I thought I'd start with something a little different, so this is the first chapter of an upcoming fantasy release. It's the first book of a trilogy I'm calling The Empire Chronicles, and the name of the book is Empire's Agony. For you history buffs out there, the storyline is very loosely based on the period in the Byzantine Empire when the Emperor Phocas takes power and is ultimately deposed by the Emperor Heraclius.
It's dark, militaristic, and ominous in tone, likely the kind of fantasy that would appeal to Crimson Worlds readers if they have an interest in an alternate genre. Anyway, here's the first chapter. This is an advanced sneak peak, so what you see here may get some future editing.
As always, I'd love to know what you guys think.
Chapter One
Imagine the empire. An immense and ancient land, stretching from
the misty, snow-capped peaks of the Midworld Mountains to the glistening towers
and tumultuous bazaars of the Jade Coast cities. And between, too many lands to easily name -
the verdant, rolling horselands of Karelia and the northeastern provinces,
rough and untamed; the fertile western plains
of Plataea, breadbasket of the empire; the lush valley along the banks of
Catarac, the mother of rivers, where grow the prized vines that produce the sought
after Catara wines.
Yet this behemoth was a
land in decline, and vaster still had it been in ages past, when its dominion
extended far to the north, beyond the great mountain range, and west to the shores
of the Unending Sea. Indeed, of old it
had been but one of two empires, its imperial twin just as massive and powerful,
sprawling over vast and arcane lands far to the mysterious east.
This eastern giant had
fallen six centuries past, weakened by corruption and feeble emperors and overrun
by the barbaric Horde, whose deathless khan, many whispered, still ruled over
its decayed cities and enslaved people.
The Southern Empire, for lifetimes now called simply the empire, stood
resilient, shrunken but still strong, defended by its proud old legions and ancient
knightly orders.
In the center of its
domains, straddling the banks of the great river, rose the gleaming white
spires of Elyssia, the imperial capital.
The largest city in the known world, it was home to wonders spoken of by
men in lands so distant they were forgotten - wispy legends lost to time, known
no more to men of the empire, save perhaps on ancient maps long lost in the
recesses of the imperial archives.
The Great Amphitheater,
holding 80,000 spectators for martial games and spectacles unimaginable. The Imperial Forum, a massive bazaar, where
goods from every corner of the known world were bought and sold. The Elyssian Colossus, the statue of Sirian
Galvanus, the first emperor, standing 500 feet tall, its towering marble legs
straddling the avenue leading from the main gate. In Elyssia one could find the greatest things
built by man.
Now, the city was in a
tumult, and its teeming masses - craftsmen, laborers, bakers, merchants, soldiers,
slaves, thieves - more than half a million in all, had abandoned their shops
and stalls and homes to flood into the muddy streets and gather in the gilded temples. For deep in the marble halls of the immense
Imperial Palace, in an incense-filled room with gold-covered walls, amid the
chants of somber red-robed priests, an emperor lay dying.
His sallow skin hung in
loose folds, as if melting from his body, and wisps of thin white hair dangled randomly
from his mostly bald and spotted head. Every
few minutes a bloody coughing spasm took him, and a white-clad servant wiped
his mouth with a silken cloth. Over the priceless
bed coverings extended a single arm, once thick and muscular, now little more
than bone covered with a thin layer of drooping flesh.
Sartorius Magnus had been
a general, commander of the Prefecture of the East, who'd had no designs on the
purple when his troops took the matter into their own hands and raised him up
on their shields. They demanded he march
on Elyssia and put a stop to the shameful spectacle that had allowed six pretenders
to reign in ten years and had ended with the Imperial Guard murdering an
emperor and auctioning the diadem to the highest bidder.
Grudgingly acceding to
the will of his army, Sartorius marched on Elyssia and took the city almost without
a fight, for the people opened the gates and assailed those few of the garrison
who sought to bar him. His legions,
hardened veterans of a dozen campaigns, sliced through the pampered and inbred
Imperial Guard as easily as they would have slaughtered cattle. Accompanied by a crowd of soldiers, their
blades still red with blood, Sartorius burst into the Great Hall, where he'd
had it on good authority the Conclave was about to declare him an outlaw.
From a hiding place in
the back of the Hall, two of his men dragged the cowering usurper-emperor from
his hiding place. At a glance from
Sartorius, one of them dispatched the whimpering fool with a single stroke,
casting his headless body over the balcony to crash onto the intricate mosaic
floor below, cracking several of the priceless tiles. The legionary removed the jeweled diadem from
the severed head before casting that, too, over the balustrade. The victorious general stood stern-faced and motionless,
clad in gleaming armor, like a golden statue, and he looked out at the stunned
lords of the Imperial Conclave.
"What say you?"
Sartorius looked out over the assembled
nobles, his shout echoing off the great marble walls.
A moment of stunned
silence was broken with a single voice, soon joined by others, and finally all,
shouting again and again, "Hail Sartorius, emperor!" For long moments the chanting continued, as none
would be the first to stop. Finally, the
lords of the Conclave followed their new emperor out into the streets, where
the mob had gathered. The seething
masses roared, giving their deafening assent as Sartorius Magnus received the
diadem from the bloody hand of a common soldier.
That was three decades
past, and Sartorius had given the empire what it needed so desperately - a wise
and capable ruler and a long and stable reign.
Now that great warrior lay wasted and withered, and all wondered if a
new Sartorius would emerge or if the city and realm would be plunged into
another nightmare of unrest, bloodshed, and decline.
There were hushed conversations
in dimly lit taverns, as hooded noblemen hatched plots to seize the
throne. In the provinces, imperial army
commanders nursed their own schemes, backed frequently by their soldiers but hindered
by distance from the capital. Factions
within the Conclave itself fought and argued, struggling to insure one of their
own claimed the diadem. In the temples,
the few worthy priests prayed solemnly for empire and people, but most bartered
and traded their influence to the claimants, as if selling melons in the forum. The people of the city, the mob, were
gathered in every public place, needing only the slightest spark to ignite a
firestorm of rioting and murder. All
hung by a thread, the waning life of one old man locked away in his death
chamber.
And yet Sartorius Magnus
would not die. Day after day the
grizzled old solider clung grimly to life, and while still he breathed none dared
act. Thrice the imperial doctor had
declared the final struggle had begun, but each time Sartorius rallied back
from the precipice and hung on, while in the shadows of the city the many plots
hung frozen in the air...waiting.
"Greetings,
general." The soldier pounded his
chest and thrust his right arm forward in salute. He wore the white and silver armor and
uniform of an imperial officer, but he was covered in dust, and his cloak was
torn and wrinkled. "I apologize for
presenting myself thus, but I bear tidings I knew you would want at once, and I
have ridden day and night to reach camp."
"Sartorius?" The general asked the question, though he
already knew the answer. Marcus Calorus
was the Master of Foot for the Eastern Armies and the protégé of the emperor
now dying in Elyssia. Tall and muscular,
with piercing blue eyes and long brown hair fastened neatly behind his back
with a silver clasp, Calorus had followed his mentor's footsteps into military
command in the east. There were many who
wanted him to follow further...to the Imperial Palace itself, though Calorus
himself had no such desires.
"Yes, general.” Crispus Cestus stood at attention, staring
straight forward. "The emperor lies
gravely ill, and the city is as tinder awaiting a spark. Indeed, I have been seven days and nights
riding here - Sartorius Magnus may already reside in the halls of his
ancestors."
Calorus looked down at
his sandaled feet, his eyes glazed over, lost in thought. The young officer facing him paused uncomfortably
for a moment, glancing around the richly appointed tent, full of battle
standards and trophies from Calorus' wars.
Finally Crispus broke the silence. "When do we march, sir?"
Calorus didn't answer at
once, for his mind had traveled back thirty years, to a place not far from
where he now stood. Memories and dreams
of his youth welled up within him, and for a moment the tent was silent save,
for the distant sound of a smith hammering at his anvil. Finally he looked up with a curiously amused
grin on his face. "March,
Crispus? What makes you so certain that
we will march? Think you I want
Sartorius' crown?"
Crispus stared at his
commander with a look of surprise. He
began to reply, but stammered first before the words came. "But general, we must march on
Elyssia. If not you, then who will take
the purple? A corrupt politician? A courtier trading in falsehoods and
blackmail? A merchant prince paying
ill-gotten gold for the Ivory Throne? The
army will not accept such as emperor.
You know this. The legions will
not allow a return to the Disruptions.
They will demand a strong emperor.
They will demand one of our own."
"Think you I am the
only general in the empire, Crispus?" Calorus' reply was sharper than he had
intended. Cestus was a loyal officer,
and he spoke only what he believed. "There
are many who desire the diadem, and some whose stature gives them no small
claim."
Crispus fidgeted
uncomfortably. "None, general, who
would be universally acclaimed. Only you
can unite the armies. If another
commander marches on Elyssia he will be opposed. We will have civil war."
"And what makes you
so certain we would not have civil war were I to claim the purple? For when Sartorius was raised upon a shield
he commanded both the horse and the legions, but I am Master of Foot only. Sartorius had parchments from the grandmasters
of two of the knightly orders, beseeching him to march on the capital and
promising him their allegiance. I have
no such guarantee of support."
"But the prefect
command is vacant, and you are the senior general in the east.” It was clear to Crispus that Calorus was the obvious
choice for emperor. A young warrior,
still naïve and dazzled by his mentor’s stature and achievements, he could not
imagine anyone opposing the general’s claim.
“You are the de facto commander of the largest army in the empire, both
horse and foot, and all know that you were close to Sartorius. Indeed, we know you are his chosen successor."
"Close?" Calorus spoke softly, wistfully. "Indeed, we were close once. As a father he was to me, and I like a son to
him. I was with him when the chanting
began among the soldiers, for they had just had news that Emperor Gaius had
been slain and the throne auctioned to the highest bidder. There was outrage throughout the army, and
cries to avenge the murder. It began
among one company on the outskirts of the camp, and within minutes the entire
army was roused, and thousands of men were shouting, 'Hail Sartorius,
emperor!' Banging on their shields, with
the trumpeters playing loudly, they crowded outside his tent, shouting his name
again and again. I can hear it as though
it was yesterday.”
The general looked up, he
glistening eyes catching those of the younger officer. "Inside he stood, the tent flaps closed and,
though at first he pretended not to hear, soon it became quite impossible to
ignore. There were but four of us -
Sartorius; Veska, his secretary; Columnus, another officer, who was later slain
on the Eastern Marches; and myself."
Calorus was staring directly
at Crispus, but there were ghosts before his eyes as he continued, his voice
gentle. "I was but a junior
officer, of the same rank you now hold, but Sartorius had taken a liking to me,
and had become my mentor. Many times we
would speak, for both of us were from Karelia, where there is naught but the
raising of horses for those who stay close to home. One night, after several flagons of wine, he
told me how he had become a soldier. 'I
couldn't bear the thought of shoveling horseshit my whole life, Marcus,' he
said to me, 'so when the buying agent for the Silver Shields came to purchase horses,
I followed him back to their chapter house.'
Alas, Sartorius, as I, was one of those rare beasts - a Karelian who did
not ride well - so the Shields rejected his service. But the training master liked him and thought
him of worth, so he was sent with an introduction to the headquarters of the
Third Legion to become a foot soldier. Thus
began his rise."
"When I arrived in
camp, having left home for reasons not unlike his, I had no introduction, nor
any fighting experience. The training
master refused me and told me to bother him no more. Three times did I return, and three times he
sent me away, the last with a harsh beating, for I had wasted much of his
time. But Sartorius had been watching. He was then commander of the Third, and he
was amused by my persistence. He brought
me to one of his own decurions and ordered the man to train me. 'I shall make you a soldier,' he said, 'if
you have inside what it takes, and if not, then you shall be my valet.' I had no idea what a valet was, so lest I end
up in some terrible position I put all I had into the training."
Calorus stopped for a
moment, as if willing himself from a dream.
He laughed softly, then looked again at Crispus, eyes clear and back in
the present. "Do you know what
Sartorius Magnus said to the three of us in that tent, before he parted the
flaps and walked into his destiny? He
said, 'I fear, my friends, that I will not avoid this great fate, which is like
to heap glory and riches on my shoulders, yet in the end shall destroy me.' With that, he sighed once, glanced at me for
a moment, as a friend beseeching another for help he knows cannot come, and he strode
out into the screaming multitudes.
"Like a demigod he
looked, raised upon a great shield held aloft by a dozen soldiers, while every
man in the army shouted his name. But I
saw his face, and I knew that visage well.
On it I saw despair and, for the first time, fear. Sartorius did not wish to become emperor, and
in the end his misgivings were profound.
It did destroy him, or at least all that made him what he was. Rarely did he leave the city after he took
the diadem, though ever before he had craved the open spaces and clear skies
above him. Less and less did he seek
council from those he had trusted before, those who had bled with him in
battle. Colder and more aloof he became
toward old friends. The courtiers and
politicians, they are as the undead, draining the soul from any who stray
within their grasp. Longer than most did
Sartorius resist the rot, but in the end he too was consumed.”
Calorus’ voice was soft,
tinged with sadness. “Where he had been
patient, Sartorius became arrogant.
Where he had been merciful, he became harsh, even cruel. In the beginning he surrounded himself with
true confidantes and advisors, but as the years passed he replaced them with
sycophants and favorites. Five years it
has been since I have seen him, and I tell you truly, Crispus, we did not part
well. My old friend, my mentor, was
gone, replaced by the stranger who sat on the throne. He was angered that I disagreed with him,
where before he would have listened to my reasons and valued my judgment. When I left he told me not to return to
Elyssia until he called for me. That
summons never came. Now it never shall. Indeed, the prefecture would have been mine
these past three years, but such is Sartorius' vindictiveness now, that he
denies me the honor of the title yet burdens me with the duties. Have you never wondered why such a post remains
vacant for so long?"
The young officer stared
blankly for a moment, for the general had shared much with him, and he needed
to consider what he’d been told. Calorus
stared wistfully off to the side, lost again in old dreams, his fingers playing
absent-mindedly with the hilt of his sword.
Finally, Crispus spoke, his voice grim. "General, much have you told me, and I
begin to understand your doubts. Yet still
I am troubled. For if a great man such
as Sartorius was corrupted by the diadem, what of all the lesser men, already
vain and cruel, who would seize power given the chance? If you do not take the purple, then what
creature is there lurking in Elyssia who will?"
Paradisio was the most
expensive brothel in Elyssia, indeed, perhaps in the world. Through its unmarked double doors on the
Venta Imperia, most of the city's elite walked at one time or another. On the top level of the multi-tiered white marble
structure, amid the lush and fragrant hanging gardens, the ladies gathered
together. They rested in the afternoon
sun, talking about the only topic anyone was discussing in Elyssia, the
succession. In the baths and on
silk-covered lounges they reclined as the servants prepared them for the
evening's clients. There are those whose
tastes run to men and boys, and there were many establishments catering to such
clientele, but it is women that Paradisio offered, the best in the world. The ladies of Paradisio were slaves, gathered
from exotic locales as young girls and trained many years in the arts of
pleasure. Though bonded to the house, they
were pampered and well-treated, for they were extremely valuable.
The serenity was soon shattered,
for the major domo walked out onto the terrace and announced that Bechalus
Tersius and his entourage were downstairs demanding women. Normally, clients of such wealth and stature would
be welcomed by the ladies of Paradisio, but not Bechalus Tersius. He was a brute, and his pleasure came from
hurting the women he bedded. It was
rumored that once he had even killed a girl at another establishment. Such conduct was not tolerated at Paradisio,
but Bechalus' family was the wealthiest in the empire, and its influence
reached the highest places. When
Bechalus was barred from Paradisio, a parchment came the next day under
imperial seal, urging that the ban be lifted.
One did not refuse a request from the emperor, so now when Bechalus
called, his requests were honored. The
women accepted the inevitability, but they dreaded his visits nonetheless.
Of late, Bechalus had
fixed his attentions on Lys, a slight young red-haired girl recently arrived
from the Jade Coast. When she heard the
major domo she burst into tears and ran to Calishah, who watched over her as
she did all of the girls. Lys knew that
Bechalus would ask for her, and when he had her, she knew he would hurt her.
Calishah was the most
sought-after woman at Paradisio, which made her the most wanted courtesan in
the world. Tall, with long black hair
and brown eyes, she was beautiful, though no more so than any of the women of
Paradisio. She had a presence, however,
that was beyond the others, and none, it was said, could resist her
charms. Great lords and merchant princes
had offered immense treasures for her, but she would have none of them. For though a slave, Calishah bedded whomever
she chose and did as she pleased. No
girl at Paradisio had ever matched the amount of gold she brought in, nor the
influence she could wield with a few soft whispers in the right ear. With her exalted status came much privilege,
and with it she also accepted the responsibility to mentor and protect the
other women.
"Shhh." Calishah whispered softly as she gently
stroked Lys' hair. "Do not fear,
for I shall handle Bechalus. I will not
let him hurt you."
"How can you stop
him?" The younger woman was distraught,
sniffling tearfully as she spoke.
"You know we cannot turn Bechalus away."
"Leave that to
me. You remain here, and do not come
down for any reason."
Calishah walked to the
stairs, motioning for the other girls to follow. She moved with such grace she seemed to glide
across the polished marble floors and float down the broad staircase, the rest
of the women following behind.
Her silken gown clung to
her provocatively and exposed just the right amount of her perfect, pale skin. She smelled faintly of lavender, and her dark
mane was styled into loose, twisted braids, fastened with a series of silver
clasps.
Bechalus may have his
mind set on Lys, she thought, but she was confident that he would forget his
recent favorite for Paradisio's legendary courtesan. Always before, she had refused him, for even
requests from the palace did not compel Calishah. Indeed, though it was known to few, she had
shared the imperial bedchamber more than once.
Bechalus Tersius was
standing in the foyer waiting impatiently.
He was tall and broadly built, though his once athletic physique had
gone to fat in recent years. His dark
eyes were sunk deep into his cruel face, and his brown hair was cropped short
in a manner that had been stylish five years before. He was clad in the white robes of a Lord of
the Conclave, and wore a red sash designating him as one of the Speakers. With him were three other Lords of the
Conclave and two senior generals, as well as a fleet commander and a stooped
over little man wearing a dark hooded robe.
An uncommon gathering, Calishah mused, but she thought no more of it.
"Where is Lys?"
Bechalus' voice was harsh and demanding.
"Bechalus Terisus…"
Calishah purred seductively, walking up
to him, placing her hand gently on his neck.
"Lys is ill. But I think it
is past time for us to enjoy each other, do you not think agree?
His mind had been set on
Lys. She was easily frightened, and he
enjoyed intimidating her. But it is said
that no man could resist Calishah's seduction, and so it was with
Bechalus. Indeed, it had been a day of
great accomplishments, and he could think of no better way to celebrate them than
to finally bed the famous first lady of Paradisio.
She knew his history, but
she was also confident that he would not hurt her, at least not too badly. No man raised his hand to Calishah, for among
her devoted lovers were generals who commanded 10,000 troops and shadowy
spymasters who directed a hundred knives in the dark.
She took his rough pudgy
hand in hers and led him back to her chamber as his companions made their
selections. She was right. He did not hurt her too badly.
