13 It Must be Done

SARSCHA TODRALAN HAD her nose deep in a mug while ignoring the people in the throne room. The fact it was water and not wine irritated her, but she needed a clear head. Not to mention she was getting sick of those pointed looks from her brother.

She glanced up to the windowed apex forty feet above, before looking down upon the gathering, wishing she was elsewhere. Anywhere. The fact she had summoned them all was beside the point.

More entered through the wide golden doors, some hanging back beyond the semi-circle of broad marble columns, keeping to the shadows. The walls of the circular chamber were lined with greencloaks, each armed with spear and shield. She didn’t expect trouble, but her imperial marshal differed on such matters. I remember when it was my job to irritate father, she thought. She’d enjoyed it too, but somehow, she didn’t think Artorius did. The man was too stressed to enjoy anything.

The gathering included a mixture of anyone of importance, including high rankers of the legions, politicians, diplomatic envoys from afar, representatives from all corners of the imperium, and the primes of Byrsa. These latter were included at the last minute, although Imperial Marshal Artorius Agrippa also differed with her about that. He’d made his thoughts quite clear earlier, and Sarscha’s head still ached from the argument. Or the wine from last night. Did it matter?

Lowering the mug, she snorted. One would almost think they don’t trust me. She didn’t care, except where it concerned her brother. Those wounds were deep, and there was no time to heal for either of them. Nothing to do, but march on and get the bloody job done.

Sarscha sat on her father’s throne, her sister’s too for a time, wondering if it would feel like hers one day. Perhaps it was never meant to. A constant reminder that each person who sat on it was just an occupant who would one day, vanish.

Spectrum above, but gloomy thoughts required something stronger than water. Tame Vara would’ve made certain to snap her right out of it, but Tame was gone. Scatter was gone too and her sister Aiyana. At this rate, no one she cared about would remain. She had discovered that ruling was a lonely business no matter how many people surrounded her.

Eyeing the gathering, with her imperial marshal on her right side, Threadfin to her left, she wondered if this was a good idea. None of the others seemed sure. Half the time, she didn’t believe it herself, but events couldn’t be ignored; the imperium was in trouble. Humanity was in peril. It must be done.

Her brother appeared uncomfortable in his new role as imperial mage. She’d made his position official, in a way it hadn’t been under Aiyana, ignoring his prolific protests. She trusted him and she needed someone she trusted. When he wasn’t off disappearing to wherever it was, he went to. She’d seen him but twice in the past year. One would think he’s trying to avoid me.

When it appeared no more living or undead could be reasonably stuffed into the space, not to mention the gallery above, Sarscha rose. She lifted her hands to quell the hubbub of muted conversation. She felt many sets of eyes on her, and it was unpleasant. How had her father and sister done this?

The legions once looked to her as their commander, as they now did Artorius, and she knew the role well. This just wasn’t the same. At her side, Threadfin fidgeted with his robes. Black robes with deep blood-red stripes and an overlarge hood, like the dalba they once wore. I guess none of us feel suited to our roles, but the best of us accepts it and makes do.

She wasted no time getting down to the reason for the gathering. ‘Disturbing reports first reached us five months ago. An unnamed darkness is spreading across the southern continent of Eladaldor. In the months since, numerous reports have arrived of dark occurrences in lands to the east. Kingdoms, empires, and city states, which had stood for centuries all toppling together and all without warning.’

She paused, eyeing as many of her guests as she could, letting her words linger. Most of them had heard rumours, and the envoys present had also brought dire news. However, hearing it from her lips meant they weren’t rumours, and could not easily be dismissed.

‘I sent people south and east,’ she continued, ‘to discover the validity of these tales. Due to the seriousness of such, I deemed it necessary to send twenty of my best diplomatic agents, each with a viral mage and a soldier of the legion for protection. Just two agents and one mage have returned. One from the east, and two from the south. They all verify the reports, and they go one step further. They gave a name for this dark power rising to defeat all others.’

Again, she waited, letting them hang on her every word, but she didn’t let them wait too long. She didn’t want hot tempers, just willing allies. ‘An ancient sorceress has arisen, reborn into this world and filled with darkness. Her agents are attacking and conquering kingdoms and empires the world over. I fear our imperium is next.’

The guests could not contain themselves as arguments erupted. Several gestured at the dais and the imperatrix as though it was her fault, while two shoved their way through the throng to leave the chamber.

‘What does it mean?’ shouted one of the envoys, a man from Calamir. ‘We watched the kingdom of Rindurr fall. Then our own succumbed to this darkness. I and my companions are now refugees. Who is this sorceress?’

‘Who is she?’

‘How do we stop her?’

‘What are we going to do?’ shouted a woman in soiled finery. She was also Calamiri and a refugee, although her manner suggested she had once been someone of importance.

‘Why have you not got more legions protecting us?’ demanded Polius Augustus, shaking his scrawny arms in the air, but then he loved an argument. One of the few representatives of conclave present, he was also a constant headache. ‘We’re all doomed. Doomed!’

‘Oh, shut up, you old goat,’ snapped his constant companion and rival, Lucius Aidarius. ‘Let the imperatrix speak. Shut up the lot of you!’ he shouted.

Sarscha glared at her guests, but after a moment of grumbling, they quietened. Her father would’ve had everyone sent to the dungeons for such behaviour, but she wasn’t Markus Olen. She knew fear when she saw it, a dangerous contagion, and she had the thankless job of containing it, and perhaps shaping it into something useful.

‘The legions stand ready to repel any attempt of an incursion by this sorceress into our imperium,’ she announced. ‘Several cohorts have been deployed to reinforce the Gulley, and it is there I believe, the first battle with this sorceress will be fought. As for our imperial fleet, we are doing everything we can to replenish it, and to find capable crews to man the vessels.’

‘Sounds to me,’ snapped Polius with a wild-eyed glare, and what hair he had left in disarray, ‘you are preparing for war, imperatrix. Without the consent of conclave, I might add.’

Sarscha paused with a grimace, and then said, ‘It is clear, this sorceress seeks to enslave the world. I mean to stand in her way. The Icarthian Imperium is already at war. Consent no longer matters. She is coming, and we must prepare.’

‘A name?’

‘Yes, who is she?’

Several voices chimed in, red-faced Polius doing his best to outmatch them and failing. The imperatrix gestured to her imperial mage, and sat back down on the most uncomfortable seat in Icarthya. None of them wanted to go to war, but it wasn’t a choice. War had been declared by a foe she could not define nor understand.

Threadfin took a step to the edge of the dais and lowered his hood. There was a chorus of gasps, and a resurgence of mutterings and arguments, as those from beyond Icarthya who had never seen a viral, saw one now. Beezer, Lyrin and Tezcat were present, along with others, but all kept their faces concealed within their hoods. No need to alarm the living any further than necessary.

‘Her name is, Astra Dar,’ he announced in a forceful voice, and along with his face, it dispelled all arguments and mutterings. The chamber was silent. ‘She was an ancient sorceress who lived a thousand years ago. The details aren’t important. Suffice to say, she has managed to return with greater power, and is as dangerous as ever.’

‘We don’t like your kind,’ shouted a brave voice from the balcony above, but Sarscha didn’t see who it was.

‘What use is a half-dead grave-worm to any of us?’ shouted another. She did spot that one, an Icarthian worker from the Prole who wasn’t meant to be there.

She gave a slight nod, and two greencloaks moved to apprehend the second speaker. Her irritant of a brother, however, interfered as he held up a scaled hand. ‘No, leave him be.’ The soldiers glanced towards the dais, and Sarscha nodded. What else could she do? Cause a scene? The soldiers withdrew to the far wall to resume their vigil.

‘Most of you, if not all, are aware I am undead. Yes, a viral, as are many of my companions in this city. I am also the imperial mage, by order of your imperatrix. I am her brother, once bearing the name of Todralan. I am Icarthian and I exist in this world like you. Most of you know of the viral horde under my command. Many of you fear or mistrust us. It doesn’t matter.

‘We vow to stand between you and the rising Darkness. Not just to protect this imperium. We will stand and fight to protect the world and all those living in it. I ask that you allow us to do so, and that you do not try to impede us. We are not your enemy. Your enemy is coming, however, and you’re going to need us.’

Threadfin took several steps back, and Sarscha realised he was shaking. Public speaking wasn’t something he was used to, but she knew it was more than that.

‘There are rumours,’ shouted a young man from the gathering in clipped Icarthian. He had a dark face, eastern by his clothing. Vegoian perhaps. Then she recognised him as the messenger from the east; Severo, who had first reported the fall of Vegoia. Artorius had met with him, and then one of her agents had verified his story. ‘I’ve heard you hold a guest in your dungeons. I’ve heard you hold as prisoner, the Grim Master, Reaper of Souls.’

This resulted in an uproar, with people crying out in shock, or shouting, ending with a brief scuffle between the previous speaker and Polius Augustus of all idiots.

It was then the old fool decided it best to suffer heart failure. He keeled over and all went quiet. Several, including Lyrin, attended to him. Sarscha was on her feet, ready to leave, with the gathering having become the disaster she’d feared. Tales would likely spread that she herself had killed one of her conclavists to make a point. She had hoped for greater unity, but why? They’d never been united, not under her father’s reign nor her grandfather’s, not to mention that half of those gathered were from far-off lands who traditionally distrusted the imperium.

It was then Polius stirred, spasming, his stick-thin limbs flopping about. Sarscha rolled her eyes, wondering what was going on. She glanced at Tezcat Licolo, and noticed her brother doing the same. The young viral girl glowered back with her arms folded. No, she wasn’t responsible, and didn’t appreciate being accused of it either.

Polius rose to his feet, his body moving in an awkward fashion. At first Sarscha assumed he had recovered, but revised her assessment. The conclavist’s back was to the dais, but instead of turning about to face it, his head did on its own, the bones snapping as his neck broke. A screech and some fool of a woman fainted. Greencloaks began clearing the room, under the direction of a fat sergeant named Totters who was munching on a sausage, waving his sword in his other hand. Others at the direction of the imperial marshal formed a human barrier before the dais.

The dead eyes of Polius found Sarscha, as both Beezer and Lyrin used weaves of viralic power to ensnare whatever it was. There appeared to be a resistance to their magic however, and Tezcat joined their efforts. For his part, Threadfin stood looking dumbstruck. I know how he feels, she thought, glancing at her wine cup, wishing there was wine in it.

The body of the conclavist lurched forwards. Aidarius who had not left her side, stared bug-eyed, mouth agape. Beezer waved his hands in a rhythmic fashion, and dark vines entwined Polius, preventing him from getting closer.

Breath wheezed from the dead man’s lungs, perhaps the last of whatever they’d held, and with it came a strange voice. ‘The witch of Anger rises. The one who brings grief, she who offers sorrow; Angrboda comes for the Book of Chains. When she opens it, the wicked shall gnash their teeth and prostrate before her, and the righteous shall perish.’

Another spasm rippled through the talking corpse, before the body of Polius Augustus disintegrated into hundreds of tiny crabs, which scuttled everywhere.

The imperial marshal leapt out of their path, his short sword hanging useless in his hand.

Those still unfortunate enough to remain in the throne room, panicked, attempting to flee. After all, no one knew who was next.

‘I don’t even like seafood,’ noted the imperatrix staring over the heads of her soldiers, quite uncertain what use they would’ve been.

She heard a chewing sound and turned to see Licolo munching on a crab. Threadfin also stared at her, though the other virals were too busy examining the scene with their magic to pay heed.

Tezcat saw them watching, and Sarscha raised an eyebrow in question. The viral girl dropped what was left of the crab and shrugged. ‘I hates seein’ it go a wastin’,’ she muttered by way of explanation.

The imperial marshal had a look of abject revulsion on his face, replacing his shock. Of course, he had yet to get well acquainted with Tezcat or virals in general.

‘That was Polius,’ said Threadfin to the girl, stabbing a finger at the spot where the elderly conclavist had been.

‘Nots no longer, it’s not,’ said Tezcat, developing a pout. ‘I just ates the one.’

Sarscha sat, resting her head in one hand, and wondered if they stood any chance. It seemed the sorceress could reach right into the heart of their city.

She heard someone approach, but didn’t look up. Beezer said, ‘It appears to be a rare form of magic, part viralic, part spectralic and mixed with something elemental. I have never felt anything like it.’

‘You are in grave danger,’ added Lyrin joining him. ‘You must retreat to the Aurealis Tower and remain there, while we secure it with wards. We can protect you, imperatrix.’

‘No!’ Sarscha snapped. ‘We must find this Witch of Anger, and stop her.’ She looked up then, turning her head towards her brother. ‘What do you think?’

Threadfin didn’t miss a beat, and she had to admit it was one of the reasons she had come to love him. ‘To be honest,’ he muttered, ‘I think I’ve gone off crab.’