Copper Centurion (The Steam Empire Chronicles) (21 page)

Chapter 17

Corbus

A
s Corbus made the long
ride back to Midgard, he basked in the glow of his accomplishment at the Roman camp.
One royal down, another to go
. Sure, the
primus imperio
was merely captured, but after meeting with his so-called allies in the legion, Corbus was fairly certain that the sole remaining heir to the throne would become a glorious martyr of this brief, but intense, war.

Leaving my Roman allies open to pick up the pieces and myself to collect on both a massive payday and find a magnificently large territory to govern here,
Corbus thought, savoring that for a moment or two.
First I’ll have to make sure they don’t try to double cross me
.

He gave the password to the nervous gate guard, the gatekeeper not used to strange, solitary figures showing up in the middle of the night. Lighting his torch, he rode down the long, cavernous entryway. The torchlight threw dancing shadows on the walls, and the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves echoed along the empty passageway. In the darkness, Corbus could just make out the gaps of murder holes in the ceiling, placed every few feet, and the occasional arrow slit in the wall. This place was about as solid a fortress as you could make it.
I don’t think even a Roman siege caterpillar could take this place.
No wonder a common Norse saying for a tough man is as solid as Midgard
.

Several more minutes of silent riding and he arrived at the last portcullis. The barrier was winched upwards, and he finally arrived in the massive central cavern of Midgard. As busy as any city center, the plaza bustled even at this late hour, with taverns, restaurants, and shops still open. Drinking songs and cheery lights beckoned from many an alehouse, but Corbus turned away from them. He dismounted and led his horse to a stable hand, who gave him a small token in return. Pocketing the token, he strode off in search of the prince.
The longer I’m here, the more concerned I get about what he is up to when I’m not around.

Queries after the whereabouts of the prince and king told him that the king was hosting a small feast for the Roman senator. This concerned Corbus.
What in Jupiter’s name are they doing?

He climbed another set of stairs, his legs burning when he finally reached the long hallway that led to the throne room. Other hallways branched off from this main passage, down which the royal red carpet had been rolled, indicating the king was on his throne. He walked down the carpet, passing walls hung with tapestries depicting scenes of battle, with brave and impossibly huge Nortlanders killing, crushing, and generally conquering all manner of puny looking “civilized” people. Those few tapestries that did not show the glorious victories of the Nortland people instead showed the drama of the hunt, men killing wolves with their bare hands, hunting whales from small boats, and even one showing a man taking on a snarling feline the size of a horse.
Could it be one of those tigers or leopards I’ve heard about?
Corbus wondered as he passed.

He was coming up to the throne room from the rear when the door before him was thrown open. Prince Lokus stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

“I’m going to kill that man,” he proclaimed loudly, his face red with anger. He glowered as Corbus approached. “We’re doing it today. Right now.”

“Right now, Your Lordship?” Corbus asked.
I don’t think we’re ready for it yet.
“It would be better to wait a few days, when he will be unsuspecting. We have not yet figured out how to eliminate Laufas and Therodi, both of whom could challenge us. Patience, my liege,” Corbus advised, trying his best to calm the angry man who now paced back and forth.

But the prince would have none of it. “We move today, or I throw you out of this fortress. I am tired of having your sniveling southern ways lead me to weakness. We will strike, and I will kill my father and become king. That is what will happen. And it will happen today!”

Corbus gestured at the prince to keep his voice down. “Very well, Lokus, if that is what you wish. But please don’t alert the entire citadel to it before we strike. Let us gather our men. We can take the king in his throne room while he eats.”

The prince nodded, rubbing his hands together in glee.

“You go get your men,” Corbus said. “I shall go get your equipment and gather up other supporters on the way back.”

Lokus nodded in quick assent, turned, and ran down the hallway.

In a flat-out sprint, Corbus raced to the nearest fløte station. The bell rang discordantly as he yanked on the call cord. When the car arrived, he tipped the operator extra to move at his fastest speed. The operator complied, the wind of their passage flowing over Corbus as the vessel swept gracefully through the inky darkness.

“Wait here,” he told the operator when they stopped. He ran to his quarters, pulling a key from under his shirt as he crossed to a chest at the back of the room. Unlocking it, he threw the lid back and pulled out a handful of vials and several blades, delicately storing each item in its proper place on his utility belt. Finally he gave his sword a once-over with his whetstone.
Just right,
he decided, testing the edge with his thumb.

Gods, he hated it when things were rushed. There was something not right about speeding through such a momentous event.
It is supposed to be months in the planning, not a week and a half!
he thought, hefting a knapsack before closing the trunk lid. He made sure he had everything.

Weapons? Check.

Armor? Check.

Nasty surprises no one sees coming?

Check.

He turned and bolted from the room and back down the passageway to the waiting fløte, the large knapsack banging against his back. The operator looked surprised at the speed of his return. He had obviously been about to cast off.

“Don’t leave without me,” Corbus said breathlessly as he directed the operator to a different destination. The man nodded, then activated the machine. It swung ponderously around again, the motion tossing Corbus against one of the support poles on the edge of the fløte’s platform. He gripped it tightly.

Just one more stop
.

This time when he exited he told the man he would tip him well when he returned. The fløte had descended to a much lower level of the fortress, and Corbus walked out into a darker hallway smelling of must, yet with the murmur of muted conversation and the clink of glasses all around. Corbus stepped up to a certain doorway, knocked twice, then once, then three times. Instantly the door swung open. Several standard-looking Nortlanders, complete with the bushy beard and ruddy face, stared out at him.

“The wolf howls at midnight.”

“The pack bays for blood,” the shortest man replied.

“It is time, my friends, much earlier than we thought. The prince has need of you. Will you answer the rightful king’s call?”

The men knelt, saluting Corbus. “We are ready, Assassin.”

He opened the knapsack and handed them the weapons he had gathered. “Use them only if necessary. Otherwise, use your own weapons.” They nodded, treating the small daggers with reverence. “Let’s go.”

He led a dozen men back to the fløte. The operator appeared surprised at the large number of fully armed and armored men approaching his vessel, but he cast off at Corbus’s direction, and the vessel ascended. As promised, Corbus generously tipped the operator when they returned to the hallway where the prince now waited with his men.

Corbus moved up close to Lokus to murmur, “My Liege, if I may say it, I still do not believe we are ready. We cannot take them yet. Next week perhaps, when the Romans are weaker and both Therodi and Laufas are in the field, we can take the citadel unaware.”

The prince gazed back at him with eyes that burned in cold fury. “Tonight, my father shall die. And I shall be king. Laufas and Therodi shall either bend knee to me, or find themselves lacking knees and heads.”

Corbus bowed his head in acknowledgement, then said, “May I see your weapons, My Lord? I wish to sharpen them for you before the attack, as only a master assassin such as myself knows how.”

Lokus handed over his sword and his gauntlet claws—intricate and extraordinarily rare weapons; Corbus had never seen any others in existence.
And this man treats them like common objects. Why, if I owned them
. . . Despite such thoughts, Corbus matter-of-factly pulled his whetstone and, more surreptitiously, one of the tiny vials from his belt pouch. Lokus turned away, uninterested in such workaday procedures, and addressed his men. Taking advantage of their distraction, Corbus carefully uncorked the vial, tipped the contents onto a rag, and rubbed the rag over each of the five needle-sharp claws and the tip of the sword blade.
No one will be recovering from that, even a man with the king’s famous iron constitution.
He tucked whetstone and the rag-wrapped vial back into his pouch, and held the weapons out to Lokus.

“Be very careful, my prince; a prick from these weapons will have dire consequences.” The man sheathed his sword and pulled the gloves on nonchalantly, as if ignoring the warning. Corbus nearly threw his hands up in exasperation.

“Ready?” The usurper asked. His men nodded, grim-faced.

Corbus, hand on the hilt of his own weapon, pulled the door open. The prince and his rebels stormed in. Corbus followed.

Chapter 18

Octavia

S
pilled roughly onto the red-carpeted
floor of the throne room, Octavia drew a shaky breath and tried to gather her wits. The lump on her head was still pounding, and her empty stomach threatened to dry heave again.
Thank goodness that murderer Corbus isn’t here,
she thought as she looked around.

The throne room of the Nortland king was relatively barren. Large stone columns, intricately carved in mythological scenes from Nortland’s past, supported heavy timber beams, some looking many hundreds of years old. It was all Octavia could do not to gawk in awe of the Nortlander artistry. She had been to the Imperial throne room in Rome, strode amongst the magnificent columns that graced it, but this dwarfed even that in scale. While not as refined, nor as gaudy, this throne room certainly had their more “civilized” neighbors beaten in the “terrifying and imposing” department.

Octavia dragged her eyes down from the ceiling to the massive throne that stood on a stone dais at the center of the room. Sunlight filtered in from somewhere very high above, creating a field of shimmering light around the throne.

Octavia rose shakily to her feet, her hands rubbing at her arms to try to bring some warmth to her body. Her other jacket had been so matted with blood and puke that her captors had burnt it. Her teeth chattered as she examined the immense throne.

It was rumored to be pure copper, and the rumors appeared to be true. The massive construct was simple and smooth, a large square seat with two armrests and a headrest of hammered and engraved copper. Apart from the engraving, there was no further adornment, other than the furs thrown over the seat.
Probably gets cold up there
.

A faint shuffle grabbed her attention. The two large guards behind her had straightened to stand ramrod straight, something relatively rare for these generally undisciplined barbarians. That fact alone made her take notice of the man who entered.

He was swathed in fur and armor, save for his bald head, which shone like the copper throne in the diffuse overhead light. He needed no herald, no trumpet of announcement. This was the Copper King, his mighty lordship, first among equals, master of hammer and anvil, ruler of Midgard, Nortland, and assorted territories, frozen chief of the north and general pain in the Imperium’s side, His Majesty Gustavus Bismark II.

Regarding her with intense purple eyes, he approached Octavia calmly. His face betrayed no hint of anger or malice, nor any sign of warmth or curiosity. All Octavia could discern was the iron strength of his chill gaze. She lowered her eyes, but not her head, unable to maintain eye contact with such a man.

“Are you afraid?” The voice was low, but melodic, like water burbling from the high mountains.

“No, Your Majesty,” Octavia managed to whisper.

“And why not? Your people have brought war to my country. I have seen it for myself.” A loud thump piqued Octavia’s curiosity enough to get her eyes up again. The king had placed his large copper hammer of state next to his throne, its head thudding against the solid stone.
They really go all out with this whole “copper king” business,
Octavia’s mind thought fleetingly.

Gustavus’ voice pulled her back to reality. “Your legions have cut a bloody swath through my nation, and we have done naught to you. Perhaps you, Senatora, representative of our esteemed
brother
in Rome, could shed some light on why there is an army camped at my door.” He lowered himself into his seat.

Octavia was stunned.
How can he not know? Has no one told him? Have none of our envoys demanding he capture and turn over the prosecutors of the Brittenburg Incident been received?
She voiced these thoughts.

Now it was the king’s turn to be surprised. Or so Octavia thought, although the only indication of it was a slight narrowing of his eyes. If anything, his piercing stare became even more painful to look at.

“You’re telling me that your entire Empire declared war on my nation because of a simple raid?” he said quietly in unaccented Latin.

“It . . . it was far worse than a raid, Your Majesty,” Octavia replied unevenly. “Most of the city was destroyed, and there were reports of widespread rape, looting, and more done by the rebels you supported and your local forces.”

“Pah!” He slammed his fist down on the throne, and Octavia swore she could feel the floor shake. The man half stood in anger. “I’ve never supported them. I cannot tell every single little whelp of a pissant lord with an airship and two dozen raiders that he can do this or can’t do that. I’d spend my entire life chasing them up and down the accursed peninsula!” Bismark bellowed at her. “I already executed that imbecile, if only just to get your army out of my country.” He glared at her, and Octavia involuntarily shrank back. “With that done, I shall go out and crush your army for being foolish enough to come here in the first place!”