Rise Of Empire (50 page)

“Where is Esrahaddon now?”

“Don’t know. I haven’t seen him since the battle started.”

“You don’t think …”

“Hmm? Oh no. I’m sure he’s fine. He hung back when we engaged Dermont’s forces. I suspect he’s off to find Gaunt and
will contact me and Royce once he does.” Hadrian sighed. “I wish my father could have known he didn’t fail after all.

“Anyway, I’ll take care of things tonight before I leave. I’ll put one of the regiment captains in charge of the army. There’s a guy named Renquist who seems intelligent. I’ll have him see to the walls, patch up the stonework, ready gate defenses, put up sentries, guards, and archers. He should know how to do all of that. And I’ll put together a list of things you’ll want to do, like bring the entire army and the surrounding farmers within the city walls and seal it up. You should do that right away.”

“You’ll be leaving in the morning, then?”

He nodded. “Doubt I’ll see you again before I go, so I’ll say goodbye now. You’ve done the impossible, Arista—excuse me—Your Highness.”

“Arista is just fine,” she told him. “I’m going to miss you.” It was all she could say. Words were too small to express gratitude so immense.

He opened his mouth but hesitated. He smiled then and said, “Take care of yourself, Your Highness.”

In her dream, Thrace could see the beast coming for her father. He stood smiling warmly at her, his back to the monster. She tried to scream for him to run, but only a soft muffled moan escaped. She tried to wave her arms and draw his attention to the danger, but her limbs were heavy as lead and refused to move. She tried to run to him, but her feet were stuck, frozen in place.

The beast had no trouble moving.

It charged down the hill. Her poor father took no notice, even though the beast shook the ground as it ran. It consumed
him completely with a single swallow, and she fell, as if pierced through the heart. She collapsed onto the grass, struggling to breathe. In the distance, the beast was coming for her now, coming to finish the job, coming to swallow her up—his legs squeaking louder and louder as he advanced.

She woke up in a cold sweat.

She was sleeping on her stomach in her feather bed with the pillow folded up around her face. She hated sleeping. Sleep always brought nightmares. She stayed awake as long as possible, many nights sitting on the floor in front of the little window, watching the stars and listening to the sounds outside. There was a whole symphony of frogs that croaked in the moat and a chorus of crickets. Fireflies sometimes passed by her tiny sliver of the world. But eventually, sleep found her.

The dream had been the same every night. She was on the hill, her father unaware of his impending death, and there was never anything she could do to prevent it. However, tonight’s dream had been different. Usually it ended when the beast devoured her, but this time she had woken early, and something else was different. When the beast came that night, it had made a squeaking sound. Even for a dream, that seemed strange.

Then she heard it again. The sound entered through her window.

Squeak
…
squeak
…
squeak!

There were other noises too, sounds of men talking. They spoke quietly but their voices drifted up from the courtyard below. She went to the window and peered out. As many as a dozen men with torches drew a wagon whose large wooden wheels squeaked once with each revolution. The wagon was a large box with a small barred window cut in the side, like the kind that would hold a lion for a traveling circus. The men
were dressed in black-and-scarlet armor. She had seen that armor before, while in Dahlgren.

One man stood out. He was tall and thin with long black hair and a short, neatly trimmed beard.

The wagon came to a stop and the knights gathered.

“He’s chained, isn’t he?” she heard one of them say.

“Why? Are you frightened?”

“He’s not a wizard,” the tall man scolded. “He can’t turn you into a frog. His powers are political, not mystical.”

“Come now, Luis, even Saldur said not to underestimate him. Legends speak of strange abilities. He’s part god.”

“You believe too much in church doctrine. We’re the protectorate of the faith. We don’t have to wallow in superstition like ignorant peasants.”

“That sounds blasphemous.”

“The truth can never be blasphemous, so long as it’s tempered with an understanding of what’s good and right. The truth is a powerful thing, like a crossbow. You wouldn’t hand a child a loaded crossbow and say, ‘Run and play,’ would you? People get killed that way, tragedies occur. The truth must be kept safe, reserved only for those capable of handling it. This—this sacrilegious treasure in a box—is one truth above all that must be kept a secret. It must never again see the light of day. We will bury it deep beneath the castle. We will seal it in for all time and it will become the cornerstone on which we will build a new and glorious empire that will eclipse the previous one and wash away the sins of our forefathers.”

She watched as they opened the rear of the wagon and pulled out a man. A black hood covered his face. Chains bound his hands and ankles, yet the men treated him carefully, as if he could explode at any minute.

With four men on either side, they marched him across the courtyard out of the sight of her narrow window.

She watched as they rolled the wagon back out and closed the gate behind them. Modina stared at the empty courtyard for more than an hour, until, at last, she fell asleep again.

The carriage bounced through the night on the rough, hilly road, following a sliver of open sky between walls of forest. The jangle of harnesses, the thudding of hooves, and the crush of wheels dominated this world. The night’s air was heavily scented with the aroma of pond water and a skunk’s spray.

Arcadius, the lore master of Sheridan University, peered out the open window and hammered on the roof with his walking stick until the driver brought the carriage to a halt.

“What is it?” the driver shouted.

“This will be fine,” the lore master replied, grabbing up his bag and slipping it over his shoulder.

“What is?”

“I’m getting out here.” Arcadius popped open the little door and carefully climbed out onto the desolate road. “Yes, this is fine.” He closed the door and lightly patted the side of the carriage as if it were a horse.

The lore master walked to the front of the coach. The driver sat on the raised bench with his coat drawn up around his neck, a formless sack hat pulled down over his ears. Between his thighs he trapped a small corked jug. “But there’s nothing here, sir,” he insisted.

“Don’t be absurd; of course there is. You’re here, aren’t you? And so am I.” Arcadius pulled open his bag. “And look, there are some nice trees and this excellent road we’ve been riding on.”

“But it’s the middle of the night, sir.”

Arcadius tilted his head up. “And just look at that
wonderful starry sky. It’s beautiful, don’t you think? Do you know your constellations, good man?”

“No, sir.”

“Pity.” He measured out some silver coins and handed them up to the driver. “It’s all up there, you know. Wars, heroes, beasts, and villains, the past and the future spread above us each night like a dazzling map.” He pointed. “That long, elegant set of four bright stars is Persephone, and she, of course, is always beside Novron. If you follow the line that looks like Novron’s arm, you can see how they just barely touch—lovers longing to be together.”

The driver looked up. “Just looks like a bunch of scattered dust to me.”

“It does to a great many people. Too many people.”

The driver looked down at him and frowned. “You sure you want me to just leave you? I can come back if you want.”

“That won’t be necessary, but thank you.”

“Suit yourself. Good night.” The carriage driver slapped the reins and the coach rolled out, circled in a field, and returned the way it had come. The driver glanced up at the sky twice, shaking his head each time. The carriage and the team rode away, the horses’ clopping became softer and softer until it faded below the harsh shrill of nightly noises.

Arcadius stood alone, observing the world. It had been some time since the old professor had been out in the wild. He had forgotten how loud it was. The high-pitched trill of crickets punctuated the oscillating echoes of tree frogs, which peeped with the regular rhythm of a human heart. Winds rustled a million leaves, fashioning the voice of waves at sea.

Arcadius walked along the road, crossing the fresh grooves of the carriage wheels. His shoes on the dirt made a surprisingly large amount of noise. The dark had a way of drawing attention to the normally invisible, silent, and ignored. That was why
nights were so frightening. Without the distraction of light, the doors to other senses were unlocked. To children, the dark spoke of the monster beneath the bed. To adults, it spoke of the intruder. To old men, it was the herald of death on its way.

“Long, hard, and rocky is the road we walk in old age,” he muttered to his feet.

He stopped when he reached a post lurching at a crossroad. The sign declared
RATIBOR
to the right and
AQUESTA
to the left. He stepped off the road into the tall grass and found a fallen log to sit on. He pulled the shoulder strap of the sack over his head and set it down. Rummaging through the bag, he found a honeyed muffin, one of three he had pilfered from the dinner table at the inn. He was old, but his sleight of hand was still impressive. Royce would have been proud—less so if he found out that Arcadius had paid for the meal, which had included the muffins. Still, the big swarthy fellow at his elbow would have poached them if he had not acted first. Now it looked as if they would come in handy, as he had no idea when—

He heard hoofbeats long before he saw the horse. The sound came from the direction of Ratibor. As unlikely as it was for anyone else to be on that road at that hour, the lore master’s heart nevertheless increased until, at last, the rider cleared the trees. A woman rode alone in a dark hood and cloak. She came to a stop at the post.

“You’re late,” he said.

She whirled around, relaxing when she recognized him. “No, I’m early. You are just earlier.”

“Why are you alone? It’s too dangerous. These roads are—”

“And who would you suggest I trust to escort me? Have you added to our ranks?”

She dismounted and tied her horse to the post.

“You could have paid some young lad. There must be a few in the city you trust.”

“Those I trust would be of no aid, and those that could help, I don’t trust. Besides, this isn’t far. I couldn’t have been on the road for more than two hours. And there’s not much between Ratibor and here.” Before she reached him, he started to rise. “You don’t have to get up.”

“How else can I give you a hug?” He embraced her. “Now tell me, how have you been? I was very worried.”

“You worry too much. I’m fine.” She drew back her hood, revealing long blonde hair, which she wore scooped back.

“The city has been taken?” Arcadius asked.

“The Nationalists have it now. They attacked and defeated Lord Dermont’s forces in the field and the princess led a revolt against Sheriff Vigan in the city. Sir Breckton and the Northern Imperial Army arrived too late. With the city buttoned up and Dermont dead, Breckton’s army turned around and headed back north.”