Chapter 2 - Endarion

Two

Endarion

Empyria, The Imperium

19th of Tabus

The blade flashed at Endarion’s face, carving the world in two. He danced back beyond the sword’s reach as his attacker surged forward with a determined snarl.

He hissed a curse as he pivoted away from a skull-crushing blow and bore his weight on his injured knee. His opponent tracked him, then stepped forward and swung her blade horizontally. He parried, snapping his sword against hers in a bind and sweeping down to cut her fingers. She freed herself and whirled away.

They’d only been battling a short while, yet his breath already rasped in his throat and his legs thundered with fatigue. He was, not for the first time, feeling his age.

Their blades sang as they clashed, the collision rippling through his arm and biting into his shoulder. Before he could recover, his opponent swung back and prepared for another onslaught. When they met again, Endarion pushed her back with a slew of whirlwind cuts, forcing her to give ground. Though it strained him to move so fast, he masked his exhaustion with a huff and ploughed on.

Finally, as she tried to work her way beneath his guard, she extended her leading leg too far and unbalanced herself. He hooked her foot and sent her crashing to the floor with a surprised gasp.

He aimed his sword’s tip at her throat as she looked up and met his eyes.

“That,” she sighed, “was cheating.”

Endarion withdrew his blade. “You can’t cheat in a fight for your life,” he replied as he offered a hand and hauled her up. The action strained his crippled leg, but he masked the flare of pain with a sharp inhale.

She dusted off her sparring leathers and swept black, shoulder-length hair out of her flushed face. “This wasn’t a fight for my life.”

“Did I neglect to tell you?” He sheathed his short-sword and folded his arms across his chest. “Every fight is a fight for your life.”

His daughter, Daria, looked away as if ashamed. Though twenty-four years old, and trained in the ways of command, she seemed somehow reduced in his presence. Like a child cowed by a stern elder or a soldier bowing before her superior.

This distance between them was a recent thing, a raw wound neither of them yet had the courage to confront. He watched her as she refused to meet his gaze, her attention fixed on the polished wooden floor. The sickly silence stretched, filling the gulf between them and the bare sparring room around them, until Daria shifted. She seemed to consider her words before speaking. “Why are we sparring instead of attending Novissa’s funeral?”

“I never liked the woman when she was alive. Why should I pretend to like her now she’s dead?”

Not the full truth, but he couldn’t tell Daria he wasn’t brave enough to face the fellow nobles he’d secluded himself from for the past four years. Nor could he admit he feared the disdain he’d find in the faces of those who’d once respected him.

He knew rumours had arisen, whispers of his madness, of his incapability, of the injuries he’d suffered at the hands of his inhuman torturers four years ago.

He might’ve spent the rest of his life in self-inflicted exile at his distant countryside estate or on his home island of Alzikanem had his aunt, Warmaster Novissa Boratorren, not been assassinated. All the Imperium’s senior military officers had been summoned to the capital. First to attend her funeral, then to debate the consequences of her murder.

As an arch-general incapable of ignoring such grave summons, Endarion had limped obediently to Empyria, but that didn’t mean he planned to honour his aunt’s memory and mumble emotionless platitudes over her coffin.

He resented the tempestuous old woman for dying in a way that upset the precarious political balance here in the capital. Had she just faded into old age like any self-respecting bitter matriarch, he could’ve stayed far removed from Empyria’s politics and all the headaches that accompanied it.

Instead, Novissa had gotten herself assassinated. Even in death she managed to torment him.

“Father,” Daria said, watching his expression, her stark green eyes narrowed with concern. “We can talk about it. I know it’s a lot for you, being back in the capital.”

He shook his head. “You’ve already seen enough fear from me.”

Her brows creased as she glanced at him. Though she didn’t focus her gaze on the ugly scar marring his cheek, it still prickled, provoked by unwanted memory. Though partly concealed by a full beard grown for the purpose, he always sensed its presence. He reached a hand to it, his fingers skimming the raised patch of scar tissue where one of his torturers had prised a molar out with a dagger and slipped the blade through his cheek.

“You don’t need to be ashamed,” Daria said, having no doubt traced the direction of his thoughts.

He squeezed his hands into fists. “It was an affront that you had to care for me like I was an insensible old man.”

Here it was, then. The catalyst of their rift, around which they’d danced these past four years, neither of them quite brave enough to rush at it headlong.

She shook her head. “No, it was my duty to care for you. I knew you needed me after what happened to you. But now you won’t even talk to me. You’re ashamed for no reason, you—"

He raised a silencing hand and addressed her as a soldier. Not her father anymore, not even as she tried to bridge that insurmountable gap. “Show me some hand-to-hand combat.”

A flicker of frustration passed over her face as she moved forward reached to grapple him into a headlock. Because he was more than a head taller than her, she never would’ve accomplished the feat had he not deliberately ducked down, a vicious part of him needing her to hurt him. He twisted in her grip, not quite dedicating all of his superior weight against her. As he tried to yank her off balance, she turned with him and locked her leg under his intact knee. Anger hardened her grip, and years of training kept her muscles tense and immovable. Had he not escalated his struggle in a burst of animal rage, he might not have fallen with such force when she finally released him. He struck the floor with his crippled knee, the struts of his leg brace pressing into his calf and thigh as the cup tightened around his kneecap cushioned only half the impact.

He hissed out the pain in one shaky exhale. “Fuck.”

Daria moved to his side but froze at the creak of the training room’s door opening. Endarion didn’t need to look to know who it was; only a handful of people had access to his estate here in the capital.

“Proving ourselves the able warrior as always, Brother,” came his older sibling’s cold, cultured voice.

Endarion raised his head and glanced at the intruder looming at the threshold. “Val,” he groaned, “not the time.”

“Pardon me,” Valerian, the family patriarch, said as he stalked closer. “But I was under the impression we were on the brink of war. When would be the time to address that particular issue?”

“Whenever you want,” Endarion shot back. “Just find a more willing party to lecture to.”

His older brother was, like all Boratorrens, tall, with heavy brows and a squared jaw. He was thin and starting to stoop, his hair shot through with more grey than Endarion’s, his face clean-shaven in the current trend because he had no scars to hide. Endarion had always found Valerian callous and clinical, his mouth too slow to curve upwards in a smile, but all too quick to crinkle into a frown.

Valerian crouched and offered a hand, helping Endarion to his feet. “How about we save the fighting for the real conflict,” he said. “Or would you rather further cripple yourself through training sessions with children already trained?”

Endarion pulled away, taking his weight tentatively on his crippled leg. It flared briefly, though not enough to herald worse-than-usual damage. “What do you want?”

Valerian cast his face into stony sternness. As always, Endarion felt like a scolded child in his brother’s presence, despite being the younger by two scant years.

“You were absent from Novissa’s funeral,” Valerian said. “The Caetoran noticed.”

“To the Abyss with the Caetoran,” Endarion snapped. “And Novissa as well. If anything, I should seek out the assassin and congratulate them for ending the old bitch.”

Valerian didn’t flinch at the harsh words. “She was still our aunt,” he said. “In any case, the assassin is already dead.”

“By whose hand?”

“The Praevin.” Val’s frown deepened. “Their Captain-General oversaw the interrogation and claimed the suspect died before he could be brought to trial.”

Endarion considered. He’d found it suspicious upon receiving his summons to the capital a few days ago that the identity of Novissa’s killer hadn’t been provided. And now, to learn the supposed assassin had been silenced before someone other than the Praevin—loyal only to the Caetoran—could question them, reeked of deception.

Novissa had only been dead six days. Endarion knew his brother had sent Sephara to the scene donned in her lowborn guise less than an hour after the event, but the girl had discovered nothing beyond the cause of Novissa’s death. If the supposed assassin had not only been secured, but interrogated to death, then the Praevin had worked quickly indeed. Too quickly.

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“Who killed her, then?” he asked.

Valerian clasped his hands behind his back in a military gesture. “Apparently the Caetoran had been in private talks with a man from Drasken no one else knew was in the city.”

“Drasken?” Daria interjected with a frown.

Endarion shared her confusion; Drasken was near twice the size of the Imperium. A rolling expanse of mountains and forests and tundra to the north, it was helmed by a council of ten immortal mages and boasted technology that far outclassed the Imperium.

What reason would such a nation have to target an aged Boratorren politician?

“Specifically, an envoy from their Baltanos,” Valerian clarified.

Endarion shook his head, unable to believe the Baltanos of Drasken—a military rank equivalent in authority to Novissa’s Warmaster title—would have cause to target their aunt. “The envoy actually confessed?”

Valerian shrugged. “According to Captain-General Mendacium, the envoy was found in possession of a dagger exactly like the one found lodged in our aunt’s chest. He was questioned the day after the murder. Nothing was said of suspects when Sephara attended the scene. A rather quick development, I think you will agree.”

“Drasken isn’t responsible,” Endarion said. “They gain nothing by killing one old woman.”

“You are biased,” his older brother said. “You had friends in Drasken. The Caetoran knows this. He has often alluded to the possibility you are involved with them.”

Endarion barked a laugh. “Too mad to return to duty, but sane enough to conspire with another empire?”

“Your previous association with Estrid Elerius is well known. If you want to avoid being implicated in the conflict that is sure to follow our aunt’s death, I suggest giving the Caetoran proof that you’ve severed ties with that woman and the nation she now serves.” Val left a pointed pause. “I would rather you did not end up in a Praevin cell. I am sure you feel the same.”

He grimaced at his brother’s words; Valerian suggested their aunt’s murder could birth war between the Imperium and the Drasken Empire, if it could be pinned on the latter.

And Estrid. A name he hadn’t heard in a long time.

It rankled to hear Valerian called her an associate and ‘that woman’, as if their three decades of friendship, their military alliance, their handful of failed courtships, and her rescue of him from his recent torture, could be reduced to distant and unfeeling terms.

He considered defending Estrid in her absence, but Valerian was a humourless statue and there was no reasoning with stone. Besides, thinking of Estrid now was like taking hot pincers to flesh still raw from her memory. She hadn’t been part of his life for years and, given how they’d last parted, would never be again.

Valerian canted his head. “Might I suggest a long-overdue marriage alliance? What better way to convince our enemies you have moved on from Elerius than taking a wife and siring a few more legitimate children?”

Endarion shared a glance with Daria, who raised one brow, and snorted. When his daughter shuffled off to replace their blades on the nearby rack, he said, “I am closer to the age where one becomes a grandparent, rather than a parent again. Besides, I could say the same of you.”

It wasn’t something they spoke of often, the deaths of their wives. Endarion had lost Daria’s mother to the Caetoran’s petty manoeuvrings twenty-two years ago. After his alliance with her and the birth of their daughter, they’d become too powerful and secure for the Caetoran’s liking. Reports of his wife’s non-existent treason had been falsified, and she’d been promptly executed in the same way, in the same circumstances, as Estrid’s family had been some years before that, and for the same reasons: their ties to Endarion.

Valerian, on the other hand, had lost his wife a decade ago to illness. As hard as it’d been for Endarion to watch the mother of his child die before a crowd of thousands, his older brother had endured the long, lingering months of his wife’s fading, looking on as everything she’d once been was stripped away by an untreatable malady.

It was the only time he’d ever seen Val cry.

Valerian’s eyes flickered, but he covered his lapse by shifting his attention to Daria as she padded over to re-join them. “What about your sole legitimate heir, then? There are allies we can gain by marrying her off.”

“Hah. No.” Daria flashed her teeth in something halfway between a mocking smile and a sneer.

Though of an age where an exalt-noble might wish to start a family and establish her own ties, Daria had never expressed an interest in anyone, man or woman, and Endarion had never pushed the issue. If she ever wanted to marry, it would be on her own terms and in her own time.

“We need more heirs if we are to remain powerful with the next generation,” Valerian said. “We only have three children between us. And with Helleron long gone, there is only the two of us to contribute.”

Endarion ground his teeth against this old argument, resurrected seemingly every time he and his brother spoke politics. Val enjoyed a habit of using their younger brother’s disappearance against him, as if his elder brother somehow knew Endarion had been involved in helping Helleron flee their stifling aristocratic existence. Just as he used Endarion’s illegitimate children as a mark against him. “I have five children,” he said, “as you well know.”

“You have Daria, plus four problems.”

“Problems?”

Valerian leaned forward. “Bastards are a stain on the nobles who beget them. You know this. If you had married any of your paramours before you bedded them, I might not be so opposed to the results.”

“Results?” Endarion snapped. “They are my children, Val. Your nieces and nephews. As much family as our legitimate children.”

“One of your children is a half-breed. Besides, family is in the name,” Val replied testily. “I will not have this pointless argument with you again because you do not listen. Just entertain the idea and consider a marriage. I have a list of candidates for you, though I am sure you have already slept with most of them.” He looked like he wanted to sling more insults, but instead shook his head. “If you won’t do this, think of another way to sever yourself from Estrid before the Caetoran does to you what was done to your wife.”

“Novissa,” Endarion said, spitting the name of a woman he hated to shift the conversation to other, less sensitive matters. “We should find out if the envoy actually killed her.”

“You think we have time for that?” Valerian said. “The Caetoran will declare war on Drasken soon. That is a certainty.” He reached a hand into his coat pocket. “Before I forget, Novissa left her estates to us, of course, but she made it clear before her death that you were to receive this.”

He placed the handle of a dagger into Endarion’s waiting palm. When Endarion recognised it, he almost laughed at his aunt’s audacity; a good number of the scars marring his war-torn body had been inflicted by this blade. It was Novissa’s own.

“She continues to torment you,” Valerian noted, a thread of cruel amusement cracking his tone.

“A reminder of her control,” Endarion said, though it had to be more than that. Despite her cruelty, Novissa Boratorren hadn’t been petty, nor did she act purely out of malice. She wouldn’t gift him this Abyss-cursed dagger as a final, poisonous jab. At least, not only for that reason.

“The Caetoran wouldn’t have allowed me to give it to you had it been important,” Val said.

“Or,” Daria suggested, “the Caetoran can’t see its importance.”

Though he couldn’t either, Endarion agreed with his daughter. For whatever reason, Novissa had seen fit to leave him the blade she’d often used on his flesh. He was sure it was, like all those past injuries, a lesson. He just didn’t yet understand its meaning.

―

Dexion Mendacium enjoyed a reputation for swordsmanship, a skill he always willingly demonstrated to the public. That was why, when Endarion sought him out a few hours later, he went straight to Traian’s Arena.

It was the largest of Empyria’s myriad arenas, commonly used for the settling of disputes within the noble ranks, for military parades, or to show off. On rare occasions, criminals and prisoners of war were executed here, though Endarion hadn’t attended or participated in such a spectacle in years.

He waited in the front row overlooking the sand-dusted floor, having eschewed a noble’s private box in favour of anonymity. To aid in concealing his identity, he wore a pain black coat devoid of his family’s colours and markings. His cumbersome leg brace, donned out of necessity after his tumble earlier that morning, was hidden beneath his coattails.

Below, Mendacium’s show came to an end.

Endarion didn’t personally know the man, but Dexion’s professional flair impressed him. The Captain-General moved like a racing dog; he was agile and graceful, almost too fast for the eye to track. He fought as a dancer, feinting around his opponents, tricking them into mistakes, sometimes even twisting their weapons clean out of their hands with his own. His final opponent of the day lasted a meagre ten seconds, much to the crowd’s vocal disappointment.

After, Endarion wove his way through the ranks of seating down into the subterranean changing rooms. Guards donned in the Praevin’s sharply cut blue uniform blocked his path several times but moved quick enough when he offered his name. His leg brace supported his identity.

He’d frequented enough arenas in his time to know the layout and could even recall settling a few old grudges in Traian’s itself, back in his prime. He wasn’t surprised to find Dexion alone in the largest changing room, his favoured sabre propped on the bench beside him.

“Now there’s a man I’d like to duel,” Dexion said when he spotted Endarion, tone relaxed.

Mendacium was at least fifteen years Endarion’s junior, though Endarion couldn’t place his exact age. An experienced and proud demeanour contrasted the Captain-General’s youthful, unlined visage; his aristocratic, aquiline features challenged his claims of a poor upbringing. He was, in other words, an unreadable contradiction. It unnerved Endarion.

“I’d rather not,” he said.

Dexion flashed a wolfish smile and nodded at Endarion’s leg brace. “If you’re worried I outmatch you, I’d make it fair.”

He grimaced, suddenly hyperaware of his leg injury. “I wouldn’t want to deprive the Caetoran of his beloved lackey.”

“Beloved?” Dexion cocked his head. “Funny. The Caetoran never gave me that impression.”

The warrior patted the bench beside him. Endarion remained standing.

“Don’t trust me?”

“No.”

Dexion nodded. “Wise.” He took his sabre and laid it flat across his lap. The gesture might’ve been meaningless, but Endarion read it as a threat. “So, how can a humble man such as myself assist the famed Iron Wolf?”

“Did the Drasken envoy murder my aunt?”

If Endarion’s bluntness surprised Dexion, it didn’t show. “That’s what he told me.”

“You have a signed confession then?”

Dexion chuckled. “By that point, the bastard had no hands with which to sign.”

“So, no.”

“You have my word, which was enough for the Caetoran.”

Endarion stepped closer. “Not nearly enough for me,” he said. “I find it convenient the envoy is killed before he can be questioned by anyone other than your humble self.”

The Captain-General raised a dark eyebrow. “What are you suggesting?”

“Was I being unclear?” Endarion said. “My apologies. What I want to say is this: I think you’re lying.”

“About?”

“Everything you’ve told me so far.” Endarion grit his teeth, his tongue unconsciously finding the ragged gap in his jaw where his molar had been torn away. “I’m starting to doubt the envoy even exists.”

Dexion chuckled again, a menacing undertone darkening the sound. He rose, sabre in hand, and faced Endarion. Though Endarion was the taller man by far, he felt as if he had to look up at the bastard.

“He exists,” Dexion said. “Or rather, existed. My interrogators ensured not an inch of his body was without pain, lest he be withholding anything. It was impressive, how long he clung to his delusion. By the end he was in pieces. About a hundred of them.” He made a point of glancing at Endarion’s leg brace. “Must know how that feels.”

Before he could reconsider, Endarion grasped Dexion by the throat. Not hard enough to choke, but with enough pressure to feel the man’s heartbeat drum against his fingers. Dexion didn’t struggle. Something brushed Endarion’s flank and he looked down to see the sabre’s wicked tip pointed at his unprotected side.

“I’d suggest unhanding me,” Dexion said.

Endarion thrust him backwards. Dexion stumbled but quickly righted himself, sabre still poised. The Captain-General’s eyes gleamed with something dangerous, and Endarion knew a small amount of the fear his opponents must suffer when facing this man in the arena.

“You’re still mad, then,” Dexion said. “I wanted to disbelieve the rumours, but I suppose an aged mind is prone to degeneration.”

Endarion clenched his fists.

“I will forget these accusations that I’m lying, that—by extension—the Caetoran is lying. They are the imaginings of a broken mind, Iron Wolf, and you can be forgiven for them.” He ran a forefinger across the edge of his blade. “It’s sad to see such a great man reduced to this rambling, angry husk of a warrior. I would sooner die than face such an existence.”

“But I didn’t die, did I? My torturers disassembled me daily, and yet here I still stand, my apparently degenerated mind able to recognise the bullshit you spout.”

Dexion shook his head, a disparaging gesture. “You truly are broken.”

“I am what the Imperium made me,” Endarion answered after a pregnant pause.

Dexion sighed. “No, old man. You are what you made yourself.”

He tried to conjure a denial, but anger flushed his thoughts. Instead, knowing he’d get no more out of the Captain-General, he waved a dismissive hand, turned on his heels, and left. Dexion’s stare was heavy on his back, and he expected to see the sabre burst through his chest, or for the Praevin guarding the changing room to cut him down.

But he left the arena uncontested, paranoia prickling the back of his neck and tightening the muscles in his chest. Even as he paced out into the city, losing himself in its labyrinthine streets, he found himself still unable to counter Dexion’s words.

Maybe Mendacium was right.

Maybe the once revered Iron Wolf had been reduced to a mad old dog.