Fall of an Empire, Gillian I

The fourth chapter shall be told from Prince Gillian of Newlane's POV. Sad to say, that this is the last completed chapter.

IV

GILLIAN

IT WILL NEVER BE EASY TO LIVE IN THE SHADOW OF SOMEONE ELSE. Here and now, his father and brother cast a very long shadow.

Gillian, previously Prince of Newlane, is now the second in line to the throne of the Empire after Artos, his elder brother by a year, as his father, Gallio, has claimed the throne of the Empire.

His Father liked to think that his great empire is the one Emperor Marius and his successors had forged over a thousand years ago. However, he knew that this one, claimed by his House of Alynsson, would not rival the golden empire of old; where the Mountain Men came to sell their forged steel, where the Sea Men came to trade on their longships, and where Forest Men came bearing boons of the forest.

For one, the grandeur of the City of Mare will forever be only another tale in the numerous songs and books, its rubble will lay still for eternity, the damned souls of the soldiers that died there in the last battle will forever serve the Darkness. The Mountain Men became ever more suspicious, the Forest Men hiding one by one, and the Sea Men returned to pirating and raiding.

The Mountain Men does have reason to be suspicious. The blood of the proud and civilized Men of the Plains runs the strongest in his family, and his ancestor was King Alyn the Slayer of Mountains. However, that does not mean he accepted his father’s decisions as the best ones.

Gillian sighed. He had been sixteen for nearly half a year—a man by law and no longer a boy, but only now had his father beckoned him to join his army on a march. His brother, on the other hand, had been taken to battle since he was twelve. Along that time, he had heard his father’s shrewd and devious ways in war—starting from the battle of the Hart shores where his envoys supposedly spread poisons among the provisions of Hart, and even slaying the previous King of Hart, Caron Blackhammer, in the ambush of Blaze at Rock Fields. He had but one child, a young daughter who is now reigning as Queen Laesa, behind the millennia-old walls of Arion. More tales of treachery were always told in the castle’s alleys in whispers and fear, sneaking men and assassinating all the officers in a camp, striking down the generals who rode forth as envoys before battle, and more ruthless tales.

And here Gillian was, finally, at the battlefield, although doing the duties of a page.

His father had a page, for sure. Gillian vaguely remembered hearing his father ordering him to help tame the dragons a while back. Might be that he fancies his dragons more than his second son. Although he had the long face and jet-black hair of King Alyn’s descendants, it were never smooth with him and his father, no more than his father was with his little sister, Ivy. Everything for the firstborn. The other children should be used for some stupid marriage to seal a deal with other realms. His sister will never consent to such things, but she is a princess and a lady, no matter how much she wanted to deny it. Or might it just be that it is only Artos that had the proper, deep black eyes of our family? He and Ivy brought upon the electric blue of their mother, Empress Alia.

For a moment, he put down his quills and his mind off the letters his father told him to write. He looked out the opened flap of the tent, and beyond he saw the moon, a full moon, big and very bright, and behind stars glittered the night sky, but the horizon was blurred by the haze of a thousand torches that lit up the camp, at the mouth of the Mountain Pass. The camp that the army just annihilated was just a couple hours’ march uphill and back the path. Beyond the tents sprawling over the rocky soil and where banners dot the land, streaming merrily in the cold chill of the night, mountains rise like giant arrowheads, capped by snow. All the beauty of the world, at the palm of an Emperor—his father.

There will be an emperor, it was foretold. He once read it somewhere among the old tomes and scrolls in Cliffkeep Castle’s great libraries back home, that there will be a prince of the Conqueror. But that was all he knew. There is more to this, that is for sure, but his father is not who he claims to be. King Alyn is a conqueror, to be sure, but he just knew it must be the blood of Emperor Marius the Conqueror the prophecy is saying about, the one that united the Plains more than a thousand years ago.

And a dishonorable man is never fit to be an Emperor, he thought. And what could have been more dishonorable than smashing your own ally?

He sighed. He had dwelled in his mind long enough. He still has several more letters to write, about the victory at the Mountain Pass. His father had tasked him much earlier the night, right after when the soldiers had finally managed to stave off the dragon.

That dragon caught everyone by surprise. Newlane’s dragon corps had only been tasked with a quick attack, then to disperse, not to patrol. There was never a report about dragons brought by Westervell. Unfortunately, this blunder cost them three valuable prisoners that should bend the knee to Emperor Gallio: King Arvin, his son, Prince Leon, and his brother, the infamous general, Anto Longsword.

His father had predicted well that the Wests will never bow to a new Emperor, proud as they were, for theirs were the lands of Westervell since the start of history, when the Blackhammers, even King Alyn himself, had revolted against their lieges back in the centuries. The plan to subdue the West was simply to capture the king and his heirs in a show of force—hopefully make them bend the knee, or else to put all three of them to the sword, and leave the kingdom to a weak cousin of Arvin West.

That plan went very wrong with the dragon.

Gillian sighed as he rolled the last message as a scroll, then tied it and sealed it with golden wax and the seal of Newlane—no, now it is the seal of the Empire: the bear, the original symbol of Newlane, below an eagle, the sigil of the Empire of old.

He picked the little scrolls, more than half a dozen; he had lost count to how many statesmen and generals had he written to, blew the stump of a candle, and walked to the eagle cages at the very back of the campsite, along the makeshift dirt road and on the far side of the small central plaza. The road led straight from the main entrance of the camp beside the mountain road, up to the wooden palisade at the back, where the eagles are kept. Along the road, the flames of the campfires and standing torches danced in the wafts of mountain wind, dimming when it blew fast, strengthening when it calmed. They illuminated Newlander soldiers that were huddling around, sharing stories, getting drunk, and mourning their friends torched by the dragon. Some trained, jabbing and slashing with wooden swords even this late at night.

That night was bright, nearly brighter than the campfires; the light of the full moon shone a subtle silver tinge on everything. It should have been a very fine night, a breeze of cold mountain air prickled his skin as he crossed the path, while multitudes of stars glittered the heavens above. It was perfect, if not for the view of smoke several miles up the mountain path, where the Westervell camp was burned to the ground, by the Newlane airborne force at first, after that by the one Western dragon. If what he had heard from the soldiers aroung the campfire are correct—and can be trusted besides—the dragon was especially big, as big as a wild dragon.

Gillian walked and walked the length of the central plaza, then to the increasingly dim and lonely street toward the back, where most of the the tents were for storage rather than accommodation. Though dim it was, the road was perfectly straight, and thus he walked without a torch; besides, his hands were full.

At last, he reached the eagle coops, several small wooden pens nailed to the back walls of the camp, made from freshly cut wood from the mountain forests around them. He approached one and found a tamed red eagle nested inside. He drew the eagle from its house, flapping its wings as it leapt to Gillian’s arm, then he tied the scroll to its leg, and whispered the destination. “Silver Palace.” The bird squawked, and then gracefully leapt to the air, the night wind filling its wings, flying northward to the castle that was his home.

He grabbed more eagles then tied the rest of the scrolls, again not bothering to count how many there were.

He grabbed, tied, and sent an eagle, then suddenly, he was greeted by one of the centurions of a division from behind. He turned around. Apparently this centurion came unnoticed, even with the fact that he held a torch, as he dutifully sent the eagles. It was Marcus Cledas, he remembered, from a family of distinguished soldiers long back since the dawn of the Empire. A burly man but good in his manners as well as his fighting, he was in his early thirties, his blond locks golden in the light of the fire was covered by the steel helm of an officer, with a metal fringe above it, shadowing stern grey eyes. He raised his palm for a salute. “Prince Gillian.”

“Captain Cledas,” returned Gillian with a graceful nod. He tried to break up the silence of the night with a small banter. “What are you doing here?” Then he noted that he was carrying several scrolls in his palm. “Any news from my brother?”

“I am just on my way to the Emperor with these letters.” He showed three scrolls, one was sealed in golden wax which gleamed in Cledas’ torchlight, special for the Imperial family.

“Oh. I am about to visit him myself.” He held out a hand to the road. “Shall we walk, Captain?” They both turned and the Captain went on first, the road bright in the light of his torch.

The two of them traced back their steps to the plaza, past the dark back roads then the more lively roads closer to the center, around them still the soldiers talked and trained around the campfires.

The tent in the center of the plaza was thrice as big as the other ones, save for the storage tents behind and the meeting tent across the plaza. It was a deep purple where the others were blue, the livery of Newlane, and the banners above displayed the golden eagle and bear on a field of purple, trimmed with gold.

Captain Cledas stepped in first, opening the flap of the tent. Gillian followed close behind. As he stepped inside, he was not greeted with the dim light of a couple candles he had in his place, but rather a slew of torches, bright and high. The dirt floor had been compacted and covered with new bearskin rugs, and on the center of it all stood the oak table topped with several books, tomes, scrolls, a skull of a Great Eagle as big as an especially large man’s open hand, and the hand of an especially large man, scribbling away with a quill—his father, the Emperor’s. He was looking down on his paper when the two came in, showing his balding hair, black and riddled with grey here and there.

“Gillian,” he greeted without even looking up. “Captain Cledas.”

Cledas stood attention and saluted, raising his hand and opening the palm, then closing it over his heart. “My Emperor.”

Gillian stepped forward with the dozen or so messages. “I’ve written what you asked for, Father.”

“Good. Take them to the birdskeeper, and he will send them on their way,” said Emperor Gallio, still scribbling away. “Captain, you had news?”

The captain stepped forth, procuring a scroll from his knapsack. “From Prince Artos, my Emperor.”

This time the Emperor looked up. The face of King Alyn from all those centuries ago stared Cledas, it could be said: a clean-shaven long face with hard lines, high eyebrows equally hard, and even harder stern deep black eyes. No small wonder all his court believed his claim of the prophecy, he is the Slayer of Mountains come again. Or at the very least, almost all. Gillian had his reservations on the long time pondering upon the tomes back home, and he had trusted them to his sister, Ivy.

“Give it to me,” commanded Gallio Alynsson sternly, the voice the whole kingdom feared. Captain Cledas strode the short length from the entrance to the table, his segmented armor clinking, and placed the scroll on the table with a little bow. “Captain, please leave us,” he said again whilst opening the scroll. “Gillian, come here. Sit for a moment.”

As the Captain saluted again and left, Gillian walked to the table and took the leather-padded seat opposite to his father. He unraveled the wide scroll, wide that it might have taken a golden eagle to carry it. He quickly skimmed the page. In no time he lowered it and put it on the neat stack of scrolls beside him.

“You want to tell me something, Father?” asked Gillian.

“Indeed.” The Emperor’s face was now less hard and more relieved, but not by much. He once said that it was important to mask your emotions, to keep your true intentions hidden and strike fast when needed. “Your brother had won Norbay.” Norbay was a port town further to the east, a bustling old city, but now only a pivotal point in breaking Hart’s supply lines from the northern parts of the kingdom to the capital of Arion at the southeast.

“But your plan needs the force of Westervell behind us, if we ever want to assault Arion. You destroyed their army, and now they will hear.”

“Not yet. It has been assured that no birds had been flown.”

“And Arion?” You are a fool, Father, he thought. You are avoiding my question.

“We are but a week’s march from the ancient city, and your brother’s army closer still. The Hart forces are few and tired, and those who are not tired are green and young. With their lands ravaged while our supply remains running, their city shall surrender.”

“But still, why were our allies destroyed?”

He knew too late that he had raised his voice too high when his father suddenly stared at him with a certain burning fire. He avoided those eyes, vainly.

“Allies?” He said softly. “Allies?” He laughed dryly as the Emperor approached his son. “After I laid my claim on the Dragonbone Throne, will anyone still be in my side?” He placed a hand on Gillian’s leather-covered shoulder. “I think not.” The Emperor turned. There will be a much better way to end all of this quick. Tell me, you were taught your history when you were instructed?”

“Lord Vert taught it, yes.” As were young children of lords at the time that were sent to be trained by other families, he was sent to the old Lord Vert at the borders of the Black Forest to be tutored.

“Then you do know what lies under the city of Arion.” Emperor Gallio turned, and sat back at his seat behind the desk.

“Arion is a city on an island,” Gillian started tentatively, “the sea have carved many caves under it.”

“True.”

By then he knew exactly his father’s plan. “You do not suppose we should assassinate Queen Laesa?”

“No. We will not.”

This is not his way of doing battles, thought Gillian. There is more.

“We will kidnap the Queen and force her to surrender.”

“Madness!” blurted Gillian.

“Yes, it is. And I trust no one else to do so but your brother, Artos. And I expect you to show that you are a true man and my son by keeping him safe.”

Finished on 31 July, 2015