For the Empire's Throne

By C. V. Nór

When the emperor of Braavadom, Ixalien Varlk, discovers he is to die soon, he sets in motion a plan that will keep the house of his ancestors at the helm of the empire. The throne is no longer hereditary, and that has haunted many emperors for a while. But Ixalien has arrived to a solution, one that is bound to change the course of history. He will force a group of lawmakers to make his daughter a queen. The young princess is ignorant of her fathers plans. Nurtured and spoiled from birth, she has little concern of what goes on around her and does not know that her father has just put her at the center of a dangerous world, where men struggle for power, proud men, who'll stop at nothing to possess a great crownthe one crown of the world, the crown of Braavadom.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781504964913

C. V. Nór

C. V. Nór is an avid reader of history and a musician. He is specially enamored of Roman Empire history at the time of its glory and of Greek drama. His favorite books include Antigone, Oedipus, Trojan Women, and Electra. His other tastes have a more modern flair. Books by authors like Fenimore Cooper, Jane Austin, William Faulkner, Victor Hugo, among others, fill his tablet. When away from his music or his books, C. V. Nór enjoys spending time with friends and going out to eat. Italian and Mediterranean dishes are his guilty pleasures.

Book preview

FOR THE

EMPIRE’S

THRONE

C.V. NÓR

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© 2016 Caesar Nor. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 04/06/2016

ISBN: 978-1-5049-6490-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-6491-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015919671

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Chapter I: A Maze of Fangs

Chapter II: The Princess of Braavadom

Chapter III: The Attempt against Fredrix Arkan

Chapter IV: Mrs. Overpoxx’s Gift

Chapter V: Come Not into the Emperor’s Clutch

Chapter VI: Death to the Princess

Chapter VII: Fairies’ Fields

Chapter VIII: Blutgarten

Chapter IX: Winds of Silence

Chapter X: Suspicions against a Royal

Chapter XI: The Descended

Chapter XII: The Power behind the Desk

Chapter XIII: The Prince of Belkidoor

Chapter XIV: The New Vittan

Chapter XV: Ontipha’s Rooms

Chapter XVI: Vote by Fire

Chapter XVII: Maxina’s Birthday

Chapter XVIII: Travels with Coilie

Chapter XIX: The New Queen

Chapter XX: Ixalien and Irldoran

Glossary

To my parents,

José Policarpo Arce and Carmen Gregoria Arce.

SONG OF BRAAVADOM

Oh, glorious Braavadom, what know you of fear?

Upon you is spun a golden thread, each turn a brave man’s deed,

Your drums are our heart’s song that others dread to hear.

Oh, brave Braavadom, glorious are you indeed!

Sad it is when a soft breeze blows, and winds

Don’t lift your dragon’s wings!

When storms are as dead and no drum swells your lion’s roar!

When clouds are white cotton and your eagle does not soar!

Wake up, Oh, wake up from the shadow of slumber, glorious Being

And let’s to war!

Open your steely eye, bright as a star-studded blade—

A mighty sword!

Through darkness pass, leaving behind

A brand new world!

With each man’s fall,

Your bosom prouder swells;

With each man’s fall, you brighter shine

Upon Man and dells.

Wherever child of your bosom dwells,

He will sing your song

Ever is your Spirit present within and out his door,

Your strong heart does not die—it goes forever on!

A child born far wonders why

He is swift as an eagle, his muscles dragon-strong,

And why his courage

Is like a lion’s roar.

THE END OF INNOCENCE

What once was no longer is, what once was there

Is hidden in a mantle of air

Adventures are sweet or sour, roses or stroke by thorn

By them smiles or sadness born

Destiny is no destiny unless we follow the road

We can stand still, not move,

As in death, with the last line toed

Abandoning pain, relinquishing love

Yet mind follows a road, not clear till it forgets

And new love new memory begets

Or new thorn new pain awakens

Before the brand new breath is taken

Who knows where star will be tomorrow who is no sailor

Little is heart his own leader or tailor

It may only be brave through sadness, or through fear,

And just when the finger moves to remove the tear.

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CHAPTER 1

A MAZE OF FANGS

Two hundred children ran up the hill, shouting and laughing. In their hands were earthen, oil-filled bottles and torches; at their back a bag of sticks. The teeth up ahead held no sway. The children had faced similar foes before.

But this was a different enemy. The teeth shouted a warning.

Like bared fangs, sets of joined spikes warned the hasty climber, the shafts pointing in every direction with the aim to impart great wounds or impale the bodies that dared defy the terrain. These joined spikes, fixed steadfast into the ground, climbed up the hill in a form of maze. The children ran sure of their own skills, desirous to sneer at the obstacles’ flaws and set fire to the wall.

Like a throng of buffalo calves or an upstream flood, they washed over the hill and strayed out like a fan as if to blanket it, their eyes set on the wall. Then the screams that pierced through the very souls of the men below.

Up a length of the hill was a long, three-foot wide trench with a lid of grass. Children plummeted into the trench. As soon as they fell, a booming roar tore through the fabric of space above and raised the hairs of every neck that craned down the hill. Paws and jaws tore and clamped around the limbs that the gods of beasts had thrown their way. Other children jumped. Their feet caught in the traps and iron spikes hidden in the grass. Other pits gave way under them. Within them were spikes.

The game was over. Some children froze and cried, and squatted with their arms over their head. A swarm of arrows rained upon them. They and others still moving fell, some without a last gasp. Soon, their faces were one with the ground, their blood making the soil muddy, the grass slippery. The mountains and fields cried a wailing song. But a great number did not die quickly. They groaned their agony in every childish pitch—a sacrifice, so that more experienced men could make it to the wall.

Though some made it all the way by sheer luck, they did not achieve their leader’s goal. Now almost all of them were dead—many inside the spike pits with their bodies impaled.

Lord Mananthus, the besieger of the fortification, looked in despair. But as his terror lit further his fire, so the monsters in the trenches filled him with disdain. This was the last bastion of resistance against his power in the region, and woe to it for being so vastly opposed. But he wasn’t thinking clearly, and after half an hour of plans, he sent men with picks to clear the way of the smaller spikes, thinking it a worthy attempt. Large, wooden shields guarded them against the sky-falling arrows. But fifteen-hundred yards was a long way, and a volley of small, nail-wrapped fireballs greeted them. The men from the palisades called them shooting-stars. Powerful, straight shooting ballistas aimed their heads in this and that direction. Mananthus buried his spear in the ground. He knelt and took a clod of earth.

Oh Arrdherus! Mininsthral! Answer my call!

Then he raised his eyes. Not too far up, an eagle was on the wing. As it crossed his path, it threw its shadow on his face.

The gods had answered!

Mananthus exulted. He looked at the dead children on the hill. His arm raised and pointed toward them.

The gods have marked our way, he said. The death has not been in vain!

The dead children were the guides and stepping stones the gods had sent. With quick trust in the message, his warriors rushed, jumping over the trenches, their gods guiding them around the traps, pits and spikes, stepping onto the live and dead bodies on the ground, believing in their great cause, their gods, and their own balance, carrying ladders and brandishing swords, their eyes red with vengeful fire. But the children were only islands within a sea of fangs, and the gods not very adept at leading with the hand. Pits still dotted the landscape, and traps and smaller shafts pricked up everywhere. To the eyes and legs, it was a dizzying dance.

On the wooden ramparts, archers aimed at the sky. Fire began to rain. The fiery arrows were better than the gods in directing a course. The men were thrown into the pits and onto the larger spikes. Bodies were soon impaled. Others caught the smaller shafts and pierced their faces when they fell. The sky filled again with the blanket of a new storm. The arrows plummeted down, raining upon the standing and fallen man. Those who made it across died by the sword when they reached the top of the palisades. It was a war of destiny what they fought. They fought a god, Braavadom—and yet it was not a spirit, but a place.

But the enemy was not just behind the wooden fences. A cry had just arrived of the impending destruction of Lord Mananthus, the instigator of this war. His attempt to dethrone the queen of Isparna, a puppet queen to this god, had resulted in his entanglement with the larger power. But Lord Mananthus was determined—he had simply misread his own gods. He pressed his helmet to his head and slammed the visor down. News also arrived of who was before the army coming to end what he had begun, the master of the foreign god himself.

Mananthus was both terrified and proud. This was a triumph that, whatever his accomplishments, he had never thought himself worthy of. Only a great achiever could face the emperor of Braavadom himself. This was the direction the gods he believed in had pointed.

Lord Mananthus turned twenty-five thousand of his men to face the hills, and another five-thousand the palisades. He himself was in front of the larger force, desirous to see the face of the man under whose name the soldiers of his own country were decorated.

Suddenly, from what seemed the edge of the earth, a cloud of dust began to rise. Drums beat in the distance. As they approached, they seemed to beat the earth itself. After several minutes, the flags and pennons of the enemy shone and waved in a display of pride. The men from the palisades screamed with joy.

The emperor! they announced.

But Mananthus’s men had more than just the vision of the emperor.

Dragon legions! they cried.

As every man that faces the ultimate destiny, and despite the path that had led him to this moment, Mananthus began to ponder. Were the gods pointing a different way? He could still hear the children. Perhaps the advice was to stay alive.

His right-hand man, Arathnor, saw his doubt.

A new course is mandated, Mananthus said, and looked at Arathnor. Arathnor gave him no expression, and when Mananthus began to ride forward, he let him go. As Mananthus rode, not to surrender, but to negotiate, he noticed something. The emperor did not move. His horse was still, moving its head up, not riding forward. As Mananthus waited, the emperor talked to one of his men. The drums began to beat again. The symbol was unmistakable to Mananthus. The emperor, to aid him further (if there was any doubt) ordered an arrow sent his way. It fell under the legs of Mananthus’s horse. Off Mananthus went in a hurry, back to his men.

The gods mandate to fight, said Arathnor, as Mananthus stopped at his side.

Luck saved Mananthus’s honor before his men, since they did not know what he had gone to do, or what the gods had told him.

But the gods again had changed their mind. When the battle began, Mananthus regained his courage. The emperor’s army was an ocean. Mananthus’s troops a lake. But a disadvantage is not just in numbers. Shields of armor faced woolen robes; honed swords, blunt blades; experience, courage. The emperor himself threw himself into the melee. Next to him was a man in a golden mask who held a golden shield and who fought just as furiously as any man. And he was as protected as the master of this universe, this god called Braavadom.

As the number of dead began to mount on Mananthus’s side and his warriors began to flee, the scene became laughable and cruel. This was a war to end it all, that was the determination of the emperor himself. Arathnor soon lost his guard. A spear went up into his throat. A sword penetrated the side of Mananthus’s chest. Axes met throats and gashed chests. The emperor, however, stopped his men from killing Mananthus.

Iron soon bound the rebel leader’s wrists, and an iron cage delivered him to the Isparnian queen herself. Queen Isalba met the rebel in her throne chamber. She had censures against him before she delivered her verdict.

Children, easily deceived children, easily persuaded children, easily forced children: forced to do what their elders would have them do. It was you who sent them into the lion pits. Before today, even before the emperor himself, I would have honored your courage, even while seeking to undermine me, to fight for your beliefs. Yet today before your own people and mine, I condemn you! You are cursed instead of understood, cursed to the halls of fire and dishonor; stripped of every honorable thought in your favor. For this alone I would send you to the carrion birds to eat your eyes and heart. Two punishments are here granted to the gods that seek justice. One from me, to be executed before those who, in your will to help, encountered nought but your cruelty. The other, to worsen the taste, from the emperor himself. On his will depends your manner of execution. Such is your victory, and the forfeiture of your life to be decided by those for whose hate and antipathy you showed such little love for the weaker spirits.

The queen sat back on her throne, obviously agitated, and without looking at Mananthus, waved her hand to take him away.

In a large plaza, before many spectators, Mananthus climbed up a long ladder. From on high the tower, he heard the queen’s verdict against his crimes. A man in a mask stood by him. Far in the distance, a man on a guarded stage before the tower made a motion with his hand. It was as that of an axe cutting down. The man in the mask pushed Mananthus down into a set of long spikes below the tower. There he was left for many days to rot and be displayed to anyone who dared challenge the power of Braavadom and the queen.

News of the victory against the rebel Mananthus brought glory to the man that had undertaken the perils of the campaign. On his return to Braavadom, the populace threw flowers and laurels in his path. Who but a god would lead a nearly sixty-year old man to such triumph? This is what the people thought. The emperor was blessed!

The name of the victor went far and wide across the land: Ixalien of the Varlks was the answer to the question, who won the war? The answer produced the exclamation:

He will be more popular than the queen now!

The queen they spoke about was not Isalba, but the emperor’s wife, Arna Arlquen, since Braavadom still retained its kingdom past. The emperor himself began as a king, and was crowned emperor six months later.

In his homeland, Ixalien also went by the title of Varom-King. Braavadom was a land of unusual royal titles. The successors to the emperor’s throne were the Vittans, the High Princes. The vittans were distant cousins of the emperor with legal right to the throne. There were ten in Braavadom, each living in his own realm: a principality that bore the name of the vittan’s ancestral house. If your house was the House of Woristat, your principality was Woristat, and you were a Woristat. Your people were Woristans. Visroys were the vittan’s children and siblings. The last ranks that allowed you the title of prince were Visiur and Royal Noble, or low princes. For that matter, the senate house was the Sildaarium, and a senator a Sildaar.

In the imperial city of Braavadom—the Grand Capital—Emperor Ixalien and his companion, Prince Farorlkin—political rivals at home, allies outside of it—were among the celebratory cavalcade that welcomed them from their campaign in Isparna. Horns and cheers marked the celebration, and flags that waved proudly from the balconies. The flag of each principality was represented in the celebration, as it had been in the battlefield. These principalities were Sildo, Woristat, Yesroda, Morolbor, Brookvale, Arrgy, Parlnor, Isrolar, Bolja and Uldelor.

In Farorlkin’s eyes were imprinted the images of severed heads, spiked eyes, and axe-sundered skulls. He did not think he would come back alive. His spirit, more than his body, had suffered the wounds.

Lord Farorlkin, I hope you will join me in this celebration, said the emperor.

Though a vittan, I am under the obligation to join you, the prince said, having participated in this endeavor. You know it could not be possible otherwise.

Many will suspect you. But I regard you as neutral still, worry not on that head.

Thank you, my lord.

The cavalcade headed to the silver gates that closed the august District of Varomplaz. Trumpets from the towers greeted the monarch and the prince. Soldiers opened the gates.

The Obalon, a large domed structure that looked like a giant, pale-red igloo, waved with triumphant banners in the distance. Red columns surrounded it, giving the impression of dry blood.

Within its round chamber hall, Queen Arna Arlquen sat on her throne. In the distance blazed the great Sink of Fire. She stood up when the emperor and the prince were announced. Ixalien and Farorlkin stepped in from a large pillar of sunbeam outside.

The most elite soldiers of the Empire, the Dragon Generals and their legionnaires, struck the armor on their chests and turned to face them, hands on their swords. Closer to the stage, knights elevated their golden spears. Sildaars and other nobles knelt on one knee.

Only the queen did not kneel or bow. Men blew pennant-dressed bugles from the high balconies. Ixalien finally arrived to the stage. He kissed the queen’s hand and sat next to her on his throne. Farorlkin followed his example, kissing the queen’s hand, and sitting next to him on his right.

The emperor on his throne! came a cry. It was a cry of victory, one given when an emperor returned successful from a campaign.

Swords struck shields. Applause and cheer filled the air. The queen, sitting on her throne, clapped modestly.

A man titled Grand Sildaar, half-prime minister and half-king, bowed again toward the stage. Around him, in their opulent senatorial garbs, sildaars of lower status followed suit. Ixalien and Farorlkin returned the motion without rising from their seat.

Your Majesty, said the grand sildaar; then, Your Highness, to Farorlkin; on behalf of the sildaarium and of the people, we welcome your return and congratulate you on your victory.

Farorlkin and Ixalien bowed slightly again.

Glasses were raised. Nobles and lesser subjects cried, To your health!

After some moments, calls came for the queen to give a speech. Arna Arlquen stood up from her throne and bowed. The cheer and applause now filled every corner. The queen was a great beauty with blue eyes. Her fire-colored hair was a waterfall of soft burning ringlets. Locks fell on her forehead under her crown. Her dress was a sweeper, the color also red, and sleeveless save for a strap over the left shoulder.

The dragon generals bowed and held their helmets to their chests as if over their hearts. She was a loved queen.

All got quiet when she began to speak.

Honorable ladies and lords, a great victory once more brings us together, painful though wars be on each side. My heart goes to the fallen who fought so bravely. May the halls of their fathers receive them well! They have paid for their monument in blood. They died in honor. Even when they fell, their honor was unvanquished. Let it never be forgotten. We all fight for an ideal. Yet our victors bring us glory and the promise once more of peace. Let peace and harmony reign in both our nations, in that of the conquered and that of the conqueror. We must now work for respect, a high ideal, one which will bring us that lasting peace. May we celebrate this occasion furnished with such hope! My cup. A servant handed her a cup filled with wine. I raise my cup in honor of our victors that came to us safe and sound.

Hundreds of cups went up in toast. Even Ixalien and Farorlkin stood up. They bowed to the words, Hail our victors!

As the cheer and applause subsided, the queen continued,

It falls to me now to honor a brave warrior. Bring me the golden mantle! One of her advisers was ready with the requested item. My lord Farorlkin, she said once it was in her hands, disdain not this honor from your queen!

Farorlkin was puzzled, yet he approached the monarch, and when she said, Your sword, he unstrapped his beautiful gold-lined blue scabbard and handed it to her. Arna Arlquen in turn gave it to the same adviser. Then she turned to Farorlkin and nodded. The prince went to his knees.

Noble warrior, the queen said, you have lived up to the measure of the hero, fighting alongside the king, our emperor, maintaining your loyalty and bravery at all times, sanctifying more the blood of our ancestors, of Reldorin, Valreldor, and Varomkuth. No better shoulder this which to others is a mere trapping behooves, yet which meaning is not missed.

She wrapped the golden mantle over his shoulders. Her adviser gave her back the sword. With it still in the scabbard, Arna Arlquen touched Farorlkin’s shoulder as if to knight him.

From this day on, she said, you shall be called Dragon, mightiest of warriors! Rise, Dragon General, before your queen!

The chamber resounded with loud cheer and applause. The sound of the bugles once more filled the hall. Farorlkin bowed and thanked the queen.

An aide approached Arna and whispered something in her ear. She looked toward Ixalien.

Your daughter, my lord, is here, in her impatience, no doubt, to welcome you and congratulate you.

Well, said the emperor. We cannot let her wait. My daughter is here! he said out loud.

Cups and cheers went up again. The herald said,

Her Highness Princess Maxina Varlk of Braavadom, Her Highness Princess Rowilda Arlquen of Yesroda, His Grace Frerldor Orband of Yesroda, and Her Highness, Princess Bethla Arlquen of Yesroda!

In came a beautiful child. She was only eleven years old and had blondish red hair, with several curls as that of the queen. Behind her were the queen’s sister, Rowilda Arlquen and her husband Frerldor, together with their child.

At the appearance of Maxina, everybody in the hall bowed. Maxina walked up to the stage, looking at no one despite this reception. Her mother kissed her and embraced her. Then Maxina looked at her father. Ixalien smiled and opened his arms. Without even greeting Farorlkin, who was still standing close to the queen, she ran to him. Ixalien embraced her and kissed her on her forehead.

My daughter! he said.

Everybody cheered again.

CHAPTER 2

THE PRINCESS OF BRAAVADOM

Maxina of the Varlks, or Maxina Varlk, was a proud, exasperating child. From early on, she was bound to throw tantrums when things did not go her way. In a rare moment of alliance between husband and wife, when she was nine years old, however, she faced a storm. The couple chastised her for throwing all her combs, face brushes and all her cosmetics at the dressers—simply because the trip to see her cousin Bethla was postponed—and punished her. The queen herself dragged her by the arms into a room to be all by herself. It was her goal to strip away every bit of her husband from her. She already had to deal with a dictator, she would not have two.

Yet Maxina had much to thank her position. It saved her from too much harshness, so that she got away with more than a common child would in his lifetime. But despite these episodes that showed a royal rascal in the making, Maxina was not wicked. She cried for the poor children in stories, and was happy when they succeeded against a person of power. In her good moments, she was very giving, and could be the nicest person in the world. This part of her character had earned her among the populace the title of, The Princess with the Sweet Heart. The nobles and their children, however, who spent more time at court, had a different name for her: the Little Tyrant.

As she grew up, and learned better manners and patience, this tyrannical behavior subsided. She never stopped being annoyed with her dressers, however. All that tugging and pulling, the powder that went in her eyes from those wicked face brushes, the pain from the combs, were bound to light some inner sparks. The dressers had learned the signs: foot tapping, table patting (when they sat her down before the mirror), finger-drumming, and ughs. Now and then, of course, the pantheon of devils broke loose and higher powers had to be called. Her guardians—young girls who helped with her studies, kept her company, and arranged her whole world for her—bore the brunt of this tsunamic wrath—which was really just a small breeze masked like a tempest. After her dressing, the princess ran with laughter to play once more in the dirt and the grass, muddy her shoes and soil her new dress.

There were also days of calm. One day, when the queen was worried about things no child could comprehend, Maxina played with her dolls, making this one a king, this other a queen, and the rest peasants. Arna Arlquen watched her from the window.

This is the king, and this the queen, Maxina said, catching the queen’s glance.

Arna smiled and turned to the window. Soon, Maxina was standing next to her, showing her the dress she had put on the queen. Arna complimented it, then squatted and embraced her, laying many kisses on her cheeks. Then, they both looked out to the garden. At some point, Arna Arlquen said, softly,

I will be your armor and shield.

Maxina looked up at her. The queen cradled Maxina’s face with her hands, and filled her with kisses again. Then they looked out to the garden once more. This was a lasting memory for Maxina.

Then one day, when Maxina was twelve and a half years old, Arna Arlquen sunk into a period of coughing and night sweats. The physician Dorius attributed them to a strong cold, and tried to calm the symptoms with typical recipes of hot soups. Despite his care to keep her well fed, the graceful woman thinned to a sprig. Even Queen Isalba of Isparna sent her a letter to wish her a quick recovery. Just a day after receiving the letter, Arna Arlquen gave her last gasp.

Ixalien and his main rival in the kingdom (a vittan named Irldoran Arkan), put aside their animosity and came together. The country itself showed it had never loved a queen so much. For a whole week, the populace stood at a safe and respectful distance from the silver gates of Varomplaz and sang the queen’s praises. The soldiers on the towers, following Ixalien’s orders to allow the people to grieve in any manner they chose, saluted the crowd with the same motion that they saluted the emperor, a fist forward, as a signal to proceed with their chants, poetries and songs.

It was a worse time for the Princess of Braavadom. Never again would she see that candle that shone brighter than an elvish Light Stone, except in dreams, and they are not the same.

Only the death of a queen could have brought the two great enemies of Braavadom together. Ixalien’s hand itched and clenched near his sword when Irldoran Arkan bowed solemnly to him and said,

My lord, a great wound. May the light of Arna Arlquen shine forever in your house!

Ixalien’s lips barely moved to voice his thanks. Everyone noticed his little frown when he bowed in return.

Irldoran bowed once more and moved on.

The vittan’s sons came next, Fredrix, Salsber and Farldin, wearing diamond-topped black rings. Fredrix, the tallest and the handsomest one, was the