Blood of the Emperor Read online

  He nearly stumbled from the sudden lack of Aether.

  The magic was gone.

  How could this have happened? Qistan’s mind raced, trying to comprehend the incomprehensible. How could everything have fallen apart so quickly?

  “To the galleys,” Qistan said to the newly-minted Tribune Neirah. “We’ve got to get to the galleys and escape. Get word to everyone you can to converge on the galleys and set sail at once!”

  “We are…abandoning the city?” Neirah blinked.

  “Yes, if we can,” Qistan said. “Tell everyone to rendezvous at Point Erebus in three days’ time. Then we’ll plan what to do next!”

  “But, General, the Will of the Emperor is…”

  “Run, Tribune!” Qistan barked. “Or there will be none of us left to care about the Will of the Emperor!”

  The Emperor’s Gate of Port Glorious shattered beneath them. The manticores poured into the city.

  Governor-general Qistan Sha-Barethin never made it to the harbor. His corpse was discovered beneath the blistered bodies of twelve elven warriors, including one agonized creature in charred captain’s robes and armor still struggling for breath. He kept referring to himself as a Tribune and shouting for everyone to get to the ships in the harbor.

  The manticores shook their heads and honored him by keeping their silence…never telling him while he breathed that the ships that had been his hope had all been burned at the docks by the dragons before any had managed to even cut their moorings.

  CHAPTER 2

  Wary Travelers

  SOEN TJEN-REI STOOD on the city battlements, leaning on his Matei staff as he gazed down from above the Centurai Gate toward the sunset. The elf and former Inquisitor of the Iblisi had found his Drakis after all—but hardly in the manner that he had hoped and far from one that would help him return to the graces of his Order. Drakis’ spectacular return on the back of a dragon was the perfect staging of a fulfilled prophecy, cementing the human’s status as the chosen one of the gods to bring down the elven Empire.

  That’s how I would have done it, if I wanted to convince the rabble that I had a divine mandate, the elf thought, gazing down with contemplative contempt at the people below him. A big mythic show, a public miracle or two, and the crowd will follow you. How did I come to this?

  He knew well enough how he had found himself on the wrong side of this war. The truth. It was always getting him into trouble. Truth was his profession—the studious and selective hiding of which was essential to the continuation of the elven Empire. He and all his Order were tasked to find the truth wherever it might be, evaluate its value, and then bury it deeply whenever the truth got in the way of the Imperial Will.

  But then he had encountered Drakis and the Prophecy.

  It had proved to be a rather larger and more difficult truth than he had imagined. The Iblisi had known about the prophecy for centuries and kept the knowledge from reaching the citizen elves of the Empire although the tale was rampant among other races. Moreover, the Iblisi knew that the prophecy was not so much a destiny mandated by the gods as it was a prediction of the Empire’s fall. The seeds of the Empire’s destruction were found within the Empire itself; it really needed very little in the way of a catalyst to start the Empire toppling.

  Drakis, it seemed, had provided that catalyst.

  Now the frustrating question for Soen was how he could use that to his advantage and, more importantly, would he have time to do so? Events since Drakis’ heralded return argued against those odds. The Army of the Prophet and the Drakis Rebellion were already set to tear themselves apart long before the Legions of the Empire could arrive to do the job. Of course, anything could be changed with enough time. Mountains could be sundered by something as delicate as the rain given enough time. It all came down to how much leverage could be applied and just how far one had to move the mountain to get the desired result.

  The large storage houses below him had been located close to the docks. Now the large doors of the warehouses were open wide and an anthill of activity bustled in and out of them, emptying the grain stocks and other larders of Port Glorious and distributing them throughout the camp. The efficiency with which Belag and his council had organized the effort was impressive and they had even declared a feasting day in celebration of their, well, glorious victory. Such feasts were taking place in each Centurai of rebel warriors but the majority of the stores were being loaded onto large wagons for transport. The War Council—a smaller assembly selected from the Council of the Prophet—had recommended that the majority of the pilgrims remain in Willow Vale. Those capable of warfare then struck northeast to raid the towns along the sweeping arch of Mistral Bay, swelling the ranks of the warriors as they went with the disaffected citizens of both Glachold and Markrethold who were all too anxious to cast their lots in with the Army of the Prophet. There were a number of humans in these communities who were naturally inclined to join with the pilgrims’ cause. The goblins of these towns, by far the majority of citizenry, were sufficiently impressed by word that the Pajak of Krishu had allied himself with the Army of the Prophet that they surrendered their towns without complaint. These liberated families then set out to join the main encampment in Willow Vale while the more eager and idealistic of their young promptly took up arms and swelled the ranks of the army as it came at last to its objective of Port Glorious.

  But from the time he had landed and through all of the subsequent battles, Drakis had largely stuck to his tent. As much as his return had sparked an influx of pilgrims, his subsequent absence was straining their faith.

  Where, in the name of the Dark Gods, is Drakis, Soen seethed. Since his return, the Man of Prophecy had refused all Soen’s attempts to meet with him—when it was so obvious that Drakis was in desperate need of help.

  Fools! Soen shook his head, his arms folded across his chest as he watched the evidence parade back and forth below him. What have they achieved? They are like locusts crossing the land, feeding on whatever they can claim and moving on. All this northern raid has bought them is a momentary reprieve from their destruction. They cannot see beyond their next meal.

  Soen shifted the dead Matei staff in his hands as he sneered. It had all been for nothing so far as he was concerned. He had come along to Port Glorious in the hopes of recharging his staff at the Aether Well here but something had happened during the attack that made the Well utterly useless. He could draw no further magic from his staff but continued to carry it more out of habit than need. Even dead to the Aether it was still a considerable weapon in his hands.

  Like myself, in some ways, he mused.

  Soen heard the soft padding of feet approaching up the stairs behind the city wall. He already knew who it was before they spoke. “Good evening, Ethis.”

  “Is it?” the chimerian countered as he stepped onto the wall. “Greetings, then, Master Soen. I see the council has wasted no time in looting the spoils of their victory.”

  “They hardly had any choice,” Soen replied. “The Army of the Prophet was running low on supplies when we arrived. They will consume most of it just getting back to the main encampment in Willow Vale—and their position will not have improved much.”

  “They have another victory,” Ethis observed.

  “Victories all end when your army has nothing to eat,” Soen countered, shifting his Matei staff in his hands. “Every cause is only three meals away from revolution. But then, Ethis of Ephindria, I suspect you already know that.”

  “We haven’t known each other long enough for you to suspect anything,” Ethis said.

  “And yet we know one other so well,” Soen smiled with his sharp teeth. “I understand you do a rather remarkable impression of me.”

  Ethis’ face was, as common for his race, completely blank and showed no reaction to the words of the Inquisitor—but the hesitation in his response told Soen that he had an advantage.

  “I trust I have not offended you, Inquisitor,” the chimerian responded. “No slight
was intended, I assure you.”

  “Not at all,” Soen continued. “But I think it is time that you and I came to an understanding with one another, Ethis of Ephindria. It is time there was some truth between us.”

  “It has been said that if an Iblisi speaks the truth, that’s when you know he is lying,” Ethis said in a neutral tone.

  “Spoken with confidence by one who changes his face as often as the Emperor changes his mind,” Soen answered, “but perhaps we could set all that aside and find a place of mutual benefit.”

  “My experience is that the elves take little interest in mutual benefit,” Ethis said, his arms tightening. “They simply take.”

  “And my experience is that dangerous roads are often more pleasant when shared with fellow travelers,” Soen countered. “Should our roads converge and our destination be the same, would it not prove better to aid one another in our journey? Besides I have such stories to tell that would be of great interest on our way.”

  Ethis considered for a few moments in silence before answering. “You have a story to tell me, Inquisitor?”

  “Oh, yes, one that I think you’ll find most entertaining,” Soen continued speaking, his gaze fixed out across the sea of warriors encamped about the town. “It starts with a Queen of Ephindria who once ruled the families of her great nation with equanimity and an eye to the future…”

  “Our nation is our family,” Ethis replied in cool tones.

  “Yes but in this story it is a troubled family indeed,” Soen continued. “The tale is told that Chythal—the heir and rightful ruler of all Ephindria—has become the Mistress of the High Council in Exile.”

  “Where would you hear such a story,” Ethis asked, shaking his head.

  “It is a story told by the Lady of Whylin and the Lady of Surthal of the southern families in Ephindria,” Soen replied with a slight nod of his head.

  “If it is told by such liars, then your story is a tragedy,” Ethis said quietly, “and a poor one at that.”

  “But a tragedy only in the beginning,” Soen continued. “It begins with the dreadful surety that Chythal no longer presides over the families from the Light-towers of Ephindria. The unity of the families becomes a fading shadow across the land—all because four chimerian families allied themselves secretly with the Rhonas Imperium who have supported their usurpation of the Ephindrian throne by supplying them with just enough Aether to force their queen from her rightful rule.”

  “I do not like your story,” Ethis said as he looked away.

  “But this is the part that interests me,” Soen continued. “Queen Chythal had a group of noble guardians in her service who were legendary in their powers. All chimerians are shapeshifters; their telescoping and flexible bone structure and malleable sinews allowing them considerable flexibility in the form they take. But there are only a few—a very select few—who have the training, talent and discipline to mimic other forms. They were suspect in their own society, outcasts in many ways as their own kind found the extent of their talents unnerving but Queen Chythal took them in and made them into a formidable weapon at her command. They were called the D’reth and vowed to serve her as her sons. They were charged with the most unpleasant of tasks—all in the cause of reinstating her rightful rule.”

  “They do not exist,” Ethis said, turning his blank face back toward the former Inquisitor. “They are only a myth.”

  “But a good myth,” Soen said, turning to face the chimerian standing now a full head taller than the elf. “I wonder what one of their number would say to me if they knew what is known to the Iblisi Keeper in Rhonas—what every Iblisi who has studied the prophecy knows—about the Rhonas Empire and the Drakis Prophecy? What would one of the D’reth say if they knew that the Rhonas Empire was going to fall—that it was entirely rotten from within—and that the question was not so much if the Imperium would fall as it was when and how it would fall? What would such an honorable and legendary chimerian say on behalf of his queen, knowing that the means of choking her enemies was within her reach…that an army was at hand just looking for an excuse to bring down the empire whose Aether was keeping her from reuniting the families of Ephindria once more? What would such a trusted servant of Her Majesty say? Would they purchase their Queen’s rightful destiny by lending her support in food and goods to an army, say, like this one?”

  Ethis stared blankly back at Soen. Chimerians normally exhibited few features on their faces and those they did maintain often changed. They had no expressions except those they chose to convey through conscious effort. It was the silence and its length that told Soen what he needed to know.

  “You tell very strange tales, indeed, Soen. But I had nearly forgotten why I had come for you,” Ethis said without preamble. “The War Council is to convene this evening. Belag has requested that you attend.”

  “Belag?” A wry smile flashed across Soen’s face. “Not Drakis?”

  “Belag remains head of the War Council,” Ethis said, unfolding the upper pair of his four arms and gesturing toward the stairs descending behind the city wall. “It is only right that he should determine who should attend.”

  “And will Drakis be in attendance?” Soen asked as he stepped down the stairs.

  The chimerian followed him down. “Drakis is occupied with other matters.”

  “As always.”

  “He sent his regrets to the council,” Ethis replied as they reached the bottom of the stairs and began moving through the twisting streets. The wreck of the avatria lay shattered on their left as they circumnavigated the subatria toward the plaza. “He also says that Belag will know what to do.”

  “Of course he will,” Soen observed. “As always. And where is this council to be convened?”

  “In the temple north of the bazaar,” Ethis replied.

  “Of course,” Soen nodded as he walked. “A holy place for the Army of the Prophet to plan its next conquest.”

  They walked along in silence then, moving past the charred plaza and through the streets. They came to the market square. The tents of the commanders were aglow in the deepening evening. Flickering light spilled from the doorway into the temple. Soen was about to cross to the temple steps when Ethis spoke.

  “You tell good stories,” Ethis said carefully.

  “Thank you, Ethis,” Soen bowed slightly.

  “I must wonder,” the chimerian said without inflection, “why an elf of the Imperium would tell such a tale?”

  “Because I have come to believe that the Imperial tree is going to fall,” Soen replied. “And I want to insure the direction it falls…so that it does not fall on me.”

  Ethis stared back at the Inquisitor with his expressionless face for another moment before he spoke. “Perhaps you would like to accompany me. We seem to be going in the same direction.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Spoils of War

  “SILENCE! SILENCE!” BELLOWED BELAG, his massive, hoary form straining forward on the throne of the Grahn Aur, his massive hands gripping the armrests so tightly that he thought the wood might snap.

  Even the roaring voice of the manticore was having difficulty cutting through the tumultuous cacophony that filled the torch-lit hall. Belag had originally chosen the elven temple as the location for the council meeting partly because it was one of the few undamaged buildings large enough for the council to meet in but mostly because its thick walls would keep the sights and sounds of these proceedings hidden from the Army of the Prophet encamped outside the walls of the town. As it was the commanders of the various warrior groups had pitched their tents in the plaza just south of the temple and, no doubt, could not help but overhear the heated words of the Army’s general leadership council as not even the stone walls could contain the rising sound of argument.

  Jugar, red-faced, was standing on his chair, his fist striking at the air as though propelling additional force into his every word. Doroganda, the gnome representative, was literally jumping up and down on her own chair, her voic
e a shrill squeal above the discordant chorus of shouting. Hegral and Gradek—the warrior manticores in charge of the two Legion divisions of the armies—were gesturing wildly while shouting in demonstration of their displeasure. Neblik, the mud gnome, was trying desperately to get everyone’s positions straight for his narrative and, in the process, only adding confusion to the argument. Urulani, Air Master, sat with her arms folded tightly across her chest as she tried to restrain herself from knocking several council members’ heads together. Ethis sat next to Belag’s throne, his face twitching occasionally although otherwise studiously blank. Soen sat on the ground between the arguing manticores in grim contemplation.

  All eyes were focused on Braun, who stood in the center of the circle of chairs holding a scroll of parchment in his hand, attempting to read it aloud to the assembly while a human messenger stood next to him, growing more pale and sickly in appearance by the moment. This was the tenth such communication from Tsojai Acheran since the elf had been appointed Pilgrim Master of the council in the absence of the Grahn Aur; the last four of these scrolls had arrived within the space of the previous week. Each was dutifully read before the War Council that commanded the Army of the Prophet and each epistle had increasingly enflamed the rage of the council members both over the distant elf’s governance of the pilgrim camp and due to the differences between the council members themselves.

  Even the manticore’s voice was having difficulty cutting through the din. Belag rose to his feet, roaring. “There will be silence in this hall at once! All of you! You will close your mouths this instant…or I shall be forced to close them for you!”