Empire Asunder BoxSet

by Michael Jason Brandt

  “Aye,” Jak agreed. “And it seems to fit. The Feuersten Mountains, fire and stone.”

  “Well…”

  “Okay. All but the part about the everlasting gratitude and service.”

  They laughed together at the notion. If the people of the empire ever had been particularly devoted to the gods, those days were long since over. There were exceptions, naturally—clerics and acolytes like those who tended the shrine in Everdawn—but for most citizens the gods were as remote as the stars.

  “Do we have time for another one?” Jak asked.

  “Actually, we don’t. I have a surprise for you. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Oh?” Jak generally disliked surprises. They usually came from Kleo, and seldom turned out as pleasant as the speaker made them sound.

  “Aye. Da asked me to invite you to sup with us. You can join us, can’t you?”

  Jak hesitated. “I thought perhaps you would sup with Kevik.”

  He watched her face turn sour. “I won’t be supping with him until he learns to sober up, first.”

  Jak cringed. Now he knew what had bothered her since yesterday. He hated this new aspect of his friend as much as she did, and tried his best to cheer her up. “In that case, I accept.”

  “Great!” She giggled. “How exciting… I get to cook for you for a change.”

  Calla’s father, Henrik, had the same pleasant disposition as his daughter. He also had a fondness for terrible jokes, a few of which he shared during the course of the meal. Each one was met by a reprimand from Calla, who laughed as much from embarrassment as humor. Jak enjoyed the banter between them. A supremely confident girl, she rarely embarrassed herself, so this was the only way he would get to see her blush.

  What he liked best about the historian, however, was the way he imparted knowledge without coming off as superior. In fact, Jak wondered if the jokes were a form of that—a bit of self-deprecation to counterbalance the brilliance.

  Both of these aspects, humor and erudition, were on display when he asked them which history they had read today.

  “The union of Tempus and Yagos,” Jak replied.

  Henrik raised an eyebrow. “The union, you say?”

  “Aye, Da,” Calla chimed in. “How Tempus created the soul and Yagos the body.”

  “Is that what the book said? Well, I suppose that’s one version of the legend.” He looked thoughtful as he heaped a second portion of roasted vegetables onto his plate.

  “There’s more than one version?” Jak asked. He was not sure he liked the sound of that. Learning was already difficult enough.

  “Indeed. In fact, when studying the histories, one often learns more about the writer than their subject. For example, your story sounds like it came from the quill of a cleric.”

  “Da, stop it. We don’t want to hear this.”

  “Actually, I do.” Jak felt bad for saying it—both for contradicting her and for what he might learn. But his request was the truth. There was no point in learning if one was going to hide from unwanted information.

  “Well now, Jak. I suppose your version teaches that the gods compromised.” Jak nodded, and Henrik smiled. “I would not dare to suggest one is more true than the other, but there is another version. I would read from the book itself, but I like this chair more than those stairs.”

  “Da fell down them last tenday,” Calla told Jak. “Probably while taking them two at a time, forgetting how old he is.”

  He beamed at her, enjoying the rebuke. “Three, actually.” Then he turned back to Jak. “Never mind that. I think I remember the legend you want clearly enough. Let me tell you while Calla pours us another cup.”

  To create life was a gift of power unrivaled among the gods, and the brothers were honored. Yet Theus was wise to their ambitions, and knew to either limit their power or face the consequences. He bade each choose a single flaw for their creations, and a single element from which to fashion them.

  Tempus chose to work with fire, and like the flame gave his creations a brief life with which to burn brightly before tapering out. These lives were strong, determined, and passionate, but lacked the longevity to fulfill their desires.

  Yagos saw his brother’s chagrin and laughed. He chose instead to work with immortal stone. But rock is difficult to sculpt, and his creations were given irregular, misshapen forms. He thought they would be calmer than Tempus’ works, but instead they simply lacked will. Moreover, just as time and pressure transform rock without destroying it, so too immortality slowly mutates and corrupts.

  This time Tempus laughed and ridiculed. His own children were transient, but beautiful. He was proud of them, impractical though they were.

  Yagos, on the other hand, was disgusted by his imperfect spawn. Every attempt to improve their design only led to a new defect. And after each there was Tempus, mocking him.

  Yagos grew frustrated. He knew he could never achieve perfection on his own, and he despised his brother more than ever. So he began to steal fire from Tempus’ forge.

  With each combination of fire and stone, Yagos came closer to satisfying his desire. But that desire was no longer to create perfect lives, but rather to turn Tempus’ own flames against his beautiful children. And so the demons were unleashed on mankind.

  When he discovered what was happening, Tempus was enraged. He vowed to never allow another flame to pass into Yagos’ hands, regardless of the cost, even stifling the ambitions of his own creations. No longer would they spend their brief lives learning and growing. He would protect them, even from themselves.

  So the brothers’ dispute went on and on, neither growing in power. Theus watched, and smiled, having achieved the creation of life while simultaneously holding back his ambitious kin.

  Half of the story was told through a mouth that chewed on overcooked and underflavored beef, which Henrik washed down with repeated long pulls of beer.

  Troubled, but not wanting to show it, Jak reached for his own tankard and took a slow sip.

  “Well, at least we answered one question,” Henrik went on playfully. “You two are interested in the histories, after all. I wondered whether you were really reading down there.”

  Jak nearly spat out the beer.

  “Da!” Calla cried. She looked away, red-faced.

  “I’m only joking, Girl. Don’t worry, I’ll be on better behavior on the morrow.”

  “On the morrow?” Jak asked. He glanced at Calla, who did not meet his eyes.

  “Yes, Everdawn’s clerk has been so kind as to invite us to sup with his household,” Henrik said.

  “Oh.” Everdawn’s clerk—Kevik’s and Kleo’s father, Rodrik—also happened to be Jak’s master.

  Jak supposed he would be cooking for six.

  On the morn, Kevik surprised Jak by waking him up.

  “Come on,” he said. “I need to spar.”

  Jak had not been able to fall asleep until very late, so his mind was still cloudy as he dressed and fetched two practice swords. He was dimly aware of what happened the last time they sparred, but his duty did not allow him to question commands. Besides, Jak genuinely missed spending time with his friend, and longed for a return to the old ways. Perhaps this would turn into another adventure.

  As they walked into the woods, Jak allowed himself a loud yawn that helped clear some of the fatigue from his brain. “You want to tell me what this is about?”

  “I learned at the academy that it’s the best way to sober up.”

  “You can’t sleep it off like a normal person?”

  “Not today. Calla and her da are coming over later. I dare say you knew that, the way you’ve been spending so much time with her.” Jak quickly looked at his companion, who winked. “Anyway, I need to meet with them beforehand.”

  With every reason to feel annoyed, Jak wondered why he felt guilty instead.

  He had always appreciated how Kevik allowed him to set the tempo of their sparring, as well as the way Kevik pulled his blows whenever the time came t
o strike. These things were very much on Jak’s mind now, because Kevik was doing neither of them.

  Jak picked himself off the ground for the fourth time, clutching at a tree to keep from falling back over. The last hit on the head had left him dazed and dizzy, and his legs felt unstable. He did not know why a blow to the head would affect his legs, but here was proof that it did. Jak could barely stand upright.

  Raising a hand to his temple, he felt wetness. Not much, but more than any of their previous bouts. The blood matched that of his left arm, and the stinging pain that of his right thigh and knee. Jak did not know why Kevik the Cruel was doing this, but knew the brutality could not go on much longer. Not if Jak wanted to be able to walk back home.

  “I’m ready for a break,” Kevik said. “How about you?”

  Jak thought the proposal was a joke—or a generous allowance for Jak’s condition—but one quick glance suggested otherwise. The larger boy was flush and breathing heavily, which Jak had never before seen, even during practices that lasted twice as long.

  Kevik found a rock to sit on. Jak took a seat in the grass nearby. Sitting down had never felt so good.

  They sat in silence for a while, recovering their breath and collecting their many thoughts.

  Clenching and unclenching his fists while they sat, Jak was prepared to hate his companion, although the sensation ran against his instincts. He had spent an entire life looking up to Kevik, an admiration that was hard to dismiss in the span of a few tendays. Yet Kevik seemed determined to do everything he could to make that happen.

  What Jak was not prepared for was what happened. Not for this, and not for what came after.

  “I never thanked you,” Kevik said. “For telling that boy that it was you, I mean. I was panicking and you were going to tell everyone you murdered him. You have no idea how much I appreciated that. Even though I know I don’t show it.”

  Jak said nothing. He did not feel like having this conversation now.

  “I’m glad it didn’t come to that,” Kevik continued. Jak waited for more empty words, but none were forthcoming.

  Then Kevik began to cry. Jak resisted for as long as he could, then finally put a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

  “They beat me, Jak. Day after day after day. I thought I was tough, but I cried the very first time. So they hit me harder the next.”

  With this simple explanation, things began to make more sense to Jak. His friend had been changed by the experience—cruelly broken, forcibly shaped into a man he was never intended to be—and it would be up to the good people of Everdawn to reverse the damage.

  “Then they stopped, and I thought it was over.” Kevik began shaking his head. “Nay, it wasn’t. They pulled my pants down and cut me down here.” He motioned frighteningly close to his privates. “They said they would slice my prick open. And then that they would cut it off. I begged them to stop. I begged.” The crying stopped, and he wiped the tears away with one last sniffle. The telling seemed to have served its purpose.

  How badly Jak wished Kevik had confessed this earlier. How much of the damage of recent days could have been stopped? Along with all that would come after.

  “Come on. Let’s head back.” As quickly as it had started, the conversation ended.

  Jak was impressed with how well Kevik was able to compose his face during the short walk back. They reached the edge of the village, and Jak did a quick inspection. “Let me look at you. Aye, you’re good.” He patted the beefy shoulder.

  “What’s that?” Kevik said, turning.

  A figure was walking along the path behind them, fifty yards distant, still concealed by the midmorn shadows. Nay, not walking—stumbling. A tall, thin man.

  “I think this fool’s drunk,” Kevik laughed.

  Then the fool tumbled onto the ground, the long object he carried still clutched in his hands. The figure lay unmoving.

  “Come on,” Kevik said, starting forward in a jog. Jak did not want to follow but forced himself to. He did not understand his own reluctance, but then so much of this day was confusing as hell.

  Kevik rolled the man over and held two fingers to the neck. Jak did not understand why until his friend announced, “He’s alive.” Somehow the gesture had allowed him to detect life.

  “I know him,” Jak said. “His name is Rufus. He’s a Third of Swords.”

  “A Third?” Kevik exclaimed. “We’d better get him into town. I’ll carry him. You grab that.”

  The object in the man’s hands was a bundle of light blue silk, wrapped around something long and thin. Jak was afraid he knew what it was, and did not want to touch it.

  “Jak? Come on.”

  He bent down and put his hands around the silk. The fabric was too exquisitely soft for his rough fingers, but there was also hardened leather beneath. He pulled, reluctantly.

  “He won’t let go.”

  “What?”

  “He’s not letting go, Kevik.”

  “Fine.” Kevik lifted the man in his arms, bundle and all. Jak had visions of the last body his friend had carried. Gallo had been rudely slung over the shoulder, then unceremoniously tossed in the pond. Thankfully, Kevik treated this one rather more delicately.

  They drew a small crowd as they reentered the village, and in the way of people, a small crowd quickly became a larger one.

  Jak followed behind, ready to pick up the object if it fell. But Rufus seemed determined to hang on. And Jak understood why—the man had spent two years searching for it, after all.

  He saw familiar faces in the growing crowd. Henrik and Calla were the ones he hoped to see. Instead he saw Riff, Kluber, Rodder, and Rodrik.

  “I’m taking him home, Da,” Kevik said. “To the salon for now.”

  “Good,” the clerk replied with a nod. “Use the bed in the guest room, though.”

  “Darkness,” said Rufus.

  Kevik stopped. “What was that?”

  “Put him down,” Jak said. Kevik gently lowered the body to the dirt road.

  “Devil,” said Rufus.

  “He’s raving,” Jak said.

  “What? What did he say?”

  “He said ‘Devil,’” came a voice. They all looked over to see Disciple Lukas, still wearing his nightshirt. The young man wilted from the force of their stares. “We…should—”

  Kluber tittered, enjoying the youth’s discomfort—not the first time Jak had seen the magistrate’s son show disdain for the shrine’s keepers or traditions.

  “We’re taking him to the manor,” Kevik said, clearly impatient. He lifted his burden back up and continued on the way. Rodrik walked in front of him, and the crowd moved aside to allow them through.

  Jak stared at Lukas. The acolyte was watching Kevik carry Rufus away, looking terribly confused. For someone who was supposed to be in a position of respect, he was clearly in over his head.

  Jak stepped closer to him. Lukas took a step back, as if worried Jak was going to strike him. But Jak only wanted to ask a question. “Lukas, why do we burn the bodies of the dead?”

  The jittery youth shook his head. “It’s not the bodies, it’s the souls. So Tempus can protect them.”

  Just for a moment, Jak felt a powerful compulsion to tell this servant of the gods about Gallo. Better the trouble Jak could understand than that he could not. Duty came first, however, so instead he turned away to hurry after the procession.

  The strange appearance of the Swordthane was all anyone wanted to talk about all day, a trend that continued into the supper meal which Calla, Henrik, and Kluber were attending. Jak had cooked for seven, not six. Not that he minded.

  He poured the wine while Kevik recounted the events up to and including taking Rufus to the spare bedroom upstairs.

  “Did he ever let go of it?” Kleo asked. “It’s the sword, right?”

  Kevik nodded. “It’s the sword. And he isn’t letting go. Stubborn old man.” He chuckled, and Rodrik laughed along.

  “Does it have gemstones?” Calla aske
d.

  “Three,” Kevik confirmed.

  “Onyx?”

  He shook his head. “Jade.”

  “I’ll have some more wine, Boy,” Kleo said. She held her cup up. Jak stepped over and poured, then stepped back, awaiting the next summons.

  He moved instinctively, having performed these functions hundreds if not thousands of times. They required no thought. Instead, his mind waded through a morass of questions and doubts. It was hard to make sense of recent events, but he felt that he needed to.

  Jak was pondering fires and stones and devils and darkness as he refilled each cup, his mind only dimly aware of the declaration being made by Henrik. “…pleased to announce that I have given my blessing to your fine son, Kevik. Two sips and a bump for the happy couple…”

  Obscurely, as if from a distance, Jak heard the particular kind of restrained cheering performed by refined people—so unlike himself—followed by the careful clashing of cups and the thumping of fingers on table. The lack of sleep and the blow to the head were clearly catching up to him, he thought. How else to explain this unpleasant feeling that he would never know happiness? The sensation was very much like what he remembered of falling out of a tree.

  His arms went first, causing the earthen jug of wine to shatter on the floor, even before his head collided with the seat of a hardwood chair. Unconsciousness hit before he could hear the gasps and cries of astonishment.

  10

  Cormona

  The days after the battle were a blur, but not due to any excess of activity—if anything, Prince Nico had been unable to keep himself as busy as he would have liked. He volunteered for every duty his presence could conceivably help with—getting food and other supplies to the march-worn captives of Iago’s army, assisting the meager assemblage of corpsmen tending to wounds mortal and minor, and digging mass graves to get the foul and bloated dead out of the intense Asturian sun.

  These activities were not enough to keep Nico’s mind off his losses. Including Renard, twelve of the thirty-three Threeshields were dead, and three more so badly crippled that their military lives were effectively over. The last death had come as a surprise. News that Mip succumbed to his wounds reached Nico as he arrived at the field hospital to check on him and the others. Nine had died during the battle itself, and another—Captain Bayard—that first night. Ten had been more than Nico’s heart could bear, and these final two—particularly this last—brought him close to despair. If this was the life of a soldier, he was not at all sure his spirit could take it.