The Successors “To the Strongest”

By S A Robertson

The king is dead, long live his successor!
The young King of the Kaldonians, Alastair, lies dying in an Asian palace, surrounded by his generals and subjects. Alastair has conquered a vast empire but has no children and his natural successors are considered unsuitable heirs by his generals. 
The foot soldiers, however, retain loyalty to the royal family and force the commanders to accept Alastair’s obscure half-brother and unborn son to be made joint monarchs. Many of the generals see opportunities for themselves to carve up the empire but are suspicious of each other of wanting to usurp the puppet kings and seize total power.
What is behind the spate of unnatural deaths spreading from the palace, through the city, that draws an ordinary brother and sister into an alliance with two exotic adventurers to stop a world-threatening menace?
Looking on are the conquered people of the empire. Is this the time to throw off the yoke of Kaldonian oppression for the restoration of their ancient liberties?
As predicted by the dying Alastair, only the strongest would be his final successor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Nov 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781398454989

S A Robertson

S A Robertson, when young, studied ancient history and archaeology at Edinburgh University, which involved him participating in excavations in the UK, Near East and the Mediterranean. After graduating with a MA (Hons) in Archaeology, Stuart completed an MBA at the City of University Business School, London. This was followed by a varied career in business, including the dubious honour of being involved in one of the earliest British.com collapses. Throughout his life, Robertson has been a keen reader of history and fantasy novels and this book is the culmination of both these interests.

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About the Author

S A Robertson, when young, studied ancient history and archaeology at Edinburgh University, which involved him participating in excavations in the UK, Near East and the Mediterranean. After graduating with a MA (Hons) in Archaeology, Stuart completed an MBA at the City of University Business School, London. This was followed by a varied career in business, including the dubious honour of being involved in one of the earliest British.com collapses. Throughout his life, Robertson has been a keen reader of history and fantasy novels and this book is the culmination of both these interests.

Dedication

To my patient family:

Joanna, Emily and Charlotte

Copyright Information ©

S A Robertson 2022

The right of S A Robertson to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398454972 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398454989 (ePub e-book)

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Year 0 After Alastair

Mid-morning heat pervaded the vast darkened room, as the Babelian summer sun defied the twenty-foot-thick mudbrick walls. The cloying dampness of the Euphrates River mingling with the smell and smoke of incense rising from a hundred spluttering burners.

Around the chamber were praying holy men from the countless tribes and nations. Priests of a far flung, conquered empire: Brahmins from Hindustan in saffron-dyed flowing robes; Farsian Zoroastrian priests in long flowing gowns with wide sleeves, threaded with gold and silver, their thick black hair tied in a bun and their beards flowing down their chests in tight black locks; shaven-headed Aegyptian priests with white linen cloths flung over their shoulders; contrasting vastly with the near naked shamans of the great northern plains, their bodies covered in blue tattoo images of wild beasts and wilder warriors. All posed in their preferred positions, favoured by their Gods: some kneeling; others cross-legged and others standing, with their eyes looking upwards, hands extending out with palms upturned. A cacophony of clashing languages filled the hall, all praying for the recovery of their sovereign.

In the centre of the throng stood an enormous bed carved out of a single piece of pure white marble, luminous in the dimness, its sides carved with scenes of fabulous animals: winged eagles with lion’s heads; half men half bulls and scaled dragons, all linked together in an eternal writhing battle. Above the bed was a simple linen canopy upheld by four golden ionic style columns, the work of long-dead Anglian craftsmen, who had laboured for the now vanished Great Kings of Farsia. At each corner of the bed stood a kilted Khaldonian guard, their heavy breastplates chased in gold, their shields painted with the royal sunburst, armed with spears, wearing, despite the heat, plumed iron helmets. The troops stared blankly into the gloom, showing all the emotion of stone statues.

Dwarfed by the bed, lay a man, his bronzed scarred body sweating profusely. The small stature of the man belied the legendary vigour and energy he had possessed in health. His torso was fanned by a court eunuch, chosen for his grace, while another, of even greater beauty, mopped the fevered brow of the sick man; their dark eyes and blue black hair contrasting with the sick man’s golden hair and grey eyes.

Pacing at the foot of the bed was a tall, broad-shouldered man, his weather-beaten face a testimony of years of hard marches. He looked older than his thirty-eight years, his light brown, straight hair and clipped beard already heavily flecked with grey. But a man of unmistakeable authority, forged by leading proud, quarrelsome men. Although even he was uneasy, unsure of what to do when the time came.

Phergus noticed the eunuch Pagoas damping the dying man’s brow, whispering into his ear; what deceits was the pretty Farsian pouring into the King’s ear? Malicious lies from the favourite had been the death of many an innocent man, even a Satrap’s. But Phergus always made sure he kept Pagoas’ favour, with words of praise and gifts suitable for a prince. It was through the eunuch’s whispering that Phergus had secured the position of second in command of the Empire, vacated after the death of Hamish, the King’s boyhood comrade and more. Still, when the King was dead, Phergus thought there would be no use for the Farsian.

Khaldonian Commanders, Torquil, Ernest, Patrick, Lorcan and the others, stood throughout the hall, separately or in huddles, sharing the same unsettled sensation, so unfamiliar after years of victories, led by a man who had defied mortality. Yet there he lay, dying, with only days, hours to live and no successor, no Khaldonian son, to claim the fabulous inheritance.

It was a mixture of feelings that ran through their thoughts. Eleven years earlier, following their King, Alastair, they had burst from Europe into Asia, carrying all before them like a spring flood, surging from a thousand valleys. The King had been young, only twenty-two at the start of their great adventure, but then they were all mostly young; Torquil just turned forty-four was among the oldest of the assembled Commanders.

Alastair disliked his inherited, veteran Generals; he had no time for their caution and disliked being constantly compared to his father. Strategically, the young King left the older Commanders behind to guard the Royal Army’s lines of supply, as the Khaldonians advanced further into the crumbling Farsian Empire. The new monarch liked to be surrounded by young men of his own age, because they shared his sense of adventure and daring and also because he liked young men.

At the beginning, it had gone well. Stunning victories were made against overwhelmingly larger armies, sealing the young King’s fame as a military genius and the Khaldonian army as the supreme fighting machine of the known world. In victory, Alastair had shown great generosity to his companion in arms and compassion to most of the defeated, winning him great loyalty from both his old and new subjects. But the further East the army marched, the greater the King’s ambitions grew and discontentment set into the troops.

After more spectacular triumphs and conquests in Hindustan, the army had had enough, only desiring to return west, ultimately to their homes. After crossing the Indus, a mighty river, the troops refused to march further east. After the army’s rebellion, Alastair’s bitter disappointment, anger and a growing belief in his own divine status caused him to change. His soul had been poisoned, no longer was he a merciful Khaldonian King, he became the ruthless King of Kings, lord of a boundless Empire. Cities and peoples who resisted the Khaldonians were no longer shown clemency in defeat but put to the sword, every last man, woman and child. Alastair had even forbidden that prisoners could be ransomed.

Alastair’s wrath drove him to mete out a severe punishment to his own army. The Khaldonians could have returned west through territories and peoples already subjugated, with easily obtained supplies. Instead, the troops had been forced to march back from the jungles of Hindustan, through the terrible, desolate Farsian desert. No human enemies confronted the Khaldonians on the westward march, no battles were fought but the heat, lack of water and basic provisions on the trek inflicted a tremendous casualty on the army and the camp followers, greater than experienced in any conflict. Another Commander would have faced a mutiny but Alastair’s prestige and esteem was such that the men meekly submitted to their chastisement.

The past two years, Alastair’s change continued; he couldn’t bear to be contradicted: he wouldn’t listen to advice against his plans to conquer all the countries of the entire Middle Sea; to force the Khaldonians to act more like Farsians and the Farsians more like Khaldonians. All of Alastair’s recent ambitions and plans were unpopular with the troops and most of the officers. The King’s suspicions and paranoia grew, fed, some believed, by his Farsian courtiers, skilled in the art of agreeing with an absolute monarch.

Summary executions then followed: the Farsian Orsines, whose only crime had been to offend Pagoas; then Percy, who Alastair believed was plotting for the throne, followed by his old father, Peregrine, murdered on the King’s whim.

The death of his beloved Hamish the year before had further maddened Alastair; it wasn’t known whether his old comrade had restrained the King’s extreme behaviour or his death had caused it. Satraps and governors had been called to account and executed. Even the European Regent, old Paeder, had recently been summoned to Babel, where it was speculated he could expect a similar fate met by the others. Instead, the old Regent had sent his sons, Carl and Ewan. Alastair and Carl had detested each other from childhood but the handsome Ewan had caught the King’s eye, assuaging his wrath; the youth was even appointed the Royal cupbearer, a duty he had performed on the night the sickness had smitten the monarch.

Every Commander had become fearful for his life. One unintentional slight to a favourite or comment which aroused Alastair’s suspicion brought death. No one dared whisper their innermost thoughts, Alastair’s death would now come as a great relief to almost all of his Commanders.

But he still was the greatest General, known to history and the Farsians were loyal to him. Alastair had publicly treated the Great King, Xarius’, family well after his death, even married the Farsian King’s daughter and made many of his officers take wives from the native aristocracy and paid large dowries to the troops to marry Asian girls. Farsians had been given senior positions in his Empire and natives had been recruited into the army and trained to fight in the Khaldonian style.

When Alastair died, the Khaldonians would be stranded in a vast hostile world. The loyalty of the Farsians or any other Asian could not be relied on. All the troops knew they were isolated and no one wanted to consider what a native uprising would mean. The outlook had become very bleak.

‘Phergus,’ rasped the dying monarch, turning his head to the General. Softly coming to his King, Phergus stooped his head. ‘Bring me Nahkt. Immediately, before it’s too late,’ commanded Alastair as firmly as he could, wrestling the life-sucking fever.

An expression of distaste flitted across Phergus’s face; he had a dislike for Nahkt but knew better than to query the order—Alastair expected immediate obedience.

A slave was sent for Nahkt, an Aegyptian priest, who was stood in the chamber with the other representatives of a legion of gods. Within minutes, came a large man, whose ebony hue sharply contrasted with his brilliantly, white linen tunic, his head shaved. His strongly muscled arms were covered with golden amulets and the eye of Horus was at his neck, fastened by a silver chain.

As he approached the bed, the throng parted, people’s eyes betrayed their fear of this strangest of men among so many strange men. It was muttered that he was not of this world, coming from the heart of Afriqa, where magic, both white and dark, was strong, and people sensed Nahkt favoured darkness. Nahkt had found favour with Alastair when the King had visited the shrine of Amun, in Aegypt, to be proclaimed the son of the God. For unexplained reasons, the Priest had joined the monarch’s retinue.

Kneeling at the edge of the bed, looking straight into Alastair’s fevered eyes, Nahkt said, ‘I am here, my Lord.’ He spoke Anglian, the common tongue of the Empire, well, his voice deep and clear.

Alastair, using what remained of his vitality and with the help of Pagoas, propped himself up and glowered into Nahkt’s dark spell-binding eyes. ‘I’m dying!’ he accused the priest.

‘Yes, My Lord,’ replied Nahkt.

‘This can’t be,’ Alastair gasped. ‘I’m a God, the son of The Thunderer, I’m immortal. You promised me.’

‘Yes Lord. I promised but I’m far from my home, the source of my powers,’ Nahkt replied.

‘You tricked me. You made a fool of me, me Alastair. You’re a charlatan. I’ll have you crucified and watch you die before I cross to pay the ferryman.’

Nahkt looked unperturbed. ‘I can make you immortal. I can preserve your soul. I can send you to a place where you can only be stopped in infinity itself. If I can get your body back to Afriqa, I can reunite it with your soul, making you more God than man.’ His words were slow and measured, the dark eyes showed no fear, only confidence as they returned Alastair’s fierce gaze. ‘Is that what you want?’

‘It’s my due to be divine, immortal and to lead all men until the stars fall and sun fades. But how?’

‘Easily,’ Nahkt replied. ‘But first you must make your men swear not to harm me after I perform the ritual. They have little love for me and when the rite is done, your body will be a husk and they will blame and kill me.’

Alastair looked at the Afriqan priest, skilled in the arts of the occult, which many feared and loathed. Was this a trick and attempt by Nahkt to save his life? Suddenly the desire of immortality surged through his weakening body. He had been promised to rule the world until the end of time—it had to be true.

Alastair motioned his General to come closer. ‘Phergus, you must promise me that Nahkt is not to be harmed by anyone in any way, when I’m too weak to command. You must swear by the Gods and the Queen of Darkness.’

Phergus was perplexed; he strongly distrusted the Aegyptian priest. He hesitated.

‘Swear it,’ snapped Alastair, ‘by the Gods, obey me.’

‘I swear it,’ Phergus stammered, responding to years of following his King’s orders without question.

‘Good,’ Alastair sighed, slumping back onto his pillows. From his left hand, he slipped off his signet ring, a simple band of gold inset with a green jade stone, with the Royal Sunburst carved into it, the all-seeing eye etched under the totem. The dying man placed the jewel into Phergus’s palm. ‘Keep this safe for me and as a reminder of your pledge. Now leave me with Nahkt.’

Phergus resumed his vigil at the foot of the bed and Alastair signalled the priest to approach, who glided to his side. ‘Do it. Do it now.’

Nahkt knelt down beside the King and began to softly chant, over and over, a charm, in a strange whispering tongue, ‘Feg, feg an cirp sau, loin em bourn, luon seurreudhoychd, eirr opes thubh thi,’ words that the first men to stride the earth would have understood. Alastair began to feel warm and relaxed and Nahkt, from his tunic, produced a round mirror of Aegyptian glass, encased in silver about six inches in diameter. It was engraved with ancient Afriqan symbols of warriors slaying a leopard. Nahkt placed the mirror in front of Alastair, who saw his grey eyes staring back at him. As the whispering became more intense, Alastair felt himself becoming lighter, the pain of the fever lessening.

Alastair began to feel drawn into the mirror, his eyes began to change, growing green, his pupils becoming slit-shaped, like the sacred snakes kept by his mother, Dianna. Then all went pitch dark, he was in a black box, with no sound. He felt panic rise from the pit of his stomach, he wanted to scream. All eternity in this limbo! Nahkt had tricked him, stolen his soul for a malevolent purpose. But then he remembered; he was Alastair, destined ruler of the world. He had the power to dominate by his overwhelming willpower. He had the strength to wait, even an eternity.

*****

Sitting in the cool of the shaded terrace, Dianna, mother of Alastair, widow of the dead King Kenneth, sipped at her thirst-quenching herbal fusion. Overlooking the limestone-built palace were the peaks of her native Hillyria, shimmering in the afternoon heat. Nothing stirred in the building, all the inhabitants slumbered, sleeping off their mid-day meal. She alone was awake. While she admired the beautiful scenery, the high mountains shielding the Hillyria from the Anglian east and the Island Sea linking it with the wild Etrurian tribes of the west, she hated being cut off from real power.

Giving judgement on the local disputes of the Hillyrian was no compensation to ruling the Khaldonians and Anglians. But the Hillyrian were a hardy people, who made good fierce warriors. Dianna was in voluntary semi-exile because of her detestation of the Khaldonian regent Paeder. She had decided to leave the Khaldonian capital, Dunburgh, to act as the regent of this clan of Hillyrian, for her young cousin, Adair, after his brother had been killed campaigning in Etruria.

She still had her letters to write and was in constant communication with her godlike son in Asia, denouncing Paeder, exhorting him to make her the regent and if he wouldn’t do her this favour, to summon her to his side. It was Dianna’s strongest desire to join her son at his Babelian court, where she would be an Empress. Alastair had always politely declined the pleas. She also continually wrote to the Anglian cities, encouraging them to stand up to Paeder and they wrote back, knowing she wasn’t a spent force. The missives didn’t accomplish much but it gave her some satisfaction that she was causing the Regent some trouble, no matter how minor.

A woman in her early fifties, Dianna remained an attractive woman, slender and fair, with a perfectly balanced face, looking more like thirty. A few crow lines clustered around her eyes but she still could conceal this small sign of aging with the minimal use of cosmetics. She always stood straight, as a Queen should, but it was her aurora of power that most struck people. A ruthless form of power, her bloodline descended from a long line of kings and queens who originated from the wilderness of Dacia to the north; where only the Queen of Darkness, the Triple-headed Goddess, was known and the soft Anglian Gods unheard of. Dianna knew the Queen of Darkness and her black ways and she knew how to bend lesser beings to her will.

She had to be ruthless, she was Kenneth’s fourth wife, but the other spouses were frightened little rabbits of women, no match for Dianna. The marriage between Dianna had been political, to seal the friendship between their two countries but Kenneth had fallen in love with her when they were initiated into the mysteries of Tabeiri, on the island of Tamothrace. For a while, Dianna had found Kenneth’s rugged vitality attractive, but as he grew stouter and fonder of wine and other women, they grew apart, until she had a deep loathing of her husband. But Kenneth wasn’t a stupid man, when sober, and he valued Dianna’s opinion on matters of state as did his secretary Ernest, the clever Anglian who had risen so high with Alastair.

The night before the consummation of her marriage to Kenneth, she had dreamed that a thunderbolt fell on her womb, lighting a great fire which raged across the world, then suddenly had been extinguished. Alastair’s conquests had come as no surprise to her but she worried about her son’s final fate.

It had been no easy matter ensuring Alastair succeeded to the throne. Kenneth had been proud of and impressed by his daring and brilliant son but he was also jealous and resentful of the way Alastair disdained the rougher ways of the older Khaldonian Commanders. Kenneth was also resentful that his son was descended, through his mother, to the mighty, legendary Cuchulain. But Dianna ensured that Alastair’s potential half-brother rivals were eventually neutralised, one way or another.

The table beside her was strewn with parchments and documents for her attention. She would summon a scribe shortly to read them to her and record her decrees.

Suddenly, a wave of pain hit her stomach, a searing heat almost caused her to double. She did not cry out, she would not let her inferiors hear that she could feel pain. The blood left her face, causing it to become haggard, white and waxen.

Dianna knew, could feel it, Alastair was gone, no longer amongst us, but also, she could still feel his essence was not quite gone. How could her son ever be gone and still here?

Slowly, she composed herself. Self-pity and mourning were for lesser people. Now was the time to think, to plan, to scheme, like the Queen she was.

*****

Atheas was a strong man, muscles of iron hardened by years of heavy labouring, harsh training and bitter combats, but even he began to feel the strain of dragging his grim bundle through the labyrinth of underground tunnels. This was his last bitumen torch and he worried about being entombed in the complex and pitch darkness. The ceilings were low and while not a tall man, he had to stoop and often thought of abandoning his cargo but he had to go through with his task to the bitter end.

A sigh of relief hissed through Atheas’s lips when at last he came upon the stairs, which would return him to the cold clean air of the outside world, away from the warm foul atmosphere of the tunnels. He called them stairs but they had been so used over countless centuries they were almost just a smooth ramp, with only an occasional remaining stone edge to hint it was once a step. The creatures had used this complex for their foul rituals for eons; Atheas shuddered to think what sinister scenes of sorcery and blood sacrifice these caverns had witnessed.

Eventually, the tunnels had become the fiend’s last lair, but the caverns had given no sanctuary to the creature. He was the last of his kind, Atheas had disposed of all his kindred, his hunting skill and pure hatred had been more than a match for winkling out the so-called ‘Lords’ from their dark hiding places.

It was rumoured that the ‘Lords’ had been men once but over the years, their evil cruelty and dabbling with the dark deities had turned them into more demons than humans. Each generation becoming baser than the last. Now that they were all gone gave Atheas a savage surge of joy, his cold blue eyes flushing pink for a second.

Being so close to the outside gave Atheas a surge of energy and he began his ascent, slipping occasionally, where leaks of water had moistened the smooth stone. He came to the entrance of the tunnel and soon was in a rounded chamber, composed of stone cobbles. The tomb of some dead, ancient, northern King. The tumuli’s precious contents had been raided long ago, the occupant’s scattered bones the only remaining testimony of his existence.

On hands and knees, Atheas crawled out of the low tunnel which joined the chamber to the outside, living world, gradually dragging the dead man to meet his ultimate doom. Atheas was relieved and pleased to breathe in the cold nights air, a harvest moon lit the vast barren landscape, the turfed barrow was deeply shaded by the earie glow. Atheas noticed a skull of a horse, no doubt the dead King’s favourite steed, sent to carry his master into their forgotten underworld.

With his package clear of the tomb, Atheas rolled back the heavy stones, which sealed the tumulus; he didn’t know why he did. A primitive precaution to keep the dead spirit inside his grave, giving him no access to the outside world?

It was the same reason he had dragged his victim’s body to the outside. The legends were that the ‘Lords’ could come back to life if their bodies were not correctly disposed of. The pile of wood remained as Atheas had left it. He flung the corpse on top of the wooden byre and set it alight with his torch. The wood was bone dry and soon great flames licked the night’s sky. Again, the savage joy of seeing his enemy burn brought a pink flush to his eyes.

Atheas stared into the flames as they turned the corpse to ashes, skin from the almost human face melted off revealing a mocking, smiling skull. The heat of the fire warmed his front, contrasting the bitter cold of the Tundra night. Snow reflecting the light of the moon, revealed hundreds of tumuli in the landscape, all connected by the tunnel complex built by a race of creatures that tonight were no more, or that was what Atheas had thought. The hunter pulled his wolf cape tighter around his body not just to keep the warmth in but also to calm his nerves.

It had been hard work to make the creature talk but eventually, Atheas had found the charm, which the monster feared most, a small statue of Frigg, the Northmen’s Goddess of fertility. Just a light touch on the skin caused the creature to writhe in immense pain. Atheas wasn’t sure whether it was physical or mental but it was enough to make the captive reveal everything he knew.

Atheas had dispatched him quickly by a quick stab through the heart. Despite the wrong the creature and his kind had caused him, the hunter took no pleasure in causing others pain but he did enjoy killing. Atheas didn’t know whether he acquired the exhilaration of the kill through a myriad of desperate fights to the death or whether the savage lust for violence was inborn. Whatever the cause, it helped him transform into a fearsome killer, almost another being.

When his prey’s ashes cooled, Atheas would take them to the nearest crossroads and scatter them. The creature’s shade would be confused not knowing which road to take, binding it safely to the solitary spot until the spirit was slowly eroded over the millennia to nothing.

He had been hunting these fiends for years and Atheas was sure that this was the last in the North but his work was not done. Today he had learnt there were possibly more of the creatures and to complete his mission, he would have to travel South, to so-called Civilisation.

*****

It was midday and crowds of anxious foot soldiers, desperate for the latest news, milled on the steps leading to the Palace Gate, forcing the Army’s Commanders and officers to push through the throng to the great building’s entrance. Inside the Palace, all was eerily quiet, no one spoke but hurried to the throne room, footsteps the only sound to be heard. In the throne room, capable of accommodating hundreds of men; gathered all the officers stationed in the great city of Babel. The space was filling to maximum capacity and still they came. At the end of the chamber, on a raised podium, stood the throne, so recently occupied by Alastair, but today it was occupied only by his golden laurels of victory, robe dyed imperial purple and sword. By the chair’s side stood a grim-faced Phergus.

Phergus faced the varied bands of warriors summoned to the Council, some old, grizzled and scarred, with brown, leather like faces, evidence of years of campaigning. Others were fairer skinned and slim, young recent arrivals from Khaldonia, yet to endure long hard marches in searing heat or through freezing blizzards. Many were cavalry men, others, officers of the foot soldiers, all were armed, as was their right. All had one thing in common, as Phergus himself, their grandfathers and great grandfathers had been Princes in their own right, ruling their own valley kingdoms as absolute monarchs. Leading raids into neighbouring cantons, bringing fire and death in their search for cattle and easy loot. Many of the men’s families, a mere two generation ago, had been bitter tribal enemies, with feuds going back a hundred years and deep ingrained hatred for ancestral rivals.

Internecine warfare kept the Khaldonians weak, with the Anglian colonists skilfully playing one clan off against the other. Then rose the Alpines. Alastair’s grandfather, Aidan, when young was expelled by the Hillyrians from his mountainous realm but had managed to regain his kingdom, vowing never to lose it again. From his capital Dunburgh, Aidan began to reorganise his forces inspired by the Anglian armies, rigorously training his men, turning them from wild warriors into disciplined troops.

From Dunburgh, Aidan’s power began to spread through the valleys. Work continued by Aidan’s son Kenneth, a military genius, who refocused the army, all foot soldiers became pikemen. The ranks used differing lengths spears; when they attacked, the enemy was mown down by an impenetrable hedge of spear heads. Kenneth also expanded his territory by a mixture of dynastic marriages, murders and sheer brute force. One by one the independent cantons fell and the Kingdom, to bear the name Khaldonia, was created.

From Dunburgh, the Alpines brought the coastal city states of the Anglians under control. The expansion continued until all the European Anglians paid homage to Kenneth and after his death, the Khaldonians reached new heights under Alastair.

The Alpines did not just rely on military might to hold their conquests. They understood a successful King must be generous to their supporters. The Princes of the Valleys became noblemen but they were well rewarded, with silver and wealth squeezed from the Anglians. Alastair’s Farsian conquest had unlocked the treasury of the Great Kings, centuries of tribute hoarded in the palaces of Asia. Alastair’s hand was open, rivers of gold and silver flowed down to his commanders; each of them in their baggage train carried vast amounts of wealth that their grandfathers could only have dreamt. Loyalty and obedience to the Alpines brought riches.

But the wealth did not stop with the commanders and officers but flowed down to their followers. The regiments of Khaldonia being framed on the old valley clans, the people of each subtribe forming a unique part of the army, related to each other, and originally led by their ancestral chieftain. The loyalty within the regiments was one of blood and strong but gifts from the commanders to their hereditary retainers, in addition to regular wages, strengthened the ties of generations.

While the Alpines could bring the Khaldonians, the Anglians, the world, to heel, they were unable to tame themselves. Through blood-maddened rages or treacherous poisonings, the Royal family had managed to reduce themselves to a point of near extinction. Now the Khaldonian Commanders were all gathered in this dim Babelian chamber to decide on the next chapter of their history.

When the last of the senior commanders had arrived, Phergus raised up his hand, showing Alastair’s ring, laying it down next to Royal Regalia. The Commander moved forward, limping from an old war wound.

‘Comrades, I return to you the ring handed to me by Alastair, the seal and symbol of his royal and imperial authority. While no one can fill the gap left by Alastair, we need to discuss and consider how we can maintain the spoils and territories that our victorious campaigns has won us. We need to choose a leader, whether one man or more. It is up to you. But you know an army without a Chief is like a body without a soul, it loses its purpose.

‘Alastair’s wife, Rosanne, is six months pregnant. We all must pray it will be a boy to lead us when he comes of age. But meanwhile, choose those who you want to be your leader or leaders.’ He went silent.

‘Phergus is right, Alastair’s child, if a boy, should become the King of the Khaldons,’ came the voice of Neil, former commander of the Khaldonian navy, a dark-hued man of wiry build. ‘It was Alastair’s dream that his Empire was to be greater than just Khaldonia, he wanted to create a great Empire, drawing on its full resources. That’s why he caused us to take Farsian wives, to produce soldiers who the Asians can identify with drawing them closer to us to become our brother in arms. The son of a Bactrian Princess will make his—our—conquests more secure. A new King for a new dawn.’

Clashes of spears on shields came the angry response from the Officers. ‘Khaldonians to be ruled by some Asian, the thought is unimaginable,’ came the response.

‘Khaldonians to kowtow to a Bactrian, never…’

‘It would be a disaster for us all.’

Phergus waited for the noise to abate and noticing Torquil, he motioned to him to speak. Torquil, rumoured to be the bastard son of the Old King, Kenneth, was popular with the troops. While darker, more thickly built than Alastair, his dark brown eyes shared the hard glint of the dead King’s and he displayed the same reckless bravery, always leading his men from the front. His mop of thick brown unruly hair and thick sideburns, unusual for a Khaldonian, had earned him the nickname The Wolf from the troops.

Torquil spoke clearly to his fellow Officers. ’Is a son of Rosanne, yet to be born, really a fitting ruler for the Khaldonian people! Is that what defeating the Farsians has meant to us, becoming the subjects of their descendants? The Farsian Great Kings, Xarius and Derxes, tried to conquer us and failed, despite all their might. Are we to hand over our freedoms to an Asian Princeling?

‘No. I believe that Alastair’s throne should be set up in the Royal quarters at the head of a table and those he consulted regularly, in life, should meet as a group, whenever a decision needs to be made. The majority vote wins and their orders to be obeyed by all generals and officers.’

A murmur of approval rippled around the chamber.

Phergus felt his anger mount, realising control was beginning to slip from his grasp. ‘Torquil the Lundener,’ Phergus quipped. ’It is not the Khaldonian way to vote on decisions. We haven’t subdued democracies to become one ourselves, committees can’t decide what to have for dinner, let alone reign over a vast Empire.

‘It is our way to have one Ruler, who takes the advice of his commanders into account and then decides and once his decision is made, it is obeyed. That is how Kenneth conquered the Anglians and how Alastair took possession of the East. What we need now is more certainty, not more chaos. We need to appoint a Regent and who better than myself?’

Again the speech was met with nodding heads. The Khaldonian nobles distrusted voting, viewing democracy as a disabling disease.

‘Phergus,’ shouted Patrick, one of Alastair’s personal bodyguards, with striking bronze red, straight hair, ‘why should you be the Regent? There are others with an equally good claim to be the Regent. Why not Cormac? Why not Paeder?’

‘Because, Patrick,’ replied Phergus, the annoyance beginning to show in his tone, ‘they are not here. One is in Europe, the other many days’ march off and we’re here, in Babel, with hundreds of thousands of Asians watching us, waiting for us to show weakness. You all know we don’t have the luxury to wait. You all know in a battle, an army has to be led, you can’t just say to your foe, do you mind if we have a two-day break while we appoint a new general!’

Phergus’ sarcasm brought a few guffaws from the assembled men but Patrick’s already ruddy face reddened even further, matching his hair. The men had nicknamed him The Fox due to his hair, light lean body and more than a fair share of cunning. Patrick would have been preferred to have been nicknamed Odaiseas but had had accepted the moniker in good humour.

‘Phergus,’ spoke an older officer, Arnold, ‘you were with him when Alastair died. Did he express any opinion on who was to succeed him?’

‘Yes, I asked him. To the strongest, he said, adding, my friends will hold great funeral games for me. But I believe that by making me second in command and giving me his ring on his death bed, it was his intention that I rule in his place until his son comes of age.’

Arnold responded, ‘Phergus is right, he wasn’t the only person near Alastair at his final moments, most of the Commanders were there, but it was Phergus he summoned and gave the ring to. It’s clear Alastair wanted Phergus to lead us.’

The assembly gave a shout of approval for Arnold’s argument and called Phergus to retake the ring. Phergus hesitated but the noise rose for him to accept the leadership. After a while, he raised his hand.

‘Comrades, I will take this burden but only as the Regent and I will lay down the powers when the time comes.’ With that, he made to pick up the ring.

‘Don’t let him touch it!’ shouted a voice. It was Murdoch, an infantry commander in his early fifties, who had long been jealous and resentful of Phergus’ rise. ‘Once he’s regent he’ll never give up power. Do you think a mere baby, even if it is born a boy, will stop him taking the throne? He remembers how the old King Kenneth had started as Regent, for his nephew, how long did it take him to usurp the throne, a year, two years. Give him the Regency and you give him the throne.’

‘Murdoch,’ growled Phergus, ‘don’t let your hatred blind you.’ Phergus looked at the assembled commanders. It was time to act boldly and swiftly before the moment was lost. ‘Gentlemen, Alastair appointed me second in command, gave me his signet ring on his death bed. If anyone has a better claim to be regent, speak up now.’ Phergus shot a challenging glance at the gathered officers, took up the ring and placed it on his left index finger.

Only Murdoch spoke, ‘I’m taking this to the troops, this is a stitch up! They have rights too!’ He shouted, turning around and storming out of the chamber, followed by Arthur and a knot of supporters. Phergus knew he should stop them, have Murdoch killed but his authority was far from established. Watching him in the gloomy throne room stood the bulk of the Royal Army’s Commanders, weighing up the situation—to accept Phergus as Regent or not? Phergus had to act, he knew he had to immediately follow Murdoch to address the Army, to persuade them to accept the decision that the unborn child was to be their King but convincing them to be governed by an unborn boy would be near impossible, but he had to try.

*****

Keith stood with his fellow infantrymen in the large square facing the Palace, called the Gateway to God, built by Nebuchczar, in the last days of Babel’s independent glory. Marble steps led up to the great wooden doors of the building, which had no outside windows, just sheer walls rising high above the surrounding architecture, apart from the temple of Marduk. The Palace’s walls were built of bricks glazed a brilliant sky blue, which almost radiated coolness in the heat of the afternoon. In front of the gates, a lectern had been erected half-way down the stairs so the Army could see and hear the speakers.

Hours beforehand, the troops had streamed from their camps, into the centre of the great city, making their way to the Palace to obtain any scrap of information on the King’s wellbeing. Now, the Khaldonian soldiers had, somehow, managed to organise themselves into their regiments, standing at ease in ranks, behind their regimental banners, in anticipation of the announced assembly. The foot soldiers were bare headed, their helmets tucked into the crook of their arms, but carrying their shields and spears.

Keith was typical of a Khaldonian foot soldier, of peasant stock, under five foot five inches, with a deep chest, a long back and short strong legs, giving him a low centre of gravity, a distinct advantage in the push and shove of an attacking schiltron. The Khaldonians were hard men to push over. Keith had dark brown eyes and was tanned to a nutty brown. Despite being forty-two, his brown hair and beard had streaks of silver.

The troops’ colouring wildly varied in the army, many were blue-eyed with blond hair, others green-eyed with red hair, yet more brown like Keith. The clans that made up Khaldonia hailed from a variety of peoples but were bound by a common language and purpose. On either side of the foot soldiers, were the cavalry sitting on their short shaggy horses, also armed with spears. The horsemen tended to be taller than the foot soldiers and came from the lower ranks of the landed nobility. The cavalry believed themselves superior to the troops and there was little friendship between the two.

Curiously, some Farsian regiments had arrived and were standing behind the Khaldonian ranks, testimony to Alastair’s vision to incorporate his new subjects into the Royal Army, destined to subdue the rest of the Middle Sea not already under the dead King’s control. Surely, Keith thought to himself, these Asians don’t have a say. A thought shared by his companions.

Since the shocking proclamation of Alastair’s death earlier in the afternoon, every man feared the worst. Was the hoarded wealth, won over years of victories, to be lost? Were they to perish in this godforsaken land of heat, shit and flies? Despite his brilliance, Keith thought, Alastair had deluded himself that the Farsians could be trusted; they would stick a knife in a Khaldonian’s back at the first opportunity. Keith’s thoughts mirrored those of his comrades: we need a leader to get us out of this mess, get us back home so we can buy our farms, raise Khaldonian children, grow old, watching our slaves till our fields, while sipping wine in the cool shade. That’s what we want, to grow old and die on our own native soil!

The Top Brass, the Commanders and Generals, had been hours holed up in the Palace, discussing the problem. While not all the top leaders were in Babel, Cormac had left before the King’s death, taking the oldest veterans back to Khaldonia for honourable discharge (lucky bastards) and Paeder was obviously stuck in Khaldonia, keeping order there and in Anglia. But there were enough of the top command to make a valid decision. The Royal Army had assembled to hear the outcome and it was their right to endorse, or not, who would be in command.

A bugle call blared, and all eyes were drawn to the massive oak doors of the Palace, which creaked open. Emerging from the entrance came a cluster of Officers, followed by the buglers. The group was led by two officers in their forties or fifties. The troops immediately recognised Murdoch and Arthur, they walked quickly and appeared flustered. Both men were popular senior officers. While not the very top rank, Murdoch and Arthur were middle-ranking commanders, dealing with the troops on a daily basis and in battle standing in the ranks facing the enemy, shoulder to shoulder with the foot soldiers. The army trusted these hands-on officers.

Minutes later, Phergus emerged from the open gates with the top officers, also red-faced and panting softly. Had they been running, was this some sort of a race? Murdoch was the first to seize the lectern, his followers forming a protective ring around him. Phergus’s group stopped, keeping close to the Palace’s entrance, appearing confused and nervous.

The troops began to talk softly amongst themselves, what did this strange behaviour mean? Murdoch stood on the lectern, raising his hands, indicating his desire to speak to the assembled army. Eventually, all noise ceased and an unsettled silence pervaded the square. Murdoch felt thousands of eyes boring into him. The army felt like a great beast composed of thousands of separate organisms, trained by harsh instructors to think and act as one. He felt that the beast was anxious, worried, close to anger. As a commander of foot soldiers, Murdoch had years of experience channelling this explosive energy into acts of bravery as well as violence. Today he sensed danger and knew he would have to play his hand very carefully.

‘Soldiers of Khaldon, you all can guess the purpose of this assembly. To do the impossible, to appoint the successor of Alastair, who will be your leader and your King.’ He stopped to let the message penetrate. ‘After much discussion, the Council of the Commanders has decided that Alastair’s unborn child by Rosanne, if a boy, is the rightful King. But until manhood, there will be a regency, as is the custom. Phergus will be regent in Asia, while Paeder and Cormac will be co-regents in Khaldon and Anglia.’

Murdoch paused again, the silence hung over the army. "Soldiers of Khaldon, do you accept the decision of the Council, that a baby boy will be your King, that Phergus through an infant will control the entire Empire? Do you accept that after all your efforts, others will benefit from your conquests and pilfer the huge treasure accumulated through your deeds?’

No response came, no cheers, no clashing of spears on shields.

Along with his fellows, Keith whispered to the men closest to him, ‘I don’t understand—they want to make an unborn baby the King. Are we and our sons to be ruled by an infant! We haven’t fought all this time to be ruled by an unborn child. We want a man as King, a full-blooded Alpine.’

‘Well?’ boomed Murdoch, as the whispers grew into a murmur.

‘We want a proper King, we want an Alpine!’ a shout came out of the square.

‘What about Kennson?’ came another cry.

‘Yes, why not, he’s old King Kenneth’s and Philinna’s son and a born Khaldon,’ re-joined an older trooper. ‘Philinna was properly married to Kenneth, he’s legitimate, he’s in his manhood. Why not Kennson?’

‘He’s never been given any responsibility by either Alastair or Kenneth. Do you want someone so inexperienced to lead you?’ shouted a flustered Phergus from the top of the stairs, at the old soldier and the assembled soldiers.

Undeterred and unfazed, the old soldier called back to Phergus, ‘It is as Murdoch said. It is impossible to replace Alastair but the Alpines have always brought the Khaldonians luck. Why not Kennson? I say Kennson for King.’

The beast had found its voice and a mad frenzy began to descend on the assembled men. They wanted this man, Kennson, to be their Monarch, while almost anonymous, they understood he was Khaldonian Royalty and the obvious choice for their King.

‘Kennson for King, Kennson for King, an Alpine for King,’ the roar was taken up by the foot soldiers, drowning Murdoch’s attempt to restore order and the bugles calling the army to attention ignored. The cavalry, noted Murdoch, were quiet and Phergus and the Commanders had retreated back into the Palace, shutting the great wooden doors.

‘Well, that didn’t go too well, I don’t think they will be appointing us to the top job,’ said Arthur grabbing Murdoch’s arm and pulling him off the platform. ‘I think a change of tact is advisable.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Murdoch.

‘Seems to me that the Big Ones are at a loss what to do next. But why not give the troops what they want and who knows, there might yet be something for us,’ said Arthur, knowingly touched the side of his nose. Murdoch smiled.

Returning to the lectern, Murdoch raised his arms and waited. The noise lessened until Murdoch could be clearly heard in the great Square. ‘Soldiers of Khaldon—you have asserted your ancient right to choose your King and I and Arthur accept your decision.’ A roar of approval erupted from the mass of men. ‘Will you come with me to tell the Council of your choice?’

‘Yes,’ roared the troops as one.

‘To the Council!’

‘To the Palace!’

The throng of foot soldiers eagerly followed Murdoch and Arthur up the Palace’s stairs. The great wooden doors were now closed and firmly barred but this was no barrier to the warriors of a thousand sieges. Soon axes were frantically hewing at the door’s hinges, which quickly collapsed, the crash echoing through the vast edifice. The soldiers jostled and pushed each other to enter the building and soon a large excitable contingent stood behind Murdoch and Arthur.

Sitting on their ponies, in the same position in the square, the cavalry stared in disgust to a man, at the disorderly conduct of the troops, appalled at the mayhem and breakdown of order. The amazed Farsians quietly began to disperse, fearing that the madness of the Khaldonians might turn on them.

*****

Inside the Palace, a calm began to settle on the men, the cool of the dark rooms and long corridors, taking some of the heat out of their enthusiasm. The giant gypsum statues of winged bulls, with heads of bearded men staring down on them also unsettled them. The walls were carved with procession of long dead Kings, honouring their eagle headed Gods, their eyes silently staring down at the troops; could they spring to life? Had they upset the gods by their conduct? The Khaldonians were brave but superstitious, the fear of the supernatural caused their spines to tingle. They would rather face a thousand enemy soldiers than one demon from the dark, fiery abyss.

Gradually, they made their way to throne room, where several days ago Alastair had lain feebly as the army had filed past for one last goodbye to the Defender of Men, their King. There on the empty throne still lay his armour, royal robes and diadem, forgotten in the hasty withdrawal of Phergus and his followers. But where were the Commanders? The room was completely deserted.

‘Soldiers of Khaldon,’ a voice came one of the pillars behind the throne, as a dark-haired, muscular man, emerged into view, ‘what brings you here?’

The men felt relieved, his distinctive sideburns declared him to be Torquil the Wolf, and he was well known to the troops, he was rumoured to be the half-brother of Alastair. A brave and fair man, a man of high status who they respected and would have had as their leader, if he had been legitimate. ‘To welcome our new King, Sire,’ said an old soldier. ‘King Kennson.’

Torquil’s brown eyes looked mirthful but he repressed a smile from on his lips. ‘You know Kennson is untested and prone to the falling sickness? And what about Rosanne’s child; if a boy, what of his claim?’

‘The Khaldonians do not want to choose a King from the offspring of a race we have conquered,’ an old salt responded. ’Why would we, when we have Alastair’s true brother here among us. King Kenneth married Kennson’s mother, lawfully as was his legitimate right to have more than one wife.

‘He may be a bit shy but I was on guard when Alastair took him to sacrifice for their father at the household shrine, and he did it as well as any man. Having a brother like Alastair would make any man look inadequate, it’s not his fault that he’s more normal.

‘Where is Phergus and the others, we want to demand that Kennson be made King.’

‘They are waiting for you to recover your sanity and your reason,’ Torquil answered.

‘Hiding in a cupboard,’ a voice sneered.

Torquil ignored the remark. ‘What do the cavalry say? Does their voice not count?’

The old soldier continued, ‘There are more of us.’

Torquil replied, ‘They have a right too, and they will not betray Alastair’s son and they know that it is their duty to obey their Commanders. And if you have forgotten, we’re at the heart of a large empire composed of people who have little love for Khaldonians, despite their affection for our departed King.’

‘Well said, Torquil,’ rang a clear voice from the doorway. It was Murdoch, in the confusion, no one had noticed him slipping away with two or three others. Beside him, staring in a dazed manner, walked a younger man. Murdoch had known where Kennson was hidden out of sight and had no trouble from extracting him from his unguarded quarters.

‘Kenneth,’ muttered the older soldiers.

‘It’s the young Kenneth come to lead us, thank the Thunderer,’ cried another. The young man was indeed like his father when in his mid-thirties, square face, black thick hair and beard, short neck, deep chest and broad shoulders. Even younger soldiers like Keith, who had only known Kenneth as an older man could see the resemblance. No wonder some people doubted whether the slight, sinewy, fair Alastair had been Kenneth’s son.

The soldiers parted as Murdoch led the baffled Kennson up to the throne. Torquil realised what was going to happen. ‘Stop this madness,’ he called to Murdoch but he knew that there was nothing he could do, bar getting murdered.

Murdoch brought Kennson to the throne, turned him around to face the troops. Then took Alastair’s Royal purple robe, embroidered in gold and placed it around Kennson’ shoulders, then placing on his head, the golden diadem of golden laurel leaves. ‘Meet your new King,’ proclaimed Murdoch. ‘From now on to be known as King