A Sword Of Wrath, Book I by K. E. MacLeod (best way to read ebooks TXT) 📕

"I sincerely hope your man has not betrayed me."

"No, my liege. He would do no such thing, I assure you."

Tiberius eyed him suspiciously, "I should hope not."

The Emperor then turned and made his way to the breakfast table and sat down. His son followed suit, picking and then flicking grapes at the servants who stood around them.

Tiberius looked over at his son, "Spurius, sit up straight."

The boy scowled but did as his father requested.

The Emperor then motioned for one of the stewards that was carrying a copper pitcher of steaming hot water wrapped in cloth and asked, "Freshly boiled?"

The servant nodded.

"Good. Keep it that way."

He sent the young man back to his position along the wall with the other servants. The Emperor then beckoned the praegustator forward as he continued to speak to Timonus over his shoulder, "Any word from the forces in the West, then?" The food taster silently tried a bite of everything on the table as the other two men continued to converse.

"No, my liege," Timonus shook his head. "Though, if I may be so bold, should I not be fighting alongside them? I feel I would be of more use in my natural capacity as general of your armies-"

Tiberius laughed wryly, "You are being so bold. We have been over this, Timonus; I need you here. There have been threats on my life, as you well know, and your legionaries are more than capable of squashing a few rebel Bestials without you."

The taster completed his task and showing no immediate ill effects of being poisoned, was dismissed to return to his place with the others.

Timonus remained silent at Tiberius' words to him but could not stop the thoughts that ran through his mind, shouting at him that the Emperor deserved whatever should happen to him in the future.

A servant arrived and, upon seeing the Emperor, bent low. "Your Highness," he said from his bowed position, "Lord Heron is here to see you."

"Ah, yes, send him in," Tiberius brightened as he gestured in the air.

An older man, his long white hair unkempt and a day's worth of gray stubble on his face despite being dressed in the court's finery, arrived before them.

Timonus cleared his throat, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable with the new arrival, "My liege, I'm afraid I have some rather important business I need to see to."

"Of course, Legate, you are dismissed."

"Thank you," Timonus bowed his head quickly and turned away, glad for the growing distance that would soon be between him and whatever might occur upon the rooftop over the next while.

"Come, Lord Heron, sit," the Emperor indicated a chair next to him.

"Sir, my liege," the man's voice shook, "has there been any word?"

"No, my dear Lord Heron. Your daughter is still missing but know that I pray that she is returned quickly so that you and your wife may know peace. Some wine?"

"You are very kind, sire, but no, thank you," he bowed his head. "Again, I want to thank you for showing mercy on her. She's young and-"

Tiberius began to pour the wine for himself, "Ah, you don't have to explain the impetuousness of youth to me." He took a large gulp from his cup, then set it down, wiping his top lip on the back of his hand, "Lycanian wine is simply the best wine in the entire world." He looked directly at Lord Heron, "Now, the reason that I called you up here is that there are a few things that I am curious about."

"Anything, sire."

The Emperor stood and took a few steps over to the pile of rocks that the slaves were working with. They tried not to look at him as he took a largish stone from the top and examined it for a second before walking back to the table and placing it in Lord Heron's hand.

"Do you know what that is?"

"I fear my answer will sound as if I'm taking you for a fool."

"No, no," he smiled, "go ahead. You're free to speak as you please."

"It... it's a rock, Your Highness."

"Yes... a rock." He thought for a moment, and then took the stone back into his own hand. "Let me ask you another question."

"Absolutely, my liege."

He indicated his tunic, "Do you know how they get the fabric of my tunic to be such a dark red color?"

"No, sir, I’m afraid such matters... are rarely on my mind."

He laughed as he began to pace, "Now that is a truthful answer, my friend!" The Emperor paused for a moment, then leaned in beside Lord Heron, his hands propping him up on the tabletop, "You see, it's red like this because of the type of dye my tailors use. Would you like to know how they acquire such dye?"

"I-, er, yes, my lord," he humored Tiberius, despite his thoughts being solely on his missing daughter. "You have my curiosity piqued."

"You see, there is a special beetle that is harvested for the red powder that they can make from its shell. And, do you know how they get the powder?"

"No, sir-"

The Emperor stood back, nodding once to the water steward who calmly stepped forth and poured boiling water into the lap of Lord Heron. The old man howled in shock and pain as the steam rose from his burning flesh.

"First, they boil them." Tiberius walked behind the writhing, wailing Lord Heron, then bent down and spoke into his ear, "Then, once dried, they crush them." He brought the limestone rock down upon the hand of old man that was resting on top of the table, breaking his fingers and bringing forth more howls of pain as he tried to vainly pull his mangled and crushed digits away in disbelief.

Spurius looked on silently, a strange light glinting in his eye.

"Now, why do I ask such things?" Tiberius said again in Heron's ear.

"I... I'm afraid I do not know, my lord," he wept with disbelief.

"Because that beetle is harvested in the land of Tyre! As are the very rocks that built this castle! A land that you claim to be from!" The Emperor smashed the rock upon the ground and pulled his sword from its sheath. He then held it to Lord Heron's throat, "Now, tell me where you are really from."

The lord swallowed, his entire being full of fear while he cradled his broken hand even as the flesh upon his legs continued to burn, "I-I don't know what you mean, sir."

Tiberius pulled sword closer against Lord Heron's throat, shouting, "You're a treacherous liar! Tell me where you are really from or I will have your entire family killed!"

Lord Heron spoke at last, his words barely above a whisper as they cracked from his throat, "Th-Thera.... my-my lord."

"Thera? Thera? You really do take me for a fool!" Then, without a moment's hesitation, Tiberius slit Lord Heron's throat. The stunned body of the former lord sat for a moment, sputtering, before falling forward lifelessly onto one of the breakfast plates.

The Emperor sheathed his bloodied sword and returned to his seat. Then, as the thick warm blood of Lord Heron began to pool around the legs of the table, he looked at Spurious, "Strength and firmness, son, that's how you lead. Strength... and firmness."

Spurius, taking the advice in stride, looked quizzically at his father, "What is Thera?"

"Thera is a fairy story, told to the children of the lower classes in order to convince them that they can somehow be better than the worthless rubbish they were born to be." He laughed derisively, "It was once a true land of riches but the gods wiped it clean from this world - and I have the sword that proves it! I don't know where this man is from but it is not Thera." He took a mouthful of bread and as he chewed, spoke to one of his servants, "Have the legion round up his family. See what you can get out of them but if they tell you the same, then kill them. In fact, kill them anyway. I have no room for liars and traitors in my court."

* * *

"Sixteen years...," the man muttered to himself, his words heavy with remorse as he sat upon a fallen log that rested beside a sculpted memorial in the middle of the Aulus forest.

His name was Tacitus and he cut a forlorn figure sitting there, his long black and gray hair wrapped to its end with a piece of leather. His slightly wrinkled face, painted in the traditional decorative ink-swirled designs of the Cavalli people, told the story of a man who had been broken long ago.

The wind lightly rustled the vest made of fur pelts that he wore over a simple linen shirt and brown breeches. It then whirled red and golden leaves around his suede boots, fluttering the fringe that ringed their tops as it did.

Behind him, Tacitus heard the not entirely unexpected crunch of leaves beneath someone else’s feet and knew instantly who had arrived to disrupt his mourning. The new visitor, larger in stature and possessing a booming voice that carried throughout the dense forest, demanded "What are you doing here, Cauda?" He spat out the last word like a curse and it may well have been, for it was the old word meaning 'coward.' To a Cavalli, there was no greater insult than being called a coward.

"Same as you, Vibius." Tacitus didn't to look up as his gaze remained locked onto the moss-covered statue.

"I find it odd that you would pay your respects to my wife. Especially when it is your fault she is dead." Vibius stepped forward, his face covered in similar ink designs as Tacitus', although his signified his allegiance to the Little Fish village of the Cavalli. "Cauda," he repeated, "you are not supposed to be here."

Tacitus stood and the other man reached for the heavy long-sword at his side. Tacitus looked into Vibius' eyes, coolly, "I won't fight you." He looked back at the memorial stone, "Not here. Not in front of her."

"You won't fight because you are a coward. You do not even possess a sword! Your brother should've ended your life years ago."

"Perhaps...," Tacitus knelt down and began to clean the moss off of the stone. His lips parted and he began to whisper a silent prayer to the gods that he was no longer entirely sure he believed in.

Vibius' patience with Tacitus was showing signs of wearing thin, "I want you to leave. Now. Because I will fight you in front of her, sword or no sword."

"We are both Cavalli, Vibius," Tacitus stood again, "therefore we are brothers in the eyes of the gods but," he shook his head, "I should have never allowed her to marry you." He cast a stern but silent glance at the other man, "That is my regret." He then began to walk away but before he left the clearing entirely, he stopped and turned, "You were no better at protecting her than I was." His eyes fell on the white stone, "Goodbye, my daughter. Until another year has passed."

He reluctantly left the clearing and took to his horse, a two-year-old bay he'd just received from a neighboring village as payment for his "good medicine." He pulled himself up onto its back and with a last look behind him, began the return trek to his home in Two-Crows.

As the horse plodded rhythmically along throughout the dense forest, he pushed the thoughts of Vibius from his mind and wondered, instead, what he should name the mare. He wanted something regal yet simple. For once, long ago, the Cavalli, or Horse People as they were known throughout the