fell on top of her. And for a moment, Drakanes feared that she would endure the rape’s cruelty in an even crueler silence – a deafening silence that might leave her insane well before they’d slit her throat. But the bastard didn’t make any attempt to spread her legs, nor did he move. She heard the queer swift sound again; and then the other cutthroat on the left side who had her pinned down fell also.

  “Mothers have mercy!” Drakanes heard the last murderer plead – and the swift sound came again. That third time, she understood what those were… they were arrows stopping themselves in boiled leather and flesh.

  “It’s over,” Drakanes breathed. “It’s stopped; they’ve stopped.”

  The faint moment of respite was broken by footsteps; riders dismounting – several men she judged by the sound of it, and she had enough of this nightmare to abstain from further prayers… from further hopes. By that time, Drakanes had managed to pull up her breeches and to lean back against one of the arrow skewered corpses, bringing down the hood over her shaven skull; as these new strangers approached.

  “Help him,” a man said in a rough voice. She judged him an outlander by the accent he possessed. “The boy’s bleeding. Ajax, you’re the better physician amongst us; make sure you cauterize the bleeding stump without overdoing it.”

  “Damn it, al Zull,” another man said; this one was no outlander. “It’s because of your stubbornness of avoiding the main road that we’ve yet to reach Rheinfeld Harbor. And now we have this to delay us even further.”

  “You know my reasons for staying off the road, sir Rootwine. I do not feel safe in these Empire lands of yours; too many turncloaks at every pass, and the main road is filled with souls I’d rather avoid. We will reach the harbor in due time. I am aware of your eagerness to discharge the duty of your lord – to see us safely off in a ship, so that you may return home.”

  “Lord Mandon ordered me to escort you, yes. And I have every intention of fulfilling that order; that’s why I’m arguing for us to make haste, and not to dwell here like we did in those other parts.”

  “And we will make haste, sir, but on the morrow… Right now, we have to help these unfortunate travelers. There are six corpses here, and we made only three.”

  “There’s one lying on the ground,” the one called Ajax said, as he was tending to Pop, while the other men prepared a fire for the boy’s cauterization of the stump. “This one we didn’t kill, and neither did they. The maggot’s still breathing.”

  The outlander, who seemed to be the leader of them, squatted next to her and put a heavy hand on her pauldron. “Six brigands against the two of you, a man and a small boy… The god of struggle heard your prayers and answered them, it seems.” He grabbed her from around the shoulders to raise her on her feet. This man had a warm look about him, despite his half ear, which looked as if something had chewed it off. His skin was olive, and his beard unshaved, but evenly grown. His brown eyes were plain, but offered a strange gaze of something Drakanes thought was either kindness or pity.

  “Good thing you’ve left one alive. You must be dying to have a talk with him.”

  “Yes, I am.” Drakanes replied, spitting a tongue of blood, as the man pulled back her cowl to see her better. With tone of voice grim and forthright, she confessed her purpose. “I’m going to take the cutthroat back to the village, and make him confess in front of the people and their priest. Then... I’ll kill them both.”

  The outlander’s brow arched when he saw her broken lips and mismatched eyes of pale grey and brown. “Look, men,” he said with a sense of wonder in his voice. “This one’s a woman, and Allahr burns deep within her soul.”

  Chapter XXIX: The Plotter Of Streams

  The crowds were gathered one and all, and everything was cheer and glory – vain glory, some would say. The capital had never seen a triumph in over two hundred years. The finest temple choirs from Prospero were singing the Unnamed Conqueror’s Praise, a hymn reserved only for the Sunborn dynasty. The monuments had been repolished and rinsed with water and oils, to make the stone shine bright. Petals of red roses rained gently upon the white marble road from rooftops, whilst vigorous trumpets and bold drums sounded the emperor’s chariot.

  The commoners watched from the sides, from behind the spears of soldiers, while the nobility watched from the balconies – which were erected specially for this grand occasion. If the actual coronation had been a dull affair... the usual words of benediction placed upon the health of soul and flesh – this so-called triumph was quite animated.

  Though it is pompous, at least he got rid of those outlandish mercenary brutes of his. Latten Reed’s eyes were fixed upon the great banners of gold and green. The proud standards were still in the absence of wind. Only the rabble stirred; the many mouths and feet of the lower orders gathered to witness it all. This grand exercise in brazen impunity. Beside him stood his lady wife, Annette, and his two sons, Latten and Walder.

  To his left, though, stood Birus Mandon. Out of stark pride, no doubt, the former warden of the Streamlands hadn’t changed into the proper attire for such an event. Mandon wore his breastplate uncaring – the scratches upon the silver armor a testament of his martial victory at Woodheart. Even pardoned in defeat, he remains defiant.

  The lord of Rivermark had recently accepted to wed the late lord Wolfgar’s younger daughter, the lady Ruth. The hawk didn’t look too pleased about it. I wouldn’t if I were him. Especially not on this occasion. Not after he buried the entirety of his household. Latten Reed was quite amused with fate’s great jape against the newly appointed warden of the Streamlands. Lord Rayken Bellworth had married his eldest son to the least fairest of lord Verwick’s daughters; while his younger son he had married to the eldest daughter of lord Valdez.

 
I pity Bellworth’s heir, Latten said to himself. And I love the irony of it all.

  Four unwed daughters Erasmus Verwick had, and it was promised that Amarius Mero would choose one of them to marry. Surely he would not choose the fat one with the big nose. Thus, the other girls had to remain free for the emperor’s leisure to decide. Such a tragedy that old man Verwick was savaged to death by that wolf beast. And what a shock it must have been for my liege lord and his heir when they found out. Since lord Verwick was pushing sixty with his ill health, none viewed the man’s demise as too early in his years. The bastard evaded death enough for a lifetime. That particular notion, though spiteful, made him grin.

  And so it came to be that Amarius Mero was no longer obliged to marry one of the Verwick daughters from Findar’s Keep. The emperor now had different offers to consider. The inheritance laws of the Eastlands were strictly agnatic. Thus, no woman could inherit the holdings and titles of her parents or spouses. And Erasmus Verwick, while blessed with nine children, none of them had been males.

  When he turned his head, the lord of Stonerunner Creek met the scornful gaze of his former liege; the man’s features stern and judging. But Reed didn’t care – he owed Mandon no explanations. Yet he couldn’t be too arrogant about it either. Not in my current position, at least. And besides, he required Rivermark’s friendship in order to challenge the new overlord of the Streamlands.

  “Latten,” the hawk said in a low voice, “how are my former incomes treating you?”

  The master of Stonerunner Creek smiled at that, but didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned over a tilted head and whispered, “I’ve come upon a great sought after prize, lord Birus… a young prince of Mero blood, alive and unscathed.”

  For the briefest of moments, the lord of Rivermark appeared as if he had seen a devilmare; but then found the voice to speak. “And you will serve the boy chained properly for his imperial majesty to turn into a eunuch, I presume?”

  Latten curled a lip and shook his head. “I have no such intentions, my good lord. The boy’s soft and prone to crying. His father and mother botched his upbringing. I want to turn him anew. I’ll teach him how to fuck, fight, ride, and kill. After all, such knowledge is crucial for any highborn, most especially the ambitious ones. And if the gods should release the emperor from their favor, the strongest side is that which controls the pretender – the lawful one. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  The lord of Rivermark said nothing. Instead, he frowned and nodded. Sometimes, silence would prove itself as the louder answer. This was one of those times; Latten knew. The lord of Stonerunner Creek wasn’t hatching a meager ploy. I am plotting the stream of mine own destiny. In his eyes, lords Merrick and Bellworth were southern turncloaks, who would gladly sell out the entire wealth and dignity of the streamlanders at the expense of the last drop of their honor. If he was going to oppose such menace and seek out the downfall of these two rival families, Stonerunner Creek would require the aid of Rivermark and Byrnehold. And why not Rogfort and Weiyenor?

  But that didn’t matter now, for the emperor’s chariot was just passing through the arch, and Amarius Mero posed like a true conqueror – clad all in golden plate and adorned with emeralds. The armor glittered wondrously, or so it seemed to the excited plebs who cheered him on as if the man was more than mortal. Huh, any lordling must seem like unto a god in the eyes of the lowborn. Thank the Three for making so many of them. Else we’d be there on the fields, in the forges, at the crafting tables, and in the mines. And there would be no such thing as class.

  The triumphator’s ornate chariot was pulled by four white mares in hooded caparisons of crimson and gold. Soronius Mero wore a cloak of Tyrian purple fastened at his right side, and behind trailed the litter bearers with gifts and riches – flanked by standards crowned with golden halos. Two red elephants adorned with lavish cloth and bright jewels led the procession, while cages on wheels filled with exotic beasts followed the giant animals. They were the great cats of the Lowlands, ashen lions, black panthers, and white tigers. The Arch of Triumph was bedecked with many a bas-relief, depicting the greatest victories of the mightiest Sunborn emperors.

  Mayhaps, one day, Amarius Mero will be on that arch; but history will remember him a simple and vain man… the smallest of emperors. Such a ceremony was dedicated to foreign conquests, not civil wars. And even so, there had been no true war which had won back his throne and crown. Plots and traitors had that merit. Huh, and I proved to be one of them in the end.

  With the Arch of Triumph left behind, the procession came to a halt before the Sun Temple. The emperor descended from his gilded chariot and was received by children at the high end of the stairs, boys and girls bearing laurel wreathes – a symbol of martial victory. The emperor chose the smallest girl and knelt before her so she could bestow upon him the green band. Soronius Mero kissed the child on each cheek, and then the Patriarch stepped forth – ready to apply the sacred oil upon the triumphator’s brow. His holiness made the sign of the Three across his heart. About the sacred edifice, the gathering witnessed it all.

  It was a good sight, that of the emperor standing on bended knee. Latten remembered how he had felt when Soronius Mero had made him swear allegiance to that insidious worm, Bellworth, in front of the others... It was not only a sentiment of shame, but one of disgust. I still can’t believe he chose the grey griffin as warden of the Streamlands. The Three damn them both. Latten Reed managed a thin smile and then a bigger one; for the grand ceremony was at its end. The trumpets sang aloud, and the choirs intoned their songs. The only divine aspect of it all was the music, not Amarius Mero in his Tyrian dye. Neither him nor his brother had been born in the purple. It’s just one more arrogance among many.

  When finally it was all over, the nobles departed the balconies, the carts with spoils were removed, and the plebs returned to their business; but not their labors. The day was deemed sacred; no work, or gambling, or whoring was allowed.

  Latten Reed invited lord Mandon to his pavilion to talk further on the matter concerning the fate of their realm. He made sure to post guards from both their households to earn the hawk’s trust and words of mind.

  “The Holy Temple was quick indeed to open its coffers for the imperial treasury in exchange for the return of their precious Inquisition... Still, the realm brews. The eastern kings remember the one who now sits the throne. And when they’ll crush that slave nation of Zuabar, they’ll be sure to resume the trade wars which Amarius Mero started with his invasion of their lands, and which Hagyai Rovines ended. Ah, such irony...”

  The lord of Rivermark did not reply; Latten Reed took that as a sign of quiet assent, so he continued. “We’re still fairly young, Birus. Well, you are at least.” He chuckled. “And you are to be joined with house Wolfgar. I’m sure the lady Ruth will make a most virtuous wife, and may the gods bless you with many sons.”

  “Thank you, my lord Reed. Though, I’m sure lords Bellworth and Merrick are not too happy about my marriage engagement.”

  Latten laughed and shook his head. “No. I would imagine they’re not, but I am. I think you share my thoughts, Birus. An accord between our three houses is crucial, if we are to overthrow this honorless and murderous overlord of Rainhall and his puppet of Wellmoat. The other stream lords won’t shift their loyalties without a clear sign of our union and strength. And now that the Inquisition is resurrected, we have on our hands one more enemy to contend with. The Holy Temple’s loyalty to Amarius Mero.”

  “His imperial majesty,” the hawk hissed, “will find himself wishing he had never done that. Laic creditors charge only interest, trade privileges, and preferential taxation. The Temple, on the other hand, demands rights of absolute prosecution. Anyone considered a heretic in the eyes of the Inquisition has his or her fate already sealed. Fear and swords are heavier than interest and tolls.”

  Latten Reed inclined his head, as he thoughtfully scratched his beard. “One foe at a time, my friend. I have the lawful prince, and I will make
a proper man out of that boy. For now, we must work diligently… in silence. We must look to strengthen our friendships with the north and west, with Weiyenor and Rogfort. And we must seek to scour our homes and those of our vassals from the prying eyes and ears of spies.”

  “Spies, yes…” Mandon sounded amiss. “There is someone who could aid us; someone from the emperor’s own council.”

  The lord of Stonerunner Creek made no effort to conceal his amazement at that notion. “A member of the council? Of whom do you speak, lord?”

  “I speak of lady Ambrielle. I trust that she is a faithful servant to the good of the realm.”

  “A servant to the good of the realm? Ha!” Latten snorted in derision. “If she were that, with the power and influence of her office as imperial spymaster – she would have foiled the plots of all those turncloaks who overthrew Hagyai Rovines. If not all of them, at least some of them; like that bastard, Sima Dragan – the one who opened the gates of Castle Spire in the first place. Though, truth be told, with the whole realm standing around your walls, who wouldn’t betray his friendless sovereign in exchange for reward and pardon? Regardless, you took the traitor’s life. It was Hagyai’s mistake of putting a woman in such high station. So many vital levers for the Empire’s safety in the hands of a wench.”

  “My lord Reed,” Birus Mandon replied in a solemn tone, “even with all the weakness of her sex, lady Ambrielle was surrounded by traitors; one of them being the emperor’s own chancellor. The extent of her powers was not unlimited.”

  “She still could have – ”

  “Foreseen Bellworth’s treachery!?” Mandon cut him off, a cold ire apparent inside his brown eyes. At such an outburst, Latten Reed bit his tongue. He understood the man’s point; and there was no countering him on that matter. But the hawk of Mandon was quick to shrug it off. And he resumed speaking on a different more philosophical subject.