Chapter 1: Decisions

“No, Jerilyn. I never regretted my oath to Thar and Raena, despite what came of it. Even then, I knew Thar’s identity, though it was not for me to reveal. As the servant of the Balance, I was duty bound to offer my aid. Duty can be a terrible burden.” Kandol Elf Lord

If he had his druthers, Hali Halvyl, the Lord Warden commanding Sangrithar’s legions, would rather be anywhere than Cormane, but the compulsion would not allow it. He wasn’t looking forward to the engagement. From the reports, Baron Lessari wasn’t a bad man, just too poor to meet the ridiculous obligations imposed by their master, Torval Waverider, the curse-addled God-Emperor of Sangrithar.

Since Thar who was Umbar fell from Heaven so many centuries ago, many God-Emperors had ruled from the Pearl Throne, but none so crazed as him. Confident in his false divinity, he demanded others call him the God Reborn and show proper obeisance. For Torval, being God-Emperor and ruling the mightiest nation on the face of the world was not enough. He would ascend the Firmament and stand in the Heavens amongst the gods.

Hali, to his undying shame, bowed and scraped with the rest of them. Worse, he was the God-Emperor’s chief enforcer. When Torval commanded, he responded with the legions whether he wished it or not. The compulsion saw to his loyalty. The compulsion had bound many Lord Wardens to many God-Emperors. Ataryl, the first God-Emperor, had seen to it when he’d divided power between his sons and set the compulsion upon them.

“Let’s get on with it,” he said to his adjutant, Kaphiri Fellstar. “The sooner we start, the sooner we finish.”

“Your legions await, Lord Warden,” answered the thin, wiry man with dark hair and deep set eyes wearing a uniform with a Master Warden’s badge. Kaphiri understood the terrible burden that came with the Lord Warden’s baton. That the compulsion bound him to the God-Emperor was common knowledge. The price of disobedience was not. To defy it, to even think of doing so, brought the unbearable agony Kaphiri had witnessed too many times. Hali was not always the compulsion’s willing captive. “Don’t forget to put on a proper show. They have high expectations of the Lord Warden.”

Whitecaps slapped against Foambreaker’s portside hull. The starboard was tied to a rickety wood pier not built for galleons the size of the imperial flagship. Beyond the docks stretched the desolate and empty town of Cormane. Apparently, Master Warden Jafal Ordalli had managed not to blunder his assignment.

Hali patted Avashar’s neck. The mighty charger had carried him into battles uncounted. Shiny, black and eighteen hands tall, with white socks and a star on his chest, Avashar towered over other horses like a king. He was closer to the steed than many who called him friend. “Don’t fret, Kaphiri. The Lord Warden shall give his legionnaires a rousing speech, not that they need it. We outnumber Lessari more than five to one and only one in ten of his are trained warriors. The rest are farmers and fishermen.”

“An enemy underestimated is a dangerous one.” Kaphiri pulled his dappled roan closer. “And a cornered foe fights with strength born from desperation. You would do well to take this seriously, my friend.”

He’d learned long ago to heed Kaphiri’s advice. They’d been best friends close to two centuries, ever since Hali and his younger sister Celle had come to the Fellstar villa for fostering. Aged five and three, he and Celle were the perfect companions for the Baron’s four-year old son Kaphiri. The three of them had been inseparable, until he and Kaphiri had gone off to the university at Colcester. Celle cried when they’d left, as much for Kaphiri as him. Leaving for school ended their teenage romance before it ever really started. Since then, the adjutant’s quick smile and quicker wit had won him enough maidens to fill a pageant. Celle had long ago wed another.

He shaded his eyes with one hand while gathering Avashar’s reins. “Then consider me well advised, Master Warden, but Lessari’s defeat is assured. The tithe will be paid. The God-Emperor has ordered it.”

He and Kaphiri trotted down the gangplank. Only officers of Master Warden and higher rank were permitted steeds on ship. For the Lord Warden, it was not only permitted, it was expected. At the end of the pier, Master Warden Jafal Ordalli waited with an escort bearing the God-Emperor’s standard, an eye in the center of a seven-pointed golden star on a field of azure. On his orders, Ordalli had arrived in Cormane earlier and, after a battle that went overwhelmingly in his favor, laid siege to the keep.

Ordinarily, he would not have attended such a minor matter, but the God-Emperor had specifically commanded him and he had to obey. Over the years, he’d done as Torval bid no matter how sordid the assignment. He’d ordered the destruction of uncounted villages on little more than allegations of rebellion. Pallsnip had been the first, but not the last. He’d slain warriors fighting to defend home and family, and murdered women and children in the name of duty. A weaker man would have sought death’s release, but that was a coward’s way out. He wouldn’t abandon Sangrithar to the God-Emperor. He’d done what he could to uphold the empire’s ancient honor, but that wasn’t enough to stem the corruption.

Like his distant cousin the God-Emperor, Hali’s veins also held the blood of gods and he dreamt of a Sangrithar reborn in all her ancient splendor, before the heirs of Thar had fallen under the curse. His dream kept him strong over the years, but lately he’d doubted whether it could ever come to pass. There were too few left. Too few who remembered the old ways, too few who followed the Maiden. Even if the throne was toppled, could Sangrithar be saved or had she already fallen?

This assignment was more of the same. Baron Xander Lessari of Cormane, a small coastal barony west of Sangrithar, had not paid the requisite tithe. He had been sent to make an example.

Hali surveyed the town. Next to the docks were splintered remnants of merchant stalls trampled by his invading legions. Past the marketplace rose the town proper, hundreds of one-story wooden buildings with roofs slanted towards the sea and a handful of larger stone structures. It was eerily quiet and not a living person could be seen in the streets, though the Cormaners had abandoned plenty of dead during their hasty retreat to the baron’s keep. Now several days ripe, the corpses were rich offerings to circling vultures and vermin crawling out of the sewers. Poverty, more poignant from the silence, hung over the town like a cloud. The ramshackle houses had seen better days. Shutters hung crooked from windows and faded paint could not hide the warped, cracked wood beneath. Tumbleweeds rolled through the blood-soaked streets, winding past and sometimes bumping into dead Cormaners. The legions had erected a fortified camp on the northern outskirts of town, past which lay an open field smoky with embers from crops burned before harvest. Beyond the fields stood the baron’s keep, where the survivors were preparing for the final stand. A green flag with a rampant argent lion waved from the keep’s highest roof.

He pulled Avashar to a halt near Ordalli and the steed reared in protest, anxious to run after so long aboard ship. The Master Warden, a short man with no neck to speak of and the strength of a bull, was a barely capable commander with a vicious streak that prevented him from attaining a higher rank. When younger, Ordalli had applied to the Averchai, the God-Emperor’s elite guard, but they’d rejected him and he’d sought to prove his worth in the infantry.

There were six officer ranks in the legions, ranging from Deputy Warden to his rank of Lord Warden. Beneath him were the High Wardens, of which there were four, one each for the infantry, cavalry, navy and the Averchai, followed by Helm Warden, Master Warden, and just plain old Warden. Master Wardens typically led a single legion of five hundred men.

He’d sent four legions to Cormane, more than an officer of Ordalli’s limited capabilities could effectively lead, over the objections of High Warden Avery Tavistern, the commander of the infantry. Avery did not care for Master Warden Jafal Ordalli. The man’s cruelty offended him and his limited intelligence, Avery had argued, made him a liability in the field. He had overridden Avery knowing how distasteful this assignment would be. The zealous Ordalli, eager to prove his worth, would have no qualms about bending the destitute Cormaners to the God-Emperor’s will. If his incompetence revealed itself, so be it. As long as it didn’t result in unnecessary legionnaire deaths, an unlikely event given the pitiful state of Cormane’s militia, he’d be satisfied.

Ordalli offered a salute. “Hail, Lord Warden and welcome. All is ready, per your command. The dog, Baron Lessari, has retreated into his keep and is at our mercy. He cannot escape and food is in short supply. They have no chance against us. We will prevail.”

He leaned forward in the saddle. “Well done, Master Warden Ordalli,” though in truth, he felt neither pride nor joy. Is this what the once proud legions of Sangrithar had come to - crushing defenseless villagers in the name of a crazed God-Emperor?

Ordalli pointed to engineers mounting an iron whale’s head to the end of a battering ram. “Tomorrow at first light, we attack.”

Kaphiri cocked an eyebrow. “No need to be so bloodthirsty, Ordalli. We may still settle this diplomatically.”

The Master Warden thumped his chest. “I hope not. They have insulted the God-Emperor.”

Dusk broke with the darkness’s assault upon the Suns. As inevitable as the outcome seemed, each dusk and each dawn brought new tactics and tonight was no exception. Edda’s darkness started on the outer rim and worked its way in, Imma’s spread outward from the center and on Olla, an outline of the Dark Lord’s face appeared. By hour’s end, light had lost as it had every dusk since the Rekindling. Tomorrow at dawn, the two sides would reengage and light would emerge triumphant.

During the dusk hour, he strolled through the camp, praising past efforts and offering encouragement for the coming day’s battle. Despite Kaphiri’s caution, victory was assured. Baron Lessari’s small band of warriors had no hope of victory, but some legionnaires would die, for such was the way of war. He spied a young spearman throwing dice and wondered whether he’d live to see the next dusk’s battle in the Suns.

As the last pearls of light succumbed to night, he entered his tent. He splashed his face with cold water and looked into his battered silver mirror. Like the mirror, he showed wear from years of service to the Pearl Throne, service that left his image tarnished. To some, he was a hero and to others, a villain. In the capitol, people hailed him as a champion. Leader of the mighty legions, he carried Sangrithar’s standard to the far reaches of Fanar and protected them from the worst of the God-Emperor’s madness. As the scion of House Halvyl, he held a spark of divinity, though it was but a candle compared to the God-Emperor’s inferno, a spark recalling past glory from Sangrithar’s golden age. But, out on the edges of the empire, he was reviled as a conqueror and oppressor of the weak, a reputation he deserved, to his shame and everlasting guilt.

Deep lines etched his weathered face, and his thick, wavy dark hair was streaked with grey. His blue eyes held the power of command, that gift held by every officer since time began, the stare that demands obedience. Blue eyes were also the mark of the nobility. The common folk had olive complexions and most often, dark hair and eyes. Those with a drop of Thar’s blood tended to have fairer skin and the most pure bred had piercing eyes of blue. Nobles were also blessed with longer lives, though at nearly two centuries, he was not young even by noble standards. Like him, Kaphiri was also noble – House Fellstar had long standing in the court of the God-Emperor, if not a position of prominence - though his features more resembled those of the masses.

He closed his fists and flexed his muscles. He still had his strength, enough to best many a younger man. Tall, broad-shouldered, and tested by years of battle, he could hold his own against any opponent.

Hali rose with the break of dawn, when Aeriel’s legions of light began the morning assault upon Edda, Imma and Olla. He donned his armor, a steel breastplate emblazoned with a mailed fist holding a starred scepter, and buckled Wavestriker to his waist. A steel broadsword too heavy for a weaker man, whale hide wrapped Wavestriker’s hilt and the pommel ended in a large sapphire.

The troops were nervous with excitement, as they always were before battle. He rode Avashar to the front line and turned to face the legions, exposing his back to the walled keep in the distance. An overcast Esel threatened rain. Usually he could sense a storm coming, but he hadn’t had a tingle. A storm might hamper the assault, but weather could not save this baron. He looked out over the infantry, bright in polished chainmail and shields bearing a diagonal trident beset by eye and conch. Most carried spears and sharp-tipped swords good for stabbing and slashing, and the two platoons under Kaphiri’s command were equipped with longbows of yew taken from the Harrowmeet. Each legion carried the God-Emperor’s standard into battle.

“Legionnaires of Sangrithar! Today we will bring honor to the Pearl Throne. Today, we will crush the infidels in the keep. They are traitors who have failed our glorious God Reborn. No one may dispute the God-Emperor. Any who question his authority must be taught the price of disobedience. Today we will teach them the power of the Pearl Throne. Today they will feel the God-Emperor’s lash.”

How many times had he given this speech? How many times had he raised legionnaires to a fevered pitch before leading them to the slaughter? Would his ancestor Halvyl be proud? Is this what Ataryl the First had intended when he’d set the compulsion? He thought not. Since Arvyl’s Folly, everything had changed.

He put his misgivings aside. The compulsion would not tolerate them and he’d rather not feel its lash, not today of all days. Not on the anniversary of Cymara and Halivan’s death. Their murder had taught him the importance of obeying the compulsion.

He snatched a battle standard, waved it and a cheer erupted from the legions. “Are you with me, men of Sangrithar?”

“Aye!” they roared.

“Are you ready to teach these rebels a lesson?”

“Aye!” they roared.

“Then let it begin! For the God-Emperor! For the Pearl Throne!”

The legions marched towards the keep. After crossing the smoky field, he’d give the order to charge. There wasn’t any need for heavy siege weapons; the baron’s keep was not well fortified. Ladders and the battering ram would suffice. The ram was in the center of the line, guarded by legionnaires with tower shields of Sangritharian steel.

“Ravager take me, the rumors were true! Look, Hali. On the parapet.” Kaphiri’s voice was strained, like he’d seen a ghost.

Only one thing could have that effect on the brave adjutant. Sorcery. It terrified him. It had ever since the accident in Colcester. “I see him.”

A purple-robed figure wearing a pointed silver cap was dancing a strange jig atop the keep’s walls. The clouds were centered over him and the sky grew darker. His manner and high forehead gave him away as a mercenary wizard from the eastern land of Endiron.

“I don’t like this,” Kaphiri said worriedly. It started to drizzle.

He winked. “Don’t worry, I’m descended from the Lord of Sea and Storm, remember. A little rain can’t hurt us.”

He gave the attack signal. Ordalli led the charge and the line advanced. He took his place behind the infantry with Kaphiri and the archers.

The wizard’s dancing grew more frenzied and a lightning bolt struck the open field between the legions and the keep, followed by a deafening thunderclap.

“I really don’t like this,” Kaphiri shouted.

Then the wind whipped up and a torrential rain poured down from Esel. The infantry’s advance was slowed and the battlefield quickly became a sea of mud.

The baron had positioned archers on the parapets. They released volley after volley into the slip sliding legionnaires, but raging winds, wet bowstrings and thick tower shields were too much to overcome. The battering ram’s advance continued unabated.

“Faster, you dogs, faster,” Master Warden Ordalli shouted over the drumming rain.

Kaphiri’s archers came into range and returned fire, slowing the hail of enemy arrows.

The dancing wizard on the parapet raised his fist to Esel. Clouds dark as coal swirled and crackled above. His arm went back and then shot forward, like he was hurling a javelin. A lightning bolt streaked towards Hali from the parapet.

Time inched to a crawl, as if celebrating his moment of death. The bolt moved so slowly that he could trace its path. He tried to yank Avashar’s reins but was frozen in time’s crawl and could not move. The lightning was going to strike and there was nothing he could do.

He braced for the impact. With his last breath, he thought of all the terrible things he’d done, of all the terrible things the God-Emperor would ask him to do, and part of him was glad. Never again would the God-Emperor order him to harm an innocent. He did not welcome death, but neither did he fear it. Looking into Esel, he imagined Cymara and Halivan smiling down from above and knew happiness. Soon, his spirit would fly to the Halls of the Dead and from there to the Blessed Kingdom where his wife and son waited.

The lightning crawled closer. It was inches from his heart and the air shimmered like a heat wave. Just as it reached him, a nimbus of blue light welled out from within, encasing him and Avashar in a protective aura. Cool and soft, like the gentle lapping of waves, the shield of blue shattered the lightning.

Time resumed its normal course.

Kaphiri raced to his side. “What in the name of Erlik’s Eye just happened? Hali! Hali! Are you all right?”

He was glad to be alive, but too stunned to speak. The lightning should have killed him. He should be a charred corpse, yet he hadn’t felt a thing, not even the tiniest sting. Solare burn him, it was a miracle! His reunion with Cymara and Halivan would have to wait a while longer.

“The lightning struck your chest. You should be dead!” Kaphiri’s eyes widened. “Sorcery?”

He’d been tested at Colcester, they both had. He had no talent, nor did he have an explanation for surviving the wizard’s lightning. “You know me better than that.”

“What then?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s the blood.” Stories said that Thar’s descendants sometimes possessed powers. Like Torval, he could trace his lineage to Ataryl the First, but until now, the only signs of his divine descent was the strength of sinew and long life shared by all the Lord Wardens.

Kaphiri nodded enthusiastically, glad for another explanation. “I should know not to underestimate you, Hali. You’ve outdone yourself. Look.”

His hand swept across the field. The battle had come to a halt. Both armies were staring at him. The wizard had stopped dancing and Esel was clear of clouds. The rain stopped too.

“What other talents are you hiding?” the adjutant joked.

“None, I hope.” Power was the last thing he wanted.

Kaphiri grinned. “I think now would be a good time to ...”

“I couldn’t agree more.” He roared from the saddles. “Charge legionnaires, charge now, while our patron Thar who was Umbar, Lord of Sea and Storm, smiles upon us.”

The line charged. More arrows rained down, but less than before and the legions reached the twenty-foot high wall surrounding the keep. A gate reinforced with iron bands blocked the entrance to the courtyard.

“Raise the ladders,” Ordalli barked.

Teams of legionnaires arrived with ladders and leaned them against the wall while archers provided cover. The baron’s men pushed some ladders away from the wall, but there were too many to repel them all. Once the legionnaires gained a foothold, the Cormaners had to forget the climbers and draw swords.

The battering ram pounded the poorly maintained gate. Old timbers cracked and groaned like an old man’s back. The whale’s head rammed again and a bolt snapped free, burying in an infantryman’s eye. The few archers remaining to the baron concentrated on the ram, but their arrows bounced off the steel tower shields. He’d been in enough battles to know that they’d reached the turning point. Victory was assured, not that the outcome had ever been in doubt.

He wiped mud from his face. Outnumbered from the beginning, the Cormaners had lost spirit when he’d survived the wizard’s spell. The gate was ready to fall and they’d lost nearly half their men. He took no joy from the battle. This was no challenge for the legions. It was a slaughter, and an unnecessary one at that. If the baron was sensible, he’d accept his terms of surrender and end the bloodshed. Ordalli, of course, would prefer to slaughter everyone, but he would give the baron a chance.

“This shouldn’t take much longer,” he told Kaphiri. From the back lines, he watched his legions swarm the keep. They fought with precision, making him proud. Once they’d breached the walls, he’d ride in on Avashar and collect the God-Emperor’s tithe from the baron. If everything went smoothly, he could be sailing home to Sangrithar before the Dark Lord challenged Ariel for the Suns at dusk.

A crash sounded as the whale head splintered the gate. Ordalli led legionnaires into the courtyard where they overwhelmed a thin line of defenders armed with halberds.

He rode into the courtyard with Kaphiri just as the fighting on the parapets was coming to an end. The legions stood victorious and dozens of Cormaners lay upon the ground, some wounded and others beyond help. The survivors were surrendering. They threw down their arms and begged for mercy, many bawling shamelessly. Ordalli led the clean-up.

The baron had to have known that sending men such as these against battle-hardened legionnaires was a fool’s errand, but in his place, he might have done the same. Better to fight than to bend knee before the first sword was drawn.

Baron Lessari and several others were on the front step to the keep, behind a dozen warriors brandishing pikes and wearing plate mail, the only ones in armor of quality. After a nod from Lessari, they lowered their weapons. A tear-streaked woman wearing a worn dress that had once been green had her arm around Lessari’s waist. She must be Nirani, the baron’s wife, and the young ones clinging to her, a tow-headed boy who looked about five and a girl two years older, must be their children. To the baron’s right stood the purple robed wizard who had smote him with lightning. The wizard stared fearfully at him, eyes glued to his breastplate where the lightning had struck.

Ten paces from the baron, he reined Avashar to a halt and studied his opponent. Not yet middle-aged, the baron had short brown hair and a strong jaw. His blue eyes shone clear and bright, sparkling with decency rarely seen in the God-Emperor’s court. Though defeated, the baron stood proudly; his stance at once respectful and not at all submissive.

“Baron Xander Lessari of Cormane,” Hali exclaimed in a loud voice. “I come to you as an emissary of the Pearl Throne under the express orders of the Divine One, Torval Waverider, Lord of the Pearl Throne and the God Reborn, the God-Emperor of Sangrithar. I am Lord Warden Hali Halvyl.” He held high the baton of his office, a golden rod glittering with gems, “and you, sir, have been found derelict in your duty.”

The baron looked directly his way, ignoring dead countrymen and displaying not a whit of fear. Hali admired his courage. Not many men could stand so proudly after such a resounding defeat. “I admit to no such thing, Lord Warden. House Lessari has long served the Pearl Throne. I am a loyal subject of the God-Emperor, as are my wife, my children and my people. We would gladly follow his commands, were we capable.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Baron Xander. We may reach an accord after all. I had hoped that you’d be reasonable.” He looked about the courtyard at the dead and dying. “I would hope we can come to a fair agreement.”

“As do I.”

“We can take this inside if you’d like,” he offered.

“No need for that,” said the Baron. “My people have a right to listen.”

Most in the baron’s position would prefer having this conversation in more private quarters, but Lessari seemed determined to have it out here. That was the mark of a true leader – a man who had nothing to hide from his subjects, not even in defeat. “As you wish.”

Lessari continued confidently. “Our fields will yield more in years to come. These lands were quite fertile once and with proper care, will be again. In exchange for the God-Emperor’s patience and mercy, Cormane will give twice the normal tithe.”

“Twice you say?” Avashar pawed the ground with his hooves. Like him, the horse was restless.

“For the first five years, once we’re back on our feet.”

He admired the baron’s courage, but could never agree to such terms. The God-Emperor would find them completely unacceptable. “I was thinking of a more immediate arrangement. A thousand pieces of gold will earn the God-Emperor’s forgiveness.” A thousand gold pieces was a decade’s tithe for a barony this size.

The wizard bent over and whispered to the baron. He strained to listen, but the wizard warded them with a flick of the wrist. “What’s he saying?”

The baron mouthed a reply. Then the wizard moved his fingers in a practiced pattern. “— pardon, Lord Warden. This is my wizard, Estan Phaerizal, come to Cormane by way of Endiron.”

The wizard bowed respectfully. By all rights, the tall pointed cap should have fallen off but it did not. It was leather and covered by a thin sheet of silver stamped with runes. “My apologies, Lord Warden, for earlier. Fortunately, you look none the worse for it. What happens on the battlefield stays on the battlefield, does it not?”

“Absolutely, master wizard, yet who’s to say where one battlefield ends and another begins.” This Estan was no middling wizard. Red runes glowing faintly were inscribed on his high forehead and his eyes smoldered like charcoal.

The wizards of Endiron were said to be steadfast and loyal mercenaries, willing to obey anyone paying their wage. At the moment, this one wasn’t a threat and wouldn’t be, so long as he and Lessari kept parleying. If the baron refused his terms and it came to battle, then the wizard might be the most formidable foe. If it came to that, he’d attend to him personally. He’d slain many spellcasters in his day; once within Wavestriker’s reach, they were easy prey.

Lessari continued pleading his case. “Lord Warden, I swear by the Councilor, there aren’t a thousand gold pieces in all of Cormane!”

If it were up to him, he’d leave without a copper, but the compulsion would not let him. Torval’s orders had been explicit. A thousand gold pieces, not one less. “I can give you one day, Baron Xander. Tomorrow morning, under a flag of truce ride out with the tithe or my legions will tear down your keep.” Behind him, Ordalli chuckled. What a horrid man! On that point, he and Avery agreed. Ordalli’s promotion to Master Warden had been a mistake, but unavoidable. He wheeled Avashar to leave, but a shout from the baron drew him back.

“Wait, Lord Warden. Let’s finish this now. We cannot endure another night suffocated by your legions. I don’t have that much gold. Take a look around.” The baron waved. “Look at my keep. Look at the fields. Look at what remains after your legionnaires put them to the torch.”

Death and destruction lay in all directions, yet Lessari hadn’t given in to despair. He clung to hope, to the promise of a better tomorrow. His concern was for the men, women and children of Cormane. In the baron, Sangrithar’s nobility lived again. Hali could see it his stance and in his caring eyes. He could hear it in the baron’s voice. This man cared more for his people than power or wealth. If Torval had one tenth Lessari’s honor, he’d have followed him to the ends of the earth. Maybe this was a chance to make amends. The baron was not a wealthy man, but Hali was. He would pay the tithe in the baron’s behalf.

Discomfort grumbled in his stomach, followed by throbbing in his head as the compulsion woke. He cursed silently. He hadn’t thought of excusing Xander’s tithe, only subsidizing it. The compulsion ought to allow him that. “Perhaps –”

The pain grew intense. There was no escaping Ataryl’s potent magik. It could detect any false intent. He had been sent for many reasons, the least of which was to collect a tithe the God-Emperor did not need. His presence here was a message to nobles thinking the curse made the God-Emperor weak. Not all followed Count Auberc’s crowd of drunken sycophants. Some tired of the God-Emperor’s tyranny and shared Hali’s secret dream of Sangrithar born anew. For them, Torval had sent him to deliver Cormane a crushing defeat that would show the Pearl Throne’s long reach. Paying Lessari’s tithe would undermine the God-Emperor’s intent, which the compulsion could not abide. Ironically, had the compulsion not objected, he could have easily hidden it from the God-Emperor. His father had taught him how to shield his innermost thoughts from the throne.

His skull felt like it was splitting open. He struggled to remain in the saddle.

“Are you well, Lord Warden?” Lessari asked with genuine concern from the keep’s steps.

He couldn’t endure the pain a second longer and abandoned all thought of paying the tithe. The pain from the compulsion subsided, but did not fade entirely. “I am fine, baron, thank you.” He straightened. He wanted to help in some way. “Perhaps …”

“Yes?” the baron asked hopefully.

“Perhaps I can give you a bit more time… ” The compulsion nudged him and he grimaced.

“Lord Warden,” Ordalli said, “The God-Emperor’s terms were quite clear. You gave me the orders yourself. You are too generous. The infidels don’t deserve a single night.”

His head throbbed. Apparently, the compulsion agreed. If he wasn’t in such pain, and in the public eye, he’d have given the Master Warden a serious thrashing for questioning him, but the Baron’s courtyard was no place for that conversation.

Kaphiri turned towards the Master Warden. “Erlik’s Eye, Ordalli! Isn’t there a shred of decency in you?”

“I know my duty,” Ordalli said while staring steadfastly ahead. “Unlike some of us.”

“That’s enough, Master Warden!”

Kaphiri leaned over. “Don’t listen to him, Hali. You’re the Lord Warden. Do as your heart tells you.”

The compulsion reminded him of exactly who he was and changed his mind. Lessari needed more time than he could give. “Aye, Kaphiri. I am the Lord Warden.” he turned. “Baron Xander, I will return on the morrow. If you do not have the tithe, may the gods be with you.”

The baron’s young son dashed over before anyone could stop him and tugged on his leg. “Please help us, Lorwarrin. Father said you’re not a bad man.”

“Xan!” Nirani cried. “Come back here.”

He was ashamed to see her fear. He did not want it. He did not want to harm her or her son. He’d had a son once, and a wife. Halivan had been almost this age when he’d died. Halivan had pronounced it lorwarrin too and called Torval the goddemper. “What’s your name, son?”

“Xandrachaeus, sir.” The boy straightened when saying his name, proud like his father, but today’s horrors had taken their toll. Tears streamed down his face. “I’m hungry, Lorwarrin.”

The boy brought back happy memories of Cymara and Halivan. Those had been better days, for him and for Sangrithar, before Torval wed Celle, back when the curse was not yet strong. His wife and son had been dead for decades, but he’d never stopped mourning them, never opened his heart to another woman. These days few remembered he’d been married. Celle and Kaphiri did, the adjutant was forever reminding him that there were other women, but not Avery. Cymara died years before the High Warden was born. When it happened, he and Kaphiri wrote it up as an accident, a tragic accident. They’d known the truth, but without more proof than the scent of sandalwood, accusing the God-Emperor would have been pointless.

His eyes darted between Xandrachaeus and his father. They were so much alike. In the baron, he could see the man Xandrachaeus would grow into, given the chance, the chance Halivan never had. People like them were why he’d dedicated his life to Sangrithar. Within them was hope for the future and glory regained. Inherent goodness such as theirs was worth fighting for. One man like Xander Lessari was worth ten God-Emperors, one child like Xandrachaeus, a hundred.

Xandrachaeus reminded him so much of Halivan. Back then, life had been simpler. He’d known the difference between right from wrong. Since then, decades serving the God-Emperor and keeping the compulsion at bay had dulled his moral center. The compulsion demanded obedience to the God-Emperor and Torval cared only for promoting his own divinity. The people’s best interest never came into play. As Lord Warden, seeing the God-Emperor’s will carried out fell to him. Neither duty nor compulsion left him choice. Both demanded complete obedience, at least that’s what his father and centuries of tradition taught.

The boy’s smile renewed his faith in humanity. Not everyone was as corrupt as Tintammil’s drunken nobles. The people from Cormane were cut from different cloth. A hard-working folk, they fell into this state through no fault of their own and didn’t deserve this treatment from the God-Emperor. The tithe meant nothing to Torval. This entire campaign was purely a show of power. But, as much as he’d like to blame it all on Torval, Hali couldn’t excuse his own part in the sordid affair. By his order, Ordalli trampled the town. By his order, Ordalli set torch to the fields. By his order, Ordalli slaughtered hundreds of Cormaners.

The compulsion drove him to do it, but only because he was a coward. He’d done what the God-Emperor asked, not because it was right, but to avoid the pain. Under his command, legions had charged into too many battles carrying banners with the Eye of Sangrithar trumpeting the God-Emperor’s divine sovereignty. Cormane was only the most recent example. He’d done this hundreds of times, always knowing it was wrong. It wasn’t his fault, he told himself. It’s the job. This is what Lord Wardens do. The compulsion offers no choice. All this and more, he’d said to himself, but his words offered little comfort. Deep down, he always knew the truth. He was a coward. The compulsion, the Lord Warden’s baton, the duties of his office, none of those excused his behavior, though many saw it that way. Solare burn him, they cheered him in the capitol!

He learned to live with cowardice, becoming resigned to living out his days as a hollow man. For years, he enforced the commands of his mad master. Troubled dreams haunted him, but he slept knowing that his actions kept some from the slaughter. Now though, under Xandrachaeus’s unwavering smile, he couldn’t outrun his shame.

The boy didn’t know him for the villain he was. In his innocent eyes, Hali had come to Cormane to help him and his family. He couldn’t betray that innocence. To do so would be to betray Halivan. His son would want him to help Xandrachaeus. Coming to a decision, he drew a deep breath. He would help the baron, no matter how much it hurt. It was the right thing to do, for Xandrachaeus, for Halivan and for Sangrithar.

A weight lifted from his shoulders. Avashar snorted, as if sensing a change. He held his head high for the first time in years, not caring if the compulsion laid him low. He clung to his resolve, drawing upon Halivan’s memory for strength. His heart started beating faster in anticipation of the inevitable pain, but there was none. An eternity passed in an instant, and still the compulsion lay dormant. He could feel it lurking inside, waiting for the first sign of betrayal, but it didn’t react to his decision. In a flash he understood.

The compulsion didn’t demand obedience to the God-Emperor after all! Ataryl didn’t set the compulsion upon his sons so that one would serve the other. He did it to protect the people of Sangrithar. Ataryl’s intent in dividing power between God-Emperor and Lord Warden was to create checks and balances that kept the Pearl Throne free of corruption. Now Hali realized that the compulsion did not bind him to Torval. It bound him to the people. The God-Emperor was only a surrogate for the compulsion’s true intent. Time had led the Lord Wardens astray.

Before Arvyl led the legions east, serving the God-Emperor and serving the people had been one in the same. The God-Emperors ruled well, the people prospered and the compulsion slept. By the time the madness came, centuries of willing service had dulled Ataryl’s intent. Instead of serving the people, the Lord Wardens served the man sitting upon the throne.

Xandrachaeus’s smile made this all clear to him in an instant. Everything he’d learned was a lie. The boy’s smile freed him to see the truth. He’d always thought the lesson from Halivan and Cymara’s murders was to see the God-Emperor’s will done lest more innocents fall victim, but now he saw that this was his cowardice. Standing up to the God-Emperor, protecting the people from his excesses was the true lesson, one which eluded him too long. The boy’s smile burned away the haze clouding his mind, clearing his thoughts for the first time in years.

He would free Baron Xander from the tithe, just as Ataryl would have wanted. He would still serve Sangrithar, but would no longer obey the God-Emperor’s unjust commands. The compulsion had not left him. He could feel it still, inside him, and it was content. He had no pain. Solare burn him, he was free! Torval was no longer his master. He wondered if the God-Emperor had sensed the change.

He smiled back. “I’m here to help, Xandrachaeus. Kaphiri, see that food is brought. Baron, come here, please. ”

Lessari seemed unsure.

“S’okay, Daddy. The lorwarrin’s nice.”

Xander closed the gap in a few long strides and picked up his son.

He drew his sword and raised it high for all to see. “By the power vested in me by Torval Waverider, the God-Emperor of Sangrithar and Lord of the Pearl Throne, I, Hali Halvyl, Lord Warden, do hereby declare your tithe forgiven.” The pain did not return. If Cymara was watching from the Blessed Kingdom, she would be smiling.

“Lord Warden!” Ordalli’s hand moved to his sword.

“Stand down, Master Warden,” he ordered. “I am your commanding officer.”

“Not for long,” Ordali muttered. Anyone with any intelligence would have kept that to himself, but Ordalli was living proof that loyalty to the throne bordering on fanaticism was no prerequisite to officer effectiveness. He would talk to Avery upon their return to Sangrithar about a suitable punishment. Since Ordalli was an infantry officer, disciplining him was Avery’s responsibility.

“What’s going on?” Kaphiri asked after shooting Ordalli a dirty look. He knew the agony Hali endured when defying the God-Emperor.

“Later,” he said under his breath.

“Thank you, Lord Warden,” Xander smiled. “I owe you a debt I can never repay. Whatever you need, just ask and it shall be yours.”

“Only one thing. Take good care of this one,” He patted Xandrachaeus. “Treasure your family. In the end, they’re all you have.”

Next Chapter: Chapter 2 - Homecoming