Blood of the Emperor (29 page)

“General Marshal, are the warriors prepared for battle?” the Lyric shouted from the back of her dragon.

“Well, yes, Drakis,” Gyorg answered nervously. “But there are only about seven hundred of us. You asked that the caravan continue to the north and these were all that could be spared.”

“You have done well!” The Lyric stood up in the stirrups of her flying saddle, calling out to the warriors around her. “You are warriors of legend! You are warriors of the Prophecy!”

A ragged cheer rose up from the thin ranks.

The Lyric, from her perch on the dragon’s neck, could see across the Flats toward the south. There came the advancing line of the Rhonas Legions—an army of perhaps eight thousand against her seven hundred.

Her seven hundred, and one dragon, she corrected herself.

Drakis would consider the problem from a military standpoint, she realized, and since she currently
was
Drakis she was determined to do likewise. The approaching army would be staffed with Proxis and the war-mages controlling them. Their combat spells were oriented toward ground battle and should not be nearly as effective against a flying target. Of course, they did not necessarily need to hit the dragon to damage it and, if the Proxis pushed enough fireballs into the air at once then their odds of inflicting wounds went up significantly.

All of this made absolute sense to her—but being without any real military experience, she had no idea what to do about it.

Except, perhaps, to reach some high ground and defend it as long as possible.

“Do you see that mountain commanding the land around it?” The Lyric pointed to the south. A low knoll rose above the plain. The Rhonas Legions were already making their way around it. It was a nameless bump on the otherwise featureless expanse. “That is where we will make our stand!”

“There?” Gyorg gulped. “It’s in the middle of the Legions!”

“We will take that mountain, my warriors!” the Lyric cried out, drawing her sword. She brandished its notched blade in the air. “There, in our darkest hour, victory will come! Today begins the battle that will cast down the mighty and bring justice to you, your families, and our generations to come. Your names will be whispered in reverence and your deeds sung in every corner of every land where people live free of tyranny! Charge, my brothers! Charge the Legions and break your shackles! Charge beneath my wings and by one name will you be united and immortal…Drakis!”

“Drakis!” came the ragged shout back.

“Drakis!” the Lyric shouted again, her sword held high as Ephranos reared back, his wings spreading in the evening light.

“Drakis!” the warriors echoed back louder still.

“For Drakis!” the Lyric cried as Ephranos clawed into the air on his enormous wings.

“For Drakis!” Gyorg cried, his blade flashing in the evening light.

“For Drakis!” roared the warriors as they began their charge southward, following beneath the dragon’s path.

The dragon climbed higher and the Lyric could see the extent of the Rhonas army. For a moment her resolve failed but then she heard again in her mind the comforting call to home and her courage returned.

She put her hand to the dragon. Ephranos responded at once, diving downward. The ground shook beneath them as they flew barely twenty feet above the plain. She could clearly see the astonished faces of the warriors on the Rhonas battle line, their ordered ranks panicking at this audacious approach.

They will close behind us like stalks of wheat before a strong wind,
the Lyric thought.
Perhaps we need a more permanent path.

Ephranos drew in a deep breath.

A river of fire poured from the dragon’s maw, engulfing the elven warriors in its path. Ephranos shook his head from side to side, blazing a wide swath through the warriors whose carefully arranged columns made it impossible to escape the flames.

The small knoll rose up before them.

Ephranos banked low, his wing tips nearly touching the ground. Several more spurts of flame cleared a circle around the low mound which the dragon expanded in two more quick turns.

The Lyric glanced to the north.

Her warriors were charging up the charred path Ephranos had created for them, rushing toward the hill over the smoldering grasses and burnt bodies of those elves who had not managed to avoid the dragon’s fiery breath.

The dragon vaulted skyward, twisting in the air before plunging back toward the hilltop. Gyorg was already atop the hill, the Army of Drakis setting up its defense. Pikemen on the exterior, warriors behind them, and archers back farther; they formed successive rings around the knoll.

As the Lyric watched, the flanking Rhonas Legions poured onto the charred ground, sealing off the escape of the Lyric’s warriors.

“Find the war-mages and their Proxis,” the Lyric said. “We need to deal with them as quickly as possible.”

“How long must we fight?” Ephranos asked her.

“As long as we can,” the Lyric answered.

“Then let us fight well,” the dragon roared.

“For Drakis!” shrieked the Lyric.

Tjarlas

“D
ID YOU JUST TELL ME THAT I
CANNOT
PASS?” K’yeran glared at the Occuran Foldmaster facing her at the base of the fold platform. “Is it possible that I actually
heard
those words spew from your lips?”

“It is most regrettable,” stated the Occuran Foldmaster in charge of the fold shining on the temple pedestal behind him. His robes were dull with dust and the wizened elf looked as though he had not slept in several days. “But is the express Will of the Emperor that we move these final Centurai through the fold at once. There has been a misunderstanding in the transportation of this Legion and it must be cleared up before I can permit any other traffic through this fold!”

“But I am…” K’yeran began.

“I know perfectly well who you are, Inquisitor,” the Foldmaster responded. “I have no doubt that your mission is vital and that the cargo you transport is of the highest importance. I assure you that I will accommodate you as soon as possible but that will take some time. We have nearly two full Legions in the city awaiting transport from the Northreach Fold but we can only effectively operate one of the city folds at a time.”

“Why?” K’yeran demanded. “Is there a problem with the folds?”

“No, not at all,” the Foldmaster said, frustration rising in his voice.
“We are experiencing a drop in Aether from the eastern Wells that is slowing our recovery. When that is corrected…”

“It’s been three days and you haven’t corrected it yet,” K’yeran shouted. “How much longer is this going to take?”

Yet another Octian in a seemingly endless series of Impress Warriors marched out from the shimmering octagonal frame of the Emperor’s Fold. One of four permanent portals within the walls of the city of Tjarlas, this ancient platform was situated just inside the Emperor’s Gate. It was linked to a series of fold platforms arrayed southward leading to Zhadras and Rhonas Chas beyond. This fold, therefore, had become the main route through which the Army of Imperial Vengeance arrived while passing northward. For nearly a week the warriors, supplies, commanders, war-mages, Proxis, and anything else associated with the Army of Imperial Vengeance had been moving through it and through the city itself until they came to the Northreach Fold on the opposite side of the city and passed through it to continue their campaign northward.

Only they had stopped leaving the city three days ago.

“I give you my oath and my honor, Inquisitor K’yeran,” the Occuran Foldmaster assured her. “I will send word to you the moment I can accommodate you and your worthy Quorum.”

K’yeran nodded in reluctant surrender. She knew this Foldmaster of the Occuran and, for that matter, this fold very well. The Iblisi Inquisitor had come to Tjarlas originally on assignment from Keeper Ch’drei, only to be called back to the Imperial City through this same gate. She had barely arrived in the Imperial City before she had an audience with the Keeper, who then immediately dispatched her
back
through this same gate northward in pursuit of the infamous Soen Tjen-rei. Having captured him quickly—a feat that still left her ill at ease—she now found herself back at this same gate trying to pass through it yet again and complete her mission.

This was the first time she was actually interested in passing through this gate throughout this entire sorry affair.

And now events had conspired to keep her from using the fold at all.

“You may get word to me at Serenity House,” K’yeran said. “It is located at…”

“I know where it is,” the Foldmaster said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Relax in the joys of Tjarlas, Inquisitor, and I’ll give you the word as soon as it is possible.”

K’yeran turned away from the elven Foldmaster without another word. She stepped from the foundation of the fold platform and onto the Vira Agrath, the wide avenue that ran from the enormous arch over the Emperor’s Gate in a northwestern direction toward the thicket of towering avatria that defined the skyline at the center of the city. She could see the walls of the Nekara Barracks rising up on the opposite side of the avenue. There were a few guards at their entrances—no doubt listless from being left to such inglorious duty—but those buildings had otherwise been emptied of their occupants. At the same time, K’yeran knew that the warriors of the Vash were piling up inside the city walls and were being billeted not just in the Vash Barracks near the Northreach Gate but in the adjoining arena and on the training grounds as well. It was a waste of resources, K’yeran thought, but the divisions between the Warrior Orders of the Imperium were too great to be bridged by anything so inconsequential as reason or practicality.

K’yeran turned and began striding up the Vira Agrath toward the grand forest of floating avatria above the center of the town. The street was packed with citizens of the Fifth and Fourth Estates as well as Impress Warriors making their way across the city. She passed the twin temples of Agrath and Wedrath on her right. She rather admired the columns that decorated them. There were a number of patrons—all of them from the Third or Fourth Estates—who were making their way in or out of the temple. The gods were not a part of her personal life. K’yeran had given up those beliefs long ago but she knew the political practicality of espousing a belief in the gods. Still, she found their buildings comforting, as they spoke to the deep roots of the elven traditions and the history of the Imperium. They seemed so solid and timeless, their stones prepared to last into eternity whether their gods were remembered or not.

It was not the future that concerned her so much as the present.

The Vira Agrath ended near the center of the city at the Heroes’ Circus. This great oval was not a true Circus; its size was far too small for the races that were associated with the name. It was, however, an elongated oval in the middle of which a carefully trimmed garden
space surrounded several columns supporting statues of various heroes of the elven Empire down through the ages. The statues were supposed to have been placed there by the Emperor himself three generations before and were, by decree of the Imperial Will, never to be replaced.

The Heroes’ Circus began and ended at the Vira Planesta. This broad avenue formed a vastly larger, rough circle around the center of the city. It touched on or crossed a number of plazas and gardens and was the quickest way to reach most of the outer parts of Tjarlas.

On the far side of the Heroes’ Circus, rising high above the Hero statues, floated the avatria of Farlight Palace. It was a glittering spectacle formed like a closed flower although the exterior curved panels glittered with the flash of stars visible even in the brightness of the morning sun. The light from the Aether Well shining upward from the subatria beneath glowed against the bottom of the floating structure above it. K’yeran knew that the Aether of all the Northern Conquests was gathered through this Well and, more importantly, the numerous Aether Wells the elves had convinced the rebel chimerians in Ephindria to allow them to construct ostensibly on their behalf. Ephindria was rich in Aether and those Wells proved to be a tremendous boon to Rhonas. True, they had to trickle back a little of that Aether to the chimerians to keep them in line but it was never so much as could be used against the Empire—just enough to keep the Ephindrians out of the Empire’s way. The result was a huge boon from a series of Aether Wells on the Ephindrian frontier, all of which Aether was then conducted southward through the fold portals to the glory of the Imperial Well beneath the Cloud Palace of the Emperor.

And that made Tjarlas glorious indeed. The city had been little more than an outpost village centuries ago but the Aether flowing from the north and, more recently, in such abundance from the east had caused the city to blossom. Avatria rose higher and more magnificent into the sky of the Southern Steppes above Tjarlas. The Governor of the province at that time, a Third Estate elf by the name of Ju’kali Sha-Vishau, commanded the reconstruction of the central city following its destruction by a manticorian and dwarven attack three centuries before. He tore down part of the old fortification walls so as to expand the burgeoning city and established a design for the center
of Tjarlas that, remarkably, remained in effect down the years afterward. With the wealth and power afforded by the strong flow of Aether from the distant provinces beyond, the city was rumored to rival Rhonas itself in splendor and beauty.