Empire Asunder Box Set: Books 1-3

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EMPIRE ASUNDER

THE COMPLETE BOX SET

MICHAEL JASON BRANDT
 CONTENTS

Map (West)
Map (East)
Offer

THREE OF SWORDS
Glossary
Dramatis Personae
Prologue
1. Neublusten
2. Sky’s Pass
3. Everdawn
4. Sky’s Pass
5. Asturia
6. Everdawn
7. Cormona
8. Sky’s Pass
9. Everdawn
10. Cormona
11. Vilnia
12. Everdawn
Epilogue

HEARTS OF FIRE
Glossary
Dramatis Personae
Prologue
1. Asturia
2. Below
3. Vilnia
 4. Below
5. Vilnian Border
6. Neublusten
7. Below
8. Neublusten
9. Gothenberg
10. Ra’Cheka
11. Neublusten
12. Gothenberg
Epilogue
SHIELD AND CROWN
Glossary
Dramatis Personae
Prologue
1. Gothenberg
2. Surface
3. Neublusten
4. Falkenreach
5. Akenberg
6. Gothenberg
7. Allstatte
8. Akenberg
9. Gothenberg
10. Cormona
11. Bloodspire
12. Sea’s Pass
Epilogue

EMPIRE UNVEILED
The Culture of the Twelve Kingdoms
Military
Language
History
Religion
 The Twelve Kingdoms
Akenberg
Asturia
Buldova
Cartha
Daphina
Falkenreach
Gothenberg
Liniza
Lorester
Nurosterlend
Vilnia
Yoshini

The Order of Swordthanes

Harpa
Others
Tribelands

Kings Club
About the Author
Also by Michael Jason Brandt
A larger, full-color map is available to readers for free. Please see the
Kings Club offer at the back of this book for details.
THREE OF SWORDS

EMPIRE ASUNDER BOOK I

 GLOSSARY

(Space restrictions require this to be a partial list. A full description

of terms and culture is found in Empire Unveiled, the fourth part of
this box set.)

Nobility
Emperor - the highest authority in the Empire, dominion over all
twelve kings
King - ruler of a kingdom/province, swears fealty to the Emperor
Duke - ruler of a duchy within a kingdom, swears fealty to a king
Baron (Hern in some provinces) - ruler of a barony within a
kingdom, swears fealty to a duke or king
Count (Landgrave in some provinces) - ruler over two or more
lords, swears fealty to a baron, duke, or king
Lord - landed gentry with Imperial holdings

Military
Soldiers are divided between recruit ranks, drawn from the
commoners, and officers, generally drawn from nobility or esteemed
veterans of the recruit ranks.

A standard squad (squadron for cavalry) is 10 privates plus a

corporal.
A standard company is 4 squads (3 for cavalry) led by a captain.

Officer Ranks
General - commands an army, reports to the king
Commander - commands a regiment or detachment, reports to a
general
Captain - commands a company, reports to a commander

Recruit Ranks
Corporal - recruit in command of a squad, reports to a captain
Private - recruit, reports to a corporal

Provincial and Town Officials

Chancellor - a position of authority over administrative or financial
matters within a province, appointed by king
Retainer - personal follower of a specific member of the nobility,
sometimes themselves of lesser nobility
Magistrate - chief judicial and executive official in a city, town, or
significant village, usually appointed by lord, count, or baron
Clerk - chief administrative official in a city, town, or significant
village, usually appointed by magistrate
Historian - librarian overseeing Archives, usually appointed by
magistrate

Other
Swordthane - member of the Order of Swordthanes
First of Swords - singular head of the order
Second of Swords - one of two thanes obedient to the First of
Swords
Third of Swords - one of six thanes obedient to a Second of
Swords
Housethrall - servant for life in the employ of nobility, town official,
or prominent family
Fieldthrall - worker for life employed on one of the many farms
dotting the Empire
Cards of an Imperial Deck
Heart - Love
Crown - Nobility
Shield - Friendship and Loyalty
Dragon - Beasts
Storm - Chaos
Sword - War and Conflict
Devil - Evil
Skull - Death
 DRAMATIS PERSONAE

(Space restrictions require this to be a partial list. A full accounting

of people and places is found in Empire Unveiled, the fourth part of
this box set.)

Akenberg
King Hermann
Prince Markolas (Marko), Hermann’s eldest son
Prince Nicolas (Nico), Hermann’s second son
Renard, retainer to Prince Nicolas
Dolen, a Swordthane and mercenary

The Threeshields, Akenberg cavalry company

Captain Bayard
Corporals Keldon and Mickens
Privates Mip and Pim, twin brothers, young recruits
Private Lima, a young recruit
Private Manus, a veteran
Asturia
King Anton
Princess Letitia (Leti), Anton’s daughter
Prince Tobias (Toby), Anton’s son
Lord Jacinto, Anton’s adviser
Captain Gornada, in command of Anton’s Royal Guard
Private Zenza, a Swordthane and member of Anton’s Royal Guard
Duke Iago, ruler of Feana, a rebel province

Everdawn
Rosco, village magistrate
Kluber, Rosco’s son
Riff, Rosco’s housethrall
Rodrik, village clerk
Sofi, Rodrik’s wife
Kevik, Rodrik’s son
Kleo, Rodrik’s daughter
Jak, Rodrik’s housethrall
Henrik, village historian
Calla, Henrik’s daughter
Acolyte Bashir, former caretaker of the Shrine of Tempus
Disciple Lukas, current caretaker of the Shrine of Tempus

Vilnia
King Volocar
Commander Jenaleve (Jena), Volocar’s eldest daughter
General Ariens, in command at Halfsummit
Captain Marek, in command of an infantry company
Private Karlo, a soldier
Private Redjack, a soldier and scout
Private Yohan, a soldier, half-Oster
“The Sword’s purpose is to draw blood; to inflict pain; to
distress and dominate one’s enemies. It is thus the symbol of
conflict and war, to be eschewed over aught but Devil and
Skull.”
— IMPERIAL DECK STANDARD RULES
 PROLOGUE

A KING’S PLAN

A lazy breeze wafted through the king’s chambers, bearing the

aromatic essence of hyacinth and narcissus from the castle
gardens. In calmer times, Hermann would stand sentinel on the
enormous stone balcony overlooking these colorful grounds, their
row upon row of trimmed plots as pleasing to the eye as their scent
to the nose. He considered doing so now, to reassure his restless
mind—a mind that needed reassuring, for although resolute in
decision he was not wholly without regret. It was not easy to kill
one’s son.
Perhaps he would have gone to the balcony, and perhaps a fresh
view of the world outside these walls would have led to a change in
plans, a softening of temperament, a life spared. But his tired bones
did not easily stir from comfort in recent years, and the luxury of the
armchair was a pleasure not easily forsaken.
Besides, reassurance could take many forms. Pollak padded into
the room, arousing a creased smile on papery lips. The only one of
the king’s mastiffs allowed in these chambers, he soundlessly
crossed the expanse of golden carpet to recline by the chair.
Hermann’s hand reflexively reached out, and Pollak raised his head
to meet it. The creature peered at his master with deeply
affectionate eyes while the king stroked the smooth fur with slow,
loving motions, all thoughts of gardens and reconsiderations
banished for the moment.
 The two of them shared these long minutes, distractedly content,
until another breeze brought a chill and a touch of damp vapor,
scooped off the nearby lake that gave Neublusten its name.
Hermann’s gaze drifted to the slackening fire in the hearth, his mind
balancing the desire for greater warmth with the effort required to
achieve it, the appeal of summoning a servant with the regrettable
necessity of privacy.
Whether dwelling on the enormous or trivial, this was how his
thoughts had always flowed; forever weighing options, seeking
advantages, eliminating inefficiencies. It was by such deliberation
that he had arrived at this juncture.
As a boy, he had repudiated the delights and whims of his peers
in favor of the practical pursuits of status, wealth, and influence. And
this philosophy had served him well—was he not now ruler of the
greatest of the Twelve Kingdoms? Was his voice not respected by all,
from the lowest fieldthrall to the highest Swordthane, a far cry from
the middling station he had been born to? Respect was much more
satisfying earned than inherited. But maintaining that respect in
perpetuity was an effort beyond mortal capacity.
In this sense, he understood the emperor’s decision. In this one
sense alone, however.
I am stepping down, Eberhart had unexpectedly informed the
council. The people, the beasts, the very winds grow restless. All
signs point to change. I am not the one to lead the empire through
it. The announcement had rocked them like an explosion of Carthic
fire.
Hermann’s quest for personal power had consumed much of his
life. His earliest memories were filled with dreams of becoming
emperor, of uniting the Twelve Kingdoms beneath a single banner.
For a time, that prospect had even seemed achievable. Effort and
inventiveness had raised him to foremost of the landgraves,
overseeing these very lands surrounding Castle Neublusten.
Determination, courage, and a touch of ruthlessness had brought
him the throne. As king, he had systematically broadened the realm
to include parts of neighboring Daphina and Asturia—anything
vulnerable to his irresistible embrace—all through pretense, bribery,
and bluster. Hermann had skillfully avoided overt war until he could
be reasonably certain of not just victory but domination.
Perhaps he had waited too long. His armies had been ready, his
justifications formulated, his anticipation of consolidating all three
central kingdoms into one at a climax—when Eberhart came rising
from the countryside as if birthed by the land itself. The man was a
second sun, a titan amongst dwarfs, the strength of his persona
even greater than that of his swordarm. Some claimed he had
founded the Swordthanes himself, although Hermann had first heard
rumors of their eclectic rituals when but a child, so he dismissed that
notion as one more hysterical fantasy. Yet there was no question
Eberhart had taken the mystical order from obscurity to prominence,
from disdain to admiration. Its appeal to the powerless masses,
dispossessed of land and influence, was easy to understand. But
even the nobility quickly embraced the quasi-religion to a degree
that surprised Hermann. He supposed patience, discipline, courage,
personal merit—and the promise of meeting one’s end on one’s own
terms—held a certain universal appeal.
For whatever reasons, Eberhart’s meteoric rise put an end to
Hermann’s ambitions. He watched another man become emperor. A
better man, if truth be told. He accepted this in mind and heart, and
doing so had allowed him to rule Akenberg with a modicum of
contentment for more than a tenyear. There was no shame in
admitting one’s inferiority to the First of Swords and King of Kings.
But now with a simple, sudden announcement Eberhart was
gone, the empire cast adrift. Since that moment, the implications
never left Hermann’s thoughts. While the others of the council—
kings and dukes alike—pled for reconsideration, Hermann sat
silently, his mind already turning over the permutations. The
emperor’s departure created a power void that someone desperately
needed to fill.
Eberhart had said so himself. It is time for a new man to do as
I’ve done. My life was meant to unify the lands and people of the
empire. It was never intended for the challenges that lay ahead.
A potent stability accumulated during Eberhart’s reign prevented
the empire from collapsing right away, but it was only a matter of
time before the claimants would appear, dragging the disparate
provinces back toward bickering, discord, and open conflict. A new
leader needed to emerge quickly if the solidarity that was Eberhart’s
gift was to be maintained.
Hermann was now too old to seize power for himself, but that did
not mean he had lost all trace of his old ambition. It still burned in
his breast, more a smoldering ember than a raging flame. He had
long since realized it was not his destiny to rule the empire
personally, but he would do everything in his power to see that his
son did.
Thank the gods that his mind remained sharp and nimble. Now
was a time for strategy, for influence, for manipulation—with the
ultimate reward at stake. And he had no doubt there were eleven
other rulers with similar thoughts.
“You wished to see me, My King?”
As if forming from a father’s thoughts, Markolac stood attentively
at the room’s sole entrance.
“Yes, Marko. Please come in.”
The prince took a series of broad strides into the chamber before
taking a knee. Hermann continued to pet Pollak absentmindedly
while he studied his eldest. The boy had grown into a fine young
man. No remnant of the babe who had barely survived his first
illness or that child who had frivolously chased birds and hidden
beneath the skirts of servant girls at the appearance of strangers.
With age and maturity, the lad had turned studious and serious.
Reliable.
“Please stand. How are you feeling, Son?” He looked strong and
healthy, but the last time they had spoken, a tenday prior, Marko had
taken on a mild cough. Every factor needed to be considered.
“Fine, Father. Thank you for asking.” No hint of the cough
remained.
“And your studies? How do they progress?”
“Excellent, Father. Master Goodwin has me learning Carthic and
Dauphi. Chancellor Thamos is taking time to explain the finer details
of excise, tariff, and capitation.”
 Hermann resisted a shudder. Taxes were nearly as dull as they
were important. He hoped Marko had a better head for them than
his father.
There was a certain formality to the interaction, as befit their
station. A necessary formality that superseded even cherished
familial bonds. Hermann longed to reach out to his child, draw
strength from the youthful virility, envelop his own sequestered soul
in unconditional love. But he could not. Such displays of weakness
were for the commoners. A nobleman—especially a ruler—never
broke character.
As the questioning persisted, Hermann watched his son closely.
What had started as evaluation slowly became appreciation, and a
father’s pride warmly spread throughout his body. One by one the
last reservations fell away. Marko seemed to have all the
temperament and regal countenance Hermann could have hoped for.
Moreover, just into his twenties, he would have the energy and
resilience for what lay ahead.
But was he ready to be a king? It was time to find out.
Hermann laid out his plan. For most facets, he left no detail
unspoken, for Marko needed to appreciate the minutia of decision-
making. The monologue took less than ten minutes, for there was
no interrupting, though there were certain to be questions at the
end. Hermann would learn much about his successor based on how
his eldest chose to present those questions.
The plan’s veneer came first. He began with the emperor’s
departure, an announcement not yet publicized as each ruler figured
out how to release the news with minimal disruption. The look on
Marko’s face indicated surprise, but not dismay. That was a
reassuring sign to Hermann, a better starting point for what came
next.
“A messenger has already been sent to King Anton in Cormona,
proposing a marriage between you and his daughter Letitia.” An
eyebrow raised, but the prince otherwise kept his reactions in check.
He had been raised well.
“I am dispatching your brother Nicolas as an ambassador of
goodwill. He will conduct the final arrangements and provide the
royal escort for the girl when she comes to Neublusten.
“The benefits of a union between Akenberg and Asturia are
obvious. Acting in concert, we control the Emperor’s Council vote for
the central kingdoms, which is now more important than ever with
every province fighting to influence how the empire will change.
“What is more, we are about to find ourselves in open conflict
with Lorester. War appears unavoidable under current
circumstances, but if Akenberg gains an ally, Lorester will stand
down.
“Weddings are always popular affairs. Our people will rejoice at
the news. So will the Asturians. It will also portend a way out of
their current…problems. Anton may be inclined to resist this offer,
but it will be very difficult for him to refuse.
“It is also a sham.”
For the first time since the news of the emperor, Marko reacted.
Not dramatically, but his muscles tightened and his eyes broke away
momentarily, unable to match Hermann’s unwavering intensity.
“Following the emperor’s announcement, the Loresters
approached us about an alliance. You will still have your wedding,
but to King Maximil’s daughter Glacia instead. She is a far more
suitable match.
“As you know, the Loresters have suffered mightily this harvest.
They seek our food—and our protection. Without Eberhart as a
bulwark, each province will be forced to fend for themselves.
Lorester needs us. In exchange, they will willingly provide what
soldiers they can for a joint attack on Asturia.
“We simply need to distract Anton while we mobilize. He and I
have a history. He distrusts me.” And not without reason. “Asturia
has spies in Akenberg that will warn him of preparations for war. He
must believe those preparations are for war against the Loresters or
he will take precautions against us.
“With Lorester by our side and Asturia under our heel, we will
effectively control the central kingdoms. And the central kingdoms
have always been in a strong position to dominate imperial politics.
Our collective influence would certainly determine the next emperor.
I intend for it to be you.”
 He paused a moment for effect, studying Marko’s face intently. If
his son was astounded by the declaration, or even pleased, it did not
show.
“I hope to live to see these plans reach fruition,” Hermann
continued, “but even so I am resolved to abdicate the throne of
Akenberg in one month’s time, after the wedding is announced and
the secret alliance with Lorester completed. My role will be that of
an adviser only. I have made many enemies in my lifetime—whereas
you, my son, have none. It is for the best that you begin your reign
with a clean slate.”
Finished at last, he nodded. There were other details that
remained unresolved, of course. The exact terms of the ersatz union
with Asturia and the genuine one with Lorester, for example. Even
smaller items such as the size of Nicolas’ escort and the proposed
wedding date were yet to be determined, but Hermann was
confident in the general outline of things. In any case, it made sense
to give Marko a hand in the final preparations. To do so would
provide valuable experience, and he would have to live with the
results far longer than Hermann himself.
The king readied himself for the onslaught of questions.
“They’ll kill him.”
Not a question, then. A simple statement, and Hermann found
himself once again confronted by every reservation he had felt for
days, ever since the plan began to formulate in his scheming
imagination. Yet as king, Hermann dared not show a shred of
hesitation. Doubts were a sign of weakness not afforded to rulers.
He nodded. “Almost certainly.” He allowed himself a pause, then
continued with his rehearsed response. “In fact, it is better for
everyone that they do.”
This was the line of reasoning that he had used to convince
himself, and Hermann now used it on Marko. “It is the best way to
ensure that your own ascension to the throne goes smoothly. Trust
me on this, young prince. You do not wish a challenge at the very
time when you need to consolidate support.”
“Nico has no interest in ruling Akenberg, let alone the empire.”
“He is ambitious.”
 “About his swordplay. That doesn’t mean he wishes to rule.”
“Perhaps not now. But power is not a prize easily cast aside. I
know you feel a brother’s kinship with him, but a ruler must set
personal feelings aside to do what is best for his realm. Akenberg
would not be well served by a civil war.”
“But to punish him before he has shown any sign of disloyalty?
This seems to contradict the proper justice of which you often
speak.”
“True, but it is not only Nicolas you must concern yourself with.
As soon as you are king, you will accumulate enemies. Such is the
nature of the position. What do you believe will happen when they
begin to whisper in his ear, telling him he would do better? He will
be a natural and persistent rallying point for dissent. And believe me
when I say dissent never goes away, it only hides in the shadows.”
Hermann could see that Marko was struggling to contain his
emotions, but the point had gotten through. Now came time to
reinforce it. “My son, you will make a good king. But you have much
to learn first. Especially about the essence of man. Men are, above
all else, inherently self-serving. They are respectful and trustworthy
until that becomes in any way inconvenient. Always make certain
that loyalty is profitable. Never force a man to choose between his
ruler and himself.”
“I understand.” A pause. “There…are other things I would ask of
you.”
Good. The most difficult hurdle was now behind them. The rest
was trivial. “Anything.”
“If he already distrusts us, why would King Anton agree to the
proposal?”
“He is weak, and getting weaker. His land is divided, his rule
challenged by the separatists of Feana. The rumors have it that
Duke Iago raises an army and seizes land by force. Anton’s ego will
bristle, but he must accept our offer. Or at least give it long
contemplation, which is very much the same to us.”
“If he accepts, why not simply go through with that marriage?
What makes Lorester a better ally?”
 “The problem is Anton himself. He is younger than I, and equally
ambitious. He would make an unreliable ally. He would bide his time
until we are weakened, or threatened, and then he will fight. He will
challenge you when you are most vulnerable. Far better to deal with
him now than later.”
“Is not Maximil capable of the same?”
“He is less capable and ambitious than Anton, but there is merit
to your doubts. No one is incapable of treachery. Still, we can only
deal with one at a time, and Anton is the greater threat. A ruler
must often weigh difficult choices. You must learn to make the most
of each opportunity.”
Reading the thoughtful expression on Marko’s face, Hermann
paused from the lecturing for a moment. Another breeze blew
through the room, which had gotten noticeably chillier since the start
of their discussion. The gravity of the conversation had kept him
from noticing, but now he failed to repress a shiver. Pollak noticed
and raised his head in concern. Hermann smiled and scratched
behind the dog’s ears, a reward for fidelity.
Marko was now pacing back and forth across the room while he
pondered. It was an unusual action for anyone in Hermann’s
presence, yet he did not mind. The young man no longer needed to
show supplication to his father. Soon he must accustom himself to
being the one supplicated to.
“How far will we take these false hostilities with Chissenhall?”
“Not far. Our emissaries tell me that negotiations go well. I
expect completion within a tenday or two. Then a few more to
escalate rhetoric, purely for public consumption. An allowance for
the rumors to reach Anton… No more than four or five tendays of
pretense. By then the reserves will be called to duty and the army
ready to march on Cormona.
“I have reason to believe Anton will be more distracted by the
Feanic uprising than our squabbles with Lorester…” Hermann caught
himself and elected not to go into that now. There was a limit to
how much he wanted to burden Marko with at once. They would
need to delve into some of the nastier aspects of ruling in the
Twelve Kingdoms soon enough.
 “Now, let us discuss your role in all this. I believe it best if the
people begin to see you at the head of the army. A fighting prince
always cuts a dashing figure…”
While he spoke, Hermann was barely aware that Marko had
retrieved a heavy knit blanket from one of the chamber’s settees.
The prince approached his father and quietly spread it over his legs,
silently nodding along. Next, he went to the hearth and added a log
before resuming his pacing, only then interrupting the exposition
with a question.
“If it comes to actual fighting—with Lorester or Asturia—will I be
allowed to command as I see fit?”
Hermann considered. His son looked the role of a young general,
but he lacked experience. Ideally, he should be gradually exposed to
increasing levels of responsibility. Circumstances were seldom ideal,
however.
“Your legitimacy will be strengthened by a bloodless victory over
Lorester—even a prearranged one. And a subsequent one over
Asturia will make you beloved. I suggest you rely heavily on your
advisers, but yes. A leader should lead.”
Marko smiled at this. Hermann had never known his son—this
son—to be particularly martial. He had trained in the use of sword
and shield and learned to ride with the best of them, but had never
shown the same enthusiasm as his younger brother. Perhaps there
was a hint of sibling rivalry after all.
“Father, I need to reflect on this further. I also have promised to
sup with the Duchess Lorana and her charming daughters. There is
need to speak more of this, however. May I return this eve?”
“Certainly. We still have much to consider. Come whenever you
are able.”
Marko bowed crisply, then strode from the room, his heavy steps
echoing for some time in Hermann’s mind.
The encounter had gone as well as could be expected, and for
that he felt a palpable sense of relief. Yet the strain did not entirely
dissipate. In fact, Hermann could not fight back another shiver,
despite the added warmth of the blanket and fire.
 He had never made a habit of second-guessing his own
decisions, be they petty or monumental. This attitude had served
him well through the years. He was on the cusp of achieving his
immortal legacy. What then was this nagging apprehension that
bothered him so?
 1

NEUBLUSTEN

“D efend.”
Nicolas lifted the practice shield just in time to block
Renard’s sudden strike. The sound of hard wood upon wood rattled
his ears, but he was long accustomed to the deafening noise of
swordplay.
“Defend.”
Renard took a swing at Nico’s head. The shield shot up again. It
was lighter than his personal one, and in his haste, he nearly lifted it
too high. Renard’s slash deflected off the lower edge and narrowly
missed scoring a serious hit on his exposed side.
“Sloppy.” Renard did not hide his disgust. “You need to practice
more with all weights and sizes. You’ve become too complacent with
your own gear.”
Nico did not argue. It was true. His own sword felt so
comfortable in his grip that he rarely trained with anything else.
“Defend.”
Renard aimed a quick thrust at Nico’s right arm. The shield came
up—and suddenly the high thrust turned into a low slash, directed at
his left leg. Nico was prepared for the feint, redirected his
movements, and blocked the attack simultaneously with a step
forward on his right leg. He could easily have pressed the
advantage, but Renard had not issued an attack command.
These blocks were straight from the school of Grimaldi, one of
the greatest duelists in history—not to mention another proud
Akenberger. The old master’s techniques were among the first that
Nico had learned, and long years of constant practice made his
execution nearly flawless. Not that Renard would ever acknowledge
that proficiency.
“Defend,” he repeated, and the one-sided fighting continued.
Nico understood why the older man was doing this. One year
ago, they had watched today’s opponent win his Proving with an
aggressive style that appeared as reckless as it was effective. If that
man used the same tactics today…
“Attack.”
Nico hesitated for a split second, having expected another
command to defend. Now he lunged at Renard’s exposed leg. If Nico
had been properly prepared, he could have picked a bolder target,
but the delay cost him a valuable fraction of a second. Even a trivial
score was better than none at all.
Except that Renard easily blocked the move and unexpectedly
counterattacked. The other practice sword swung down hard on
Nico’s, the resulting shock wave forcing the weapon out of the
prince’s grip. The sound as it clattered to the stone floor was even
more upsetting than the stinging in his hand.
“What the poxing devil was that?” Renard demanded, barely
tempering his criticism despite a sudden rise in temper.
“I expected another ‘defend.’ I thought you were preparing me
for Dolen’s aggressive style.”
Renard sniffed, causing Nico to wince. Sniffing was one of many
signs that his retainer—and trainer, and mentor—was too
disappointed for words. If Nico had been a common soldier, the
profanities would come out in a long, vicious stream. But despite
Nico’s frequent requests to not be treated deferentially, he was still
nobility, and was learning how that fact could never be cast aside. If
Renard was ever overheard admonishing a prince in the manner
used with soldiers, word might get back to the king. That would
quickly put an end to their partnership, and possibly Renard’s life.
Another sniff, followed by a sigh. Renard was not truly as angry
as he showed, Nico knew. The man used anger as a tool to get a job
done. Some men needed to be berated into action, while some
required other forms of motivation. Nico had no doubt he would
benefit from a good tongue-lashing, but since that was impossible,
he knew his teacher would fall back on explanations.
“Your upcoming opponent did not win his Proving because of this
‘aggressive style’ you describe. He was not any more skilled than the
man he defeated. He just did something unexpected. He won with
imagination as much as power and precision. Do you really think he
will fight the exact same way against you?”
There was no time to give it any thought. The door to the small
practice chamber opened and a messenger appeared. “Prince
Nicolas. The Proving begins.”
Nico nodded and the man disappeared. It was time.
He had been waiting for this moment for a year—no, for as long
as he could remember. And now that it was here, he found himself
unprepared. Renard had just told him something immensely
important, but Nico had already forgotten what that was. His hand
still stung from being disarmed. He tried to swallow but could not,
tried to breathe through his nose and nearly choked.
He looked at Renard, a sudden sense of despair overtaking him.
It was hard to believe. All this anticipation, all this time to prepare,
and still he was going to lose. And there would be no second
chance.
“I’m not ready,” he said aloud. But his eyes spoke more. What do
we do? Can we ask for more time?
“You’re ready. You don’t feel it now—but as soon as the fighting
starts, you’ll feel something trigger. For some men, it’s self-
preservation. I think for you, it’ll be whatever you need to get the
job done.” The thick mustache curled. Renard was smiling. He
reached out to tap Nico’s chest. “There’s more steel in here than you
know. You’re a prince—you’re not going to lose.”
Nico wondered exactly what his teacher meant by that. Did he
think they would throw the match to him, simply because he was
royalty? Or that his blood gave him some innate quality of
superiority? Provings did not work like that. But commoners like
Renard often had a distorted, reverential perspective of nobility.
 Yet there was still comfort in the words. Renard had served as an
instructor in Hermann’s army for more than two tenyears. He had
been forced into retirement at just around the time of Nico’s
thirteenth birthday, the age when boys and girls begin training as an
apprentice for whatever industry they would spend their life in. Most
children are born into that industry, but Nico had been fortunate—
spoiled, in truth—enough to choose. He had been even more spoiled
to seek out the kingdom’s expert, a man who should have been
allowed to enjoy his retirement and modest pension, and ask him for
personal training. Nico had not appreciated at the time how
impossible it was for Renard to say no.
Five years together had brought understanding and an odd form
of camaraderie between them. Nico had spent far more time with
this man than he had his own father. Or even his brother. He and
Marko had once been close, but the elder prince’s responsibilities
had stolen him away long ago. Perhaps Renard had functioned as a
replacement. It would have been amusing to think of this gruff,
profane old man as a brother if Nico’s anxious mind had any room
for amusement. It did not. His nerves were settling, and it was time
to go prove himself.
The Swordthanes were an order that predated Emperor Eberhart,
but Nico’s understanding was that the emperor had been the one to
codify the rules and rites that governed the organization. To be a
Swordthane was to be a privileged member of society, one of a
select few respected by all. There were only a few dozen
Swordthanes in the entire empire at any one time. But even within
this tiny society there existed a hierarchy. Eberhart was the First of
Swords, the point of a blade that widened beneath him. There were
two Seconds, each of whom was Patron to three Thirds—and there
the titles ended. Each Third was Patron to their own three followers,
but these were thanes without special distinction. This bottom tier
was where every new member entered—and it was the level which
Nico aspired to join today.
Every Swordthane, of every rank, was expected to defend their
position once per year, provided a challenger came forward.
According to legend, Eberhart himself had been challenged only
once. The Seconds usually faced challenges every handful of years,
and the Thirds more frequently still. Those at the bottom level,
however, fought every year—the only way for the ambitious many to
join the honored few. These fights were the Provings.
Although the order did not specify one, most communities
adopted a tournament of their own to determine the right to
challenge a Swordthane. Castle Neublusten had done so, but Nico
did not feel particularly tested considering the level of competition
he had faced to this point. Few of his father’s soldiers wanted to risk
reputation by opposing their liege’s progeny, and even fewer
commoners had sufficient training with a sword to take the event
seriously. Even the reserves—men who had served in the army and
agreed to mobilize during times of need in exchange for a small
pension—mostly allowed their skills to atrophy from disuse.
The main source of real competition was from other noble
houses and the mercenary outfits which wandered from conflict to
conflict in and outside the empire. Today’s opponent was one such
mercenary. Dolen had come to Akenberg years earlier in a regiment
of mixed crossbow and bladesmen. A tall, lean, humorless man, he
had ended his first Proving in sensational style. It was a memory
that frequented Nico’s thoughts of late.
The Proving itself was a simple affair, conducted with surprisingly
little fanfare, for coveting attention ran contrary to the ideals of the
order. Castle Neublusten had cordoned off an ample section of the
sparring chamber for this single bout. Nico was more than a little
familiar with this room, having performed a significant amount of
training here, but never had it seemed quite so cold and intimidating
as it did now. He was reminded of the first time he had set foot in it
for his first practice duel at the age of fifteen, for he currently felt
the same sense of unease that had gripped him then. Nico glanced
at the large banner mounted on the wall—the white mountain of
Akenberg on a background of dark blue—hoping for reassurance,
but receiving none. He was on his own.
Because the order did not seek publicity, today’s showdown was
unheralded. Nevertheless, word had spread to plenty of ears, for
dozens of bystanders moved out of the way as Nico and Renard
passed through. A few hands reached out to pat his shoulder or
back, a few words of encouragement carelessly tossed his way—but
his perception was narrowing by the second, making him oblivious to
such distractions.
Each competitor was given the choice of broadsword or sword
and shield, depending on whether they fought in a one or two-
handed style. Nico found the shield to be far too useful to forgo and
rarely trained without one. Today’s lesson had taught him to
reconsider that practice, but that was a thought for another time.
Provided there ever was another time.
He entered the circle, leaving Renard on the perimeter. An
attendant came forward with sword and shield. His sword and
shield, and Nico immediately felt better with the familiar tools of his
trade in hand.
There were no wooden practice swords in Provings. Injuries were
common. So, too, were deaths. The doctrines of the Order of
Swordthanes held that death in personal combat was the finest end
a warrior could achieve. If you failed a Proving, even if you survived,
you were irrevocably prohibited from the order. Most participants
asked their opponent to finish them off rather than living with that
ignominy.
It had happened last year in this very chamber. Dolen battered
the defending Swordthane’s shield—a lightweight targe—until the
spike in its center had broken off and the non-splitting alder wood
cracked. The tight leather straps prevented the man from disposing
of the shield’s useless weight. His arm was probably broken—in any
case, it hung limp—by the time Dolen turned his attacks to the body
and legs. A Proving relies on no judge to determine its outcome,
leaving the competitors to decide when and how to conclude the
fight. The wounded Swordthane might have been able to save the
arm by yielding as soon as he lost the shield. He might have been
able to walk again—albeit with a cruel limp—by yielding when his
hamstring was severed. As it was, his only admission of defeat took
the form of a painful nod, a response to Dolen’s questioning gaze.
How that body, beaten and bloodied to the point of prostration, had
gone on fighting so long after the point of obvious defeat was a
marvel to Nico. He hoped to measure up to that standard when his
time came.
He also hoped that would not be today.
The crowd parted a second time, and Nico found himself staring
at his opponent. An unmistakable quieting passed over the
spectators, as if the mercenary’s dour mood was infectious. Nico was
not concerned with the man’s temperament, however. Instead, all
attention went straight to the pale cloak on his back. Fashioned from
fine wool, it was inscribed with a radiant blade design and held fast
with a matching steel headpin—the symbol of the order to which
Nico aspired. He wondered whether this would be the closest he
ever came to these simple, precious trappings.
A hairy, roughly scarred hand unclasped the pin, and Dolen
sloughed the cloak from his shoulders. Nico looked from garment to
face and saw the dark eyes glaring back. Dolen studied him while his
arm took a few practice swings with his blade. Nico nodded in a
show of respect. The man did not nod back. He turned away, spat
on the floor, and assumed a fighting stance.
Nico tried to spit, too. He could not form the saliva, and gave up
the attempt. He glanced one time at Renard, took comfort in the
faintest nod from that quarter, and took up his own stance.
He expected Dolen to initiate the attack, as he had done last
year. With unanticipated savagery. Nico had mentally rehearsed a
plan to defend and counter, defend and counter. With any luck, the
mercenary would exhaust himself quickly. Nico knew that even a
great swordsman would get sloppy once his muscles tired.
But Dolen did no such thing. The two of them slowly circled,
shields held below the chin, ready for the other to strike. A few
grumblings emerged from the crowd, voicing displeasure at the lack
of action. Nico tried to pay no attention, but even his own mind was
reacting to the rapid letdown of anticipation. He physically shook his
head to keep it alert, and their legs continued the sluggish pacing.
Dolen showed his teeth. Was it a smile? A sneer? Nico was
unsure, but it did make him take note of a peculiar observation—he
could see Dolen’s face clearly. Very little was obscured by the open
helmet. Nico wore a hood of chain mail and a three-quarters helm
over that. Dolen was wearing only a kettle helmet like the militias
used, and no chain hood beneath. In fact, he wore only a chest of
thin chain mail over leather leggings, much less protective than the
full chain hauberk Nico had on. Much less protective—but also
lighter.
Nico used the standoff to continue studying his opponent. His
own shield was a medium-sized kite, whereas Dolen carried a
smaller targe similar to the one he had demolished in last year’s
Proving, but without the spike. Nico’s sword was three feet of fine
steel; Dolen’s was just over half that length, and narrower. The
strategy was evident, now that Nico had bothered to use his brain.
Dolen intended to tire him out, not the other way around.
The strategy made sense. Dolen knew Nico had witnessed the
aggressive tactics of a year ago, and he expected Nico to prepare for
more of the same. To fight defensively. Every second that Nico
stayed on defense, his heavier equipment would tire him more.
It was an intelligent, creative plan. Was that not what Renard
had warned him about?
But it was also a risky one. It would take a long time for Nico to
tire, so long as all they did was circle. If and when they came to
blows, the lack of protection would quickly tell. Why would Dolen—
the defending Swordthane in this bout—attempt such an audacious
move? Why not simply use his superior swordsmanship?
Renard’s lesson returned to Nico in a flash. He was not any more
skilled than the man he defeated. He just did something unexpected.
Nico looked at the other man in a new light. The spit. The sneer.
Was Dolen covering something up? Could it be possible that he
feared the prince?
There was one way to find out. Nico stepped into a basic attack—
thrust middle, feint high, slash low, retreat. Dolen countered it easily
enough, but Nico felt reassured nonetheless. He was faster than the
man he faced. Faster and more precise.
How many times had Renard admonished Nico that he was better
than he gave himself credit for? He had been training with a sword
since being able to lift one, and was just entering his prime. He was
also a prince, with a professional tutor and all the time in the world
to train and exercise. Most people had no such luxury. Renard made
him practice relentlessly, whereas most practiced only when they
could.
Nico stepped into another offensive sequence—feint low, slash
high, feint high, slash low. This time he did not withdraw, but
continued into his favorite of Grimaldi’s techniques. He had drilled so
often that these motions were practically instinctive. All the way, he
kept a vigilant awareness of Dolen’s sword, prepared for any sudden
counterattack that would force him out of his rhythm, but Dolen was
too preoccupied with beating back Nico’s attacks to form any of his
own.
Nico stepped back and studied his opponent once more. Dolen
was breathing much more heavily now, and no trace of that sneering
smile remained. Nico suddenly felt sorry for him. The man was
outmatched, and both of them knew it.
Then Dolen pressed forward with his own furious attack, and
Nico felt a moment of panic. It had been a ploy all along; Dolen had
lured him into those attacks to tire him out more quickly. Now Nico
desperately deflected a slash with his own blade, then a thrust with
his shield, then another—each time taking a hurried step backward.
He began to worry that he would run out of space. That is, if Dolen
did not sneak one of these deadly strokes through Nico’s defenses
first.
Anxious to halt the momentum, Nico turned a parry into a weak
counter-thrust. It was half-hearted, only intended to force Dolen to
pay attention to his own defense. If Nico had put more into it, he
might have ended the fight on the spot, for his blade reached all the
way to Dolen’s mail shirt and pierced it far enough for both men to
notice. Dolen leaped back and glanced down at his chest as if
expecting to see blood. Then he looked back at Nico and returned to
his fighting stance.
Nico never left his, and went back to studying his opponent. Now
that the transient panic had faded, he saw the sudden assault for
what it was—pure desperation. Dolen was gasping for breath now.
He had realized that Nico was onto the plan, and had gambled all on
one more unexpected act. Sadly for the thane, he was simply not
skilled enough to defeat the prince in a real test of swordplay.
Once again, Nico’s instinct was to feel sorry for the man. But
even a second of that had gotten him into trouble moments earlier.
Never again.
He stepped forward. Dolen’s eyes widened, looking fearful. Nico
feinted high, slashed low, and felt Dolen’s block. Nico feinted low
then slashed high. Dolen tried to parry with his blade rather than
block with his shield—a sure sign of fatigue—but was too slow and
imprecise. A gash opened on his cheek where a fuller helmet would
have protected him.
Nico pressed the advantage, knowing the first breakdown could
often be exploited by decisive action. He slashed low and opened a
wound on Dolen’s thigh, thrust high until he felt the shield’s impact,
then kicked Dolen’s wounded leg out from under him. The tall man
toppled awkwardly to the stone, then immediately rolled and kicked
himself backward in an effort to avoid any forthcoming blows that
Nico chose to rain down upon him.
They did not come, for Nico was unsure of himself. He had never
dueled like this before. He was accustomed to practice bouts—and
this one should be over. Now he simply stared as Dolen picked
himself up and stood stiffly, favoring one leg. The man could not
effectively fight in that condition, yet here he was.
Dolen stepped closer, but did not make the expected attack.
Instead, his eyes burned into Nico’s. They seemed to be pleading
now, and Nico believed he understood what they said. Do not shame
me like this.
Understanding dawned not with a surge of elation, but like a
sickening punch. Mercy and compassion had no place here. Nico’s
focus narrowed further. He did not relish having to do what needed
to be done.
He lunged, drawing Dolen’s shield down, then up, then down
again. The last movement of the sequence was an uppercut slash
that bit into the thin mail of Dolen’s armpit. It was not powerful
enough to sever the arm, but Dolen’s sword clamored to the hard
floor against the backdrop of the crowd’s gasps.
 Nico worried that his blade would catch in mail and sinew, so he
leveled a shoulder into Dolen’s chest, knocking the man backward.
The sword came out cleanly. Dolen held his shield in his usual
stance, but looked horribly awkward without a weapon. Nico used a
strong swing to knock the shield out of the way, then hit the
abdomen with the backswing. He knew the mail would not be
pierced, but ribs cracked and Dolen crumbled to his knees. His left
arm hung uselessly, the weight of the shield dragging it down.
Nico would have liked to stab through the heart, a more noble
ending for the man. But the chain mail prevented that option. It
would have to be the neck.
He was glad Dolen did not raise his eyes to look back. One final
slash, the throat ripped open, and a spray of blood covered the
stone.
Nico clenched his teeth and turned away. He allowed someone to
take the sword from his hand. For the next few minutes, he was
vaguely aware of words being spoken, some of them in the
ceremonious rhythm of a prayer. Something about courage and
discipline and strength. He cared little, being far more concerned
about his dizzy head, his racing heart, and the life he had just taken
from another.
Then hands were upon him, and he flinched, resisting the
impulse to pull away. They were draping something over his
shoulders and pinning it in place. A cloak of some sort, apparently.
He wondered why, and wished they would leave him alone. All these
people and this noise was disorientating.
He tried to focus. There were cheers and applause from faces he
recognized. Some of them he supposed he would call friends,
although most were merely schoolmates or distant relations with
nothing better to do than jump on an opportunity to see blood
spilled.
Then his eyes found a familiar face. A source of stability. One
that could be relied upon to do the thinking for Nico until his own
wits returned. He stepped toward it.
“Renard,” he said aloud. Help, his eyes added.
 “All right,” the old man’s voice barked. “That’s enough, everyone.
The Swordthane is tired.”
Did he call me a Swordthane? Why did he do that? Is that what I
am now?
His mind slowed, becoming aware of the significance of the
occasion. The momentous significance. This was the crowning
achievement of his life, his defining purpose. In one flash of blades,
he was suddenly a man of honor, to be admired and respected. Most
of all by himself.
His brother would certainly be proud when he heard the news.
Nico wished Marko could have been here to witness the event, but
of course that was impossible considering the first prince’s unending
duties.
Nico still felt a bit lightheaded, but his wits had at last returned.
A slight euphoria had replaced the disorientation, and his sudden
broad grin resisted all attempts at restraint. Aware that he probably
looked like a simpleton, he nodded and waved to the few bystanders
who remained. Several wanted to clasp his hand before departing,
and he was silently relieved that no one asked him to remember
their name.
Then only he, the attendants, and Renard remained. Only now
did Nico become aware that his instructor’s hand was on his
shoulder. It had, in fact, been there for some time. He looked
curiously at Renard, anxious to get his opinion on the proceedings.
“Well? What do you think?”
“Proud as a devil, boy.”
A lifetime serving in the army had instilled a love for vulgarities in
the old man. Nico had come to love them, too, even if he could
never use them himself. And he had a newfound appreciation for
their efficacy. All those times Renard chastised him had paid off. Nico
understood now the difference between a swordsman with natural
skill versus one with relentless training. It was the difference
between Dolen and himself, between death and life.
“Your pardons, Prince Nicolas.”
Nico looked away from his retainer toward a newcomer. One of
his father’s pages. “Yes?”
 “Your pardons, Prince,” the young man repeated, lowering his
head. Nico wished the servants would not do that. He supposed they
saw him on a level with his father and brother, but he never thought
of himself that way. Becoming a Swordthane felt far more significant
than being second prince.
“Your father,” the page began. “The king,” he added, as if Nico
needed help making the connection, “wishes to see you.”
Nico nodded. “Thank you. Please tell him that I will be there
within the hour.”
The youth turned a shade paler. “I believe he desires to see you
right away.”
Nico tried to smile reassuringly. “What is your name?”
“Kip, My Prince.”
“Kip, I will be there as soon as I can. But if you lift your head a
little, you will see that I am covered in blood. I think I should clean
myself, first. Don’t you agree?”
“Y-yes, My Prince.”
“Don’t worry, Kip. My father is a reasonable man. He will
understand. I’ll be there shortly.”
Kip bowed and dashed off.
“You don’t really understand what is expected of you,” Renard
said.
“No, I suppose I don’t.”
“That boy won’t feel any better because you used his name. He’s
probably terrified now that you’ll remember him.”
Nico shrugged. “I can’t win, Renard. I’m not really a prince, and
I’m not really anything else.”
“You won today. And you are something—a Swordthane.” The
mustache curled up again. “Now get going. You do not want to keep
your father waiting.”
“Do you think he wants to congratulate me, Renard?”
It had not been meant as a joke, but even as he voiced the
thought, he heard its absurdity.
Renard’s laugh was even deeper and gruffer than his speaking
voice. He made three grunting sounds and then rubbed an eye as if
he had laughed himself to tears. “Nay, I expect he’s got some
meaningless mission for you. Time to go back to your duties as a
prince. I don’t envy you, Boy.
“Now then, if you need me, I’ll be in the tavern.”
 2

SKY’S PASS

C aptain Marek stuffed two small balls of wax into his ears. The
sound of practice swords outside his tent—nearly as distracting
as this frigid mountain air—made concentration difficult. The wax
helped—but the cold, sadly, could not be as easily banished as the
noise. So he wrapped his cloak tighter and huddled closer to the
flame of the lantern that illuminated his portable desk.
The company would be arriving at the final watchtower on the
morrow, and he had some important decisions to make before then
—namely, which soldiers to keep for the slow return trip and which
to leave behind. Just before the force of forty set out a tenday
earlier, last-minute orders had informed Marek that every tower in
the Stormeres—most abandoned for centuries—were to be
reoccupied with as close to full contingents as possible. His superiors
did not explain why. Orders were orders, and it was not his place to
question them.
That did not mean he did not think about the reasons, however.
He presumed they were preparing for war, and the thought filled him
with dread. Vilnia had not been strong since before the empire’s
unification, which could not have come at a better time for the
impoverished eastern kingdom. While their neighbor and rival
Gothenberg prospered from the incessant outflows of its active iron
mines, Vilnia’s own copper and tin had all but depleted. Even poor
Nurosterlend to the north had endless forests of alder and fir with
which to feed the empire’s rapacious appetite for hardwood. Most of
those Marek encountered believed the strength of an army lay in its
people, which the Vilnians could truly claim to be exceptional. But he
knew that real strength derived from the land and the natural
resources it provided, and in this his homeland had been sorely
deprived. The once-happy, thriving population was already migrating
away in greater numbers than Northgate admitted. He had served
on the borders long enough to witness the lopsided flow with his
own eyes.
Marek loved his homeland, and particularly the village east of
Northgate where he grew up. He loved his fellow Vilnians, that
resourceful race who had found a way to tame mountain and
steppe. And he particularly loved the army to which three tenyears
of life had been devoted. But love for these things did not require
blind acceptance that they were incapable of wrong or immune to
catastrophe. And so Marek worried that war at this time—whether
with Gothenberg or Nurosterlend—had the potential to bring ruin on
everything he knew. He wondered what was happening to Eberhart’s
peace that these changes were afoot.
And so the captain prepared another list of ten names with which
to fortify the watchtower at Sky’s Pass, the easternmost fortification
in the province and the only remaining structure along the ancient
central route through the Stormere Mountains. It was a waste of
strength, if truth be told. Sky’s Pass had always been too vulnerable
to storms and animal attacks to function as an effective trade route,
even if the barbaric tribes beyond the mountains had been
worthwhile trading partners. They had the numbers but not the
inclination for commerce. A violent, raiding culture—sometimes
resulting in bloody skirmishes with the empire itself, giving patrols
such as Marek’s an inherent danger—and unending blood feuds
prevented any form of organization or cooperation. Their foolish
bickering made the Twelve Kingdoms appear a model of civility, and
so even the most patient of rulers had long since abandoned
commerce in light of the risk and expense of traveling through the
mountains.
The region was effectively worthless, which made Marek ponder
the value of wasting good soldiers to man the old fortifications.
Everyone knew the real enemy was to the south. When peace within
the empire eroded, war between the kingdoms was inevitable. Most
likely, the men and women he left behind here would miss any real
fighting entirely. For that reason, he leaned toward dispatching the
rawest recruits, with only one or two veterans to keep discipline in
check.
Marek had done exactly that at the last fort, Westsky, three days
earlier. Corporal Bates was an easy choice to command that
detachment. The youth was not exactly grizzled—having only
recently reached a soldier’s age—but learned quickly. Despite his low
birth, Bates was a natural leader with a promising future. All he
lacked was experience, and even an inconsequential command such
as Westsky would provide some. If men like Bates were the future of
Vilnia, the kingdom was in capable hands.
Now, with this final detachment, his company would be at half
strength for their return march to Halfsummit. He worried less about
the trip than what would happen when they got back. His was not
the only company depleted by these new orders. If real fighting
broke out, Marek wondered whether Vilnia would even have a full
army to field. A kingdom needed more than stationary defenses to
conduct a war.
There was a particularly loud crash followed by raucous cheering,
emphatic enough to pierce through the waxy blockage. He shoved
the balls in farther and returned to his list.
His distracted mind remained unaware of the visitor to his tent
until a waving arm caught his attention. He hurriedly cleared his ears
of the wax and stood up to face the newcomer.
“Captain, I have been calling you for over a minute. Are you
really that oblivious?”
It sounded like an exaggeration, but he was not about to
challenge the statement. “Your pardon, My Princess.”
“Commander,” she corrected.
Marek winced. In his embarrassment, he had referred to her by
the way he thought of her, not by the ludicrous rank her father had
bestowed on his only child. “Your pardon, Commander.”
 She frowned. There was an awkward silence, during which he
wondered whether she would continue the rebuke. He would bear it
in stony silence, but really wished she would get to her reason for
interrupting him. Although her rank ostensibly put her in charge of
this patrol, he was the one burdened with every real decision. At
least she had had the sense to defer to his experience and
judgment, so far.
Another crash and cheer erupted outside the tent. Commander
Jenaleve appeared distracted by it.
“What are they doing?” she asked. “Playing games? Gambling
their wages away? I thought soldiers played cards for that.”
“Aye, Commander, they do. But today they decided to hold a
tournament amongst themselves. Resolving long arguments about
who’s the best swordsman.”
“Truly?” She lifted an eyebrow, and even his old cold heart
fluttered. The commander possessed a stunning pale beauty, that
much could not be argued. Why she had chosen a martial life for
herself he would never understand.
He nodded. “Aye, Commander. Unofficial, of course. But even
among recruit ranks such distinctions are important.”
He thought she might frown, or lecture him on the frivolity of
such competitions. Instead, she seemed thoughtful. It occurred to
him that she had trained as a swordmaiden, and was probably
pondering how she would fare in such a contest. At all costs, he had
to arrest that line of thinking, which could only lead to trouble.
“Of course, the competition is only between them. They would
bristle at the interference of officers.”
This was not entirely true. Two of the friendlier soldiers, Jarek
and Redjack, had hinted that Marek himself was welcome to join
them. And there was a time when he would have happily accepted.
But since his elevation to captain, there had been very little
opportunity to keep up with his swordplay, and experience alone did
not compensate for age’s cruel slowing of the reflexes.
“It’s harmless fun, so I allow it.” He hesitated, unsure of her
attitude. He had noticed during his limited exposure to her that she
Another random document with
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 ERICA mucosa.

CHARACTER SPECIFICUS.

Erica, antheris aristatis, inclusis; corollis globosis, mucosis, fasciculatis,

cernuo-patentibus, terminalibus; foliis quaternis.

DESCRIPTIO.

Caulis fruticosus, tripedalis, ad basin fere ramosus, ramis longis, virgatis,

flexuosis.
Folia quaterna, subtriangularia, linearia, apice recurvata, obtusa,
glaberrima, subtus sulcata; brevissimis petiolis instructa.
Flores plures, terminales, fasciculati, cernuo-patentes, mucosi, purpurei
fulgenti; pedunculis longis, purpureis, 2 seu 3 bracteis, instructis.
Calyx. Perianthium tetraphyllum, foliolis ovatis, obtusis, erectis, corolla
dimidio brevioribus.
Corolla globosa, limbo quadrilobo, laciniis semiorbiculatis, æqualibus,
erectis.
Stamina. Filamenta octo capillaria, corolla breviora, receptaculo inserta.
Antheræ aristatæ, inclusæ.
Pistillum. Germen subrotundum. Stylus filamentis crassior, erectus.
Stigma tetragonum.
Habitat ad Caput Bonæ Spei.
Floret a mensi Augusti ad Decembrem.

REFERENTIA.

1. Calyx et Corolla.
2. Calyx et Bractea lente aucta.
3. Stamina et Pistillum.
 4. Stamina a Pistillo diducta, anthera una lente aucta.
5. Stylus et Stigma lente aucta.

SPECIFIC CHARACTER.

Heath, with bearded tips, within the blossoms; which are globe-shaped,
clammy, and in bunches, bending downward, spreading, and terminating the
branches; leaves growing by fours.

DESCRIPTION.

Stem shrubby, grows three feet high, branched nearly to the bottom, with
long, slender, waving branches.
Leaves growing by fours, nearly triangular, linear, bent back at the point,
blunt, smooth, and furrowed underneath; leaf-stems very short.
Flowers several, terminating the branches in bunches, bending
downward and spreading, of a brilliant purple, and clammy; with very long
foot-stalks, which are furnished with 2 or 3 floral-leaves.
Empalement. Cup four-leaved, which are egg-shaped, blunt, upright, and
half the length of the blossom.
Blossom globe-shaped, with a four-lobed border, each division forming a
half-round, equal, and upright.
Chives. Eight hair-like threads, shorter than the blossom, and fixed in the
receptacle. Tips bearded, and within the blossom.
Pointal. Seed-vessel roundish. Shaft thicker than the threads, and
upright. Summit four-cornered.
Native of the Cape of Good Hope.
In bloom from August till December.

REFERENCE.

1. The Empalement with the Blossom.

2. The Empalement and Floral-leaves magnified.
3. The Chives and Pointal.
4. The Chives detached from the Pointal, one tip magnified.
5. The Shaft and its Summit magnified.
 ERICA Muscari.

CHARACTER SPECIFICUS.

Erica, antheris muticis, inclusis; corollis oblongo-ovatis, obtuse tetragonis;

foliis quaternis.

DESCRIPTIO.

Caulis fruticosus, sesquipedalis, teres, basi simplicissimus, dein ramosus.

Folia quaterna, linearia, acuta, erecto-patentia, glaberrima, nitida, dilute
viridia, petiolis brevissimis ramis adpressis.
Flores luteoli, suaviter olentes, sæpius quaterni, terminales; pedunculis
brevissimis.
Calyx. Perianthium duplex; interius tetraphyllum, foliolis erectis, ovatis,
carinatis; exterius triphyllum, priori incumbens.
Corolla oblongo-ovata, obtuse tetragona, summa parte arctata, limbo
quadrilobo, laciniis æqualibus revolutis.
Stamina. Filamenta octo capillaria, stylo subæqualia, apice torto,
receptaculo inserta. Antheræ muticæ, inclusæ, bifidæ, dorsales.
Pistillum. Germen obovatum, fulcatum sulcis octo. Stylus linearis,
erectus, corollas sub-æqualis. Stigma subtetragonum.
Habitat ad Caput Bonæ Spei.
Floret a Martio ad Julium.

REFERENTIA.

1. Calyx, et Corolla.
2. Calyx lente auctus.
3. Stamina, et Pistillum.
4. Stamina a Pistillo diducta; anthera una lente aucta.
 5. Stylus, et Stigma lente aucta.

SPECIFIC CHARACTER.

Heath, with beardless tips within the blossom, which is oblong-egg-shaped,

and bluntly four-edged; leaves growing by fours.

DESCRIPTION.

Stem shrubby, grows a foot and a half high, cylindrical, undivided at the
base, afterwards branching.
Leaves growing by fours, linear, pointed, between upright and spreading,
smooth and shining, of a light green, with short leaf-stems pressed to the
branches.
Flowers yellowish, sweet-scented, mostly four together, terminating the
branches; having very short footstalks.
Empalement. Cup double; the inner one has four leaves, which are erect,
ovate, and keel-shaped; the outer has three leaves, and rests on the former.
The Blossom oblong-egg-shaped, bluntly four-edged, contracted at the
mouth, which is terminated by a four-lobed border, whose segments are
equal, and rolled back.
Chives. Eight hair-like threads, nearly of a length with the pointal,
crooked at their upper part, and fixed in the receptacle. Tips beardless,
within the blossom, cleft, and fixed to the threads at their back.
Pointal. Seed-vessel inversely egg-shaped, furrowed with eight
channels. Shaft linear, erect, nearly of a length with the blossom. Summit
nearly four-cornered.
Native of the Cape of Good Hope.
In bloom from March till July.

REFERENCE.

1. The Empalement and Blossom.

2. The Empalement magnified.
3. The Chives and Pointal.
4. The Chives detached from the Pointal, one tip magnified.
5. The Shaft and its Summit magnified.
 ERICA nigrita.

CHARACTER SPECIFICUS.

Erica, antheris muticis, exsertis, atris; flores subterni, albi; corolla

campanulata, laciniis revolutis, maximis; foliis ternis, nitidis, patentibus.

DESCRIPTIO.

Caulis fruticosus, erectus, pedalis; rami et ramuli frequentissimi, sub-

erecti, virgati, sub-tomentosi.
Folia terna, nitida, glabra, sub-triquetra, obtusa, patentia, crassa; petiolis
adpressis.
Flores in apicibus ramulorum terminales, sub-terni; pedunculi albi;
bracteæ ovatæ, acutæ, albæ, calyci approximatæ, imbricatæ, calyciformes.
Calyx. Perianthium tetraphyllum, foliolis, ovatis, acutis, albis, laxis,
longitudine fere corollæ.
Corolla campanulata, albida; laciniis oris revolutis, majoribus.
Stamina. Filamenta octo, capillaria, receptaculo inserta. Antherae
muticæ, exsertæ, atræ.
Pistillum. Germen sub-ovatum, leviter sulcatum, ad basin glandulosum.
Stylus filiformis, staminibus paulo longior. Stigma peltatum, sub-
tetragonum.
Habitat ad Caput Bonæ Spei.
Floret a mensi Aprili, in Julium.

REFERENTIA.

1. Calyx, et Corolla.
2. Calyx, lente auctus.
3. Stamina, et Pistillum.
 4. Stamina a Pistillo diducta, Anthera una lente aucta.
5. Pistillum, auctum.

SPECIFIC CHARACTER.

Heath, with beardless tips, without the blossom, and black; flowers grow
mostly by threes, and white; blossom bell-shaped; segments rolled back, and
very large; leaves grow by threes, shining, and spreading.

DESCRIPTION.

Stem shrubby, upright, grows a foot high; the larger and smaller branches
are numerous, nearly upright, twiggy, and a little downy.
Leaves grow by threes, shine, smooth, nearly three-sided, blunt,
spreading, and thick; foot-stalks pressed to the stem.
Flowers grow from the ends of the small branches, mostly by threes;
with white foot-stalks; floral leaves egg-shaped, sharp-ended, white, close to
the cup, tiled, and like those of the cup.
Empalement. Cup four-leaved, leaflets egg-shaped, pointed, white, loose,
nearly the length of the blossom.
Blossom bell-shaped, white; the segments of the mouth are rolled back,
and larger than the tube.
Chives. Eight hair-like threads fixed into the receptacle. Tips beardless,
without the blossom, and black.
Pointal. Seed-bud nearly egg-shaped, slightly furrowed, glandular at the
base. Shaft thread-shaped, a little longer than the chives. Summit shield-
shaped, almost four-cornered.
Native of the Cape of Good Hope.
Flowers from April, till July.

REFERENCE.

1. The Empalement, and Blossom.

2. The Empalement, magnified.
3. The Chives, and Pointal.
4. The Chives detached from the Pointal, one Tip magnified.
5. The Pointal, magnified.
 ERICA obliqua.

CHARACTER SPECIFICUS.

Erica, antheris basi bicornibus, inclusis; stylo sub-exserto; corollis ovatis,

laciniis ovalibus, maximis, erectis; floribus umbellatis, terminalibus,
pedunculis pollicaribus; foliis oblique sparsis, truncatis.

DESCRIPTIO.

Caulis fruticosus, pedalis; rami simplices, longi, filiformes.

Folia sparsa, sæpe vero quaterna, linearia, arcuata, margine glanduloso-
denticulata, glabra, truncata, petiolis tenuissimis.
Flores numerosi, sub apice ramorum umbellati; pedunculi flore triplo
longiores, colorati, viscidi, bracteis tribus linearibus instructi.
Calyx. Perianthium tetraphyllum; foliolis minutis, linearibus, viscosis,
adpressis.
Corolla sub-globosa, purpurea, magnitudine pisi; laciniis limbi
maximis, erectis.
Stamina. Filamenta octo, plana, linearia, apice incurvata; antheræ ad
basin bicornutæ, inclusæ.
Pistillum. Germen tiarae-forme, sulcatum; glandulæ octo ad basin
germinis; stylus cylindricus, sub-exsertus; stigma tetragonum.
Habitat ad Caput Bonæ Spei.
Floret a mense Augusti in Decembrem.

REFERENTIA.

1. Folium lente auctum.

2. Flos.
3. Calyx lente auctus.
 4. Stamina et Pistillum.
5. Stamina a Pistillo diducta, lente aucta.
6. Pistillum lente auctum.

SPECIFIC CHARACTER.

Heath, with tips two-horned at the base, and within the blossom; the shaft
just without; blossoms egg-shaped, the segments of the border oval, very
large, and upright; flowers grow in bunches, and terminate the branches; the
footstalks an inch long; the leaves grow scattered obliquely, appearing cut
off at the ends.

DESCRIPTION.

Stem shrubby, grows a foot high; the branches simple, long, and thread-
shaped.
Leaves grow scattered, sometimes by fours, linear, arched, appearing
toothed by small glands at the edge, smooth, seeming cut off at the ends, and
with very slender footstalks.
Flowers numerous, growing in umbels at the end of the branches; the
footstalks thrice the length of the flower, coloured, clammy, and having three
linear floral leaves.
Empalement. Cup four-leaved; the leaflets very small, linear, clammy,
and pressed to the blossom.
Blossom almost globular, purple, the size of a pea; the segments of the
border very large and upright.
Chives. Eight flat threads, linear, bent inward at the points; tips two-
horned at the base, and within the blossom.
Pointal. Seed-bud turban-shaped and furrowed; eight glands at the base
of the seed-bud; shaft cylindrical, and just without the blossom; summit
four-cornered.
Native of the Cape of Good Hope.
Flowers from August till December.
 REFERENCE.

1. A Leaf magnified.
2. A Flower.
3. The Empalement magnified.
4. The Chives and Pointal.
5. The Chives detached from the Pointal, magnified.
6. The Pointal magnified.