A Shattered Empire Read online

  MAP

  Maps designed by Maxime Plasse

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  CALDAN, an orphan and an apprentice sorcerer in the Protectors

  MIRANDA, an entrepreneur and ex-sailor

  AMERDAN LEPHAR, a shopkeeper

  VASILE LAURIS, a magistrate, once head investigator for the Chancellor’s Guard

  ELPIDIA, a physiker

  IZAK FOURIE, a noble

  LADY FELICIENNE SHYRISE (FELICE), Third Adjudicator to the emperor

  THE PROTECTORS AND THE SORCERERS’ GUILD

  SIMMON, a master, Caldan’s mentor

  ANNELIE, a master

  MOLD, a master

  FIVE OCEANS MERCANTILE CONCERN

  GAZIJA, the First Deliverer

  SAVINE KHEDEVIS, a head trader

  LUPHILDERN QUISS, a head trader

  MAZOET MIANGLINE, a sorcerer

  REBECCI WALRAFFEN, a sorcerer

  LADY CAITLYN’S BAND

  LADY CAITLYN, a noble crusader

  AIDAN, Caitlyn’s second-in-command

  CHALAYAN, a tribal sorcerer

  ANSHUL CEL RAU, a swordsman from the Steppes

  INDRYALLANS

  KELHAK, God-Emperor of Indryalla

  BELLS, a sorcerer

  CONTENTS

  MAP

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  AFTERMATH

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY MITCHELL HOGAN

  CREDITS

  COPYRIGHT

  ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

  PROLOGUE

  Councillor Radgir winced as the Indryallan soldier behind him prodded his back with the tip of his spear. The point broke through his thin nightshirt and his skin, not deep enough to cause serious injury, but enough to send a warm trickle down his back.

  He shifted his weight uncomfortably. He should have known to keep his mouth shut, foolish old man.

  Radgir shuffled forward, away from the guards. Shackles around his ankles bit into skin rubbed raw, and he gritted his teeth.

  He knew the mistake he’d made. The mistake of considering Indryalla first and mentioning his fears to Councillor Tadeas. He should have known the conniving old bastard would use any advantage over him to further his own position. His excuse, one he kept telling himself over and over, was that he was in the right. The God-Emperor wasn’t Indryalla. Indryalla wasn’t the God-Emperor.

  Unfortunately, far too few of his countrymen separated the two.

  This war with the Mahruse Empire was madness. Not only was it without purpose, it was futile. Indryalla was prosperous on its own, with trade burgeoning between it and many other countries, and Indryallans’ crafting was the finest in the world. At least that was one thing Kelhak had done: developed their sorcerous knowledge far beyond what had been known, built schools to teach crafting, and made sure no one with the gift of a well went unnoticed.

  Except it had all been for his own ends: to develop a fighting force beholden only to the God-Emperor. Most were his own blood, so many generations had Kelhak been among them, spreading his seed to anyone willing.

  And plenty were.

  Kelhak had changed—from a kindhearted ruler beloved of all his people to what he was now: a despotic tyrant. And Indryalla had been altered along with him. No longer was it the country Radgir had grown up in and loved.

  And he didn’t think that just because he was in chains now.

  He raised his eyes and looked around, careful not to turn his head and give the guards behind him another excuse. A few dozen others were waiting nervously with him, all with shackled feet and shocked, fearful expressions. Nobles, councillors, and a couple of high-ranking Indryallan sorcerers. Crude bandages covered the sorcerers’ hands, stained red with blood—their fingers had been cut off. One of them was leaking drops of crimson onto the floor, and both whimpered softly, unable to control their sobs.

  A purging. That’s what this is. Predawn arrests of supposed traitors and malcontents. This wasn’t justice. This was butchery.

  Radgir met the gaze of another councillor, Dorota, also in her nightclothes, although she’d managed to put a robe on before they took her. She was someone he trusted, and the first person he’d brought his misgivings to.

  You’ve killed us, her eyes said as she stared at Radgir.

  And he had.

  He averted his gaze and rubbed his wrinkled, clammy hands together. When had he gotten so old?

  To his left, a lock clicked, and double doors opened onto a courtyard. Torches flickered in their sconces as a breeze fluttered in, curling around his bare shins and feet. More soldiers approached from outside, stopping at the entrance and beckoning to the guards holding them prisoner.

  “Listen up,” shouted one of the guards from behind him, so close Radgir could smell the ale on his breath. “Form a line outside, single file. You’ll be shown where to stand. Each of you will have a proper trial, overseen by the God-Emperor, may he live forever.”

  Radgir squeezed his lips tight but could hear some of the prisoners muttering the response: “May he live forever.” He shook his head. Even now—dragged from their beds, the doors of their homes broken open—they couldn’t shake a lifetime of conditioning.

  Once outside, he shuffled across cobblestones to where he was directed and came to a halt. He realized he didn’t care how the next part played out, because he knew he wouldn’t survive it. Somehow, that thought calmed him.

  Radgir breathed in the cool night air. Stars twinkled above him. A clear night. Still. As fine a night as any he’d experienced.

  Soldiers carried a table and chair, placing them close to a wall. One of the God-Emperor’s Silent Companions came and stood to the left of the table. A beast of a man, even taller than most of the others in his order. Both of his leather-gloved hands clasped the hilt of a massive greatsword, its point resting on the ground. An officious-looking man followed, clutching a thick leather-bound book, a sheaf of papers, and writing implements. He took a seat and began setting up. Radgir recognized him: Preben, a magistrate with a weakness for spirits and too-young women.

  Radgir’s stomach sank. Preben would do what was best for Preben, and
he’d become one of Kelhak’s most vocal supporters as the coins flowing into his pockets had increased over the years.

  As Radgir had suspected, this whole thing was a sham.

  A woman in chains stood next to Radgir, a noble. She hadn’t been in bed like most others. Her fine dress was ripped and stained from her struggles, her curled red hair tangled. Her hands were trembling, and she was muttering. Radgir tilted his head to catch her words, but they remained indecipherable. He glanced around to see if there were any soldiers close by. There weren’t. Good.

  Radgir reached up and squeezed the woman’s shoulder. She flinched at his touch, quivering violently.

  “Shh,” he whispered, and he gave another squeeze before dropping his hand to his side. “It’ll all be over soon.” It was the best he could manage under the circumstances. He sounded pathetic to his own ears.

  “Do . . . do you think they’ll let some of us go? I didn’t do anything. Just talk, that’s all.”

  Radgir swallowed the lump in his throat. “Perhaps.” Again he cursed inwardly at his deplorable response. “I’m sure they will, my lady. The God-Emperor is known for his leniency.”

  At least he used to be.

  The noblewoman sniffed, keeping her face downcast.

  Radgir turned his attention to Preben, who said something to the soldier near him. They both laughed, then Preben dipped a pen in his ink bottle. The soldier and another of his fellows strode over to the first person in the line of prisoners, took the man by the arms, and half dragged, half hoisted him over to Preben’s table.

  “Name?” asked Preben, voice carrying over the sudden hush in the courtyard.

  The man mumbled too low to be heard.

  Preben frowned and leaned forward. “Speak up, man! We don’t have all night.”

  The man cleared his throat and raised his head, looking straight at Preben. “Sir Krugert of House Fruin-Dolandrar,” he said in a clear, loud voice.

  “Ah yes, Krugert.” Preben looked through his papers until he found the one he wanted. He read for a few moments, then spoke.

  “Sir Krugert, you are charged with high treason, inciting others to violence against the God-Emperor, failing to report acts of treason, and intimate relations with a goat. How do you plead?”

  At the last charge, a few of the soldiers jeered, while Preben’s lips twisted with amusement.

  “That’s a lie! They all are! What’s the meaning of this?” protested Krugert, red-faced. He struggled vainly against the soldiers holding his arms. “I demand to speak with the God-Emperor. He knows I’m loyal!”

  Preben scowled and leaned forward. “If you were loyal, you wouldn’t be here!” he shouted, spittle flying across the table. He wiped at his book and parchment with a sleeve. “You demand to speak with him? Such arrogance.”

  Krugert’s shoulders slumped as whatever reserves of strength he’d gathered seemed to fail him. “Do your worst, then,” he said. “Indryallans shouldn’t live this way. We’ve lost sight of what we were.”

  “You deny it,” Preben said, “yet treasonous thoughts spill from your own tongue. I have no choice but to find you guilty. May the ancestors have mercy on you.” He gestured to the guards.

  Krugert remained silent as he was hauled away. They manhandled him over to the Silent Companion and forced him to his knees. The guards twisted Krugert’s arms behind his back until he cried out in pain, and they bent his torso over so he faced the ground.

  The Silent Companion stirred. He looked down at the man forced to kneel in front of him.

  Radgir wanted to avert his gaze but couldn’t. He was transfixed by what he knew was about to happen.

  Slowly, almost leisurely, the Silent Companion’s greatsword rose, then blurred into motion, slicing down into Krugert’s neck—and through. Gouts of blood spurted from the stump, leaving steaming strings across the stone.

  Radgir heard someone whimper, only to realize he’d made the sound. Beside him, the noblewoman swooned and collapsed in a heap, while other prisoners cried out in shock and dismay.

  The guards dragged Krugert’s headless corpse into a corner and dropped it unceremoniously. One went back for the head, grasping it by the hair. He threw it toward Krugert’s body, where it landed with a thump and rolled to a stop.

  Radgir dragged his eyes from the grisly sight, his heart thudding in his chest. Brutality for brutality’s sake. There was no one here to witness this, no object lesson for onlookers to learn. It was a show of cruelty toward them in their final moments. Inhumanity. That was it. Only someone inhuman would order this.

  He looked around to find Preben staring at him. Radgir straightened up and drew his shoulders back.

  “Leave the woman for now,” Preben told the guards. “She’ll be no fun unless she’s conscious. Bring the old man.”

  Without waiting for the guards, Radgir walked over to the table. His legs wobbled, but he remained standing.

  “Name?” asked Preben, following his little routine.

  “Radgir of House Celespanna. Councillor of the First Circle. Beholden only to . . .” The God-Emperor? “ . . . to someone I don’t recognize anymore.”

  “Guilty, then,” remarked Preben with a smile.

  “You have no jurisdiction over me.”

  “You’d be surprised what I have jurisdiction over. Tonight’s a special night. We’re cutting away the deadwood.”

  Radgir sighed and tilted his head back in order to gaze one last time at the stars. As he did, he saw a figure at a third-floor window looking down at them. There was light behind the person, casting his face into shadow, but Radgir would know that silhouette anywhere: Kelhak. Watching how this played out.

  Why?

  Radgir shook his head. Don’t waste this moment, he thought. It was an especially fine night. He breathed in the air. Sweet and cold.

  He barely felt himself being pulled over to the Silent Companion. Pain erupted in his arms, and he sank to his knees. He bent over. On the stone in front of him were gouts of glistening scarlet. Two booted feet to his left shifted, and the tip of a sword that had been resting on the ground rose out of his sight.

  He closed his eyes and breathed a prayer to the ances—

  CHAPTER 1

  Horns resounded through the air. Regiments of Quivers called to arms, woken from fitful sleep in hastily erected camps surrounded by their dead comrades. Caldan watched as hurried breakfasts of cornmeal bread and cheap red wine were consumed before armor was donned and weapons checked. He hadn’t slept much himself, just a few brief spurts in between worrying over his encounter with the emperor and what would happen to him now that he was in the hands of the warlocks.

  Long lines of soldiers snaked in from the front ranks, exhausted from battling the jukari in the darkness and holding them off until dawn broke. There had been dozens of isolated pitched battles, both sides hampered by the lack of light, which was mercifully clear of the lurid taint of destructive sorcery. The vormag, and it seemed the warlocks, were content to wait.

  Or perhaps they were also exhausted.

  The returning soldiers passed formations of fresh troops, dirt- and blood-splattered armor contrasting with gleaming hauberks, to collapse at the rear of the army in relative safety. Wounded Quivers were dragged or carried to the physikers, who were set up in lines—implements still dirty from being used throughout the night. There would be no rest for the physikers and their assistants for some time.

  Now, hundreds of horsemen were saddled and waiting on the edges of the emperor’s main forces. Commanders rode among the cavalry and foot-troops—bowmen and spear carriers—while the warlocks split into small groups and placed themselves in scattered locations among the forces.

  From the river, hundreds of soldiers were swarming out of the recently docked ships. They formed up in ranks, bearing great round shields and broadswords, while those behind them wielded two-handed axes or long spears. Who they were still puzzled Caldan, but it seemed safe to assume they were reinforcements the
emperor had arranged.

  Except, of course, Devenish had been surprised at their arrival. But maybe the emperor hadn’t felt the need to inform the warlocks of his plan.

  One of the Quivers guarding the warlocks’ tents came up to Caldan and handed him a wooden plate filled with cornbread and cheese, along with dried fruit and nuts. He also gave Caldan a steaming mug of honeyed and salted coffee. Caldan ate the food absentmindedly, keeping his eyes on what was happening.

  To one side were the walls of Riversedge, and to the other they relied on a series of hills to offer some protection. And then there was the river itself, stretching mirror-bright to the east as they looked into the sun, and pale upstream to the west. A massive stretch of water, a barrier to the jukari—one they’d already shown kept them at bay.

  Quivers formed up—as large a force as any the Mahruse Empire had gathered in centuries. The Noble Houses amassed their troops and assembled behind the Quivers. Having followed the emperor and his army—expecting to merely attend the fighting in name only, to be recognized in the honor rolls when the Indryallans were pushed back into the sea—the nobles now found themselves in the middle of a fight against a monstrous horde of creatures from the Shattering. It wasn’t clear to Caldan if they were more afraid of the jukari or of disobeying the emperor.

  All around the army, warriors and nobles alike made familial gestures and mumbled prayers to their ancestors to keep them from harm. Some burned offerings, and along with the campfires, smoke hung thick above the host, obscuring the standards flapping in the breeze.

  From Caldan’s position close to Devenish’s tent, the army seemed composed of chaos with only a few pockets of order.

  There was movement in the front ranks, and shouts broke out. Caldan stood and looked past the human army. Farther away, he saw streams of jukari approaching, far less orderly than the Quivers. They stopped a few hundred yards away, the tips of their lines swelling like water pooling, until their numbers grew past his counting. They bellowed and snarled, a terrible, animal sound.

  Commands roared throughout the emperor’s army, along with curses and battle songs.

  The Quivers marched out to answer the jukari, armor and weapons flashing in the sun. Drums pounded, horns pealed, booted feet stamped. Commanders dispersed among their troops, though Caldan noted that most led from the rear.