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

  Chapter II: Birus

  The halls of Rivermark had never been warm. All the grey stones, the wide arches, and shady alcoves were the reminders of past sorrows. Even in the hot season the castle was dreary; as if the walls, through a dark mind of their own, sucked at the heat from the breaths of men. Yet, in the main hall, there was an outlander who seemed impervious to the spell. Though he had already forgotten his name, the lord of Rivermark listened to the words of his unusual guest.

  “I’ve come on behalf of certain patrons, patrons from within the Empire and from without.” The harpoolian tradesman smiled his thin lips, as if pouring honey over what he perceived to be his next meal.

  At least, that’s what he hopes. And I’m about to disappoint him. The warden of the Streamlands, Birus Mandon, was no stranger to this one’s elusive masters.

  “There is great opportunity in this,” the harpoolian continued. “The worshiper of blood gods, Zygar Ferus Mero, acquired many debts. So too did his children. Now the imperial treasury, as well as those of the high lords require a rejuvenation of sorts. As religion profits from belief, so should the realm’s coffers profit from slavery. Mine is a proposition of great wealth, lord.”

  Birus studied the outlander with narrowed eyes. The man was skinny, but had quite the round belly, nonetheless. His eyebrows were trimmed thin and short, and the green-gold garment he wore had a fragrance of lavender about it. A gracious scent, if not for the slaver stench that reeks from his sweet words. “Great wealth you say?”

  The harpoolian once again curled his lips before speaking. “Yes, my lord. Slave hands work only to earn their meals. They make their masters richer by virtue of toil alone; they require no wages. And great stocks of them are awaiting only word and coin to be brought and sold. Good commerce, after all, is at the heart of public tranquillity.”

  “My good man, you are aware that the Old World has only one faith? And that faith is against the practice of slavery.” That was the only thing Birus Mandon admired about the Holy Temple; everything else he deemed it extortion through superstition. For it wasn’t by mere chance that the wealth of the clergy was second to none.

  “Oh, to be sure,” the harpoolian replied in a soft voice. “But since the Temple has lost so much of its former power and influence over laic affairs, surely it won’t mind this – a small concession for the Empire’s prosperity? It seems a fair trade to me, and I trust it does to you also, my lord of Rivermark.” The harpoolian smiled a wicked smile.

  “Think of your own house, my lord warden. Your own holdings, your own realm... Having many slaves dutifully working your fields and tending to your household; while the freemen will accept a life of military service as their new profession, in order to ensure their livelihoods. Think of all those swollen ranks of soldiers with which the Empire may reclaim its former glories.”

  Birus chuckled at the notion. He knew very well what would happen with the free folk. Deprived of property and employment, they would resort to banditry and mercenary-craft. The slaver houses of Zjialaa and Harpool didn’t wish a stronger Empire; but an empire of disunity and turmoil.

  “You’re a very funny man,” said the lord of Rivermark.

  He remained silent thereafter for a long moment, contemplating things of history and morals. Since the kingdom of Laraven had been recently faced with a successful slave rebellion, the slave traders were already trying to secure new contracts for their stocks which remained unsold. Quick vipers they are, mused Birus. To the creed of his house, the practice of slavery was abhorrent.

  Of course, the interests of merchants fathomed no obstacle in notions of mere ethics. With the Holy Temple no longer in possession of its former prerogatives, those interests were now trying to gather weight from the laic nobility. For all that stood now against the practice of slavery was the Crown’s secular law, the will of emperor Hagyai.

  The lord of Rivermark inclined his head. “More wine, my good sir?”

  Outside, the clouds had spread and thinned. The warm brightness of the sun entered the hall; revealing the slow moving dust points in the light of windows. Birus raised a hand, and the servants came to refill their cups.

  “You are most kind, lord. This petition, which shall be brought to the emperor’s attention, has much weight behind it; the small and prominent alike favor its outcome.”

  “I wouldn’t be too optimistic, if I were you.”

  “How so, my lord? Why shouldn’t men own other men, if they have the means to pay? Surely a slave that is provided food and a roof over his head by his master is better off than a freeman who has neither. A master will always look after his own property. His name offers them protection also. Thus, other lords are less inclined to do them harm, to abuse them, so as not to start a feud with one of their peers. Freedom is of no use for such low creatures, and slaves are also more disciplined than free folk – ”

  “We already have such creatures,” Birus cut him off. “They are called the beasts of burden. Unlike my peers, I don’t agree with the notion of turning human beings into mere cattle. Keeping the lower orders ignorant and foul, that is the root problem of any society. There is no birthright that gives man the power to rule over his own kind as animals. Yet we are animals for attempting to do so; upright beasts with raised blade and written word ready to silence all dissent. As for discipline and order, one cannot demand such things from a soul who is aching of hunger and cold. My steward, lord Abelbrooke, says that poverty is the mother of all crime, and indolence the father.”

  “Such view of the world, my lord Mandon, while very noble... is impractical. There is power and wisdom in ruling over the meek. Yet best of all, the slave traders of Harpool and Zjialaa have lots in stock. The ripe time to buy slaves is now, while they are many and cheap. I have friends ready to move considerable stocks.”

  I wager you do, you maggot bastard.

  “My lord, I can get you the best of breeds, diligent and silent slaves. From exotic women schooled in the arts of pleasure, to men strong of arms and backs, as well as learned scholars. There is a proper price and slave for any desire or purpose.” The man’s eyes sparkled with sheer vulgar greed. The sight of it was sickening.

  A collar and chains were the symbols of thralldom. And the hawk symbol of house Mandon was anathema to that notion and practice. It was the symbol of freedom, of honor, and soul. Though eight years into the civil war’s aftermath, the commons still endured many hardships. To make slavery lawful now would have been disastrous. The smallfolk need to be protected, thought Birus. Protected from the insatiable greed of cruel overlords.

  The harpoolian continued to spew the presentation words for his stock. “I can offer my lord exotic black beauties, with large and firm a breast, and pierced skin.” He coughed several times, then drank long from his wine-cup.

  Now it’s my turn to speak a few words against his reasoning. “Your petition will destroy freedom by robbing the commoners of their sacred rights. I don’t know how the gods of Harpool view slavery, nor do I care to learn. All I know... is that in the Empire’s five realms, slavery is forbidden by law. Each man grows in a womb and comes out of a woman’s cunt. Each man bleeds red, and death spares none. All flesh and blood is equal in the eyes of nature. Slavery is unnatural.”

  The harpoolian grinned, and took another sip of wine. “My lord, did you know that there is a species of small insects in the Veil Jungle, which lays its eggs in worker ants? It’s called the Green Defiler. The ant carrying the eggs keeps them warm. And when the awful buggers hatch, they kill the ant – eating their way out from the inside. It’s a form of slavery, no? A way of profiteering from someone else’s labor and life? Much in the same way that the queen ant profits from her workers. Slavery is a part of nature – ”

  “Not man’s nature,” Birus snapped at him. “And well done with that example, good tradesman; of calling yourself what you truly are... a parasite. I will not dishonor myself, nor the streamlanders by supporting greedy worms such as your masters a
nd patrons. It was a mistake on my part to have offered you food and drink. The ancient custom of hospitality does not allow me to do you harm, so long as you are under my roof.”

  The harpoolian’s eyes grew pale, along with his hands. The sun had disappeared moments ago in the grey clouds. And the warm light, which had previously filled the hall, was no longer warm, but cold. In the air about them, the tiny points of dust seemed to have frozen in place.

  Birus made a sign, and his household guards came a few steps closer to the man. Each of his armored servants donned upon their surcoats the blazon of house Mandon; a hawk’s majestic head upon a field of white. With but a word from their liege, the guards unsheathed a quarter of their blades. A simple sign of threat to make the bastard’s heart shake with fright. “It’s now my turn to smile, good sir.”

  A dark stain formed on the harpoolian’s green-gold garment, between the legs. This, of course, amused the guards as well as the servants. But the lord of Rivermark had no intention of committing murder this day; the vile wretch wasn’t worth it. “Though I can kill you once you’re outside my keep, I will not do so. For that would be ignoring the spirit of the custom in favor of its letter. I’m a just man, so I’ll let you go free. But I know your face now, and am not likely to forget it. If I ever cross paths with you again, cur, be sure that your head will cross paths with my sword. Go now to your masters, and give them the hawk’s disappointing news.”

  The harpoolian nodded, eyes white with fear and breeches smelling of piss. When he made to stand up, he dropped the wine-cup on himself with a nervous twitch of the arm. “A thousand apologies, my lord. A thousand apologies. And thank you for taking pity on my rotten soul.” He bowed three times, each bow a low one.

  “Off with you! Before I change my mind and shorten you by a head.”

  The harpoolian left meekly with his garment stained by piss, and that was that. After such useless talk, the warden of the Streamlands wanted to do something more enjoyable; and what could be more enjoyable than hawking? He gave word to the servants to bring his bird and saddle the horses. Seeing the creature fly would always give him the peace of reflection. And it’s a well deserved thing, after such a disgusting talk with that lickspittle of a slaver. He wanted a breath of good clean air, and most of all, he wanted the creature’s eyes. Birus wanted to see through them again…

  The lord of Rivermark took with him only his master at arms, Norbert Shtolm, three hounds from the kennels – and several grooms to tend to the animals. They rode for the nearby plains, which stretched for several leagues all the way between Smallwood and Oakheart Forest. On those plains, they would hunt brown hare, a prey without hope... for a hawk’s talons. Like always, the good master at arms was quiet as rock. Few words of reverie or jest ever sounded from his lips. But Norbert Shtolm was a most loyal streamlander, an able fighter – and a stoic one at that. Nonetheless, the black hounds made up for the silence. They barked with beastly vigor, as they led the way to the Plains of Woodheart.

  When they reached their desired spot, with nothing but clear grass surrounding them, the men dismounted. The hounds were set loose to scour the fields, and the lord’s bird was made ready. Birus stretched out his arm and removed the creature’s eye mask. The hawk flapped its wings as its talons moved upon the glove, feeling, preparing; then it soared to the sky straight and true. From above, he saw everything.

  The creature’s eyes were his own; and what glory it was to see through them. Everything was different, better, more alive, more real. No human sight could match it. The horizon seemed infinite, but the clouds appeared all the more finite, close and frightening. The lord lost his balance for a moment, but managed to squat instead of falling over – his head still entranced with the vision. Birus had told no one of his preternatural gift, neither friend nor family. Such a truth was most dangerous. And I will never tell a soul.

  Regaining his own human sight, Birus looked to the hounds. They were running in the distance, each to its own whim of sensation, searching for hare; wanting to chase them out of hiding. The hawk, however, had a mind of its own, a hunter’s mind. No hare managed to dodge those sharp talons, or outpace those majestic wings which commanded the very air they breathed. The hawk’s cry was all and everything – freedom and glory, both terror and beauty. That was his symbol, after all. The hawk was the sigil of house Mandon; an old name with much history and glory, as well as tragedy. He felt little of that glory now, but much of the sorrow.

  Birus knew it all too well, for he had been there… when death had claimed all those he loved – his family. Looking at the majestic bird, at how it picked off the prey’s flesh, eating, with its talons coiled in the carcass; he found the metaphor. Pain and death were part of life. And Birus Mandon found that he could easily recall those memories. He had to, for they were all that remained of his kindred, besides their graves.

  Before the start of the civil war, Birus had been a fosterling at lord Abelbrooke’s court in Smalltown. Rivermark was not meant for him to inherit; he was the youngest of his brothers. So instead of wishing him a knight, his lord father had wished him a theologian. Though religion was not his calling, Birus obeyed the wish of his sire. And despite being jealous of his siblings, he had loved them, Sebastien and Willbert. Handsome lads they were, bold and strong. Good brothers they were to me. The last time Birus had seen Sebastien and Will was at their death...

  “My lord,” Norbert Shtolm interrupted his reminiscence, “look at that. Two of the hounds are returning with the prey. It’s hares they caught themselves.” He pointed at the dogs with a smile on his plump face.

  Birus took note of the third hound, which was farther away, barking and barking – as if jealous at the other two for the quarry they caught. Then he searched for his bird. Once again, the creature’s eyes revealed to him the naked sky. Even after its meal, the bird still wanted to enjoy the brief moment of freedom.

  Speaking of freedom... “Pass the wineskin, would you?” Norbert handed the wineskin to his liege lord, and Birus drank. The hard white’s taste made him remember something else. His brothers had looked very much like his father, while he had looked nothing like the man. Birus took only after his lady mother. A mirror image, the courtiers used to say. I think that’s why he wished me a cleric and not a knight. Perchance, in his eyes, I resembled more of a Blackway than a Mandon; even though I bore his first name.

  The reflection was sad, but it wasn’t so cruel as the fate which came to fall upon others. The civil war broke out between emperor Zygar Ferus and the Inquisition, which accused him of being a veiled worshiper of blood gods.

  Their lord father, Birus Mandon – second of his name, joined the side of the Inquisition, while Sebastien and Will chose the emperor’s. They fled the castle with all the arms and riches they could steal, with all the hands they could sway. And they managed to sway two of their father’s vassals, the lords of Wellmoat and Rainhall. His brothers believed they had joined the winning side. They had been wrong; for after the emperor’s children entered the war under the banners of the eastern lords, those faithful to Zygar Ferus had no more hope for victory.

  His brothers fought at the siege of Rainhall. It lasted thirty days, and on the thirty-first, lord Rayken Bellworth surrendered his castle to his rightful liege. On that dark day, the lord of Rivermark saw his children; and Birus saw them as well. At the start of the civil war, his father had sent for him. Sent for me to join his host. Though he had traveled with the bannermen of his sire, Birus never felt himself as being wanted. His father regarded him as a tedious duty. His unfavored whelp – a young soul of two and twenty of age; the only son who had not betrayed his allegiance...

  “You will shut your mouth and learn. Is that clear? Good. The cloth is not for you anymore, boy. You will have to taste the accursed bitterness of life. You will see how a war is fought. You will see how soldiers command and follow, live and die.”

  Birus remembered the words of his lord father, words spoken in a cold voice. A stran
ger’s voice. That same stranger had argued in favor of the sword. The Inquisition would have required confessions, confessions obtained through torture. There was no serving a blood gods worshiper without a price. Or so his lord father had claimed then. Because of that, the mercy of a quick and clean death was all a parent could bestow upon his guilty children. Birus hoped that was the only reason for his father’s decision. He hoped it was not about honor and punishing betrayal. But such faith proved itself false. For after the war came to an end, many lords on the defeated side had been pardoned by the Patriarch himself; and spared the painful proceedings.

  That stranger had put his own flesh and blood to the sword before the eyes of all his bannermen – obedient and treacherous – before the Inquisition’s arrival. Birus could see it now. His father’s greatsword, Traitor’s bane... dripping red. And the fallen heads of his brothers, the man’s own children… looking with queer expressions and dead eyes at their executioner, while the blood soaked their phantom necks. This stranger’s face was pale, wrinkled, without a frown, without an eye blink, without grimace. He was no longer a father, and Birus didn’t want to be his son. The man was a stranger, a soul damned in the eyes of the Three... Bloody lord Mandon, kinslayer.

  Once more his reminiscence was interrupted, but this time not by Norbert Shtolm. It was a rider, fluttering the imperial colours of black and gold. A messenger. News from the capital, no doubt. Birus waved a hand and shouted at him to stop.

  “I seek out the lord of Rivermark,” the rider said in a rushed breath.

  “You’ve found him. What business have you with me?”

  As the rider dismounted, Birus saw the heraldic device upon his chest – the left hand holding a green strain with two green buds; and the six yellow sharp rays of the halo encircling the grip to its right. The sigil of house Mero. The man approached with a rolled up parchment in his hands, then went to one knee before him. And the grooms gathered in as well around them, curious to learn the stranger’s purpose.