Swords of the Imperium (Dark Fantasy Novel) (The Polaris Chronicles Book 2) (13 page)

Hadassah smacked Irulan on the shoulder. “Now you’re lying. I can tell.”

“On my honor, I tell the truth! Anyway, the Shah opened the portcullis to let his men sally out and take her. Well, that’s exactly what she wanted. She charged in, massacred the chevaliers, and confronted the Shah on the walls in full view of the Liberation Army. When he tried to plead for mercy, she chucked him off the edge and into the moat. The moat, of course, was a dry one lined with spikes, so you can predict what happened. The impenetrable fort that had never bowed to an aggressor had just fallen. From that day onward, the Ursalans called her the ‘Prince of Maladies.’ Because, you know, it was obviously her cock that was responsible for that entire thing!”

Hadassah laughed out loud and then sighed. “Well, at least I know Draco won’t get a title. Even if I can’t.”

“Luca’s the only one that I’ve heard of. We still don’t know much about the Ursalans. Like why they seem to take such glee in making their people suffer, or why their princesses all end up killing themselves rather than be captured. In al Akrad, they found that the girl had
disemboweled
herself with her bare hands.”

“The Rex must be a virile bastard to sire all the daughters he has.”

“And we’ve not managed to take a single one alive, even with one in every fortress.”

Hadassah shook her head. “It’s damned creepy. Well, maybe when I see one, I’ll make sure to buttstroke her before she gets any fancy ideas.”

“It would help the cause.”

Hecaton Kheiris Mezeta cackled with glee as she hurtled down the ancient roadway at a speed commonly held by the alchemists to result in death by liquefaction. She was strapped to the inside of a wheeled relic named the “Cura,” which was the last of its kind in Dominion lands. It had cost her five hundred rounds of Luger milligrad, down from the thousand that the artifact thief had initially wanted. A mix of bargaining, threats, and old-fashioned stubbornness had done the job, and now she owned the clattering deathtrap for as long as she could find fuel.

A waning river of asphalt connected the Dominion to the southeastern reaches of Ursalan territory. Unlike the normal packed-dirt paths, those roads were perfect for wheels because they did not become an impassable morass whenever it rained. On occasion, Hecaton had found her path blocked by shot-up metal carcasses from ancient battles, still bleeding rust centuries later. When faced with one, she merely sucked the power from the earth around her, focused her will, and swept the brittle heaps aside. She resolved to send a bill for her services to whoever governed these stretches. If the noble refused to pay, she’d come back and simply move the debris right back to where it had originally rested.

Most of all, Hecaton found herself enjoying the long stretches where she could depress the stubby pedals as far as possible and enjoy a thrill that would have been unimaginable to her while growing up in the Ring. She had ridden trains before, but they were slow and inelegant compared to her new purchase. Truly, the ancient people had known how to live.

Suitable fuel was a rare commodity, and the Cura would only choke on the thick, gloppy oil commonly used for cooking or warfare. Thus, Hecaton had made sure to purchase additional amphorae of heady-smelling gasoline from another merchant, who had taken a handful of vials of glowing rock as payment. It would last her long enough to make her rendezvous—an Ursalan term she rather liked. On the fourth day of her journey, plodding along on fumes, Hecaton pulled her Cura up to the great iron portcullis of the golden city of Astarte. It had been named after a goddess of love and death, and within its walls, plenty of both transpired.

“Who goes there?” a guard shouted down from atop the city wall. He wore the bright green and red of the city militia and shouldered a Kalash. A crowd of farmers with carts of vegetables and peddlers laden with fur also stopped to investigate the strange sight of a woman leaning on the sputtering relic.

Hecaton lazily whisked her tinted lenses aside and inhaled the stench of rotting fish. “Open the gate, mongrel, and take me to your leader! I bear a gift.”

She pointed to the Cura, and its engine shut down with a final, flatulent sputter.

Primate Alesso of Astarte’s throne room was a chaos of rococo and menace. Green marble pillars shot through with bulging golden veins supported a ceiling painted on every surface with a scene of hundreds of people copulating in positions both imaginable and unimaginable, with animals and even horribly mutated chimerae joining the orgy. Ornately engraved clocks standing sentry at the walls boasted hands shaped to resemble a man with an oversized phallus and a woman kneeling to receive it as the hands crossed. Golden chandeliers piled with innumerable candles cast flickering light on the court below, dripping a shower of hot wax onto heads and backs. Servants, seemingly about to fall to their deaths at any given moment, teetered on high ladders, constantly replacing spent candles. A throng of courtiers and courtesans, a mass of silks, velvet, ermine, and billowy wigs, mobbed the floor.

“Your Highness,” a high-coiffed herald bellowed. “Representing herself, Lady Hecaton Kheiris Mezeta of the Former Argead Dominion!”

The man bowed and backed away, and Hecaton pushed through the crowd to approach the throne. She did not bow when she stood before the primate, and the courtiers pointed at her, aghast.

“As I recall, I banned you from coming here ever again,” the primate said. An obese, balding man in his fifties, he wore a greatcoat of seal fur over his shoulders and a heavy crown of silver on his brow. His face was simultaneously pudgy and deeply lined from a life of extreme indolence and constant courtly intrigue. His lips thinned to near nothing when he smiled. “However, your gift was satisfactory, so I’ve overlooked your presumption. What brings you here, Mezeta? Have you been thrown out of the Dominion? Will you get on your knees and beg to serve me again? If so, then proceed already. I haven’t got all day!”

Hecaton stifled a laugh. “My dear, dear Alesso. I serve none but myself. I’ve come with a proposal for you.”

The primate raised an eyebrow. “Oh? What’s your proposal?”

“Give me what I want or lose your city to the Imperium.”

The court erupted in angry roars and calls for Hecaton’s head on a pike. A pair of massive Templars standing at the primate’s flanks silently tensed in anticipation of the order to cut the interloper down; their crimson-painted platemail creaked at the joints. With an impassive sweep of his hand, the primate ordered silence. The Templars remained ready to strike.

“Why, Hecaton, I had no idea you wished to become my jester.” The primate snickered. “I urge you not to quit as a sellsword, though. You’re a much better killer than you are a humorist.”

“She speaks the truth.” The woman sitting next to the primate fixed her gaze on Hecaton. She sat on a bulbous throne of intricately engraved metal that seemed to shift and undulate of its own accord. Except for a delicate crown of drawn gold wire on her head and thin metal bands running under her breasts and around her thighs, she seemed virtually naked. Her golden, utterly hairless skin glinted not from perspiration but from a fundamentally mineral quality. She rippled with muscle and power, and she was as tall as the Templars behind her. Even by the unreal standards of the court, she seemed alien. Hecaton tilted her head and locked eyes with Princess Sophie Troiscent, daughter of the Sanctissimus Rex.

“I assure you, my beneficent darling,” the primate sputtered, “that Mezeta does
not
. I know perfectly well that the Imperial dogs have designs on my city, but I have taken the utmost of measures to assure that we will not fall to an attack. My army can meet any siege, and any man who attempts to breach the walls will be greeted with the kiss of the Lamed Goddess!”

“Princess Sophie, you look shiny as always,” Hecaton said. “And Alesso, my dear fat little man, you know she’s correct. You also know what I’m capable of. Just ask the men whom you sent to kill me. Or did their
coglioni
not satisfy your question?”

The primate thrust his hand into a bowl of fruit nearby and grabbed a ripened fig. He cocked his arm back as if to throw it at Hecaton but seemed to relent. Instead, he simply crushed the fruit in his fist until fragrant pulp oozed between his fingers. “Have you spewed enough filth in my court? If so, then get out.”

“Not so fast,” Hecaton said. “I have a plan to repulse the Imperium once and for all. To even take out their capital and end the threat permanently.”

“And how would you even begin to do that? Do you plan to set my city ablaze with tires like His Holiness did to Berlin?”

Hecaton erupted with a full-throated laugh. “Nothing so comedic. My methods are more mundane. Now, have you ever heard of the God Hand?”

The Fifty-Fourth Suppression Army of the Imperium began its march from Lhasa in the foggy darkness before sunrise. Though a mismatched and barely drilled force with only twelve hundred soldiers at most, they were the discipline of the padishah himself. And they were not to return home until either the Mandate of Heaven was wiped from the face of the earth or until they were all dead.

“So how about the fifty-three before us?” Draco asked Elsa, whom he rode next to. “I mean, were they larger? Small like this?”

“Well, the largest one ever was probably the Twentieth, which went out to crush the Sons of Qin three-hundred-odd years ago. I think it was close to two million on our side.”

“How many did the Sons of Qin have?”

“Double that. It was a big deal, that rebellion. Nearly half of the eastern territories sided with them, all trying to reclaim the glory of their ancient times. But we won, although at great cost. One of the padishah even died during the last battle, too. They still teach about it in the schools.”

“Six million fighters going at it.” Draco whistled. “Boggles the mind.”

“And in those days, they still used tamed chimerae and relics from the Fall. You had these gigantic colossi totally beating the shit out of each other and falling over and crushing people like ants! And metal birds swooshing around breathing fire and farting cannonballs.”

Draco gaped. “Where can I read about that?”

“There’s books and stuff about it in Sevastopol. I’ll take you to the library sometime.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Draco said, and extended his hand. Elsa clasped it, and they shook.

“Well,” Karma said as he watched from behind, “I never thought old Draco would find someone to nerd out with like that. Elsa didn’t strike me as the type, either. I imagined someone more reticent. Or just plain wacko.”

“Bunch of perverts is what they are,” Hadassah said. She tugged at her horse’s reins to keep it from veering off to sniff and bite a mare alongside it.

The army marched as a column of horse, leading a snaking way through the cloudless Lhasa Valley. Behind the horses marched the heavy infantry and skirmishers, adept at the use of bows and antique muskets. Finally, the artillery consisted of three trebuchets and a pair of bronze mortars manned by a merchant named Fang, his wife Borte, and their many children.

Taki rode silently at the rear. Though doing so meant coughing on the dust raised by an entire army and plodding through the truly monstrous amount of horse and human droppings left in its wake, he was far from the boisterousness of the vanguard.

His plan had been successful, and he had earned praise and esteem not only from Lotte but also from the officers in Alfa
.
And yet his stomach churned and his hands sweated uncontrollably.
Because of her, of course.
The memory of Enilna’s scent and, more so, her touch, lingered on his lips no matter how much he tried to rub it away. It was a silly thing to worry about, he knew. He was riding into battle, where his heart’s panging was the least important thing in the world.

In a stroke of bad luck, Enilna was in the rear guard, too. Taki had noticed earlier and had attempted to blend in with a group of lancers. So far, the plan to avoid her seemed to be working.

“My favorite farmer!” Enilna cantered up alongside him, clearly enjoying herself.

Fuck.
He cringed and made no effort to hide it.

She giggled. “Were you hiding from me?”

“No.”

“Whatever, I forgive you. Anyway, get this. Old Fang over there has been with Borte for thirty years, and they have so many kids that they can’t actually remember the names really quickly. So instead, they just call the kids by number. Oldest son Bo’er is Fang One, youngest daughter Xixi is Fang Twelve. It all makes sense now, because when I was in Sevastopol, there was this other kadet named Fang Fifteen and for the longest time I thought he was just a fantasist trying to look cool.”

Taki’s jaw hung open slightly, and he forced himself to look ahead.

“Anyone there?” she said, and flicked him on the forehead.

Taki winced and swatted her away.

“It lives!”
she gasped.

“God rot you, I’ll just say it!” Taki said. “Why did you kiss me back in the prison?”

At this, the lancers started to chuckle. Taki glared back at them, and they slowed their horses while smirking. Surprisingly, Enilna reddened.