Interlude - Birthright of Dominance

Empress Valamyra Blackwarden is expecting company. Can her ever-charming niece, a notorious antipaladin of Tasselisse, cut through the red tape to deliver her very special guest?

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Interlude - Birthright of Dominance
© Copyright 2012 to 2015 C. H. Watson. All rights reserved.


Sheets of rain were scouring the streets and rooves of Vorlis as throngs of workers, guards, clerics, and noblemen hurried from place to place in the Ulon Empire's busy port city. It was an early Semdi morning in the middle of Castarc, the last day before the weekend; and one and all were eager to transact their business and get back to the dryness of their hovels, houses, mansions, rectories, and barracks. Vorlis was among the northernmost of Western Vocce's ports of call and bore the distinction of hosting the Imperial War Council Sanctum, a massive stone edifice in which the course of the Ulon Empire's war effort was plotted. The Vorlis shipyard was busily constructing a dozen or more ships from the size of medium transports to the mightiest of Ulonese warships. Away from the shipyards, the business of providing the city with goods and services was booming through the cobblestone streets, alley markets, granaries, forges, shops, and the multitudinous exchanges through which the lifeblood of imperial prosperity and privilege flowed.

Though few of the city's denizens knew it, they had royal company. Braving the rain, agents of Empress Valamyra Blackwarden were combing the shops for flowers, delicacies, jewelry, clothing, and all manner of luxuries befitting the sovereign of a mighty empire. Away from the shops, a host of less visible agents coursed. Spies, rogues, observers, rascals, and scouts in the service of the empress were busy bribing, coercing, murdering, and impersonating the dark elements of the city that might be of any interest in the course of providing security for the highest of Ulonese aristocrats.

Within the War Council Sanctum, not a single chair was empty and not a bit of floor space was unoccupied by guards, mercenaries, and retainers. A clamor rose throughout the place as countless dignitaries, functionaries, servitors, vassals, and scribes nervously chattered as they awaited the appearance of the imperial personage herself, Valamyra Blackwarden, Empress of Ulon, Vocce, and Skur. Rows upon rows of richly attired nobles, clerics, and officials filled out the various sections of the building's reception hall; and Ulonese flags, crests, and devices of all stripes were arrayed above the various political camps that were all collected to hear the empress' speech on the state of the empire and the war effort. Driving rain battered the high, ornate glass windows; but the courtiers drowned out the sound with the nervous parlance of their ceaseless sycophancy, each hearing only what he or she thought would be useful to their social positions. After what seemed an interminably dull and awkward span of time, a dozen bards entered the hall and began playing the imperial anthem, Birthright of Dominance, as the din of the collected officials changed to a titillated hush.

As the music reached its crescendo, the ornately painted, lacquered northern wall of the audience chamber began to retract in sections, one sliding behind the next. In a symmetrical fashion, the entire wall disappeared behind the great curtains that diapered the imperial stage. From the darkling chamber beyond, a thin mist began to roil out over
the polished stone floor and into the front rows of the audience. A moment later, carried by a dozen naked slaves, the royal litter emerged. As long as a small carriage and as wide as a pair of warhorses, the empress' sedan chair drifted over the stage and stopped beside the prominent dais. Rows of imperial arbalesters and battlemasters filed in behind the royal presence while trumpets blared and the thunder of drums shook the hall. In the royal booths overhead, the empress' closest family and retainers looked on over the spectacle with downcast eyes. The audience drew a collective breath as the polished hardwood door of the litter was opened by a Voccan functionary dressed in yellow and gold.

The crowd burst into a standing ovation as Empress Valamyra Blackwarden, ruler of the Ulon Empire, stepped out and took her place upon the golden dais. The young autocrat was a transcendently beautiful, petite young woman with light brown hair, green eyes, and the medium bronze complexion of a purebred Voccan. Every inch of her trim body was bedecked in silk, velvet, lace, and jewels that hung from her like sivrines upon a ladened tree. With perfect grace, she raised her head and spread her arms out before her, palms up. At the sight of their ruler in her glory, the audience roared with ardor that was a mixture of pride, zeal, and fear. Not a single member of the audience dared remain still. Valamyra Blackwarden scanned the faces of her subjects, scrutinizing them as they ejaculated patriotically and beat the air with their fists. Dropping her hands suddenly, the audience was stricken dumb and a pregnant silence gripped the room.

“Subjects of the Ulon Empire! Scions of the great houses of Vocce and Ulon! Loyal servants, behold your empress!” began the diminutive monarch. The hall once again erupted with the voices of a thousand worshipful subjects. A moment later, the empress raised her hand and the voices fell as quickly as they had risen.

“It is a glorious time in the life of the empire! The majesty of our culture has spread to the far corners of the world, and all who behold us cry out to join us in our grandeur!” continued Empress Blackwarden. After another round of applause, she raised her head high and said with dreadful solemnity, “But not all desire peace! There are those who witness our splendor and feel only jealousy and hatred! I speak of the treacherous Ventrisians from across the sea and the Tunglenese mongrels upon the shores of Tyrivene. They would destroy our achievements, steal our birthright, and defile the shrines of our beloved Kolus and Kultrus! It shall not be permitted! We will dash their hopes and throttle their ambitions with the might of righteousness!” With this, the audience went wild with scarcely suppressed animus. Valamyra allowed her audience to channel their hatred as she bowed her head slightly, the long-suffering leader who bravely bears the burden of a feral and unreasoning foe.

* * *

Endless ranks of towering waves were smashing into the Vorlis docks as a heavy rain drove across the piers and shipyards of the Ulon Empire's prized port city. Dockhands raced about the rain-slick wooden platforms, readying the way for the Sarxol clipper ship that was sailing out of the vastness of the western ocean. A detachment of clerics and soldiers stood motionless at the margins of the dock, watching intently as the sailing ship, Eastern Thunder, pulled in to its dock. Longshoremen were lashing lines to cleats and securing the boat dockside as her crew struck sails and secured the deck above. After several minutes of such labor, the crew got the plank over and secured it to the pier.

The restless guards that were accompanying the clerics of Kolus shifted soggily in their boots as they waited for any sign of action. The priests were dressed in massive, hooded greatcoats and seemed untroubled by the downpour. Upon their chests, the golden symbol of Kolus, the koluform, served as a reminder of their membership in the Ulon Empire's dominant religion. Watching like owls over a strawberry patch, the sharp-eyed churchmen finally caught sight of their mark. Down the gangplank, an escort was leading a young woman who was entirely covered by a wide, waxed parasol held by her retainer. Giving a signal, the leader of the Kolus contingent advanced to the base of the plank and announced a halt to the escort's procession.

“Halt at once!” barked the leader, a stout man with a cloudy eye. “I am High Rector Wullgren, and by the authority vested in me by the Temple of Kolus, I must place your ladyship under arrest.”

The bodyguard that escorted the young woman was comprised of six Sarxol men-at-arms whose hands had strayed to their swords as they scowled under their rain-soaked cloaks. A tense moment passed between the two parties as the waves crashed behind them and the rain scoured the docks like sling bullets. The men on the docks scattered at the sight of the impending battle, ducking behind crates, cargo, and whatever else they could find. The clerics of Kolus and their guards were ready for a fight, each well armed with sword and spell; but suddenly a delicate laugh broke forth from the noblewoman under the parasol. “Even a jail cell would be better than that damned tub! Very well, lead me off; but I must warn you that I am not here unbidden,” said the woman, who threw back the hood of her cloak with a flourish. The mysterious lady was none other than Empress Liaszandra Raidan of the Sarxol Empire!

As the clerics of Kolus prepared to take possession of the empress, they heard the sound of steel sollerets upon wet planks. Turning to look, they saw a column of black knights advancing upon them. Wullgren recognized them instantly as Valamyra Blackwarden's own elite guard, the Knights of the Temple at Heron Lake. Furrowing his brow, he turned from the foreign empress and faced the black, metal-clad warriors. Leading the knights was a commander of slight stature who walked with a distinctly feminine gait.

When the column of armored soldiers drew near, the leader called out to her men to halt. Throwing open her ornate visor, the face of Princess Gerda Blackwarden, niece of Valamyra Blackwarden, was revealed. High Rector Wullgren was taken aback by the appearance of such a highly placed noble. Bowing low, he saluted Gerda Blackwarden and said, “Your grace, we did not expect the appearance of one of such high station.”

The young Blackwarden chuckled darkly for a moment. “Of course you didn't. Now you will pay for your ignorance." As Gerda drew her greatsword, the blade known as Red Firmament, her fellow antipaladins followed suit; and the clerics of Kolus began shouting their protests and holding aloft their holy symbols, though it availed them not. Advancing like a thresher, Gerda's knights scythed through the shrieking holy men and their bodyguard, cutting them to tatters and spilling their bright blood upon the docks. Gerda took delight in gutting and decapitating them, sending great gouts of gore toward the sky as Empress Raidan watched with a wry grin. When the bloody work was done, Gerda sauntered up to the Sarxol blue blood and looked her over with a delicately monstrous frown. “So you're the one who has come across the sea to be with my Aunt Valamyra. We ride to the War Council Sanctum,” quoth the antipaladin, shutting her visor and turning away. The clatter of hooves broke through the rain as servants led a dozen war horses in barding and a small carriage to the scene of the bloody slaughter. The black knights mounted their horses as Liaszandra Raidan climbed alone into the carriage. Cowering longshoremen watched as the grim procession rode away from the docks and into the heart of the city of Vorlis.

* * *

As Valamyra Blackwarden addressed her subjects from atop a dais in the Imperial War Council Sanctum, the highest echelons of society were collected within the opulently decorated military building. In the royal boxes above the crowd sat Prince Halftun Blackwarden, the empress' nephew, who was so tall and heavy that no horse could bear him. Allegedly the son of a half-giant, Halftun was as thick as a millstone. His huge arms were banded with muscles of iron, the result of years of wielding his thirty pound greatclub, Yardarm. With a somewhat dull look on his cruel face, he grudgingly regarded his aunt as she issued what seemed to him an interminable procession of tiresome platitudes. Seated next to the prince was Agatha Hollowgrave, the ancient dame who had joined the empress as an advisor because of her uncanny ability to wind and snap the threads of magic. Agatha wore a mask of fine porcelain and a kimono bedecked with eldritch and disturbing imagery. Upon her lap rested Snowfeather, an owl that was her oldest and closest friend. With a withered hand, Agatha petted the bird and whispered occasionally into its feathery ear.

The lower aisles of the Sanctum hosted mainly aristocrats, rich merchants, and military leaders from all corners of the empire. In the front row sat Rendel Hazelrigg, Lord Executor of the War Council. Rendel was a man of medium stature, salt-and-pepper hair, and the determined look of one who has mastered his own will. Lean muscles filled out his uniform, and a seemingly endless array of magical items adorned every part of him. He regarded the empress with a serious and unbroken gaze as she spoke of the Ulon Empire's war effort. For long, he had been her political opponent; and a great risk he had taken in asserting himself against the will of the crown. Had it not been for his undeniably masterful military tactics and insights, he was sure he would have been deposed or murdered long ago.

At Hazelrigg's side was Sazsha Withermar, the Provincial Governor of Southern Vocce. A consummate aristocrat, Lady Withermar had for years occupied the gubernatorial seat in Wintergarden. Active in the Temple of Kolus from an early age, Saszha had learned that prosperity was the birthright of aristocrats who worshiped powerful gods. Tall and lithe with dark brown hair, brown eyes, and delicate bronze skin, Saszha was a true Voccan. Though relatively young and undeniably beautiful, a shadow had come over her complexion in her later years, and no magic nor potion could remedy it. Though she appeared almost gaunt and her eyes were a shade darker, she moved freely and effortlessly; and she was counted, despite her wasting sickness, as one of the great beauties of the Ulon Empire. Watching the empress intently, she contemplated the timing of such a regal visitation.

Upon the stage, Valamyra continued her speech. “Though they are weaklings, the enemies of the Ulon Empire are tenacious. Many slain children and priests attest to the monstrous evil of the empire's enemies. Across Skur, the Etrysian spies slaughtered the settlers and pilgrims of that land as they toiled to secure its bounty for its rightful owners,” she told the crowd, raising a finger to her delicately painted eye and blinking woefully. “Further, I have just learned that while harrying the farmers of Witchton, the cruel cat's paws of the enemy tortured and slew the honorable Judge Sedgewick, a loyal servant of Kolus and a friend to all,” declared the empress, and the collected men and women gasped and wrang their hands. Audible sobs could be heard from the crowd, and the empress paused for a moment to let the point marinate. “Yes, my friends, the enemies of the Ulon Empire are desperate. With each new atrocity, they reveal the divine right from which our authority springs. Together, we will bring ruin to them and their barbarous kind. For justice! For the Ulon Empire!” shouted the empress with her full voice. The crowd spasmed and lurched, standing erect and crying out to the gods that they would serve the Blackwarden Dynasty and the Ulon Empire with the last shred of their strength. For many minutes they were lost in a reverie of fevered patriotism, until suddenly the great doors of the War Council building were thrown open. Turning as one, the crowd beheld a column of black knights marching into the Sanctum. In their midst was the resplendent Liaszandra Raidan, and in her hands was an ornate coffer of the finest Etrysian craftsmanship.

Every head turned as Princess Gerda Blackwarden led her armored soldiers and Empress
Raidan up the aisle towards the stage. The hall rang with metal on stone as the feet of the antipaladins of Tasselisse approached the dais upon which Empress Blackwarden stood. Mounting the stage, Gerda led Liaszandra before the imperial personage. All the collected nobles and officials of Vorlis looked on with amazement as Empress Raidan bowed low before their empress. With a gesture, Valamyra bade Liaszandra to speak; and the Etrysian aristocrat turned, coffer in hand, looking out upon the crowd from her place beside the scion of the Blackwarden Dynasty.

“My lords and ladies, I am Liaszandra Raidan of Sarxolnavok in far away Etrysus,” she began. “In my land, an ancient oracle once spoke of a time in which the New Empire would be united. For centuries we sought the meaning of these words in vain. In time, we found that the answer did not lie on Etrysus, but upon Tyrivene!”

The crowd was dumbstruck as the foreigner spoke. Few of them had ever seen an Etrysian noble, and none had imagined that the archon of an empire halfway around the world would deliver herself freely unto the Ulon Empire. With baited breath, they waited upon each word as a revelation, looking occasionally amongst one another for reassurance.

With her hands clutching both sides of the coffer that she carried, Liaszandra resumed her address to the crowd. “When I saw the cruelty of the Ventrisians, the Curalaryns and the Xoannaians upon my homeland, I knew that I must appeal to one with the strength to face true evil. Having sent out my ambassadors, I scarcely suspected that they would return to me with news of a true savior; but return they did, and with word of a dynasty of such majesty that hope might be restored to the world of civilized men! Here beside me stands that hope! My prayers to Kolus are answered! And now it is my greatest honor and privilege to present the token of the Sarxol Empire's fealty to the Ulon Empire!” quoth Empress Raidan. Turning to Valamyra, she curtseyed humbly and with her small hand opened the mysterious coffer box. Drawing forth a chain, she lifted out an amulet that drew a gasp from the collected Ulonese. Attached at the wrist to a platinum braid of seemingly infinite complexity was the hand of an infant child clasped around an egg-sized jewel of peerless clarity. This was the Hand of Prophecy that had long been foretold; and though it had been severed, the flesh showed no trace of decay.

With a demure gesture, Empress Liaszandra Raidan placed the amulet upon the slender neck of Empress Valamyra Blackwarden, ruler of Ulon, Vocce, and Skur. Then Valamyra turned to the crowd and raised her hands, the amulet glowing like a sun upon her. As they beheld the talisman upon their glorious empress, the crowd roared with approval; and Valamyra gloated in her heart that she had become the mistress of the world's destiny. A change had come over the Voccan empress, though the crowd saw it not; for the Hand of Prophecy was a magical artifact of great power, and only the most sagacious could plumb the depths of its profundity.