An Empire Of Traitors (Of Hate And Laughter Book 1) Read online

  “Your insolence knows no bounds, Nissad!” Rrofizal had the breath to further argue with their stubborn brother. On the other hand, Adamis had quite enough of the argument; so he kept his mouth shut. But his ears remained open, much like his mind... open to the notion of infernal possibilities. Even the old human legends spoke of such dire events – the end times ordained by the gods, the rulers of heaven and hell.

  “You still mean to cast out the humans, my brother?” Izuriel quietly intervened on their bickering; his retinue of menials trailing at length in his wake. Izuriel, also called the fair, was a man of splendid beauty, immaculate white skin and shy smile. His entrancing visage was flawless and as graceful as a maiden’s virtue. His voice was thin and soft, curious. His eyes, lips, and slender frame made him appear more woman than man.

  All three took note of their brother, of his graceful androgynous presence.

  “Yes,” answered Nissad. “The humans are too close to us. Too close to the enemy. Too much of a threat and weakness to be exploited. I do not fear the Creator. How can I? Indeed, the proof of his existence is clear to see in all forms, vast and small; but his nature is solely that of prime mover. He is merely the first motion, the first heartbeat, the first spark that livened Creation. The Greater than Everything does not reward, nor does it punish. It simply is...”

  Besides a tightening of his gauntleted fists, Rrofizal said nothing.

  Nissad took that as a sign of victory. “I fear the humans on account of the satans; for when the times will seem best for our rule – that is when they’ll betray us and open the gates to our enemies… to their corrupt and vile retribution. Rornir and his band of traitors are the embodiment of all our greatest sins. And they will stop at nothing to share of our knowledge and secrets. To make us like the humans… Or rather, to make the humans like us.” Nissad shivered at his own words. “To make of our pure and immortal forms a little more than a worm’s existence. I do not wish to feel disease, and pain, and suffering, brothers… I do not wish to die.”

  With those words said, they parted ways – each brother to his own business, to his own fortress, to his own solace. But not him. Adamis chose to remain inside the garden, to pace it in his own rhythm. I do not wish to die, either. The hours passed... sound, image, and smell formed distractions, formed new questions. The ether’s presence was undeniable, a swelling of invisible haze and winds that chilled the very skin. And the light of day turned itself to night.

  Adamis felt his eyes heavy. Mayhaps the holy magic, which drowned the air above the three hills, had an effect upon his being. It wasn’t as sweet and strong as it had been in the womb, but neither was it easy to discard. And so he found himself squatting, leaning next to a tree. Staring at the night sky, at the twin crescent moons and at the many stars and constellations.

  “A myriad of suns so far away, each and everyone a womb of life; a mother world for the beings of our kind and all the others. How I long to feel that holy magic all around and all inside me. To bask in its infinite beauty, to burn with it, inside it… To once again share that life with my brothers – the life we renounced and discarded in favor of these finite and weak forms.”

  Adamis was now unburdening his soul, as if the air around him with the green and bark had ears to hear. If they did, they listened in silence. “Such new and wondrous life it seemed then, so long ago… But little did any of us know, that such an existence brings with it, not only beauty, but ugliness, envy, pain, pride, and illness. Death, a notion so alien to us. When we didn’t leave this world, that was a choice. Now, it seems like a sin. And all sins are so sweet and effortless to make.”

  He sighed long and deep, thoughtful of all his reflections on the memories that still lived clearly inside his mind. “Nevertheless, the past is mine own, no one else’s. And it’s mine to bear for as long as I can, for as long as I choose. No sense living in ceaseless regret, but no sense either in clinging to a false righteousness, like Nissad does.”

  After long moments of contemplating the vast sea of celestial worlds, which adorned and brightened the dark of the night sky – Adamis felt the creeping touch of soothing sleep. And once he closed his eyes, he dreamed. Dreamed shapes and sounds of goodness, but then his dream turned into a nightmare… a nightmare he had heard of before from the tired mouth of the Oracle.

  The clouds were alive with fire, and the flaming tongues were black and red. From the sky poured blood. The crops, the orchards, and animals turned putrid all around him, and the ground rotted beneath his feet. His skin smoked as it burned without flame. His flesh and bones ached as if some terrible being was eating and tearing him inside. And his eyes stung with the pain of a thousand needles of wasps – all spewing their venom into his head and mind. Amidst the unspeakable horrors, he saw them all – faithful and rebellious, pure and corrupt, his brethren and their satans. As well as their twisted broods lurking about their feet, as a child clings to his mother’s skirts.

  They were plagued by a thunder of voices so wroth and cruel; but a thunder of boundless beauty as well as dread.

  Adamis cried in his dream, cried loud and true – a cry of fear, of pain, and joy that made his immortal flesh like that of man’s... weaker but better. His very being seemed awoken to this new and real truth, which made all of his past seem a mindless delusion of existence. A lie like so many others, a truth made of air and dust. But in that moment, he was truly alive, truly aroused with content. The burning sky was deafened now by the storm of voices; and when they spoke, his body shivered and his spine grew cold.

  I know them. But how do I know them? Adamis couldn’t find the answer to that question. But all the same, the thunder of voices was a thunder of cruel gods.

  These alien deities were terrible, indeed. And they came to punish them all – satans or no... To punish them not out of justice, but out of joy. They came to separate flesh from fire, magic from blood, power from weakness. Then the black sun of red and pitch turned alive with a light so bright that everything on earth caught fire. The sound of the world’s destruction mirrored laughter; the unwavering madness of infernal deities. His brothers disintegrated to dust and echo. And at the nightmare’s end, Adamis felt himself embraced by the pure silence of oblivion.

  When he awoke from the dream, he knew it to be an omen. Such dire knowledge must be shared. But my brothers are stubborn. I must speak with someone else; I must speak with Rornir the fallen. The very thought was heresy, such course of action betrayal and its punishment death. But it didn’t matter. The cursed future of his vision was the doom of all things. And that knowledge alone touched the soul with perverse clarity. It brought fire inside his veins, it brought the greatest gift inside Creation...

  Challenge and struggle, Adamis reflected – his gaze entranced with the beauty of the night sky; and curious of the invisible worlds beyond... the hellish realms of the ether. Gods or no gods, the infernal powers shall not find me wanting. For I am Sunborn.

  Chapter I: Sycarus

  He was wrapped in darkness with his senses dimmed. Only his hearing was attuned to the sounds of the night. The crackle of angry swords filled his ears; bright sparks danced wildly, bending shadows in horrific shapes. And beneath it all, he felt himself not alone... He could sense an alien presence hiding inside the gloom, the glares of invisible eyes upon his flesh – whispering in a nameless tongue.

  Then the vision melted into a hundred layers of reddened black; and the dream came to an end with the loudness of absolute silence...

  Sycarus awoke all sweaty with his heart rushed and his breath choked. He poured water over his face, and went outside the cabin to take a piss in the sea. “Gods be damned, what is this nightmare? Is it just the nonsense of the dream world, or is it something else? And those whispering ghosts... What did they whisper of, I wonder?”

  Sycarus wasn’t a superstitious man and didn’t put much price on dreams and so-called omens. Turning his eyes to his left, he saw the western fringes of the known world. He saw the Desertl
ands and the faint lights of a city port; around him, only the vast blackness of the great sea… He remembered the old stories that sailors still swore by – the terrible beast called leviathan, which dragged even the greatest and mightiest of ships to the depths of salt and darkness. The thought of such a creature sent a shiver down his spine; and the notion of roaming pirates only hastened his piss.

  To the east a small halo was rising, stretching its light upon the world. “The crack of dawn,” Sycarus murmured. “The sun beginning to chase away the night...” He paused a moment to look at it, and saw several ships out in the great distance. He remembered then the words of emperor Rovines, words said to him in confidence.

  “Lord Abelbrooke has assured me of your diligence, my good lad. And so I entrust this task to you. I mean to rekindle an old custom of my ancestors; that of seeding the womb of an Aharo maiden. The women of the desert tribes are thought always to birth healthy children, quick of wit and strong. I wish to betroth my son, Yoffis, to a daughter of a tribe’s chieftain. You will offer the man this chest of gold I entrust to you. And in return, he’ll give you one of his daughters. Make sure to choose a pretty one with good hips. Travel swiftly and safely, young sir. And may the gods watch over you.”

  Ever since he was given such a task of great import, Sycarus contemplated better days ahead in terms of personal fortune and opportunities. But my greatest debt I owe to old man Abelbrooke. And with that in mind, Sycarus returned inside the cabin and got back into bed. Next to him, a naked wench was lying on the one side, sleeping with a low snore. The woman was not the prettiest of wenches; but she knew well her trade...

  Before falling asleep, Sycarus thought about the woman. She had kept him satisfied during the long days at sea, but this arrangement would have to end. To where he was bound, the wench could not follow. I have a duty to fulfill. To bring one of those red-skinned girls back, back with me to the Empire... He closed his eyes and sleep took him.

  The hours passed, and the sky filled with light.

  Three lines of white cloud stretched from the east with the sun on top of the world, and Sycarus was out on deck, watching the busy docks of Sand’s Port. The warm breeze of the Silverwind brought with it the small fleet of trade ships, which bore the black and gold colours of the Empire of the Sunborn, as well as the heraldic device of the imperial dynasty of Mero – the Sunfist encircled by a golden beam with its rays sinister. He straightened his tunic, as he gazed upon the city’s docks...

  Cargo handlers were running around, preparing the mules and readying the wheel carts. Commerce was an arduous business; but it reaped rewards. The city of Sand’s Port was the only safe port on the western fringe – it had many patrons striving for the same thing... lawful profits. All others were dens of pirates, welcoming havens for cutthroats and thieves alike. The various small islands between the great sand continent and the Old World were home to savage races – shamans and corpse whisperers.

  The Desertlands encircled the horizon. And one could see nothing, save for the nearby green scrubs which grew around the city; the radiating heat of the still dunes, and the slow-moving sand storms to the north. Merchants and workers gathered at the docks to meet the small fleet of sailors, and to unload the goods they brought with them.

  Looking out from the main deck, Sycarus saw two hardy slaves who went on all fours as several bodyguards surrounded them. Inside their mail hauberks and with the long scimitars about their hips – the guards looked particularly imposing. A fat man of average height came and sat on the human chair.

  The swine’s larger, but white as ever, Sycarus told himself.

  After the first ship finished docking, the crowd at the port got even bigger and busier. Sycarus wore a grey tunic, knee-long breeches, and the chain of office was about his neck. On this particular journey, he was more than a trade delegate; representing the interests of imperial commerce. I’m acting on the emperor’s own business, the most important assignment of my life. And there is no room for failure. Leaving his ship behind, Sycarus emerged from the busy crowds and raised a hand, signalling the fat turban to make himself noticeable.

  The steward of Sand’s Port was dressed in fine white silk, embroidered with gold lines depicting flowers; and a big ruby adorned his great white turban. Mayhaps feeling sweat on his tanned brow, he instructed a menial to wave a fan of peacock feathers over him. “Ah, Sycarus,” the fat man said, making to stand on his own two feet. “Your presence always brings joy to my old eyes. Joy to my eyes and gold for my purse, like last time... I hope.” His grin let out his yellow teeth.

  “Omir, I’m not the herald of fortune. But as always, profits are to be shared.”

  They laughed and embraced themselves. The fat turban smelled of more than one fragrance, freesia and hazelnut. Seemingly worn out from the meeting, Omir returned his ass upon the backs of his menials and ordered the peacock fathered fan to make air. Sycarus eyed his bodyguards from left to right with narrowed eyes. “Have I grown such a threat, that you welcome me with so many a scimitar, Omir my friend?”

  The fat turban chuckled. “They are not for you, good lad. They are for everyone. Fights and quarrels always happen; and such improper conduct goes against the spirit of tranquillity. A sailor and his brew are not easily parted. That’s why I need my men. I want the crowds to know that I’m watching. And that I expect things to go about dutifully... for emperor and Empire.” Omir smiled a knowing smile.

  Sycarus nodded, then looked over his shoulder. Tread was carrying a small wooden chest. The man was almost a dwarf, though, he was silent as a snake. He had to be, for he was a mute. Tread was not truly his servant, though, he behaved that way. He was just another man, an eastlander in the employ of the Imperial Crown.

  The city port had been built many centuries ago, when the Empire of the Sunborn had stretched over many foreign lands and countries. But no longer... As a proud streamlander, Sycarus revered the glorious history of the Sunborn dynasty of Mero.

  In the ancient times, the Sunfist was the bane of all other empires and would-be emperors. It commanded implacable martial prowess and great armies. And its proud fleet of galleys was the dread of the great seas, the Rubicund and Silverwind. Alas, the present is not so glorious; but the vanities are oh so alive and well.

  “Enough with the greetings, friend. I’ll show you to my litter.” The fat turban signalled again for the fan to make air, and they left the docks behind. About them, the busy folk of Sand’s Port did what they did every day. They unloaded, separated, and shipped supplies of grain, wine, liquor, all manner of cloth, wood, tapestry, weapons, precious jewels, ornamental stones, spices, and all kinds of fruit and vegetables that could survive the heat and the long sea trips. They filled the stands with all varieties of goods, fresh and old, big and small, cheap and pricy.

  “How is lord Abelbrooke?” Omir asked thoughtfully, while scratching his hairless chin with his golden finger ring.

  “He’s old,” replied Sycarus. “Old and getting even older, yet he remains diligent.”

  The steward of Sand’s Port nodded and for a while he kept his tongue.

  On their way through the crowds, the merchants shouted their names and presented their wares as being the most affordable and the best of quality. Tricksters sang to snakes and made them dance in their baskets; the creatures leaning gently from side to side with the music of flutes, as if enchanted by it. Jugglers, dancers, and fire spitters entertained the wealthier denizens, while the slaves and freemen kept to their sides, without crossing paths with the higher orders. Priests of different faiths held sermons, trying to gather listeners in more than one tongue. And the sultry grills hissed with the fat of seasoned meat.

  “That flesh smells good, Omir. What sort of animal is it?”

  “Shark, that’s what it is. The wealthier denizens of the city like the taste of shark; and not just them, but foreign traders also. Heh, even those damned pirates who roam and fester on those spit of lands scattered across the Silverwind – th
ey seem to enjoy cooked shark flesh as well. When they come here in disguise, I let them live. But I don’t let them leave. That would be… unethical. Heh, I always have the Empire’s best interest in my heart, of course.”

  “No doubt,” Sycarus replied, amused by the fat turban’s sly remark of loyalty.

  “Tell me my friend, will Abelbrooke decide to adopt you in his family and thus, secure an heir for his title and the continuation of his house name? He’s the only Abelbrooke left alive, is he not?”

  “Yes, Omir. Alder Abelbrooke has no heir.” Sycarus looked the other way. During the civil war, which saw the Empire torn in half by the Inquisition’s struggle against the possessed emperor and blood gods worshiper, Zygar Ferus – many noble houses had seen their male lines eradicated. Two generations of noblemen had been lost in that terrible war, and many others had died – especially smallfolk.

  “The man took me in since I was a child, Omir. Put a roof over my head and food in my plate. He taught me to read and write. Taught me sums, and how to handle bookkeeping affairs. I owe everything to that man, not the other way around.”

  “As you say. But the name Sycarus Abelbrooke fits you nicely, I think.”

  That comment made Sycarus smile, and for a time Omir kept silent. They passed through the low entrance walls and proceeded onward into the fat turban’s home. It was a modest manor in size, no edifice in Sand’s Port was allowed to pass a certain threshold. There was no room in the city for too spacious a house, no matter its patron. It was made of marble, and several banners with the imperial colours of black and gold adorned its walls on all sides. A flock of young grooms tended to the mules, to the litter, and to the baggage.