Empire Asunder BoxSet

by Michael Jason Brandt

  Only five of them occupied the room—himself and Renard, Anton and Gornada and another man who had never been introduced. This last figure had remained mute throughout, watching and scratching a thin beard, either in contemplation or from boredom.

  Perhaps seeing Nico’s indecision compelled Anton to explain. “The timing of your father’s offer is certainly suspicious, young prince.”

  “The timing?”

  “Are you truly ignorant of what happens in Asturia?”

  “I am embarrassed to admit that I am.”

  The king looked at his unnamed companion with a bemused expression. The other shrugged, then resumed stroking his beard.

  Anton turned back to Nico. “Very well. Let me inform you. My kingdom turns against me, that is what happens. The Duke of Feana has raised an army.” At the very thought, Anton’s face twisted in contempt. “Iago claims to lead a thirteenth kingdom—this is what he uses to motivate his followers into treachery—but what he really wishes is to rule Asturia.

  “I…underestimated the threat. How quickly it would grow, and how well-armed mere rebels would be. I’ve sent a force to subdue Iago and pacify Feana, but I fear it may be too late. Even without Iago at its head, I believe the unrest has gone too far to abate quietly, or soon. Cries of rebellion, of separation—of independence—can now be heard throughout Asturia. It seems my rule has not been as popular as I believed.” A hint of regret—perhaps self-reproach—afflicted the man’s voice. “I do not understand these people, and because of that I know not how to allay their concerns.”

  “Perhaps Akenberg can help, My Lord.”

  “Yes…your offer. Marriage and alliance. It comes at a conveniently good time, wouldn’t you say?” Anton snorted. “You will excuse me, young prince, if I don’t show much trust in Hermann’s motives. Or yours.”

  Nico considered. Clearly there was far more involved in this diplomatic mission than he knew, and he blamed himself for not being better prepared. But the assignment had come so suddenly, so soon after his Proving, and had seemed such a routine affair.

  “I beg your forgiveness for my ignorance, King Anton. I can offer only my assurance that I knew nothing of these events.”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” Anton pondered a moment longer. “Some believe I should confine or execute you.”

  “What purpose would that serve?”

  “To harm King Hermann, and no other. Yet perhaps that is sufficient. If I am to lose my throne regardless, why not weaken my enemy in the process?” He bowed his head, deep in these morose thoughts.

  For the first time, Nico took Anton’s threat truly seriously. But he could conceive of no convincing response.

  A silence fell over the small assemblage, broken only when a messenger arrived. Captain Gornada halted the boy, exchanged a few words, and sent him away. Then began a slow, solemn approach toward the throne.

  Initially, Nico was not certain that the king was even aware of the interruption. But when Gornada neared the seat of power, Anton spoke without lifting his head. “What message, Captain?”

  “News from Feana, My King. The rebel Iago chose to fight rather than negotiate. It seems he has driven your army back, and now marches on Cormona.”

  “A defeat, then. This was…unexpected. How did he…? No matter. It appears the duke is stronger than we supposed.” A humorless smile crept upon his face as he once again looked upon Nico. “Well, young prince. It appears I have other concerns. You have my permission to depart, if you prefer.”

  “What I’d prefer is to not give up on my mission so soon, King Anton. Surely you can defend your capital?”

  “We must hope so, young prince.” He sighed. “Very well. You may remain and wait. But I cannot spare time for you. I will have a suite prepared to make your stay pleasant, but I cannot say when—or if—we will be able to resume discussions of this marriage.”

  “Understandable, King Anton.” Sensing an end to the audience, Nico bowed. He watched Captain Gornada begin to whisper into Anton’s ear.

  Nico looked at Renard. “I think we should go to the barracks, first.”

  “Aye.”

  Nico informed Captain Bayard of the situation, leaving out many of the political details.

  “So, Captain, you will be cooped up here until this conflict is resolved.”

  Bayard nodded.

  Nico could feel the eyes of the others watching them. He had pulled the captain aside and spoken quietly, but he suspected they were picking up the tone of things well enough. Their stares made him uncomfortable, and Manus and Driscol did not help matters by looking his way without attempting to conceal their disapproval.

  “One more thing. The Asturians are anxious for something to hold against us. A reason to turn us away, or even imprison me. We must be on our absolute best behavior. Understood?”

  “Aye, Commander.”

  Nico considered naming names, or giving specific suggestions, but ultimately decided that the far more experienced officer would likely meet such interference with resentment.

  “Very well. I’ll keep you informed of changes as they occur. Dismissed, Captain.”

  Nico turned to Renard, who had been by his side the entire time. Whether he was paying attention, however, was another thing. Nico was once again reminded that the man should be home, enjoying retirement and his well-deserved pension.

  “Well, old friend. I’m sorry for dragging you into this.”

  The mustache curled. “Believe me, Boy, I wouldn’t miss this for all the beer in Neublusten.”

  6

  Everdawn

  Jak crept through the undergrowth on the balls of his feet, the thin leather of his boots producing such imperceptible footfalls that even he could barely hear them. Avoiding the sweeping branches that threatened to give him away, he stalked closer and closer to the clearing where his target lurked. Jak could see the figure now, crouched in the high grass, attention drawn toward something at his feet, his back to the unperceived threat.

  Jak inched closer, his speed diminishing as cautiousness increased. A few more steps and he would be close enough to pounce. He lifted his arms slowly, palms open, as the figure began to stand.

  “You are as loud as a bear, Jak,” Kevik laughed, turning at last to face him.

  “Devil’s breath,” Jak muttered as he emerged from the brush. “I thought I had you this time.”

  Jak was disappointed, but hardly surprised. He had never been able to sneak up on his lifelong friend, no matter how stealthily he moved. Or thought he moved—clearly, his own ears lacked the requisite sensitivity.

  The disappointment was mild, however. Just one more indication that he was never intended to be the hero. That was a distinction for others, such as his current companion.

  “You brought us some breakfast?” Kevik asked, eying the small pack slung over Jak’s shoulder.

  “I did. One whole loaf from the oven, berries and melon from the garden.”

  “Great. I was getting hungry while I waited.”

  Jak began to remove the contents of the pack, his lips subconsciously forming a broad smile, barely containing his excitement. Now that he was clear of the woods he could see the two practice swords propped against a nearby stump. Kevik had offered not only to spar with him, just like old times, but to teach him some of the strikes and counters he had learned at the academy. To do so was, strictly speaking, forbidden. But it was also the only way that Jak would ever learn of them. As a lowly housethrall—the lowest tier on the social order—he was forever barred from entry to institutions like the training academies. The thought of being taught techniques known by only a handful of warriors in the entire empire was a temptation worth the risk of punishment.

  His anxiousness to get started outweighed any hunger of his own, so he impatiently watched Kevik gobble down all the food intended for both of them.

  “Did my parents give you a hard time for taking this from the kitchen?”

  "Nay, your da left for work early this morn.
Your ma is hosting company. But Kleo asked me where I was going. I thought she might stop me, but as soon as I mentioned your name she let me go.”

  Kevik grinned. “She’s a good sort, when she isn’t trying to be like Mother. She’s just finding her place in the world. Like all of us.”

  Jak nodded. The girl had become noticeably less hostile toward him since the incident at Harvest Festival. He doubted the goodwill would last, however.

  A thoughtful reverie had overtaken his friend, very like a trance. Jak had seen Kevik lost in his thoughts more and more often in the two tendays since the crying incident—the reason for which Jak still did not understand. Growing up, Kevik had always been an audacious youth, often to the point of recklessness. A little reflection was probably an improvement for him. Yet something about the change unsettled Jak, as Kevik’s face did not wear these moments well. Lines of strain or worry frequently appeared, making him seem years older.

  Jak wondered if he, too, looked like this when lost in thought. Which was a common situation for him, even though as he got older he worked harder to not overthink things quite so much. The two of them were becoming more like each other—not an entirely displeasing notion.

  Then Kevik snapped out of the reflective mood, his face lighting up with sudden enthusiasm. “Are you ready to do this? Your muscles haven’t gone too soft?”

  “Hardly. I’ve been practicing on my own. I think I can take you this time.”

  Jak wished Kevik’s laughter was a little less ebullient.

  “You have been practicing, I can tell.” Kevik smiled. “You’re quicker than I remember.”

  Jak picked himself up from the ground, as he had done countless times. He appreciated the kindness, even if the praise was unmerited. They had been at it for only an hour, and Jak was already as sore as he could ever remember being.

  Breathing heavily, he resumed his fighting stance. Kevik did the same, albeit without the same loud wheezing.

  As usual, harkening back to their younger days, Kevik allowed Jak to instigate attacks and dictate the tempo of the sparring. Jak knew perfectly well the reason for that deference. Kevik could defeat him at will, and neither would get much out of the experience if it amounted to nothing more than a few seconds per clash. Jak tried hard to challenge his more talented opponent, but every swing was met by a perfectly timed parry, every thrust turned away or easily sidestepped.

  Occasionally, Kevik would take advantage of holes in Jak’s defense to score a hit on the counterattack, always followed by a quick explanation and suggestion for improvement. Jak was used to being disarmed, tripped, and pummeled. Every session with Kevik ended with the housethrall bleeding from minor cuts and bruised from repeated blows, and this time would certainly be no different.

  He really did not mind. Each scratch contributed to making him better. Not that he was ever likely to be good by imperial standards, but Jak wanted to be able to hold his own against the level of competition found in Shady Glen.

  He lunged forward and their wooden swords clashed again. The din the blunt edges produced rang through the clearing and nearby woods. The two combatants were oblivious to all else.

  A parry led to another of Kevik’s quick counterattacks. This time Jak was ready—he had, in fact, made his own halfhearted attack in anticipation of such a move. Since he had no hope of breaking down Kevik’s defenses while the other stayed on his back foot, the only chance to score a hit of his own was when his opponent shifted forward. Now Jak sensed that opening, the right leg suddenly exposed, and arced his weapon toward it. Before the weapon got close, however, Kevik’s sword came down hard on his knuckles, and Jak dropped his wood at the sudden agony.

  His face twisted, partly in pain but mostly in dejection at the failure. He had thought he was onto something, and it had backfired miserably. Now staring down at his hands, he stuck the knuckles in his mouth to suck away the fresh flow of blood.

  Kevik chuckled again. “Thought you would try a new one on me, eh? You’re not the first. I’ve seen them all in the last year.”

  Jak was pleased to hear that his friend was doing so well at the academy, but that did not take any of the sting out of this setback, figuratively or literally. It would be a few minutes before he could even hold his sword again. He sat on the ground, back to a fallen oak, and continued to lick his wound.

  Kevik half-leaned, half-sat on the trunk and stared into the distance. “I’ve always admired your insight, Jak. Can I get your advice on something?”

  “Anything. You know that.”

  “It’s about Calla.”

  Jak nodded, waiting, his sore fingers forgotten. He had the feeling this was going to be important.

  “You know there are a lot of nobles at the academy. Dealing with them has not always been easy.”

  Jak did not see what that had to do with Calla, but continued to nod, knowing the point would come in time.

  “They looked down on me, Jak. It’s the first time in my life that’s ever happened to me. My da is clerk here, so everyone knows us and treats us with respect. But a village clerk is nothing to those people. They’re all the sons of landgraves and barons and dukes. I might as well be a housethrall to them. No offense—my best friend is a housethrall—but I want you to know how they see me.”

  Jak was far more pleased to hear that Kevik considered him his best friend than he was offended about the slight. After all, it was true.

  “I hated the way they made me feel. I still hate it. And I don’t want my children to ever experience that. Not if I can help it.”

  I understand. It’s not a pleasant experience, always being reminded of your place.

  Kevik hesitated, unsure how to progress. Then he sighed. “Well, I met a lot of their families, there in Varborg. Most of them are from that city, or the nearby areas. Much closer than here. You wouldn’t believe how remote Everdawn seems from the capital.”

  Aye, I would.

  “A lot of the students look down on me, still. But after a year, some of them have become like friends. They’ve introduced me to their parents, and their brothers and sisters.”

  Now Jak understood where this was heading. He even felt a small, unexpected spark of anger inside.

  “During the first year, all the newcomers live together in a barracks. But after a year, we get to move to small apartments, two students in each. My roommate, Yinesa—he’s a Linizan—has a sister, Anzia. She’s headstrong and pretty, like Kleo. I think being around her was the first time I ever remember getting shy. I thought for sure I came off like an ass’s ass, but Yinesa told me afterward that she likes me.” He shook his head at the absurdity.

  “You think that marrying into nobility will solve your problem,” Jak said, careful not to let a hint of reproach enter his tone. Kevik was still his master, after all.

  “Nay, I think they’ll always look down on me,” Kevik said sadly. “I’m thinking of my children.”

  That made sense. Considering his own situation, Jak could hardly dismiss the importance birth placed on one’s social livelihood. He himself would give almost anything to spare his own children from being thralls. Presuming he ever had any children, of course.

  But one thing—perhaps the only thing—Jak would not give up was the perfect girl.

  “Have you spoken to Calla of this?” he asked.

  “Great Theus, nay!”

  “Do you know what would happen if you tried?”

  “She would murder me?”

  “Nay. If you tried.”

  Kevik considered a moment. Jak waited until his friend came up with the answer. “I would change my mind.”

  “She’s special, Kevik.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you?”

  “I do. But it helps to be reminded, sometimes.” He looked up into the sky. “It’s just been…more difficult than I let on.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Jak asked. Part of him hoped to find out what demons had been plaguing his friend ever since his
return. Another part of him, however, dreaded what he might learn.

  “Here they are at last, Hinch,” said a voice.

  “I don’t know, Gallo. They look like they might want some privacy.” The gibing tone made the inference clear.

  Jak needed a moment to recognize the two young men who were stepping into the clearing. They were the ones who had bullied Kleo and Tila, until Jak, Riff, and Kevik had in turn bullied them away. Jak did not know which nearby village they were from, but was reasonably certain it could not have been too close. He had never seen them before the festival, and was surprised now to see them again. Apparently, the shame of the last encounter had festered these last tendays for them to have come back all this way.

  Whether the other boys wished to fight or simply intimidate was unclear, but either way Jak found it hard to be worried. These two clods clearly did not know who they were fooling with. Even though his muscles still ached and his fingers still bled, Jak grinned at the prospect of sparring with them. Kevik the Conquerer could probably handle them both on his own, but Jak welcomed the chance to test himself against a beatable opponent for a change.

  Their misguided bluster was ironic. “Sorry to interrupt…whatever you were doing,” Gallo snarled. “But we have unfinished business.”

  “Go away,” Kevik said, in a tone one might use with a bothersome housefly.

  “Stand up!” Hinch cried out. He was half a head shorter than his companion. Both of them were thick—in the body as well as the mind—but Gallo was bigger all around, and far more muscular. He had close-cropped hair, while Hinch’s hung long and loose.

  Kevik sighed as he stood, picking up his practice sword from the ground. Jak took the other and stood beside him.