Empire Asunder BoxSet

by Michael Jason Brandt

  And so we meet, after all.

  “Henrikson, get word to the others,” Nico barked. The thrall from Everdawn would have to learn how to ride on his own. “Pim…”

  “Here, Third.” His companion landed softly on the wet ground nearby.

  “Lima, make sure Henrikson and Fawkes—”

  “Aaah!” The Swordthane had already recovered his courage, drawn his sword, and charged toward whatever the Second had become.

  “Pim, left.” Nico drew his sword and moved right, so that the two of them would flank her. He quickly studied her armor for signs of vulnerability, noting a wide opening on the left of her chest where the chain mail was split.

  In a way, it was comforting to feel the familiar weight of his sword in his hand again, though the circumstances were unwelcome. Nico wished, however, that he had made more time for practice in recent months.

  Fawkes had not exaggerated her agility, nor her prowess with the broken sword she wielded as if it were whole. She parried his first slash, dodged a subsequent thrust, then brought her own blade across his swordarm so quickly his shield had no time to block.

  “Fawkes, step back,” Nico ordered, for the man’s presence was now more a hindrance than a help. Neither he nor Pim could form their own attack without the risk of hitting their ally.

  “Aaah!” Fawkes screamed again, lunging once more though his arm continued to bleed. This time the Second did not move away, and the point of his sword seemed certain to find the opening in her armor. Then a dark, sinewy appendage burst forth through that same breach, a flash of movement that stopped Fawkes’ weapon in midair.

  The fibrous tentacle of green and brown grabbed Fawkes’ swordarm at the wrist. He tried to thrust forward, then attempted to pull his hand back, but neither act yielded more than an inch.

  Devero did not smile, nor yell, nor display any emotion at all. She simply swept her broken blade across Fawkes’ throat so quickly that its full motion was little more than a blur. Then the tentacle let go and disappeared back inside its hiding place as quickly as it had appeared.

  The Second turned to face Nico, but his eyes lingered a moment on Fawkes. The thane’s hands were pressed tight against his own neck, desperately attempting to quell the torrent of blood that seeped between helpless fingers. His body sagged, dropped to a knee, then collapsed in the wet grass. One valiant life, extinguished in less time than an arrow’s flight.

  And a powerful warning that Nico’s would be next if he did not defend himself to the height of his ability. She lunged, and he spun away. She slashed, and he parried. She thrust, and he dove to the left, wishing more than ever that he had his shield.

  My shield. It hung on Lancer’s side, hopefully a good quarter-mile from this scene by now. He would have to make do without.

  Pim closed in, quickly and silently, attempting a lethal strike on her back while her attention was diverted. But the Second was not so unaware as she seemed, and he pulled back barely in time to avoid a sudden counterattack. The soldier was no fledgling swordsman, as countless practice bouts with Nico had honed his skills appreciably, but was not half as proficient as needed to protect himself from the relentless barrage of blows that ensued. She scored hits on his arm and leg before the two of them covered a half-dozen paces.

  Nico charged back into the fight, throwing himself forward less with any expectation of wounding their opponent than simply forcing her attentions back toward him. The attempt worked—nearly too well. She pressed him back as she had Pim, though his own defense was not so easily penetrated. Nevertheless, Nico dared not risk a counterattack for fear that he would give her an opening—or draw out that malignant appendage the way Fawkes had done.

  They circled, and he began to see what the Swordthane had meant in his description of her style. Devero did not so much step as glide, her feet in constant motion, her center mass never providing an easy target. If Nico hoped to win this fight, he needed to change that—and quickly, for she was clearly learning his habits, dissecting his mechanics, determining his weaknesses.

  Of course, she had her tendencies, as well. Already, he could tell full attacks from feints before each sequence was half complete. There was little to do with the knowledge, however. There was simply no way to take advantage without giving her an opening in exchange.

  He had spent years improving the speed with which one maneuver—slash, thrust, feint, or parry—followed another. Moving fluidly from defense to attack or the reverse was one of the foremost hallmarks of a great swordsman, and Nico had met his equal only once before.

  Yet Devero was not only an equal, her speed and skill surpassed his own—aided in large measure by the uncharacteristic lightness of her fragmented weapon. His sword was sturdier, and easily deflected hers when they met, but he was spending all his energy keeping the heavier blade in the path of her lightning fast strikes.

  Within the darkened hollow of the open helm, the Second’s eyes blazed with a bright green fury. An unnatural color, glowing, as if the extra appendage were not proof enough of her corruption.

  If a warrior as great as Devero was vulnerable to the taint, surely they all were. Nico better understood the terrible significance of Jak’s warnings, as well as the despair punctuating Fawkes’ last moments.

  Nico saw Pim hovering just beyond the range of her swirling motions, attempting to divert her focus once more. The soldier went so far as to invite attack by dragging his own sword low across the ground, exposing himself unnecessarily. A brave tactic, but thus far ineffective.

  Nico had a better idea. He waited for her next feint, sidestepped, then risked what he had put off for so long—a powerful thrust, directly at her chest.

  For one heartbeat, he thought he was fast enough. Then the dreaded gash burst open again, a flash of darkness accompanied by a putrid smell of decay, and he felt his forearm locked in place as securely as a thief in a pillory.

  A revulsion overtook him at the touch, nearly as strong as the overpowering sense of impotence that came with being restrained. “Pim,” he called, wishing he had been able to communicate his plan before taking this frightening step.

  Nico did not wait for her slash at his throat, electing instead to drop his sword and use both hands to secure a grip on the tentacle. His fingers slipped on its slick surface, but his fingers dug into the spongy meat beneath. He tugged, taking her off-balance, then threw himself backward with as much leverage as he could manage.

  It was not enough to accomplish what he hoped. She remained on her feet, pulling him back, readying her broken blade for the fatal swing. From his knees, Nico tugged again at the five feet of monstrous fiber connecting the two of them.

  Then Pim’s sword came down in the divide, severing the appendage and eliciting an inhuman shriek of pain—the first sign of emotion the Second had shown during the entire encounter.

  Afraid the advantage would not last long, Nico ignored the spray of viscous fluid that splashed his cheek, seized the hilt of his sword once more, and cast all caution to the wind.

  Devero had turned to face Pim, slashing his arm once more, inflicting a far deeper wound beside the previous. Her lips twisted in anger as she drew her arm back for a more powerful thrust. Then she caught sight of Nico’s lunge, and spun to meet him instead.

  He felt the point of the blade make contact, saw with relief that his aim had been true, and pressed the blade deeper through the opening in her mail. It penetrated until hitting the intact rear portion, and he bore her down with his weight and inertia, feeling the strength within that malformed body quickly ebb away.

  Their eyes met briefly, and he wanted to believe that he saw a spark of relief before the final dimness took hold.

  “Pim?” Are you alive?

  “Aye.”

  Thank the gods for that. Then Nico looked at the body of a different friend, his heart filled with regret.

  We should depart. Immediately. “Arura?”

  “She bolted. I don’t blame her. Look.”

&n
bsp; Nico peered into the darkness ahead. Visibility was not much above a few dozen yards, but that was enough to see a pair of red eyes, staring at the two men. Another pair joined them, then more and more.

  The eyes moved closer, slowly, and grayish bodies took shadowy form within the mist. At least a dozen, silently closing in, enormous fangs gleaming in what little moonlight seeped through the haze.

  Wolves—or things that once were, though larger and misshapen in different ways—missing or mottled fur, twisted jaws, too few or too many limbs.

  How foolish to let night catch us alone. Nico wondered how he and Pim would fight the beasts off. It did not seem possible that they could fall now, not after what they had just gone through.

  These must be velbeasts, based on the story he had heard just earlier that day. They were the vanguard of the Veldt.

  Scouting mission accomplished.

  “Can you still fight?” he asked Pim, as the two of them instinctively moved shoulder-to-shoulder.

  “Of course.”

  The wolves pressed closer, their snarls growing louder. But not so loud as to block out the sound of hooves, drawing nearer and nearer.

  A sudden, blazing light materialized in the sky above. Nearly blinding to Nico, but far more so for the beasts of darkness, who howled and yelped and shied backwards in unhappy bounds.

  The hoofbeats on wet earth became thunderous. Nico kept his eyes on the wolves until the first of the Kingshields passed by. As the light from above began to fade, he saw the angry grimace on Captain Mickens’ freshly-bearded face.

  “Not…my…king!” he yelled at the demons. “Filthy dogs!”

  At least a score of troopers followed Mickens into the ensuing melee, more than the beasts were prepared to fight, and soon their scattered remnants scurried into the distant blackness.

  Three other horses held back from the skirmish. Arura, nervous but loyal, eager to be off but holding steady while Pim mounted. Winsome, as calm as the proud woman on her back. And Lancer, with barely restrained energy, ready to chase after the fleeing enemy if not for the graceless rider in his charge.

  “Was that you, Henrikson?” Nico asked, staring at the final twinkles of dying light.

  “Aye,” came the reply, the voice sounding weak. “I…should rest.”

  “Let us not linger, then.”

  Yet Nico tested the scholar’s stamina long enough to hand Fawkes’ body up to Pim, and to lay the Second’s over Winsome’s saddle just in front of Lima. Then he bounded onto Lancer, waited for Jak to get a firm hold, and started the hurried procession back toward Allstatte, little more than a lighted smudge in the distance.

  As they made their way, achingly slowly, toward the city, Nico began to think about the profoundness of the events in which he had just participated.

  On this day, everything had changed.

  He saw the great civil war between Akenberg and her neighbors for what it was—a foolish, selfish distraction from the real crisis.

  Now, at last, he understood the sense of urgency that had led Third Arturo to Neublusten and into the center of King Hermann’s foul intrigues.

  Arturo had attempted what Emperor Eberhart succeeded in doing many years before—getting the kingdoms to put aside rivalry to come together in common cause. The empire needed unity now more than ever before, but it lacked another Eberhart with which to accomplish the task.

  The Order of Swordthanes was the glue that held the twelve kingdoms together. Suddenly, it was missing not just the only First but one of its two Seconds. That left Second Garrett at the top of the hierarchy, unaware though he may be.

  The empire needed a stable Order, and the Order needed a new First. Garrett was the logical choice.

  As one of only six Thirds, Nico’s responsibility was clear. He needed to communicate to the Second all that had happened, lend the support of himself and his kingdom, and hope the man could live up to the responsibility.

  6

  Gothenberg

  The incessant walking was taking a toll on Summersong, that much was clear. Her knee needed time to rest and heal, but instead each day and passing mile only made it worse.

  How much worse was difficult to tell, for the harpa shrugged off Jena’s inquiries as if the injury were insignificant, as inconsequential as that extra star in the night sky.

  The refusal to be honest bothered Jena at first, until she recalled her own behavior with Yohan in the Stormere Mountains a lifetime ago. That memory brought a smile to her lips along with a newfound tolerance of, if not quite respect for, her fellow prisoner.

  They still did not speak much, though the reasons were not entirely clear. Jena was aware of her own naturally reticent nature. From everything she had heard, however, the harpa people were supposed to be the opposite. Yet for all Summersong’s politeness, there was a clear reserve at work. One marked by long pauses, limited openness, even the occasional furtive glance. If she did not know better, Jena would have thought the woman carried some burden of guilt.

  If anything, Jena should be the one feeling ashamed, for she had not treated the harpa particularly well during these past tendays of captivity. Her snobbery had been repaid with kindness and even a dangerous generosity. That the trader had risked herself to steal the figurine back from Redjack revealed much about her character. Though they never spoke of the incident, the gesture was always present in the air about them. But that act of goodwill had never blossomed into friendship. Jena supposed it would have by now, if it were ever going to.

  Now the figurine was safe, at least so long as these savages were barred from raping her. And Jena vowed to be far more selective about when she would touch the object’s crude, precious curves. Not that she minded. After fearing she had lost Yohan’s gift forever, simply knowing it was there meant enough.

  The whole episode had taught her a valuable lesson in discretion. The day after the third prisoner was added to the group, Redjack had stormed up to Jena and searched through her pockets for the item he had seized from her. Thankfully, she had tucked it into a more personal, less accessible, hiding spot. A thorough search would certainly have revealed the caper, but it soon became apparent that the tribesmen had more important business to occupy their time.

  When the trading town of Threefork came into view—a few hundred low stone and timber buildings, narrow streets leading in, like the spokes of a wheel, on a single large town hall at the center—Jena wondered whether they had reached their final destination. She considered asking one of their guards, then realized he was unlikely to know much more than she did. That bastard Redjack and the mysterious Chekik were the only two who ever spoke of affairs beyond the day-to-day, and seldom did so within earshot of anyone else.

  Any change to this miserable existence was a boon, and naturally turned her mind in new directions. Yet her curiosity was quite limited in scope, the nature of the stopping less significant than its duration. So far as she was concerned, it did not matter whether the barbarians intended to execute her here or elsewhere. All that really concerned her was whether she would find an opportunity to free herself, or had to wait for Yohan to do it for her.

  She hoped for the former, of course. But there would be a certain, not altogether disagreeable symmetry to the latter. Only time would tell.

  For now, they had a moment to sit and rest. The announcement came with relief for the prisoners, who all but collapsed where they stood.

  “How fares the knee?” Jena asked, for perhaps the tenth time. Clearly, the joint bothered the harpa more than usual, for she rubbed it with marked desperation in her fingers and pain on her face.

  Summersong shook her head, and Jena prepared for another long silence to pass the eve. Tending to her own aching muscles, she was caught off guard at hearing the other woman sigh heavily. “I’ll not dance again,” she said aloud, the pained expression deepening. Then she recomposed the mask and smiled. “There are other joys in life, thank the stars.”

  The rare display of emotion unsettled
Jena, however. She wished she could provide some form of comfort, but knew not how. She coughed, unsure of herself. “I have seen soldiers lose entire limbs, yet continue to serve with distinction.”

  “What about those whose heads are smashed apart?” asked the third prisoner abruptly.

  Gregory called himself the magistrate of Threefork, though former magistrate was more the truth. He was a man whose world had been shattered, and whose outlook showed it.

  At the first signs of danger from raiding barbarians, late in the previous autumn, he had sent requests to the capital for additional security. His clerk had advised negotiating with the raiders instead, paying a ransom that the trading town could easily afford in exchange for forbearance. Gregory refused, confident that the kingdom’s army would protect its settlements.

  That had been a mistake. For whatever reason, the aid never came, while the numbers of tribesmen swelled. Caravans stopped coming, and the town itself became as threatened as the nearby farmsteads. The merchants of Threefork added their voices to the clerk’s, but the magistrate instead ordered the construction of a palisade to deter attack.

  Then one day, not long ago, he walked into his office to discover the clerk in conversation with a strange, tall, pale being—a Chekik like this one who led the raiders. Gregory had interrupted a treachery just in the nick of time, or so he had thought.

  It had stared at him with emotionless, unblinking eyes while he foolishly called out to the constable for its arrest. A trio of guardsmen stepped into the room, and he ordered them to confiscate the weapon it carried. When it lifted its staff, he thought this silent brute actually meant to surrender.

  Then that staff swung in his direction, and he found himself on the floor. A tremendous pain thundered inside his head, and he saw red on the twisted staffhead. Only once the guardsmen had bound him did he associate that redness with his own blood, and become aware of the full danger of his predicament.

  His was just another promising life cut short by this sudden war, a not uncommon occurrence in recent months.