Fallen Empire Read online

  Fallen Empire

  Keith McArdle

  Contents

  Map of the World

  Death and Decay

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  Besieged

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  Against All Odds

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Novels by Keith McArdle

  Map of the World

  Part I

  Death and Decay

  I

  King George, ruler of the kingdom of Wendurlund stood at one of the huge windows facing east, hands clasped behind his back.

  “Lisfort is beautiful this time of morning.”

  Jad, the king’s most senior adviser, untied the leather bound scroll and unrolled it. “It is, sire.” He ironed the paper flat with his palms.

  The monarch glanced at him, the rising sun painting the skin of his face a deep orange. “Anything of interest there for me, Jad?”

  Boring as dog shit. Not a skerrick of anything interesting really.

  “Not a lot, my lord, no. Only one item that’s noteworthy. Reports suggest an altercation occurred overnight at one of the taverns, involving the foresters. But, the foresters have returned to town. The lopping season is at an end.” He spread his hands. “It’s to be expected.”

  “Any of them known to the Watch?”

  “Yes, my lord. One forester by the name of Brokk. He was causing trouble last season as well.”

  “Have the Watch find him, put him on trial and if he’s found guilty, hang him from the balcony of the city hall. You shall run the trial, Jad.”

  “Yes sire.”

  “Is that all you have for me?”

  Jad removed his hands from the scroll, allowing it to roll itself back into its original shape. He tied the leather thong in place. “Yes, sire. An uneventful evening.”

  He stood, but paused. “Sire?”

  King George looked at him, eyebrows rising to meet his hairline. “What is it, Jad?”

  “Sire.” Jad pursed his lips. “Following our discussion yesterday, do you think it prudent to have a highlander sent on such a high profile mission?”

  “You have doubts?”

  The king gestured at the chair behind him. Jad sat again. “Sire, he’s not a professional soldier, and to put it bluntly, he’s not of Wendurlund stock. He’s highland born, a man of Shadolia, a kingdom which has, in the past, been at war with us.”

  King George sat beside him. “He is all you say, Jad. But he is an assassin and one that comes very highly recommended. If someone is going to creep into the heart of the enemy stronghold to free my son and bring him safely home, then it is a man whose profession is to carry out a task undetected.”

  “I understand, sire. However, the soldiers of your King’s Own are the finest warriors in this world. Can one of their subunits be tasked?”

  “No Jad, my household troops are, as you say, very skilled, but even they couldn’t go undetected into the heart of the Huronian capital.”

  “With all respect due, I think you underestimate them, my liege.”

  “One assassin is more difficult to trace than five King’s Own soldiers. And as you said, Vyder Ironstone is a Shadolian Highlander.”

  Jad’s eyebrows drew together. “I don’t take your meaning, sire.”

  “The highlanders are a warrior race. They are born to fight. Their children bred to the sword and spear not long after they can walk. I’ve not ever seen a highlander who was a coward. My mind is made, Jad. Vyder Ironstone is the man for this mission.”

  “Aye, my lord. And if he fails?”

  “I’ll tell you what I told the highlander when I tasked him with the mission. If he fails, I invade Huron, burn their kingdom to the ground and take my son back by force.”

  * * *

  “We got unfinished business, Shadolian.” Brokk’s lips peeled apart to reveal yellowed teeth.

  Vyder Ironstone seemed unconcerned, returning the man’s glare. “Aye.” The assassin smiled. He dismounted, tying Storm to a lemon tree growing near the house. He stroked her neck, talking gently to the horse before turning back to Brokk. “We do.”

  There were about fifteen men stood before him, all foresters judging by their garb. And as at the tavern, Brokk appeared to be the leader of the group. Three at the rear looked nervous, constantly licking their lips, eyes wide. The others seemed grim and determined, but the two closest to Brokk were killers. He could see it in their eyes. They were the ones to drop first if the fight became out of hand.

  Brokk reached down to his belt, his fingers curling around the haft of a knife. He drew the blade. “Knives only.”

  Vyder left his shield, blunderbuss, and sword on the ground near Storm before unsheathing his knife. Grinning, he advanced towards the foresters. They were all armed.

  Watching the group, the highlander approached slowly. One of the assailants mistook his hesitance for fear and darted forward, feigning a blow, hoping it would scare the Shadolian. But before he could withdraw to the safety of his comrades, Vyder had a hold of his shirt. Pulling the forester to him, he slashed open the man’s throat and threw him to the cobbled road before him.

  “Careful, lads,” muttered Brokk. “This one’s dangerous.”

  Within moments, the man’s gurgling breaths were rendered silent as the last of his life-blood glistened upon the cobbled road.

  Vyder held his hands out. “We can re-schedule? I am rather busy at the moment. What say you?”

  Another two ran forward, one either side of him. He kicked the knee out from the one on the right and blocked a blow from the forester on the left. Twisting the man’s arm savagely, he allowed his opponent’s knife to clatter uselessly upon the ground. Kicking the weapon behind him, Vyder slammed his knife deep into the man’s back, then pushed him towards the diminishing group of foresters from which he charged.

  The forester with the wounded knee remained on the ground, holding his leg and howling like a hurt animal.

  Vyder smiled at the injured man. “Keep your teeth together. It isn’t that bad, surely?”

  The group charged towards him as one. Vyder had expected the move but hoped honour might have prevailed. He should have known better.

  Slamming an elbow into another man’s face, the highlander backed away. Blocking a blow, he disarmed another before slamming his knife deep into his bowels, leaving the forester screaming and writhing upon the street, dying, clothes wet with his own blood and shit.

  “Oh, that truly is terrible.” Vyder retreated from the dying man as the stink of his open bowels washed over the area.

  Punching a man in the face, the assassin was barely fast enough to stop a blade slashing open his throat. He was outnumbered and there was a real threat of death. He continued to block, parry, stab, and slash, all the while taking slow steps backwards towards his blunderbuss. If only he could reach the weapon, he would end the fight within moments. Honour had failed. Although Brokk had suggested knives were the only weapons to be used, Vyder also assumed the fight would be one-on-one.

  Never assume! He slammed an open palm into an assailant’s throat, simultaneously slashing his knife across another forester’s face, the blade biting to the bone. The man dropped his weapon and ran away from the fight, clasping both hands to his face, blood streaming between his fingers.

  Slowly, blow-by-blow, Vyder was winning. He knew it, and they knew it. Outnumbered as he was, those arrayed against the assassin were dwindling with each passing moment. A dying forester left upon the cold cobbled str
eet, another fleeing in terror with some minor wound, which undoubtedly, would claim his life in the coming weeks as infection set in. Several more backing away, uninjured, but losing the will to fight, their bowels turning to water. Each tiny victory edged the highlander to triumph.

  Brokk’s eyes narrowed, one side of his mouth curling upward in a sneer. He dropped his blade and withdrew a small pistol tucked into the belt at the small of his back. Vyder didn’t see the move until too late.

  “Coward!” Vyder bellowed.

  Fear curled its long, sticky fingers around his gut. He ran straight for Brokk, fast as his legs could carry him. The gunshot was deafening. Vyder wasn’t fast enough to dodge the small, round piece of lead that lodged in his guts. He almost dropped his knife as pain washed over him. The foresters moved in as one.

  The first knife plunged into his shoulder. Roaring, the Shadolian slammed his knife deep into his attacker’s abdomen, lifting the man from his feet. Two more foresters died before another knife slid between Vyder’s ribs, agony spreading across his chest like a wave. He coughed blood, blocked a knife thrust that would have ended him instantly, then sent another attacker upon the road to death. Three remained standing, but with weakness enveloping him, the highlander knew he had no way to beat them.

  Vyder spat blood upon the street, then grinned, his teeth stained red. “It seems you win, Brokk.”

  “That’s right, you piece of shit. Best served cold as they say,” replied the forester, still holding the smoking pistol.

  Brokk was about to mutter something else as he gloated in his victory but didn’t have a chance as Vyder lunged for him. The forester’s eyebrows ascended, his mouth dropped open, and before he could react, Brokk had been dragged into a sickening head-butt, which smashed his nose. Clamping a broad hand around Brokk’s throat, Vyder held him at arm’s length before hammering his knife into the man’s midriff. Brokk’s eyes widened in surprise and pain but lost the light of life as Vyder cut his abdomen open, the blade grinding to a halt against the lowest rib. The highlander kicked the man from his blade, but wasn’t fast enough to block the remaining attackers. Knives plunged into his back, chest, neck, and stomach.

  The remaining foresters fled before Vyder hit the ground. Agony swept his being. Blood oozed from multiple wounds. Each racking cough filled his mouth with the acrid taste of blood.

  I’m dying. Keeping a firm grip upon his dagger, he attempted to push himself into a kneeling position, but there was no power left in his arms. Resting his cheek upon the cold, cobbled street, Vyder’s eyes slowly closed and blackness took him.

  * * *

  Drying the utensils Miriam had used to cook dinner, she placed them away, then wiped a kitchen counter down, ensuring it was spotless. Vyder had departed on his mission and would be absent for some months. Miriam had been Vyder’s slave for near ten years.

  He’d always treated her with respect, in fact she often berated him like an unruly son, as he was young enough to be so. Slaves were murdered by their masters for far less on a daily basis. Miriam knew she would always be safe as long as she lived under Vyder’s roof. She would want for nothing and never again would she be hurt or violated.

  The sharp retort of a gunshot snapped Miriam out of her reverie. The sound issued from outside the front of the house. Panic crept through her as she rushed to the main entrance.

  Swinging the mighty door open, she took in the scene. Bodies lay strewn across the street, the cobblestones slick with blood. Vyder was lying face down. At least his chest was rising and falling. She screamed and flew down the front steps towards her master. His horse nearby, and his blunderbuss on the ground near the animal, she picked up the heavy weapon. Running after the several fleeing aggressors, she shrieked and fired from the hip. The hammer clunked onto the flash pan. The mighty weapon roared, smoke and sparks blasting from the muzzle.

  Most of the shot missed their target, but one tiny round ricocheted off the street and lodged itself into a man’s right arse cheek. He wailed in pain, holding a hand to the wound limped away, casting a fear-filled glance over his shoulder. Miriam allowed the weapon to fall from numb fingers. Turning back to Vyder, she knelt by him and a passed a hand through his hair.

  “You’re going to be fine,” she whispered, holding back a sob. He was critically injured. Using all her strength, she rolled the assassin onto his back. He grunted, jaw clenched, eyes tight shut.

  Miriam sat back on her haunches, holding a hand over her mouth, tears filling her eyes. Blood oozed from the corner of his mouth. He looked at Miriam through half-closed eyes and tried to smile but, instead, winced in pain.

  “Shhh,” said Miriam, clasping one of his hands and squeezing. He was going to die. She knew it. “I’m going to get a doctor.”

  “Miriam,” whispered Vyder, a racking cough silenced him, blood flowing over his chin and down his neck. “I’m…dying, lass, too…late.”

  “It’s never too late,” she said, a fierce determination glinting through teary eyes. “You told me that yourself!”

  Giving his hand one last squeeze, she stood and ran to the closest mansion. Slipping on the cobbles slick with blood, she righted herself and ran on. Slaves weren’t usually allowed out past sundown, and if they were, should never be unaccompanied by their master. Certain death would be the result if a slave was found to be in breach of the law. Miriam was willing to take the risk. Vyder’s life depended upon it. The wrought iron gate leading into the beautifully tended garden, creaked open. She walked along the smooth, tiled footpath leading to the mansion’s front door and padded up several steps. Breathless, she hammered open palms against the oak.

  Creaking the door open a crack, a young woman stared out at her. “What is it?” the woman asked, looking Miriam up and down.

  “My master—” began Miriam.

  “This better be a bloody good reason!” came a stern voice from behind the young woman. With a soft groan, the door opened wide and the master of the house stood glowering at Miriam. “Run along,” he commanded the young woman, who promptly departed with half a curtsey. As long as she had known Vyder, he hadn’t expected any such formality as a curtsey, bow, or any other such acknowledgement of his authority.

  “What the bloody hell are you doing out by yourself?”

  “My master, he’s been stabbed—”

  “You know the law don’t you?” the man interrupted.

  “Of course, sir, yes, but I am desperate!” Miriam pleaded.

  “What has happened?” the man asked in a bored tone.

  If you’ll let me finish my sentence I’ll tell you! Miriam was careful to keep her face neutral.

  “My master has been stabbed and shot, he’s dying, sir! I need help, do you know of a doctor in the area?”

  “Stabbed.” Suspicion entered his eyes. “Shot you say?” he asked, looking at Miriam with doubt.

  “Yes, sir, please help!”

  “You had nothing to do with his…affliction?” he asked, looking down his nose at Miriam.

  “What? No!”

  “Who’s your master?”

  She explained quickly.

  “Uh,” he muttered, distaste clear in his voice. “The highlander?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer gentleman. Can’t help you I’m afraid.” He sneered, slamming the door in Miriam’s face.

  She stood frozen for a moment, eyes wide, jaw clenched and knuckles whitening as her fists tightened.

  “My master is dying!” she shouted at the door.

  Gathering her skirt and hitching it away from the ground to prevent her from tripping, she tapped down the few steps, ran out along the footpath and slammed the iron gate closed behind her. Miriam ran along he cobbled street to the next mansion, some three storeys tall. A marble fence at chest height denoted the boundary of the property. She opened the thick, wooden gate, negotiated around a small bathing pool, ran along the footpath and slammed her
hands onto the mighty front door, trying to regain her breath. She battered on the thick wood, her fists red and painful. There was no answer. Miriam pushed herself into a standing position, clenched her teeth, and slammed her hand against the door.

  She took a deep breath. “Open up! Open up now!”

  There was a click, and the door inched open to reveal the frightened eyes of a servant. Miriam barged through the door, forcing the man to stumble backward.

  “Fetch your master,” she said, standing before the tall, wiry man.

  “And just who do you think you are?” the words might have been challenging had they been spoken with more confidence, but the fear hadn’t left the servant’s eyes.

  Miriam took a step forward, fists clenched. “I said fetch your master. Now!”

  “But of course, ma’am. But of course.” He bowed once and fled the foyer.

  Please don’t die, Vyder. She placed her face in her hands. What were you bloody thinking?

  Standing tall, she wiped the tears from her eyes, took a breath, and let it out slowly.

  The dull thud of footsteps approached. “What is the meaning of this?” The voice was muffled.

  The foyer’s far door swung open and a large man waddled in. “I say, you there!” the massive man stopped, wheezing for breath. He appraised Miriam with an incredulous look. “Just what in hell are you doing out and about after curfew, and without your master at that?”

  The rotund man turned to his servant. “Did you not realise she’s a slave, you idiot?” He punched his servant in the face. “Away with you!”

  The male slave scuttled from the room, holding a hand to his bleeding nose.

  “What do you want?” he approached her.

  She wiped clammy palms against her skirt and ignored the thundering of her heart. Miriam stood as tall as she could and maintained a look of calm. “I come on behalf of my master, sir.”

  His lip curled. “I did not ask on whose behalf you served. Are you fucking deaf as well as stupid?”

  I’ve forgotten how cruel the ruling class truly are. Vyder has spoiled me all these years. She held back tears.