Insurgency (Tales of the Empire Book 4) Read online

  Insurgency

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Part Two

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Part Three

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Part Four

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Chapter XXVII

  Chapter XXVIII

  Chapter XXIX

  Chapter XXX

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  Insurgency

  S.J.A. Turney

  Prologue

  There is a strange saying among the northern folk:

  ‘A tripod may stand solid, but a ladder can be climbed.’

  The Emperor Kiva moved about his court like a gilded moth, flittering from flame to flame, moving on briskly before his wings were singed. A tall, willowy figure with slim build and slender fingers, a wise contemplative face and his father’s eyes, Kiva played the role of ruler of the civilized world with aplomb. He was a master of tact and tactics, playing down the argumentative, suppressing the sycophantic, embracing the distant and fending off the o’er-close. Even now, as he was cornered by some brash western lord with rosy cheeks and an even rosier nose, Kiva laughed off some accidental slight, deftly swiping a crystal goblet of wine from a passing tray, slipping it smoothly into the drunken lord’s hand and removing the empty with barely a glance. As the lord realized he had a full glass once more, he reached down and took a deep swig. When he looked up, the emperor was gone, swirling in the dance of sociability, quick-stepping with an ambassador from Pelasia.

  Quintillian watched from the sidelines.

  Not for him the pageantry of the imperial celebrations. He danced with the best of men, but only when his hand held a blade and the end of the dance meant the end of a life. Instead, the younger brother of the emperor, senior marshal of the armies and lord of Vengen, stood on a narrow, balustraded balcony overlooking the grand events of the evening, half hidden in the shadows above the hall. Here, in the old days, musicians would sit by lamplight playing their hearts out. In these times it was more common for such entertainment to be placed among the guests for better captivation of their melody.

  The balcony was dark and Quintillian smiled as he took a sip of his wine and watched his brother at work. They had always been close, he and Kiva, closer than most brothers. But their father had brought them up like that – to believe that family was all and that nothing in the world had the right, nor the power, to stand between two brothers who loved each other. Their father, of course, had suffered in his life, losing the friend who had been as close as a brother – Quintillian’s namesake, in fact – during the great interregnum. And he had lost a father – a great father – before he had even found out who he was. And so the Emperor Darius had instilled in his sons the need for that bond and for a closeness with no secrets.

  No secrets…

  Some secrets were kept out of love, though. Hadn’t their father ever considered that?

  It had been a hard time, five years ago, when their father had died. Darius had been an active emperor and a good one, long-reigning. After the 20 years of civil war and anarchy, he had put the empire back together, healed the wounds of the land and its people, and initiated a golden age that had lasted longer than anyone could have hoped. When he had finally passed on, in his chambers on the island of Isera, it had been after a full life and with a reign fulfilled. And he had followed all his friends to the grave, knowing that they were all waiting for him in the afterlife, for he was not a man to believe in the divinity of rulers, just like his sons.

  Kiva had taken the purple cloak and the obsidian sceptre, the orb of the heavens in his other hand, the very next day. There had, of course, been no dissent over the natural succession of the eldest son, though there had been a few voices that had expressed the quiet, careful opinion that the younger brother might have been stronger in the role. Not that they would have pushed for a change, and most certainly Quintillian would have refused. Not that he couldn’t have done the job, not that he would be unwilling to, but his brother was natural heir and that was all there was to it.

  And Kiva was good at it. There was no denying that.

  Five years to the day since the accession and the blessings, that purple cloak almost gleaming in the sun, so well brushed was the velvet. Five years of growth for the empire and of peace within its borders. Five years of strong economies and excellent external relations. It had seemed wholly appropriate to celebrate such a milestone in this manner, with everyone of any rank both within and without the empire all gathered at the palace in Velutio. And among the tanned visages of the imperial lords, governors, officers and administrators, there were different faces – interesting faces. The King of the Gotii beyond the Pula mountains with his retinue, for instance. It was the first time those violent raiders had visited the capital – the first time in the empire’s history when relations between the two peoples had been good enough. The Gota king sat with his three wives and his close companions not far from the emperor’s seat. He was a tall and broad man with a flat face, strong jaw, flaxen hair and ice blue eyes. His wives were… well, Quintillian had oft heard it said that the Gota prized strength and ability to bear children above simple looks. It had taken Quintillian some time to distinguish the wives from the bodyguards, of whom there were five, including relations of the king himself. They had been denied the right to carry weapons this close to the emperor, but there was no doubt in Quintillian’s mind that each of them could kill in the blink of an eye with just their bare hands. And there was the king’s seer: an old man with hair down to his backside, who wore dirty rags and the pelts of a number of unfortunate small animals, their bones clattering in his hair as he moved. He gave Quintillian the shivers, not least since he seemed to be the only person aware that the younger brother was here, having looked up into the shadows directly at him.

  There were other northern chieftains who were in the process of buying into the imperial model in Kiva’s new world, too, though they all looked a little like the Gota king would have, had he tried to assimilate into imperial culture.

  There were two kings from the dark-skinned lands south of Pelasia. They were interesting, but required a translator to pass even the slightest time of day, and Quintillian’s brief introduction to them at the start of the celebration had been hard work. Their world was so alien, and most of Quintillian’s hungry questions had been lost on them with no mutual frame of reference. Invitations had even been sent to the lords of that peculiar eastern world beyond the steppes from whence silk came, though they had not come. Very likely the messengers never reached those lands. Few did, for the route to the silk lands crossed the most dangerous territories in the world. That had been a shame, though. Quintillian liked the feel of silk and it was said that the sharper a blade was, the more likely the miraculous material was to turn it aside. The idea of a light fabric that could stop a blade was simply too fascinating to him. One day, if they did not come here, he would have to go to them.

  And, of course, ther
e were the Pelasians. Three of their highest nobles were present, including a prince of the realm. Young Ashar Parishid, though – son of Ashar the great, and God-King of Pelasia – sadly could not be here. A riding accident had left him with a badly broken leg a week earlier, and he had been advised by the best physicians in the world that he would recover fully, but there was simply no way he could leave his chambers for several weeks. It must have been a terrible blow for Ashar, for while he and the emperor – and Quintillian too, for that matter – were as close friends as it was possible for neighbouring rulers to be, Ashar would be particularly missing the opportunity to visit his beloved sister.

  Jala.

  The empress.

  Jala, unlike her husband, sat upon her comfortable divan at the heart of proceedings, smiling and doling out compliments. Each of her honeyed words was as sought after as a lordship or a chest of gold, and each was prized and tightly-held once received. Her soft skin, the light brown of the deep desert, was more on show than was traditional among imperial ladies. But then Jala was no ordinary imperial lady. She was a Princess of Pelasia, sister to the god-king, and now, for five years, wife of the Emperor Kiva. And she was exquisite.

  Yes, some secrets had to be kept for the good of all concerned.

  For two years now, Kiva had been pushing him to marry – to take a wife from among the many beauties of the imperial court. His brother simply could not understand why Quintillian remained alone. But how could he marry a woman knowing that his heart was already in the care of another. It beat silently, deep in his chest, only for Jala. And it would beat silently for her until the end of his days, for even the hint of such a thing carried the scent of tragedy, and neither Kiva nor Jala deserved such a thing. So Quintillian would remain alone. What need had he of a wife, anyway? True soldiers should not take wives, for a warrior took a promising girl and turned her into a hollow widow. It was the way of things. And while there was no true need for an officer of such high command to involve himself directly in combat, there was something in the song of steel and the dance of blades that called to Quintillian. He could no more refuse to fight than he could refuse to breathe… than he could open his heart…

  Something was happening now, down in the hall. Quintillian squinted into the thick, cloying atmosphere of oil lamps, braziers and incense.

  An argument had broken out between two guests. Ordinarily such things would be unthinkable in the imperial presence, but the variety of uncivilized figures present had made such things almost an inevitability. That was why his favourite marshal, Titus, son of Tythias, had positioned burly, competent imperial guards in strategic positions around the hall, subtly armed.

  Quintillian contemplated descending from the balcony to deal with the problem, but Titus’s men were already moving to contain the trouble, so the younger brother relaxed a little and leaned on the balustrade, watching.

  ‘Trouble,’ muttered a familiar voice behind him. Quintillian didn’t rise or turn, simply smiling as he continued to lean on the balcony.

  ‘Titus. How did you know where I was?’

  ‘I am your brother’s best officer and commander of his guard. I know where everyone is. It’s part of my job.’ Titus Tythianus slipped in next to Quintillian, leaning his scarred forearms on the stone rail, waggling his nine remaining fingers.

  ‘Yes, it seems there’s a spot of trouble,’ Quintillian noted. ‘Shall we intervene?’

  Titus snorted. ‘Not unless they threaten imperial guests. In some of these cultures they murder each other for entertainment. If it gets out of hand my men will deal with it. It’s unseemly anyway for a member of the imperial family to involve himself in a brawl.’

  Quintillian chuckled and watched as the two arguing groups moved closer.

  ‘I recognize the Gota one, but I can’t place the white-haired one,’ Quintillian said conversationally.

  Below, the crowd was beginning to pull apart, leaving a circle at the centre where one of the Gotii – a strapping young man… not a woman? No, not one of the wives. A big strong warrior with a face like an abused turnip was stamping his feet like a petulant child, roaring imprecations in a tongue that sounded like someone gargling with broken glass. The crowd was fascinated, though not enough to involve themselves any closer than at the level of interested spectator.

  At the far side of the expanding circle, one of the northern lords was sneering and waving a deprecating finger at the Gota warrior. But it was not that lord who was stepping forward. It was a strange pale figure. Both northerners – lord and servant – looked in build and physical make-up to have far more in common with the king of the Gotii than their imperial hosts, yet they wore breeches and tunic in the imperial style, if of an outdated northern cut and in semi-barbaric colours.

  Borderlanders.

  It was a recent process, begun by the Emperor Darius, but continued by Kiva in the same vein. You took the barbarian tribes who lived around the borders and you brought them to the empire. You introduced them to the benefits of imperial culture, engineering and science, and you dazzled them with what they could have. Then you offered to send them men to help build aqueducts and temples, bridges and mills. You often built their chiefs palaces to house their egos. And all you asked in return was that they pay lip service to the emperor and protect the borders from the less civilized barbarians beyond. As a system it made sense. And it had proven to work, too, for already, a decade on, some of those barbarian nobles had brought their lands into the empire entire, becoming lords in their own right and expanding the borders through gentle, subtle assimilation, as the same process then began on the tribes beyond.

  But they were decades away from being true imperial subjects, even if that were ever to happen.

  Certainly, looking at the behaviour unfolding in the hall below, this particular northern border lord seemed to be far from cultured.

  ‘The noble is Aldegund, Lord of Adrennas,’ Titus said quietly. ‘He’s one of the ones your father first settled. He’s been a lord now for over five years, and two more semi-barbarian border tribes owe him fealty already. He’s all right, I suppose. A bit brash and still far from courtier material, but he’s loyal and he knows he’s onto a good thing. His ghost I don’t know, but he’s a reedy fellow. Don’t much fancy his chances against the Gota.’

  ‘Will you have your men stop it?’

  Titus shook his head. ‘Aldegund should know better, and his man is about to learn a horrible lesson. But once he’s seen this, he won’t do the same again. The Gotii take insults very personally, and they cleanse their spirit of insult with the blood of the offender. That pale, ghostly fellow is about to die. Unless he’s very lucky. Maybe the Gota warrior’s feeling generous and he’ll just rip off an arm. They are celebrating and having a drink after all.’

  The Gota warrior had removed his leather vest and was stretching his arms, moving like a dancer. Quintillian appreciated his form. He was a warrior bred to the art. The white-haired, pale northerner opposite him just sneered and took another drink from his cup.

  ‘He really doesn’t know what he’s in for,’ Titus snorted.

  Quintillian frowned. ‘A gold corona on the pale one.’

  Titus’ eyebrow ratcheted upward. ‘Are you mad?’

  ‘He’s not afraid.’

  ‘Maybe that’s because he’s stupid? Aldegund certainly seems to be. And that half-naked warrior is the third bastard son of the Gota king. He’ll have been trained with the best of the Gotii.’

  ‘There’s something about the white one. I think you’re underestimating him. Is it a wager?’

  ‘Damn right it’s a wager,’ Titus retorted. ‘And make it five.’

  ‘Five it is.’

  Down below, the crowd was now in a wide circle around the two combatants, Titus’s guardsmen in plain evidence, making sure the duel was contained. The Gota was snarling again in his horrible language. The icy white opponent was examining his nails.

  ‘Make it ten,’ Quintillian said quiet
ly.

  ‘Done.’

  At a command from the king, the two men moved towards one another. On the balcony, Quintillian glanced to the side. Titus looked hungry, like a spectator at the pit fights, and the sight of him leering down at the two men made the prince smile.

  The Gota warrior struck the first blow, which had seemed inevitable. Stepping the last pace into the fight, the hairy north-easterner with the naked torso and the leather kirtle delivered a powerful punch to the ghost’s upper left arm at a point that would surely deaden the muscle for some time. Barely had the white-haired northerner had a breath to recover before the second blow took him in the gut, followed by a head-butt that sent him staggering back a pace. The Gota threw his arms out and roared as his father and the other Gotii cheered him on. The crowd thrummed with inappropriate interest.

  ‘Easiest money I’ll ever make,’ snorted Titus.

  ‘I’m still not so sure.’

  The white man was stepping slowly back, regaining his senses as he went, while the Gota played to the crowd, roaring and beating his chest.

  ‘He’s not really got going yet,’ Titus hissed. ‘I’ve fought Gotii. This is just warming up. I kid you not – he’ll rip off the man’s arm. I’ve seen it done and by smaller Gotii than him!’

  ‘He’s predictable. The ghost isn’t.’

  ‘I predict he’s going to die,’ said Titus. ‘He never even raised a fist to block that flurry!’

  ‘Precisely. He never even tried. He was seeing what the man could do. Testing him.’

  ‘If he’s very lucky he’ll test him to death.’

  The pale figure had stopped now and was pacing forward again. He still didn’t appear prepared for the fight. He was sauntering as though he wandered quiet gardens. The Gota warrior snarled and came on once more, smacking his fists against his hips and then bringing up his hands into a fighting stance. As they closed to three or four paces the Gota leapt, swinging his punch, aiming for the pale man’s other arm to deaden a second muscle and leave him largely helpless.

  It all happened in such a blur that the pair on the balcony almost missed it. A moment later, the ghost was standing behind his opponent and the Gota was dead.