The Belromanticum

Chapter 60

"When I told you to take a kingdom, this was not what I meant," said Lyta. Her voice was a passion-softened murmur, and the words tickled my lips for she spoke them on the wings of a soft kiss.

I chuckled. Her eyelids fluttered as the sensation traveled between where we were joined, her fingernails gently digging into my shoulders. She straddled me, and the two of us were upright. An intimate embrace, suitable for my dear old friend.

"You thought I would seize some petty kingdom in the north?" I asked.

"Youarefrom Rhandonia," she teased. She shifted her hips, grinding once, a stormy sensation bubbling between us.

"I am," I allowed, sucking her lower lip into my mouth. She shifted again, a bolt of pleasure coursing through me. "Gods, why do we not see one another more often?"

"Because we are sovereigns."

"Not for very much longer."

"You plan to abdicate?" she asked, clenching herself and sliding up a few inches before sitting down hard again.

"Do not move so much."

"You fear you'll fill me too quickly." She kissed the tip of my nose.

"I would like this to last."

"When will you leave your throne?"

"When the war is done," I said. "And..."

She chuckled and this time I shivered with the sensation. "There is always a reason to hold onto power."

"I want to walk away, Lyta. I cannot leave Zuunkhorun any lesser than I can manage. There are certain reforms...it will take time, but I will abdicate."

"You have broken the back of the Heacharids. Aucor is open for a conqueror. Zuunkhorun could be as vast as it wants."

"If Zuunkhorun wishes to grow, it will be with a different Tyrant on the throne."

"What then? Will you return to Chassudor?"

"I thought I would go to Bashamailon."

She traced a finger over my lips. "You could stay in Mairault."

"Lyta..."

"Not forever. For a time. We could have a child together." She saw my expression change and she bulled on, knowing that a look of hope on her beautiful face could make me do nearly anything. "A wizard from our union, Bel. Imagine."

"There is no guarantee a child will be a wizard, even when both parents are."

"We can try as long as it takes. Does the thought of having me so often not appeal?"

"Of course it does. But...I think of the children who would be born without the talent. How would they feel?"

"Imagine if someone heard the Dreadstorm speak thus," she laughed, taking a shivery breath as she raised herself up, then settled back down. I groaned, gripping her buttocks. I was closer than I wanted to be. "We would love a child without a talent, educate them and train them. They would still have my keen mind and your pretty face."

I laughed, kissing her. "Is that what I am?"

"A pretty cock too," she gave her hips a grind and both of us could only hold on as the pleasure raked through us.

"I promise you, we will discuss such an arrangement later, when the war is over and I am able to rest."

"That is all I can ask. Now," she said, easing herself up. "Let us finish."

Lyta stayed in Zuunkhorun for a time after that, but we never discussed children again during the visit. She had brought her husbands, Jassam and the two new fellows, both of whom I quite liked. Jassam had regaled them with tales of Ujaala and when I told him that she was long departed from us, I believe the enormity of eternity truly sunk in. I sent the three of them to the comfort house in Ironmotte and given to understand they had quite the time.

When Lyta departed, I knew the next time I would see her would be in Mairault or Bashmailon. Or anywhere other than Zuunkhorun, for I would be finished.

***

Lyta Sullac was not the only visitor I received in that final decade of the war. I did not know the gnarled woman who approached my throne one spring day during my open audience. Her skin was a pale gray, her ears slightly pointed, her eyes a strange shade of burgundy. She leaned heavily on a cane and regarded me with amused familiarity.

"And what do you wish to say?" I asked in Zuunese.

"We are a long way from the island, are we not?" she said in Eomet.

I stared at the old woman in disbelief, recognition dawning. "Talynore?"

She smiled, only a few teeth left in her jaw. "It is me. Do I look so different?"

"No, I should have known it was you immediately. The eyes tell."

"They do, don't they? Yours look older than they did on that island. Or in Castellandria. But they are the same, even though you no longer look at me as you once did." She sighed, breaking in to a grin. "You are more regal now. Had you looked like this on the island, I might have let you put it in my cunny."

I snorted, looking about the room as the court pretended that she hadn't said that. "I am pleased to see you, but what are you doing here?"

"I am nearing the end of my years." She coughed, a wet, hacking sound as though to prove her assertion. "I needed a place to die."

"You are welcome here, Talynore."

A note of hope crept into her voice. "I thought perhaps to see our daughter."

I winced. "She has been gone for many years. Her grave is far away. Somewhere in Chassudor."

"My elvish grandfather gave me some years, but my orcish grandmother took most of them back. It was too much to hope that she'd be as long-lived as I."

"She lived well and fully. Some of her descendants are here."

"I was never much of a mother," she said.

"She had mothers who loved her, Talynore. You can rest assured of that."

I installed her in Zuun Khatai, and one of Gonril's granddaughters looked after her in those final months. From time to time, Talynore thought the girl was Malycent, and she was kind enough to play along.

Talynore died the following winter. I found a manuscript among her possessions. In the end of her life, she had taken it upon herself to chronicle her loves. And yes, that was my inspiration for the volume you now hold. I would not set quill to parchment until many years later, but my inspiration began there.

Two chapters concerned our dalliance, 'Of Storms and Shipwrecks,' and 'Of Siege and Temptation,' the first on the island in the Turquoise and the second during the Heacharid siege of Castellandria. It was at once gratifying and humbling to see myself from the eyes of a paramour. She was kind, but I did not find the regret I hunted for. Leaving me and Malycent did not haunt her. Talynore was too free to be bound by anything, even love.

***

On the first day of spring, I bade farewell to Zhahllaia, Tanyth, and Jerrika, who would remain behind. Allegeth was back in Bashamailon, ruling her kingdom at peace.

I could not find Sarakiel. My beautiful librarian had spent the bulk of her time in Zuunkhorun with our children, and as the flood thinned, she turned once again to academic pursuits. Sarakiel would read anything, and her remarkable mind would hold it, examine it, and add it to an ever-growing encyclopedia that existed behind her eyes. She was not a warrior, and would stay in the capital.

Finally, I gave up looking for her and went to the gates where the army had prepared to travel. Wagons and horses waited next to lines of footmen and stormwights. Belzuun-Hegal had taken the shape of a massive serpent and lay coiled in the middle of us. Lysethe, Ten Ghosts, and Maireili were with the command group, armed and armored, seated on their mounts.

Sarakiel waited there as well, sitting upon her stallion, a descendent of Arkohnus's own steed. She was dressed in traveling clothes, a cloak about her shoulders. Her indigo eyes fixed on mine.

"Sarakiel, what are you doing here?" I asked, though I knew the answer.

"I am going with you." Her lovely face was set.

"Are you certain? We ride to sack Heacharium. A sacking is a cruel thing."

"I want to see cruelty. Bel, these animals killed my firstborn. I want to watch my husband exact the storm's vengeance."

It was a shocking admission from the gentlest of my wives. Yet I could deny her nothing. I hoped that when she saw me cast the Heacharid Empire into the abyss she would find some peace. The others with us, Lysethe, Maireili, and Ten Ghosts, watched with worried eyes for they knew well the cost of battle.

"Then this you shall have," I said, leaning over in my saddle and pressing a soft kiss to her lips. She returned it with terrible passion.

We rode from the Arkohnum Gate on that spring morning, heading into the setting sun. Even though the empire was largely defeated, the ride to the capital still took the bulk of campaigning season. We passed other battles, other wars. Either vassals fighting their lords or neighbors the Heacharids had forced into accord were now settling old differences. We remained unmolested. None wanted to test my army. Quiyahui fluttered overhead as my battle standard, alongside Belzuun-Hegal, whose steps shook the very earth.

I was no longer merely the Dreadstorm, nor even the Tyrant of the ascendant kingdom upon Aucor. I was the avatar of a new cult. Many on the continent venerated the wizard who slew the chosen of Xomera without thought, who smashed previous bastions of unbreakable faith, whose land bloomed with promise as flame and famine swallowed everything else.

The Mad Tyrantaccused me of sending missionaries to spread the faith of the Feathered Serpent. I swear I did nothing of the kind. The faith spread of its own, on wings of desperation. Worshipers falling to paroxysms of ecstasy at the sight of Quiyahui was disturbing to behold, yet it sped our passing over the ravaged continent.

***

When the histories chronicle the final fall of the Heacharid Empire, they frame it as a great crescendo. Everything led to the final siege of Heacharium where they had a fool's chance against the war machine I had built. This would be where heroes were born and sagas carved into the skin of the world.

That is how the stories go, but this was not a story. The war had been won many years before, but the Heacharids asked no quarter and I had granted none. They would force me to finish things and I wanted nothing else. It had been done. Their cities lay in ruins. Their vassals rebelled. Generations of their youth had found graves instead of families. The empire had fallen; I needed only go collect its head.

I had relentlessly cleared the path to Heacharium, year after year. In that final season, I knew before I left Zuun Khatai that I would shatter their rule once and for all. Nothing of note lay between me and the capital anymore. I would arrive at its walls, break it, and cast the empire into the midden of history.

I will not retell the Siege of Heacharium. It was a far more pathetic battle than the histories would have it anyway. TheHistoriae Heachariaecalls it a last stand, a beautiful lost cause against an impure beast.The Mad Tyrantcalls it the pinnacle of my hubris and were there any true gods, I would have been struck down. TheZuunkhoruniadescribes it as the glorious end to free Aucor from the Heacharid yoke.

None of these are correct. It was the vengeance of a once young man who fought a war on a distant sea, and the wife he left behind to do it. It was the grief of two parents given terrible purpose. It was rage taking form like the birth of a god.

Heacharium was already exhausted when we arrived. The bulk of their fields had been burned and salted, their numbers thinned, their populace gripped by despair and disease. My Master of Wolves had spent years preparing the battlefield and he had done an excellent job. Despite this, their walls still held until the end of autumn. There were, of course, numerous engagements during this time, the many smaller battles that make up the whole. The other histories will mention the Charge of the Immortals as a moment of unparalleled valor. I will say only that they proved exceedingly mortal in the end.

On that cold autumn day, Belzuun-Hegal ripped the gate from its foundation and my army flooded in. We pillaged what was left in the city, but the Heacharids had long since spent most of their treasures to keep this day from coming about. The few scraps of spoils that had been in the capital now belonged to the kingdom of Zuunkhorun.

I had not intended to fling myself into the battle as I had in Sabbatium, but when the gate fell, I turned to Sarakiel. The cruel light I saw in her indigo eyes spurred me. She had asked her husband for the vengeance of the storm. I had no choice but to grant her wish.

I followed the vanguard into the streets, Lysethe and Ten Ghosts flanking me. I had seen Lysethe in battle many times. More than a century at war had only turned her into a more terrifying opponent. Her sunbeams tore through Heacharid formations like the fury of a god.

Ten Ghosts was no less fearsome. Mounted upon the back of her slavering vorghal, her massive war club smashed skulls and shattered men. Her ferocity in battle could not have been further from her gentle compassion outside of it.

As for me, I was the heroic Tyrant the Zuunese celebrated. I think I was beloved for this more than all I built in the kingdom itself. Physical courage might be a rarity, but I believe it to be overvalued in a leader. Better a sensible coward than a mad hero. Sadly, I have more of the latter in me than the former.

Xomera's Font, the palace of Heacharium, had once been the city's great cathedral. Centuries of dominion had expanded it, transformed it into the most sumptuous palace in Aucor, each emperor trying to outdo the last, and perhaps heap glory upon Xomera with the most extravagant additions. Thanks to the war, it was in the early stages of decline when I took it, its first cracks beginning to become apparent like the wrinkles at the corner of a young bride's eyes. Still, it was an impressive structure. There are those who found it pretty. I was not one of them.

We slaughtered the imperial guard, going from room to room to root out every last fighter. I do not wish to mistake what seems like bravery. They were fanatics and they fought for that reason and that reason alone. Ur-Anu slew more than one of these men, leaving them to bleed over the flagstones at the heart of their empire.

The emperor and his court were hiding like rats. We pulled them from their quarters, corralling them in the main hall where they cowered in terror. The hearth was cold, the trophies on the walls shabby. The pennons hanging from the rafters were of vassals in open rebellion. This palace had lied to its inhabitants. They believe themselves to be rulers when they were nothing.

House Farad, the ruling house of the Heacharid Empire, watched me from their place in front of the ash-filled hearth. I saw defiance, terror, and loathing in their eyes, though all of them quailed from their captors. Emperor Sabbatiamos Heacharios was a gray-bearded man, thinner than I would have expected, with the deep blue eyes I came to associate with the Heacharids. To his credit, he knelt in front of the others, as though he could shield them from my justice.

I stood with my personal bodyguard, a few stormwights, Ten Ghosts, and Lysethe, considering the fate of my captives. I leaned upon Ur-Anu, the haze of battle fading from me. A new image decorated its haft, that of Xomera's Font with flames dancing from its towers. Sarakiel, Maireili, and their bodyguard entered the room. I longed to hold Sarakiel's hand, but they were clasped over her womb. Now that Sarakiel had arrived, I could begin.

"Your Majesty," I said, giving him a mocking bow. "You may rise."

He got to his feet, wincing as his knees gave faint pops. "Do what you came to, blasphemer," he spat. I almost believed his bravado.

"I appreciate the granting of permission." An amulet gleamed from his neck, the delicate scents of magic tickling my senses. Pulled it from him, turning it over in my hand. It was a rose in the middle of a sunburst, the symbol of House Farad. Later, I would learn that it protected its wearer from poison. I was far deadlier than any venom.

"Thief! Despoiler!"

"I am that and worse," I said, taking the jeweled crown from his brow and casting it away, letting it clatter over the flagstones.

"He is a curse upon us!" howled a man clad in the finery of Xomera's church. "A punishment for our disrespect for our lady!"

"Xomera did not call me here."

"Who did?" asked a noblewoman in a tremulous voice, clutching two small children to her breast.

"You did," I said mildly, hanging the emperor's amulet from my belt. My amulet now.

"A traitor?" gasped the emperor.

"Don't be a fool," I sneered. I glanced at Sarakiel and found that her eyes were fixed upon Sabbatiamos Heacharios, blazing with hatred. He had not sat the Ivory Throne when Arkohnus had been slain, but that did not matter. In his person was the empire itself. Its sins were his to answer for.

I gestured with Ur-Anu, sweeping the obsidian blade across the prisoners. "The Heacharid Empire summoned me. The instant one of your soldiers set foot upon Axichis, I was called."

"That was two centuries ago," protested Sabbatiamos Heacharios.

"You made an enemy of a wizard. We do not reckon years as you do."

"You must understand. Those who invaded Axichis are in the arms of Xomera. We are blameless! You take your vengeance on the innocent!"

Pity dripped from my voice. "The plague cares not for the wrongs of its sufferers."

"You admit you are a plague?" he said, as though this was a triumphant revelation.

"Oh, I am," I said. "You think that you would show me the madness that I have wrought? I know it well, Your Majesty. It lingers with me in my dreams. It is my constant companion. But you called me on the Turquoise Isles and I do not refuse a summons. You can try to turn me away with your words, but that misunderstands what you face. Know me by my name."

He stared at me in confusion, fear keeping him silent. If he said the wrong name, would I fly into a rage? Or would he summon the form of his destroyer? I took pity on him and gave my name.

"I am the Sorrow of Heacharium. I am the Lament of Xomera. I am the Dreadstorm and now I am here."

"Please, Dreadstorm," begged the same noblewoman. Her two children watched me with the terror of the young. "Do not harm my children."

"Your children are safe from me today, my lady. It is your empire I slay." I turned back to the emperor, the glittering black tip of Ur-Anu pointing at his heart. The thread the weapon showed me was pathetically easy. A single thrust and he would die where he stood. "And you are the empire."

"What will--" the emperor began.

"Silence!" I roared, the word slamming into them with echoing thunder. "The Heacharid Empire dies this day. You may continue to exist, if none of your former vassals decide to become your lords. But you will never be an empire again. You will measure yourself by the ancient borders. The Nakal River to the north, the Enqiri Hills to the west, Ozom to the south, and the fields of Varro to the east. You might forget these borders, but I will not. I have a long memory for everything except mercy."

"Mercy?" asked the noblewoman, hope creeping into her voice.

"In a century, maybe two, a conqueror will rise thinking the Dreadstorm's anger has abated or his attention is elsewhere. The wizard vowed, yes, but he is not wrathful enough to return. That person will need a reminder. And so I grant you the gift of the Dreadstorm's mercy."

The spell had been prepared, brewed in my mind and buzzing like a hive of bees. I had been sizzling there, keeping the spell bound inside me as I spoke. I released it now with a sense of profound relief. Lightning leapt from Ur-Anu's glassy tip, raking the emperor with vicious, blue-white talons. A rictus seized his body as every limb went stiff. His head was thrown back, smoke issuing from his mouth.