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

by Enache, Serban Valentin Constantin

  “Some say that gold wins wars. Others claim that soldiers. You might think that a combination of the two is enough to ensure victory. I say this… the faction with the most loyal spies is more likely to win in the end, for that faction has the advantage of knowing the mind and numbers of the enemy. Therefore, that enemy can be outmanoeuvred, misled, exhausted. Until the hour of battle is chosen when the opposing side, if not at disadvantage, is robbed at least of any advantage. For what is war? It is an action of utmost violence unleashed so that our will be imposed upon another’s. That’s why I lost the war, and why the usurper won his throne.”

  “Bellworth and Merrick,” the lord of Stonerunner uttered the names as if he was spitting poison. “They have treason running in their hearts and veins. Dignity and honor demand that we shed their blood, and pour it over lord Wolfgar’s grave – that his spirit may enjoy the taste of retribution so that it may rest eternally.”

  Poetic words those were, and lord Reed was proud to have said them in the presence of such an audience as his former liege lord. In truth, however, he cared nothing for bestowing justice to the spirits of the dead; he merely sought allies to subdue their new overlord. First the Streamlands. Then... the Empire’s crown and throne. The very notion sent a shiver down his spine, and his eyes flickered with the sparkle of such a precious and daring jewel, which was this ambitious enterprise of his… A scheme he had conjured up when the gods had sent him prince Yoffis; the blood of Hagyai Rovines Mero and rightful heir to the Sun Throne.

  “I have many plans for the future, Birus Mandon, great plans... most ambitious ones.” And I won’t be denied the fruits of my labors, the rightful place of my house.

  “I find it most amusing that plotters win wars, while soldiers win only battles...”

  Latten Reed laughed, holding a hand to his stomach. So true was the observation, for their own scheme was just beginning. The lord of Stonerunner Creek aspired to be warden. And if fortune granted him kiss and embrace, he aspired to be the lord behind a new emperor who would sit the Sun Throne, emperor Yoffis Mero.

  Chapter XXX: Kalafar

  He had made this travel enough times already, and he was sick of it. So many leagues from the north to the insufferable traitorous south and back again. He had knelt before the usurper and had faced the scornful words of Birus Mandon. The only thanks the ram had received was from Amarius Mero himself, a thanks for the north’s neutrality. In the end, I chose a side after all.

  In spite of these things, all Kalafar could think of was a sweet dream... a dream in which he or the beast that he embodied, savaged the feeble throat of Erasmus Verwick. His blood had been sour and foul, much like the man’s sins in life. Kalafar had enjoyed every moment of the savagery. The terror inside those frail eyes, flickering in spasm. And the fear that lingered on upon his being, even after the life had spent itself from the old man’s sight.

  And when Kalafar heard the news, the next day, that the liege lord of the Eastlands was dead; killed by some wild beast on the way to his own estates – he knew he had done it, somehow... through a dark sorcery beyond his reason.

  Riding on the main road with the capital behind him, passing through Heart’s Gift, through Sandgrass, till finally reaching Snake Tongue river, and setting from there on boat, following its western tongue which stretched well into the Streamlands – Kalafar Sodomis had time to contemplate the fate of his realm and that of his rule.

  With what happened to his brother, before this damned conflict even began, it was clear that the northern lords were no different from those of the south. To him, it was clear that sir Peter Steinward was the culprit; but the man was just a hired hand, a pawn in some lord’s scheme. Kalafar suspected who that lord was, but he didn’t know how many plotters were involved. It’s always more than one. Before making a final decision on the matter, he promised himself to hear the council of his lord uncle and his lady mother, and that of his betrothed... My soon to be wife.

  Kalafar had to journey on several other streams to maintain the fastest route north; and the wind was on his side. Soon enough, as the days went by, he was past Wellmoat, then Stonerunner Creek, and swiftly enough he had reached Rivermark. From there he continued north, following the main road to Corhag’s Fasthold. Once there, his party dismounted and stayed the night.

  His lord uncle’s steward, Halldor Hagalian, was most honored to have his liege lord under his roof. And the steward had many a question about the war, about Hagyai Rovines, the usurper, and about the Sun Throne’s treacherous vassals.

  “What kind of creatures are such men?” Halldor Hagalian had asked during supper with half a mouthful. “Don’t they fear the fate of all oathbreakers? Don’t they fear for the eternal damnation of their souls? The gods can’t suffer kinslayers any more than they do oathbreakers. The law is the law, and honor dictates – ”

  “The Holy Temple would disagree with you, my lord steward. Amarius Mero didn’t only receive plenty of coin from the clergy’s coffers to start paying off those damned harpoolian slavers, but received a triumph as well. So much Temple gold to foreign mercenaries and patricians, instead of it going to the poor of this realm.”

  “Blasphemy, sire. Blasphemy, that’s what it is. And all the more horrid, since the most holiest of men and the most holiest of women – the Patriarch and Matriarch – have agreed to such great a falsehood. As far as my histories go, triumphs were reserved for those emperors who managed to return successfully from conquests with glory and spoils. There were no triumphs held for victors of civil wars; were there?”

  Kalafar finished chewing, took a sip from his wine-cup, and only then answered. “Your histories are indeed so, my lord Halldor. Still, no use brooding over things which we have no power over. The turncloaks were many in number and had the right amount of intrigue. That’s how Soronius managed to land on imperial soil in the first place.” It was right of me to stay out of the conflict, he thought then, but did not say it out loud. The first of the cardinal virtues is prudence. And prudence keeps a man alive. I am no more dishonored than those stream lords and black knights who rose in the name of Hagyai Rovines, only to end up betraying him by siding with his usurper brother.

  “Many of the fleet captains changed their allegiance, my lord steward. Sun’s Helm was plagued overnight by riots – no doubt organized by the same turncloak lords like Valdez, Krasus, and Cryhorn. And that insidious snake, Erasmus Verwick, was the heart of it all. Couldn’t stand the fact that Hagyai Rovines was married to a lowborn. That he betrothed his son to a savage Aharo girl, instead of choosing one of his many daughters at Findar’s Keep. His was a cold and calculated ambition... that’s why he murdered my father to get hold of the ram’s station.”

  Halldor Hagalian had ceased chewing at that; and the man’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. He swallowed loudly. “Verwick the snake murdered your lord father?”

  “Yes,” Kalafar was blunt. “He did it to take his office as imperial chancellor. I reckon that assassination happened after he contacted the exile and his harpoolian allies. He saw the perfect opportunity to work his schemes. But for that he needed the high office. It’s obvious that Verwick turned against the emperor when his majesty revealed to him his purpose. Huh, a savage girl from the Desertlands. Ahh...” Kalafar sighed. “What a fool you’ve been, Rovines. You chose to emulate a dead custom instead of choosing the right house to join with. Thus, you’ve doomed yourself...”

  The steward nodded in accord, and his face had changed as if struck by grief. “Jorghel Sodomis was more than the south deserved. Forgive my bluntness, sire; but I knew the man. And unlike others I would rather not name... I never saw lord Jorghel as an outlander, as an alien overlord. Those who did and still do are prideful and arrogant all the way up to the sky – and expect from others and even from the gods the sea and its salt. Underneath different skin, different customs, different ancestors; blood is blood. It’s always red, and all men bleed. May the Three damn Verwick’s soul to the deepest and darkest corn
ers of hell for his vile sins.”

  Kalafar smiled. “The gods already have.”

  “Sire? I do not understand.”

  “Forgive me, my lord steward. Obviously word has not reached you. All that remains of house Verwick are the man’s daughters. The male line was extinguished with his death. A ferocious beast – some say a werewolf – ambushed him while the lord was on his way to Findar’s Keep. His end was a most savage one, I hear...”

  “The gods are just,” Hagalian said the words with a quiet righteousness in his tone.

  Kalafar reflected on that notion – justice. What he saw, felt, heard, and tasted in his dream was something more than justice, better than justice. It was freedom. The freedom of the hunt, the power of the hunter, the taste of satiated wrath. The old wisdoms claimed that vengeance’s taste was bitter-sweet. But the ram found it to be sour-sweet, much like the taste of blood apple seeds spiced with the relish of iron.

  Later in the hour of the witch, Kalafar was in the chamber of his lord uncle. He was sitting in bed beneath a thick fur blanket, reading an old book at candlelight; a book he found in his lord uncle’s bibliotheca – a title he recognized, for he had read it several years ago. The Sanctity of Hell it was called; written by some unknown author from antiquity. The Faith deemed the book as being full of deluded thinking, on account of it making a mockery of religion and spiritual life. Because of that, The Sanctity of Hell was also a political text, for it criticized divine right.

  Its allegations were very amusing and bold. It called all kings as those ordinary men who had been anointed with the spit from the lying and filthy mouths of the clergy. And it deemed the divine right as an absurd claim of a mortal’s relation to the so-called will of a made-up god or gods, who resembled perfectly natural and ordinary beings instead of preternatural ones endowed with perfect virtue and grace. It called it a shameful lie – a preposterous dressing up of right by might, a material and political accord between various factions which sought to impose their brand of laws upon the hungry many.

  The more enlightened aristocrats saw the book as a text of crude comedy, and not a call for rebellion against the nobility’s rule. Most of the lower orders, after all, couldn’t read or write. But such enlightened and content nobles were few, and they were deemed blind by their peers – blind in front of an abject attack against the natural order of things, worldly things as well as spiritual.

  The passage Kalafar liked most was, “All the world’s a stage; a stage of actors, jugglers, dancers, singers, storytellers. And the puppeteers are neither gods, nor kings, nor priests, but simple men, wicked men, insidious and cruel, liars and sweet talkers. The stage is made through the toil of sheep. The sheep are kept in place, in part by shepherds, in part by wolves – and all of them are dogs. Golden fleeces adorn the outside of the stage, while the slaughter happens at the back, behind the curtains, under the loudness of music and cheer, whispers and shouts. Words of depravity and false morals – all voices claiming an opposition, all claiming the one and only truth. And the rabble of mortals remains oblivious to the blood that drips warm from the shrouds, onto the floor, onto the cold ground, soaking their naked and blistered feet.”

  A beautiful passage by an author obscured of history’s recollection. But what is a mortal man’s name? Nothing. Only his deeds remain and words; those kind or cruel worthy of remembrance. Kalafar wondered if he himself would be recalled long after his death by noble folk as well as commoners. Will I be known as the warrior? The steward? The tyrant? Or shall I be none of these things?

  Kalafar Sodomis put the book away, snuffed out the candle and laid his head on the pillow. His eyes were tired, and sleep came soon enough. But it wasn’t a deep sleep. No, far from it. He was sleeping as if aware, as if waiting – with only the silence of fleeting thoughts. It was then that his ears caught something – a sound, faint but close... Metal unsheathed. In that moment, he opened his eyes and saw a black figure nearing his bed. The chamber’s darkness revealed little, and he made no sudden movement.

  When the dagger came upon him, he caught the assassin by the arm with both hands; and with all his strength he rolled off the bed, falling and bringing down the assailant. With the dagger away from his grip, Kalafar jerked to one side, then to the other, until he landed a foot in the man’s chest. He shouted loud for help with all his breath, while fumbling blind at the cold floor with his hands – searching for the dropped blade. He caught the weapon just in time, for the assassin came upon him once more; this time with a short sword.

  Kalafar’s eyes were now adjusted to the gloom; the ram saw the murderer’s blade slashing the air before him – each effort meant to bring him a bloody demise. He caught an attack with the dagger, dodged another by turning sideways; but the third slash cut through his tunic. He could feel the sting across his chest. Kalafar screamed wildly, his heart pumping boiled blood inside his limbs, then rushed towards the enemy – bringing the man down once again, this time with him on top. With a grunt of satisfaction, Kalafar pressed the dagger against the assailant’s throat.

  “Who sent you!? Who sent you!?” He shouted with rage.

  The assassin tried to speak, but the words out of his mouth came without meaning. The chamber doors opened with a violent noise, with several household guards rushing in with lanterns and blades unsheathed. Halldor Hagalian entered next with only his tunic on, but sword in hand. The guards relieved him of the effort of keeping the assassin pinned to the floor, and they took away his weapon.

  “Demons beneath us!” The lord steward said incredulous. “What’s happening here!?”

  “An attempt on my life, that’s what! This worm isn’t answering.”

  “He doesn’t have a tongue, my lords,” one of the guards said.

  “To hell with that!” Kalafar squatted beside the assassin and once again pressed the man’s own dagger against the flesh of his neck. “Tongue or no, you’ll mumble the name of your employer or I’ll flay the skin from your fucking eyes!”

  He moved the sharp tip of the blade a sand grain away from the man’s right eyelid. The assassin tried to speak, but the indiscernible mumbles were a complete mummery. At least, that’s what he thought of it – so Kalafar did as he promised. The man tried to jerk his limbs and head in an effort to resist, but to no avail. The guards held him firmly in place. The ram carved out the skin above the man’s eye. And the screams that came during and after seemed like mere whispers to his ears. When he finished, the left side of the man’s face was left covered in blood.

  “Give me the fucking name! Else I’ll cut off your member and shove it down your bloody throat! Tell it!”

  “Ho... l... en... Bra... rachs...” the mute managed to utter through pain and fear.

  At the answer, Kalafar’s eyes narrowed and he gave a faint nod, not to the assassin, nor to the others in the room; but to the name planted inside his mind, to the man bearing that name. “Thank you,” the ram finally said after a long grim moment, then shoved the dagger into the man’s neck – once, twice, thrice, enjoying the warm blood that covered his stabbing hand and fingers as well as his tunic.

  It was the first time he had made a corpse. And that very feeling was all-empowering. He could smell the iron about him, taste it in his mouth. It’s not so sweet and good as in the dream, but good enough. The rage in the ram’s heart would not be tempered so long as he was standing under this roof. Kalafar no longer felt tired. I feel as if I’ve just awoken; as if alive for the first time as a man, not a boy.

  The following dawn, Kalafar broke his fast with quail eggs and honey on bread. All the while eating with The Sanctity of Hell opened by his side. Kalafar chewed and read the words, read the words and chewed. His mind was working like never before. His thought was bent on one thing – the name mumbled by his would-be assassin, and he thought of other things as well. One course of action, another one, several more; but first thing’s first. I reach Weiyenor, and once there... I’ll show the whole of the north the ram’s horns a
nd the reach of its fiery hooves. Ours is the path and sword.

  The leagues between Corhag’s Fasthold and Weiyenor were made with haste. These autumn days had been warmer than usual. And it’s going to stay warm; I have faith in that. “Fengard and Wyrm,” Kalafar whispered to himself, staring at the gargoyles which stood upon the ramparts of his castle. They were unspeaking, sightless, deaf sentries; for all the stone creatures lacked their grotesque visage, save for one. One gargoyle was not faceless – and it still retained its devilish eyes and grin. Its features were inspiring, both hideous and amusing.

  Afterwards, the ram and his men passed through Weiyenor’s gates. Again behind these walls, Kalafar Sodomis felt ice running inside his bones; for the ram would not remain here idle. Treachery had to be punished, and punished swiftly with great force. “Fengard and Wyrm,” he chanted. “Fengard and Wyrm.” Kalafar’s left hand was squeezed into a fist, while his right held tightly The Sanctity of Hell close to his heart. His teeth worked behind his lips – his mind forming questions with every stride, every stride seeking answers. The plotter needs to die; his servants made to suffer.

  Once inside the keep, he told the seneschal to wake up lady Olivia for a summoning. “Bring all the knights, the lord steward, and the master at arms. Oh, and... bring lady Juni also.” Kalafar spoke in a flat voice, not hinting anything of his purpose. He seated himself on the hall’s chair, and put the longsword by his right foot, still in its scabbard. He laid the book on the chair’s right arm, and flipped through the pages with three fingers until he found his favorite passage once more.

  “All the world’s a stage; a stage of actors, jugglers, dancers, singers, storytellers. And the puppeteers are neither gods, nor kings, nor priests, but simple men, wicked men, insidious and cruel, liars and sweet talkers...” The realm’s my stage, and I’m the play. After several good long moments, the ram’s hall was finally alive with footsteps, breath, and whispers. “Come. Gather ’round. Your liege lord has news.”