Rise of Empire (The Riyria Revelations #3-4)

“We only have a few hours left, and you’re talking about finding a displaced grain of sand on a beach.”


“I know, and when you come up with something better, we’ll try it. Until then, let’s keep looking.”

Hours passed and still they found nothing. Adding to the dilemma was the interior of Drumindor itself, which was a maze of corridors, archways, and bridges. Often they could see where they wanted to go but could not determine how to get there. Luck remained on their side, however, as they saw precious few people. They spotted only a handful of workers and even fewer guards. All of them were easily avoided. The sunshine passing through the skylights shone with the brilliance of midday, then diminished as evening arrived, and they still had not achieved their goal.

Finally, they headed for the bottom of the tower.

Going there was their last resort, as the Drumindor defensive garrison fortified the first three floors. Approximately forty soldiers guarded the base, and they had a reputation for their harsh treatment of intruders. Still, whatever Merrick had done, he had most likely done it to the mechanism that controlled the lava’s release. Descending yet another winding staircase, they paused in a sheltered alcove just outside a large chamber. Peering in, they saw it was similar to an interior courtyard, or a theater, with four gallery balconies ringing it stacked one upon another.

“There.” Royce pointed to an opening in the room below, which radiated a yellow glow. “It has to be in there.”

They crept down the stairs to the bottom. Elaborate square-cut designs of inlaid bronze and quartz lined the tiled floor. It picked up the glow coming from the open doorway on the far side. The air warmed dramatically as it blew in their faces, heavy with the smell of sulfur.

“This has to be it,” Royce whispered.

They looked up at the stacked galleries of arched openings circling the walls above them, and slowly, carefully stepped forward together, crossing the shimmering tile, heading for the glowing doorway.

“Halt!” The command echoed through the chamber the moment they reached the center of the room. “Lie facedown, arms and legs spread.”

They hesitated.

Twenty archers appeared, moving out from behind the pillars of the galleries with stretched bows aimed down on Royce and Hadrian from three sides. Pikemen entered the hall in an orderly march, boot heels clicking on the tile. They spread out, forming two lines. A dozen more armored men issued down the side corridor from the second-story gallery and proceeded in two-by-two formation to the bottom of the stairs, fanning out to block any retreat back the way they had come.

“Now, lie on your bellies, or we’ll cut you down where you stand.”

“We’re not here to cause trouble. We’re here—” Hadrian’s words were cut short as an arrow hissed through the air and glinted off the stone less than a foot from them.

“Now!” the voice shouted.

They lay down.

The moment they did, troops from in front and behind entered, pinning them and stripping them of their weapons.

“You have to listen to us. There’s an invasion coming—”

“We’ve heard all about your phantom armada, Mr. Black-water, and you can give up that charade.”

“It’s real! They will be here tonight, and if you don’t fix the tower, all of Delgos will be taken!”

“Bind them!”

They brought forth chains, tongs, and a brazier. Smiths arrived and went to work hammering manacles onto their wrists and legs.

“Listen to me!” Hadrian shouted. “At least check the pressure-release controls, see if something is wrong.”

There was no reply except the smiths’ hammers pounding the manacles closed.

“What’s the harm in checking?” Hadrian went on. “If I’m wrong, what does it matter? If I’m right and you don’t even look, you’re sealing the fate of the Delgos Republic. Just humor me. If nothing else, it’ll shut me up.”

“Slitting your throat will do that too,” the voice said. “But I’ll send a worker if you two come quietly without resistance.”

Hadrian was not certain what kind of resistance he expected them to give as the smith finished attaching another chain to his legs, but he nodded anyway.

The voice gave the order and the guards pulled them to their feet. Navigating stairs with hobbled legs was difficult. Hadrian nearly fell more than once, but soon they reached the main gate at the bottom of the fortress.

The gigantic doors of stone soundlessly swept open. Outside, the late-afternoon sun revealed a contingent of port soldiers waiting. The commander of the fortress guard stepped forward and spoke quietly with the Port Authority captain for some time.

“You don’t think these guys are always waiting out here, do you?” Hadrian whispered to Royce. “We’ve been set up, haven’t we?”

“It didn’t tip you off when they called you by name?”

“Merrick?”

“Who else?”

“That’s a bit far-fetched. How could he possibly expect us to be here? We didn’t even know we would be here. He can’t be that smart.”

“He is.”

A runner appeared, trotting up from the bottom of the tower, and reported to the commander with a sharp salute.

“Well?” the fortress commander asked.

The runner shook his head. “There is no problem with the pressure-release control—everything checked out fine.”

“Take them away,” the commander ordered.





The Tur Del Fur City Prison and Workhouse sat back, hidden on a hillside away from the dock, the shops, and the trades. It appeared as little more than a large stone box at the end of Avan Boulevard, with few windows and a spiked iron fence. Hadrian and Royce both knew it by reputation. Most offenders typically died within the first week due to execution, suicide, or brutality. The magistrate’s role was merely to determine the manner of execution. Parole was not an option. Only those known to be serious threats went there. Petty thieves, drunks, and malcontents went to the more popular and lenient Portside Jail. For those in Tur Del Fur Prison, this was the end of the road, literally as well as figuratively.

Royce and Hadrian hung by their wrists with their ankles chained to the wall of cell number three, where they had spent the past few hours. The room was smaller than those in Calis. There was no window, stool, nor pot—not even straw. The room was little more than a small stone closet with a single metal door. The only light came from the gap between the door and its frame.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Hadrian said to the darkness.

“I’m trying to figure this out,” Royce replied.

“Figure it out?” Hadrian laughed even though his arms and wrists burned like fire from the metal cutting into his skin. “We’re hanging chained to a wall, awaiting execution, Royce. There’s not that much to it.”

“Not that. I want to know why we didn’t find anything wrong with the spouts.”