Dawn Of The Blood Sovereign

CHAPTER 8: THE PRICE OF COIN

The silence between Kaelen and Vanya was far more dangerous than the quake that had just torn the mountain apart.

Outside, thirty thousand black and gold shields of the Emperor’s Guard marched in terrifying, synchronized rhythm, the throb of their war drums a relentless death march. Inside, the air was frigidly devoid. Kaelen remained still, his knuckles white against the frame of the Sun-Cleaver, his molten-gold eyes boring into the merchant queen.

“I built this fortress with you,” Vanya said, her voice level though not a single movement betrayed the tension in her posture, her hand inches from her silver dagger. “Every stone, every pound of iron, every grain of wheat. If I intended to turn you over to Malakor, why would I have waited until a demon was bursting through the floorboards?”

“Your clans did,” Kaelen said, his voice eerily emotionless. “They took Yuri.”

“The merchant lords of the Outer Marches answer only to profit and survival, Kaelen, not to bloodlines,” Vanya replied, stepping forward, her jade eyes alight with a sharp defensive fire. “The moment your first wife presented the empire with a secret heir, my people realized their path to a high seat had been closed. They acted in a manner fitting merchants; they covered their bets with the crown.”

“Oi,” Kaelen said, his gaze not leaving Vanya. “How many?”

“A dozen of the royal guard,” Oi grunted, clutching his side where a dark stain of blood was spreading rapidly through his tunic. “Commanded by Vance. They had royal orders, and knew how to get past the outer perimeter.”

“Vance is one of my best captains,” Vanya said, a fleeting shock passing over her features before her mask of ice reformed. “Malakor must have turned him months ago. This wasn't some spur-of-the-moment action; this was a contingency.”

“It does not matter,” Kaelen said. He slung the heavy dragon-bone bow over his shoulder and turned his back to her, walking towards the grand broken archway of the throne room. His black robes fanned out behind him like the wings of a predator.

“Where are you going?” Vanya cried, her voice cracking. “Look at the valley, Kaelen! Your divine energy is all but depleted after fighting the Warden. Our front line has been shattered, the southern walls broken, and Malakor has thirty thousand fresh killers breathing down our necks. If you go charging out alone, you’ll give him exactly what he wants.”

Kaelen paused at the threshold of the ruin. He did not turn back to face her, but the temperature in the room plummeted further, coating the shattered granite tiles in an immediate sheen of frost.

“I am going to get my son,” Kaelen said. “And then I will tear down the High Kingdom to its foundations, and build a new one of ashes and glass.”

“And Aethelgard?” Vanya demanded, her voice gaining in power, meeting his icy aura with her own steely resolve. “What of the empire we built? The clans will disband the instant they see you abandon the throne for the sake of one boy!”

“Then let them scatter,” Kaelen whispered. “An empire built on the fragile bedrock of a merchant’s loyalty is not worth ruling.” With an explosive movement, Kaelen leaped over the broken parapet, landing smoothly on the lower scaffolding.

“Kaelen!” Vanya screamed, rushing to the edge of the glass wall, but he was already gone, a dark silhouette tumbling down through the acrid smoke of the lower tiers. She slammed her fist against a nearby granite pillar, her teeth gritted in a rare, uncontrollable burst of rage. Logan stepped from the shadows of the corridor, his face grim, his sword slick with dark fluid from the lower barracks.

“Lady Vanya,” Logan said softly. “The southern clans are already preparing to break camp. News of the rift and the prince’s departure has reached the lower settlements. The alliance is crumbling.” Vanya closed her eyes for a single fraction of a second, inhaling a ragged, icy breath. When her eyes opened, her anger was gone, replaced by the cold, calculating arithmetic of a woman who never lost a high-stakes game.

“Let the outlying clans break,” Vanya commanded, turning to Logan with a face of pure stone. “They are dead wood. Secure the treasury, assemble the House of the Jade Falcon’s core legions, and sever all supply lines to the northern holds. If Kaelen wishes to incinerate the world to satisfy his bloodline, it will be a world unburdened by our wealth.”

“Are you abandoning him?” Logan asked, his voice laced with sorrow.

“No,” Vanya said, her jade eyes narrowing as she gazed at Malakor’s rapidly approaching banners. “We are withdrawing. Kaelen believes that true power resides only at the highest, coldest peak. He is about to learn just how cold it gets when he has to buy his war with the coin of my people.”

In the rocky gorges of the Red Basin the air hummed with the smell of ozone and fresh carnage. Kaelen rode a black warhorse he had ripped from a fallen officer, carving a path through the detritus of the battle. The hulking stone titans that had risen from the rifts stood frozen in terrifying poses throughout the valley floor, their gold-veined bodies inert, coated in the fine dust of Malakor’s annihilated vanguard. At the center of the gold-and-black army, surrounded by a cordon of heavy spearmen, sat Prince Malakor upon a massive white steed. From his elevated position, he watched Kaelen with a cruel, victorious smirk spreading across his scarred face. Standing beside his mount was Commander Vance, a rough hand on the collar of the young boy, Yuri. The boy did not weep, his small hands clenched into fists, his gold-rimmed eyes burning defiantly into the face of the man holding him.

“Look at you,” Malakor boomed, his voice amplified by his heavy iron helmet. “The god of war. The savior of the forsaken. Brought low to crawl through the muck for the life of a bastard.”

Kaelen halted his horse a mere fifty yards from the front line. He was utterly alone. Behind him, Aethelgard stood silhouetted against the blood-red sky, its banners tattered, its flames dying down to smoke.

“Release the boy, Malakor,” Kaelen said. His voice wasn't loud, but it traveled across the sodden earth with an unnatural, vibrating resonance that caused the foremost line of imperial guards to flinch.

“Release him?” Malakor roared with laughter. He reached down and dragged the flat of his broadsword across Yuri’s cheek. “Why would I release my most valuable possession? The merchant lords paid for their protection with this child’s head. And you, little brother, have brought me the Sun-Cleaver.” Malakor pointed the tip of his blade directly at Kaelen’s chest.

Dismount. Lower the bow. Kiss the dirt and pledge your loyalty to the High Kingdom of Buyeo, and I will let your boy live long enough to watch you be my slave."

Kaelen remained still. He looked toward Yuri. The boy was looking back at him and in the golden ring of his eye the childs golden eyes flared briefly with the warm, desperate blaze of defiance.

Slowly, Kaelen lowered his hand behind his back.

He didnt lower the bow. He unslung the Sun-Cleaver, his hand clenching the cold dragon-bone grip; his divine energy had never been so low, his blood was burning through his veins like fire and as his fingers tightened on the cool weapon its celestial silver inlay began to bleed a low, defiant crimson – the same hue as the bleeding sky overhead.

"I told Vanya steel cannot be stopped by names," Kaelen said softly, raising his bow.

"And I told your general, I am not my father."

He nocked a single black arrow to the string.

"I do not bow to wolves, Malakor. I hunt them."