"I thought last night went well,” Bishop Saldur stated, slicing himself a wedge of breakfast cheese. He sat at the banquet table in the great hall of the manor along with Archbishop Galien, Sentinel Luis Guy, and Lord Rufus. The lofty cathedral ceiling of bound logs did little to elevate the dark oppressive atmosphere caused by the lack of natural light. The entire manor had few windows and made Saldur feel as if he were crouching in an animal’s den, some woodchuck’s burrow, or beaver lodge. The thought that this miserable hovel would see the birth of the new empire was a disappointment, but he was a pragmatic man. The method was irrelevant. All that mattered was the final solution. Either it worked or it did not. This was the only measure of value—aesthetics could be added later.
Right now they needed to establish the Empire. Mankind had drifted too long without a rudder. A firm hand was what the world needed, a solid grip on the wheel with a keen set of eyes that could see into the future and direct the vessel into clear, tranquil waters. Saldur envisioned a world of peace through prosperity, and security through strength. The feudal system so prevalent across the four nations held them back, chaining the kingdoms to a poverty of weakness and divided interests. What they needed was a centralized government with an enlightened ruler and a talented, educated bureaucracy overseeing every aspect of life. With the entire strength of mankind under one yoke, it was impossible to imagine the many goals that could be accomplished. They could revolutionize farming, its fruits distributed evenly at a price that even the poorest could afford, vanquishing hunger. Laws could be standardized, eliminating arbitrary punishment by vindictive tyrants. Knowledge from the corners of the land could be gathered into a single repository where great minds could learn and develop new ideas, new techniques. They could improve transportation with standardized roads and they could clear the stench of cities with standardized sewage systems. If all this had to begin here in this little wood hut on the edge of the world, it was a small price to pay. “How many died?” he asked.
The archbishop shrugged and Rufus did not bother looking up from his plate.
“Five contestants were killed by the beast last night,” Luis Guy answered his question as he plucked a muffin off the table with the point of his dagger.
The Knight of Nyphron continued to impress Saldur. He was a sword manifested in the form of a man—sharp, pointed, cutting, and just as elegant in appearance. He always stood straight, shoulders back, chin up, eyes focused directly on his target, his face a hard chiseled mask of contention, daring, almost begging for a confrontation from anyone fool enough to challenge him. Even after days in the wilderness, not a thread lay out of place. He was a paragon of the church, the embodiment of the ideal.
“Only five?”
“After the fifth was ripped in two, few were eager to step forward, and while they hesitated, the beast flew off.
“Do you think five deaths are sufficient to prove the beast is invincible?” Galien asked, looking at all of them.
“No, but we may have no choice. After last night, I’m not certain any more will volunteer,” Guy replied. “The previously witnessed enthusiasm for the hunt has waned.”
“And will you be ready, Lord Rufus? If no one else steps forward?” the archbishop asked turning to the rough warrior seated at the end of the table.
Lord Rufus looked up. He was taking full advantage of the meal, chewing on a mutton leg that slicked his unruly beard with grease. His eyes stared at them from beneath the heavy hedges of his bushy red eyebrows. He spit a bit of bone out. “That depends,” he said. “This sword the dwarf made, can it cut the beastie’s hide?”
“We had our scribes check the dwarf’s work against the ancient records,” Saldur replied. “They match perfectly with the markings recorded on previous weapons that were capable of killing beasts of this kind.”
“If it can cut it, I’ll kill it,” Rufus grinned a greasy smile. “Just be ready to crown me emperor.” He bit into the leg again and ripped a large hunk of dark meat off, filling his mouth.
Saldur could hardly believe the patriarch had chosen this oaf to be the Emperor. If Guy was a sword, Rufus was a mallet, a blunt instrument of dull labor. Being a native of Trent, he would ensure the loyalty of the unruly northern kingdoms that most likely could not be gained any other way. That would easily double their strength going in. There was also his popularity, which extended down through Avryn and Calis. This reduced the number of protests against him. The fact that he was a renowned warrior would certainly help him in his first obstacle of killing the Gilarabrywn and crushing any opposition offered by the Nationalists. The problem, as Saldur saw it, was that Rufus, a rough, unreasonable dolt, had not only the heart of a warrior, but the mind as well. His answer to every problem was beating it to death. It would be hard to control him, but it made little sense to worry about the headaches of administrating an empire before one even existed. They needed to create it first and worry about the quality of the Emperor later. If Rufus became a problem they could merely ensure that once he had a son, and once that son was safely in their custody, Rufus could meet an untimely end.
“Well then,” Galien said. “It would seem everything is in hand.”
“Is that all you called me here for?” Guy asked with a tone of irritation.
“No,” Galien replied, “I received some unexpected news this morning and I thought you might like to hear of it, Luis, as I suspect it will interest you very much. Carlton, will you ask the Deacon Tomas to come in?”
Galien’s steward, Carlton, who was busy pouring watered-down wine, promptly left the table and opened the door to the hallway. “His grace will see you now.”
In walked a plump, pudgy man in a priest’s frock. “Luis Guy, Lord Rufus, let me introduce Deacon Tomas of Dahlgren Village. Tomas, this is Lord Rufus, Sentinel Guy, and you already know Bishop Saldur, of course.”
Tomas nodded with a nervous smile.
“What’s this all about?” Guy asked as if Tomas was not there.
“Go ahead, Tomas, tell the sentinel what you told me.”
The deacon shifted his feet and avoided eye contact with anyone in the room. When he spoke, his voice was so soft they strained to hear him. “I was just mentioning to his grace how I had stepped up and handled things here in the absence of the margrave. It has been hard times in this village, hard indeed, but I tried my best to keep the great house in order. It wasn’t my idea that they should invade the place, I tried to stop them, but I am only one man, you see. It was impossible—”
“Yes—yes, tell him about the cripple,” the archbishop put in.
“Oh certainly. Ah yes, Esra came to live here, I don’t know, about a month ago he—”
“Esra?” Guy said and glanced abruptly at the archbishop and Saldur who both smiled knowingly at him.
“Yes,” Deacon Tomas replied. “That’s his name. He never said too much, but the villagers are a good lot and they took turns feeding him as the poor man was in dire straits missing both hands as he is.”
“Esrahaddon!” Guy hissed. “Where is the snake?”
The sudden violent reaction of the sentinel shocked Tomas, who took a step back.