Emperator: The Chronicles of Alcinia, #6

By Miriam Newman

Grandson of one of history's greatest generals, Sergius is a warrior without equal.  It has been easy for him to be a hero when he was expected to be.  When he finds himself fighting for the freedom of his grandfather's country and the heart of a woman, he must be a hero because he is.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Miriam Newman
• Release date: Mar 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201947965

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Inside the tombs of kings, bones of the ancestors dwelt in even more peace than those interred had anticipated. The sandstone blocks and precious wooden lintels that sheltered them were nearly obscured by drifts, but their descendants knew where they were.

There, Master. Imrun, the camel boy, handed a spyglass to the Havacian lying atop a dune beside him. Warm sand cradled their bodies while half-wild ponies stood hipshot, awaiting their return, their long manes and tails knotted with burrs for lack of any grooms to remove them. They were well trained, though, and didn’t stir even when carrion birds cruised low. Finding both ponies and their riders alive, the birds flew on to seek ample fodder elsewhere. Bodies of the dead still littered Domidia.

Which one is that? the Master questioned. Like Imrun, he wore loose robes, tough sandals of camel hide and a turban wrapped around his head to block the sun. They were nearly indistinguishable except that the foreign man was easily twice the size of the Domidian boy.

It is the tomb of Arrand, he of the First, Imrun explained.

One of your first rulers?

The invader’s Domidian was still faulty and Imrun strained to understand, then smiled as the light of comprehension blossomed on his face.

Ayee, he replied. He was of the First.

I wonder how many years ago that was? Sergius murmured, but it was a rhetorical question. This boy who knew everything of camels and horses knew little of history, still less of tactics or politics or any of the things about which Sergius cared deeply. He had just helped conquer Domidia. Someone needed to know these things.

Curiosity assuaged for a moment, he rested his forehead in sand that held him like a lover’s embrace while images of dunes, entombed tombs and the carcasses of dead men filled his head as they had done for days. With the first flush of victory over, reality was setting in. Domidia, one of the great civilizations of the South, lay in ruins. He knew the sights that would meet him during the return to his tent, only one among thousands erected by his victorious Northern army and their Southern allies. He preferred the clean savagery of the desert.

The Master would take rest? Imrun inquired.

Later, Sergius replied, getting to his feet. There was still so much to learn about this land. It was fascinating in a grim way. But if the plan of battle proceeded as anticipated, it would soon belong to Omana and his time there would be done. The far-away island where he had been born, annexed by Havacia, had been only two generations explored, still raw with the settlements and dreams of men. This place, on the other hand, held an overpowering sense of antiquity. It seemed almost shameful to conquer it, except that Domidians were bent on devouring the world. The North had done it to preserve themselves, not to own legions of sand. They couldn’t wait to leave. Let their Omani allies have it. Omana had suffered Domidia’s occupation for far too long and their revenge would be sweet.

Returning, man and boy took up the reins of their ponies, mounting easily despite the lack of saddles. Beneath their robes, they wore leather pants that kept them from being chafed by sweat-soaked horsehair and gave them relatively secure seats. Sergius had been accustomed to a saddle, but it was not strictly necessary. He was twenty-six years old and had been riding all his life. He used a horse the way other men used their legs and with as little thought.

Mounted, he was nearly indistinguishable from Northern Domidians, who sometimes shared his features. His hair, curly as any Domidian’s, was more chestnut than black and partially sun bleached after a long campaign in the South, while his eyes were more hazel than brown. But he could have passed as one from the mountains, sharing their aquiline profile and bold features. There was Southern blood in him, but it was not Domidian. He spoke their tongue poorly, but Omani fluently. His grandfather, for whom he was named, had been Sergius Magistri—one of the greatest Omani generals ever born. If the Emperator of that day had not sent his grandfather on a northern campaign, Sergius would have been a child of Omana.

Imrun knew nothing of that, only that this was one of the conquering force and that this man had not killed him, but often gave him coin for his assistance. The Domidians had never done so, unless they had used him for pleasure, and the strange foreigner did not require that. When Imrun had offered to share his blankets, he had seemed shocked, so he brought Sergius his cousin, Pescia, whose virginity had been nearly beyond price in rapacious Domidia.

The Master had seemed a little taken aback, but Pescia had taken one look at him—young, tall, curly haired and good looking in a rough sort of way, with plenty of money—and said she would be pleased to stay. Imrun soon had his coin. Her family would be satisfied with her remaining in the foreign camp until it moved on, then receiving additional payment and their daughter back. They could make a great deal of money from this Master, who seemed to have a lot of it. It was the customary arrangement, though usually their women were relinquished to other tribes, not foreigners.

But these Northerners had brought strange war craft, horses, armor and a polyglot army speaking different tongues who had nevertheless managed to nearly annihilate the proud Domidians. What some of them had done in the cities was nearly incomprehensible even to people accustomed to their own cruel practices. There was a rumor that the crazy ones among them cut out hearts still beating, and Master Sergius had told him it was true.

Imrun was very careful to please his new master.

Ayah, he said to his mount, which slid with front legs braced down one dune, and then flew up the next, his flat unshod hooves shedding sand in the way other horses could not do. Their cavalry had stood up better in combat than the Northerners’ bigger, iron-shod mounts. The foreigners refused to ride camels, for the most part, which he thought was silly, since Domidian war camels were so effective. Still, their camels had not saved them from these people, with their double-headed axes and bolt throwers and totally crazy men.

Where does Master go next? Imrun asked, still somewhat doubtful of his ability to communicate precisely. It was difficult with a Havacian who also spoke Omani trying to talk to a Domidian, and they had struggled at times. His cousin seemed to do better, but Imrun suspected speech was not necessary on her part.

Sergius clearly understood this question, though.

Omana, he said, sounding satisfied. I will go to Omana.

They had traversed the dunes outside the small city of Amrah and now began a slow ascent to the oasis that had once housed a thriving populace. It stood in ruins, its brick huts demolished by warfare and other buildings burned to the ground in a place where there was insufficient water to quench fires.

Driven from their homes and places of business, survivors clustered in sand-shrouded encampments on the outskirts of the city, open to the elements, suffering from exposure, thirst, hunger and disease. The stink from hastily dug latrines on the outskirts of the camps was overpowering. As they rode past wails and entreaties, robed women mistaking them both for Domidians held up fly-covered babies in hopes of procuring a drink of water and were driven back by guards. Guards belonging to Southern allies formerly enslaved by Domidia had no mercy on them. Those wearing the homespun of the North, which had not been enslaved, did attempt to give them water, but some of the cisterns had been damaged and there was not enough to go around.

Not all the invaders had adopted Sergius’s Domidian garb that deceived the camp’s prisoners. He had quickly recognized that it would help him escape sun stroke and he had no qualms about accepting the help of simple peasants eager to obtain funds and stay out of the camps. Sergius had not hesitated to do so and now rode with Imrun as quickly as he could past their squalor. He held no illusions that Imrun esteemed him, though he had offered the use of his body. That, too, was a moneymaking effort. But he was useful and his cousin was even more so.

There was only one thing he would miss in Domidia and she sat astride him, her long ebony hair trailing over him like a thousand stroking fingers. Oil light in his tent flickered over her lithe body as she sat upright, groaning softly with each thrust while Sergius held her hips. She had learned the ways of love quickly. It was no wonder he had heard tales of his grandfather siring children on two Domidian women during his campaigns.

Her expression was strangely triumphant and she held him for a long time after he finished. Slowly, then, she lowered herself onto him, breasts against his chest, slim arms cradling his head, her legs still twined with his, caressing his calves with her bare toes.

You enjoy? she whispered in her throaty Domidian.

Yes, he confirmed, hands on her back, following the line of her spine down to small dimples at the points of her hips. She shuddered in pleasure, moving against him. He knew she loved to be caressed there and did it for a long time, massaging the small indentations until he felt her sigh and relax, content and sleepy, her breath brushing his shoulder. Once over her initial fear, she had been very trusting with him, when she could have hated him for the things his people had done. But Sergius had come to appreciate her nature. Those things had not been done to her, so she was happy to enjoy his body and take his money.

You’re lovely, he said, turning his head to kiss her cheekbone and the curve of her smile. He would miss her.

Come back, one day, she replied softly. You stay in me long time. I have baby.

Now he understood her satisfied expression. The act was one thing, the result another—an unfortunate consequence of war, sometimes, but one that could make her money.

You think so? he asked.

She stretched and yawned. I not mind. You make nice. But I will need money.

Ah, yes, he murmured. How long did it take for a woman to know she was pregnant? Well, longer than she had been with him, he was sure. Even if she were pregnant, she would go to one of their witch-wives to rid her of her burden, then wail and bemoan her need to support a non-existent child. It was money for sex, sex for money, unless you were a brute who simply took women regardless. But Sergius was no brute. He just enjoyed women.

Don’t worry, he said, arm around her, stroking her soothingly. I will take care of you.

It was what he always told them.

CHAPTER TWO

Still wearing that garbage? his cousin inquired.

It’s cool, Sergius replied.

Nothing is cool here, Yuri retorted. He still wore homespun, armor only when required, and the thin gold circlet that identified him as King of Havacia. Just ten and seven years, he was King since his father had fallen in battle with Domidians who invaded their homeland, and he had avenged that with a fury.

Bloodthirsty little bastard, Sergius thought, but then amended it. The actual bastard, Jossa, had stayed in Havacia as Regent. Yuri and Jossa shared a mother. Jossa’s father had been the Queen’s bodyguard. She had betrayed her husband, the King, within the first two years of their marriage and it had made Jossa an outcast until they needed him, but then Yuri had enticed him back to the capitol, Karlisfyrrd, to keep his throne intact. Jossa would govern capably and then disappear, to be seen again infrequently and then, usually, only when somebody died. No one was really sure if he felt some sort of family connection or simply wanted to see them dead.

Sergius considered him the smartest of them all.

Are we nearly done with this place? he questioned, peevishly, watching his cousin pace.

Yuri smiled. He was a handsome boy, tall and dark with his Armatican mother’s good looks, and his father’s ruthlessness. He had led his men brilliantly, earning respect despite his youth. His return to Havacia would be a triumph beyond anything that country had ever seen.

Nearly, Yuri answered. Once the cargo ships to Havacia are loaded, we will send troop transports to Omana. You will have plenty of company. We estimate fifteen per cent of our troops are now Omanis that came across the border. You can take them back.

I told you they would fight with us, Sergius commented. It had been Yuri’s idea to smuggle agents into occupied Omana, rousing the populace to join Havacia against their Domidian captors. Now, Yuri would finish shipping back the riches of Domidia before proceeding to Omana. All he really wanted there was to set up governance that would not be hostile to the North. Omana had been as vicious as Domidia, in their day.

You’re not coming? Sergius questioned.

His King shook his head. Not yet. Organizing these people is going to be a massive undertaking. He smiled wryly. And I have Jossa’s ultimatum to consider.

His half-brother had agreed to occupy the throne for one year, no more, no less. It might be a race to subdue Domidia and return to Karlisfyrrd before he simply walked away. They had no doubt he would, returning to the simple home he had made with his wife and children in neighboring Alcinia. The man was simply unworldly. As one of his demands to hold the throne, he had returned his mother to the fishing village where the lover who had fathered him was living. Havacia was without a Queen, just the soldier’s daughter Jossa had married, a nice enough girl but utterly unsophisticated, prone to making blood offerings and speaking with spirits.

Have you thought of marrying?

Yuri grimaced.

Come to Omana, Sergius urged. I am sure we will find some nobility in hiding and I hear the women are beautiful. Forge an alliance.

The young King looked thoughtful. Perhaps. Otherwise, in a couple of generations, they will be at our throats.

I will find someone for you, Sergius promised.

Good. I am sending seasoned commanders with you. Don’t let our troops strip the place. No rape, no looting, keep our men under control. Once you get to Xanthus, find some of those people you’re talking about. You will need them to set up governance. Take the ones who seem like they will work with us. I don’t care what you do with the rest.

He had never been a diplomat, Sergius thought nervously, and Yuri lacked the temperament for it. His cousin was a blunt instrument of retribution. His own links to both Omana and Havacia could be very valuable, but it was not only Yuri who had to prove himself.

A military encampment was never quiet, and this one bordered camps where the crying of babies cut the night air. Unable to sleep, Sergius finally left Pescia sleeping and went out into the night.

It was shot through with stars, all of them strange to him because he had entered another hemisphere. The Domidians worshipped them. Beyond the outlines of tents, he could barely see the lumpy shapes of horses munching hay shipped in to feed them. They must send those to Omana, where there was pasturage, as soon as possible. He felt a stirring in his soul at the very thought of seeing distant Omana.

His grandfather of memory had been born there, as had all of Grandfather’s ancestors. The first Sergius Magistri had married twice, once to the daughter of a Havacian chieftain, the second time to an Alcinic princess who became Queen with his help and that of his Havacian kin. In order to do it, he had taken an army to Alcinia to kick out Tumagis who had invaded it with Omana’s backing, but never paid tribute to their sponsor. That one had been a bad bargain, sparking the Great Northern War. At the end of it, General Magistri was dead, but he had fathered Sergius’s father, Simius, as well as two daughters.

With those and her subsequent offspring by the King of Havacia, Queen Tia had conquered the Northern world. But Omana had been beyond their grasp, until now. Yuri, her grandson through her Havacian marriage, had claimed it.

Behind him, he heard soft footsteps...Pescia. Saying nothing, she took his arm, standing beside him, hip against his.

Could you not sleep? he asked.

When you leave?

He turned, trying to see her in the darkness. I am not sure.

You wish to go?

I wish to go, he said, softly. It is where my family began.

I understand, she said.

Regret tugged at him. Warriors took women. They were part of the spoils of war. And then they left them, and most never thought of them again. No woman had ever really touched his heart in the way that mattered, but Pescia had been a comfort. She deserved better, but there was nothing he could do other than pay. It might keep her in a little comfort while her country rebuilt, but both of them would be dust before Domidia ever rose again. It reminded him of the tombs of the Kings. They had left the world never thinking how it would go on without them, but it had.

I cannot take you, he said.

She didn’t answer. Pescia was simply an item of barter. Her family would take her back and then send her out on loan again, at a slightly reduced value because she had lost her virginity.

What will happen to you? he asked.

If I get water, grow melons. They sell good.

She needed enough money to start a melon stand. It was a pitifully small amount, but to her it was a fortune. It would make her a woman of means, able to live a life most other women could not. Small wonder she had given him her innocence.

Come back to the tent, he said. I will give it to you now in case we leave quickly.

In the end, as he had expected, it was exactly what happened. Two days later, after a meeting of staff in Yuri’s tent, he returned and began packing the minimal belongings he had consigned to his. Pescia, still lounging on their bed as the sun set, watched. Her dark eyes were unreadable.

Finally, she spoke just one word. When?

In the morning, he replied.

Can I sell robes?

Of course, he would change back into the homespun of the North, and don his chain mail, too. They did not expect opposition at the Omani harbor, but one never knew.

Sell anything you like, he replied. So much for sentiment. Everything was worth money in a destroyed world, which was what he would be leaving behind. Only a few Havacians would remain to ensure so-called friendly governance in Domidia—puppets who would not rise against the combined forces of Havacia and Alcinia.

They were becoming an Empire. He wished he could be more comfortable with the thought.

Pescia was standing, untying the shoulder fastenings of a light lavender gown he had bought for her. The top was merely two gauzy strips forming an X that exposed all of her slender back and most of her beautiful breasts. Domidian women who did not shroud themselves wore such gowns, announcing their availability to men. Respectable women did not.

He did not want her respectable. Watching her drop the gown, he knew he wanted her for exactly what she was—a wild child of the desert, earthy and insatiable. It had the usual effect on him. He took off his robes for the last time, laying them carefully where she could appropriate them. When he dressed again, it would be in Northern attire.

Seeing him naked, she took two running steps and leaped into his arms, mouth fastened on his, legs around his waist. One arm around her back, one beneath her buttocks, he carried her to the bed they had shared, falling on top of her as she laughed, arching her body beneath his.

Do it, she demanded.

He obliged, thrusting into her without restraint, so that she gasped. But when he tried to draw back, she clamped on him like a vise, holding him with all her strength. He winced as she raked his back with her nails.

Take little scars, she said. Know you were mine.

They coupled like two wild creatures mating. The sands of time would cover them both. But while life lasted, they would have this to remember.

CHAPTER THREE

The only harbor available to them without making a long detour was Antros, at the southern tip of Omana. Deep enough to accommodate troop ships carrying men and horses, it had been a sparkling jewel of the country.

Its luster had been diminished under Domidian occupation. It had an untidy look down by the docks where people clustered to watch their fleet sail in, although beyond that Sergius could see multi-colored houses and busy streets rising in an orderly fashion, festooning hills surrounding the harbor like garlands. A low retaining wall dotted with trees separated the harbor and beach from the city, so that cooling shadows fell across part of the sand. He was learning the power of the Southern sun and walked in those shadows up to the steps leading to the city.

Other officers milled about at the top, taking in the sights while citizens gawked at them from behind a line of guards. Although they anticipated the Omanis being friendly, nothing could be taken for granted.

Omanis who had fought alongside them came spilling off ships, shouting to onlookers: calls to relatives, boasts of their victories and inquiries about their favorite whores. Sergius smiled. This was the Omana that had been described to him. He was not surprised to be bombarded with oranges lofted in a friendly manner, meant to be eaten. Rare as gems in the North, in Antros those and lemons grew wild everywhere.

"Gratuitas!" he shouted back, met with cheers and a surge of citizens finally breaking through the line to happily assault the men coming ashore, Omani and Northerner alike. Girls grabbed both his arms and another pinched his cheek, while