Evan Currie - Heirs of Empire

“No, you will not.”

“All right. What’s the plan?”

The stumped look on Lydia’s face was so profound that Brennan started laughing at her there and then.

The teen angrily stomped her feet, glaring at her brother. “Stop laughing at me!”

Corian sat stiffly on the throne, glowering at the projection display floating in front of him, furious with what he was reading.

“I want the military commanders we captured shot ,” he ordered. “Any sane man would know to bow against the force we marshaled. I don’t care if they did believe they were being loyal to the empire; I won’t tolerate that level of stupidity.”

“Yes, sire.”

For the most part his plan had progressed very nearly perfectly, but there were ugly shadows in the tapestry. Several officers had escaped the palace after the initial strikes, apparently with the intent of retrieving reinforcements. He could appreciate their determination, and was even thankful that they hadn’t elected to go for the much more damaging option of forming an underground resistance, but the sheer waste of personnel and equipment they were fomenting was enough to drive him mad.

Over the weeks since the coup, Corian’s forces had destroyed several centuries of men. Mostly mere guardsmen, certainly not people in any short supply, but the principle of the matter was absolute.

For the moment he’d been forced to maintain the illusion that a Scourwind still lived and sat on the throne of the empire, if only for the common fools on the streets. The Senate and the military ranks of consequence were well aware of who now wore the crown, and they were the only ones who mattered for now.

His day in the light was coming, sooner than some of his erstwhile allies would believe, but first he had to end this damnable waste.

Field Marshal Groven sat tiredly in his command tent, staring at the projection display floating in front of him and willing it to change. Not through the link. Had he done that it would have changed on command, but that wasn’t the sort of change he desired.

The damned traitors who’d taken the empire seemed to control far too much of its military resources. There was no way some jumped-up tyrant should have been able to take as much as had been lost, let alone control it, and yet the legions smashing his fellow loyalists spoke volumes about just that.

His fellow field marshals had done their best to stem the treason, but it was like attempting to blot the heat of the sun in the burning sky without the aid of one of the Great Islands. It seemed like for every square foot you succeeded, there were many square miles where you didn’t.

The forces under the control of the mad general were blanketing this entire section of the empire faster than he’d have believed, cutting the resistance off from supplies and sanctuary. The fact that the new emperor had managed an effective disinformation campaign made it all the worse, confusing many regiments into staying quiet and leading others to brand the loyalists as traitors.

Groven was at a loss, but one thing he knew was certain: he and his fellows could not let this stand.

That lunatic will be the end of the empire if we don’t stop him here, now.

He reached for a panel to open communications with his adjutant but froze as he felt a cold point dig into his throat.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” a voice demanded coldly in his ear.

“Wha—?” Honestly, Groven had a hard time thinking, given the blade at his throat, and barely understood the question.

“You’re wasting Imperial resources and getting Imperial subjects killed with your idiocy,” William Everett growled, stepping around so he could be seen and recognized.

“Everett! What are you— urk —”

William cut him off with a slight jab of his Armati, keeping the field marshal in his seat. “You don’t have the forces to face Corian in open combat, you imbecile.”

“We can’t just let him take …”

William ignored the strangled sound as he again jabbed the marshal in the throat. “Shut up. Listen.”

He sighed, flipping the Armati back as the blade withdrew into the contoured grip.

“Corian holds the high ground,” he said. “His position is unassailable at present. If you’d been halfway intelligent, you’d have gone to ground yourself and played the part of a loyal little minion, all the while networking and readying yourself for a proper resistance.”

He stepped back and turned around, eyes falling on the tactical map of the region that Groven had been examining.

“That, unfortunately, is no longer an option.”

“So what do you suggest—”

William spun back, hand coming up in a sharp gesture. “Shut up. Listen.”

Groven fell back, silent.

“You are going to pack up camp tonight. Fade,” William ordered. “Like a bad dream Corian doesn’t want to remember. Take your men, every piece of gear you can lay your hands on, and just … fade.”

Groven glared at him, still silent. William sighed. “You can speak now.”

The field marshal continued to glower, but slowly stood to look evenly at William.

“And just what, pray tell, do you intend to do while I … fade?” he asked distastefully.

William turned back to the projection, ignoring the question. He pointed out a dot on the map. “What’s this?”

“Refugees,” Groven answered, “from the fighting. We sent them to a neutral township outside Corian’s direct influence. I considered sending them to an allied duchy, however …”

“No point attracting Corian to allies before it’s time,” William said with a nod. “For the same reason, you need to go somewhere similar. Don’t hide with people who oppose Corian. We don’t want to draw his attention until we’re ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“For the heirs to the empire to take their rightful place.”

Groven stiffened. “You have a Scourwind? One escaped?”

“Two.”

“Two?” Groven looked puzzled, then winced. “Not the twins. Burning skies. They’re contemptible, spoiled children.”

“They’re Scourwinds.” William was in no mood to debate the actions of two teenagers he had enough doubts about himself. “The last two in the direct line.”

“There are cadet lines of the blood. Surely …”

“They. Are. Scourwinds.”

Groven held up his hands. “Fine. It’s on your head, then. Where are they?”

William grimaced, shaking his head.

“You don’t know?” Groven snorted. “We might be in luck after all.”

“Don’t,” William warned, gesturing with his fingers. “Just don’t.”

Groven shrugged. “As I said, fine. So you’re going to be looking for the brats while I fade , then?”

“Among other things,” William told him, extending a metal card to him. “These are the coordinates of a place you can get lost in. There are … supplies there. I’ll send your fellow marshals—the ones who survived this idiocy, at least.”

Groven glared at him again, but William ignored him and turned to leave.

He paused near the exit, glancing back. “Don’t get any more people killed before we meet again. Corian is bad enough. We cannot afford to be our own worst enemies as well.”

Then the Cadreman was gone and Groven collapsed back into his seat, taking a deep breath.

Burning skies. I hate dealing with those bastards.

Cadremen were nearly untouchable in the empire, and not merely for political reasons. When one went rogue, as happened from time to time, you either sent other Cadre after him or you prepared yourself to bury a lot of your police force. Certainly they were neither immortal nor invincible, but they were beyond the ken of most mortals.