This Empire of Ruin

The Lunar Forest lay dormant in the outer valleys. Nestled in the low-lying marshes, the forest’s pale leaves shone like a jewel in the darkness of the surrounding shrubbery that stretched for miles in either direction. From the skies looking down one was reminded of the moon suspended in the night sky, hence its name. And it was from the skies the beast had spotted the child – alone - disappearing amongst the white trunks that appeared to swallow it whole. The beast banked left and pitched her snout towards the earth, her thin membranous wings completely silent and angled against the wind to slow its descent. Her scales were as black as the night sky and just as smooth. To spot her would be an impossible task not there was anyone or anything who was looking. But it was best to remain cautious. The beast landed gently on the soft ground, on her hind legs and swiftly lowered her slender body so that she stood on all four slender limbs. Against the stark white of the forest her ink-black figure resembled a shadow in the light. Her eyes, black as the rest of her took in her surroundings. The child had not walked far. It sat in a small clearing, entertained by a fallen tree branch that it swung wildly before throwing it away seemingly bored of it. It giggled and picked up another branch. Soundlessly, she inched towards the small creature. She didn’t wish to startle it. She hadn’t seen anyone from above, but the forest was dense enough to conceal anyone who wished to remain hidden. Deftly, she inched ever closer until her snout hung inches from the child’s head. Perhaps the child felt a presence or by sheer luck it turned and saw the beast that stared back at it. Its wide eyes lay transfixed for several moments. And then, unfazed, it turned back to the new stick and began swinging it with as much passion as before. The beast was startled and then surprise gave way to a deep sadness. The innocence, she thought. Before she proceeded, she placed her jaws gently on the child’s soft vest it wore over its woollen undershirt and began to pull. They must understand what has happened here. The child wailed, not out of fear but rather frustration that it was being interrupted, and then soon enough the vest lay crumpled on the ground next to them. The beast’s jaws were not particularly large but they wrapped around the tiny figure of the child securely enough. She retracted her fangs so only her soft black gums held the child at its waist. Now, the child began to cry. But it didn’t matter. As silently as she arrived, the beast launched towards the sky, too quiet to be heard, too quick to be stopped. As the cries of the child were swallowed by the wind, the dragon disappeared into the starless night.

Ibrahim, the last Guardian Emperor, begged only for sleep, but he fought it with as much strength as though he was once again on the field of battle. The enemy tugged seductively at his every being, trying to coax him into peaceful slumber but to no avail. He wouldn’t concede defeat until the outriders had returned with his son. He sat hunched over the table carved of the finest moonwood, a panoply of parchments and books scattered haphazardly across its surface. An exhaustive history of the Dread Wars lay before him. He had not chosen to delve into these works as an exercise in learning, rather, he needed to occupy his mind to distract him from his exhaustion and the thoughts of Ishmael. Perhaps, he thought, he might also find the answers he sought. So, through the night, he embarked on a journey through the past which he yearned only to forget. He read of the old fishing villages that once populated Morgovia some centuries ago before the Ishtari people set foot on its shores. The foreign conquistadors razed the lands and atop the ashes built a kingdom that stretched to every edge of the continent. Theirs was the greatest empire to ever exist. The Ishtari were strong, courageous, and benevolent. But most importantly, recount the historians, they were wise. Blessed with the Great Knowledge, they built cities that awed even the Gods. Prosperity brimmed in every palace, town square and cottage, from the God Cities of Bal Moro to the sprawling townships that stretched from the lake districts to the outer valleys. Those that ruled were the Guardian Emperors who, if the history books were to be believed, were the uncontested embodiment of all things noble, good and right. Ibrahim scoffed. As his eyes ached over the words, an adage once heard in his youth revisited him: the path to humility is often violent. So, it was for the Ishtari. From where the Balathu’ur came, no one knows. But their legions flocked over Morgovia, an endless tapestry of winged behemoths that some say blotted out the sun. Faced with a force they did not understand, the Guardian Emperors deferred to a currency that had grown even greater than all the wealth of their empire: arrogance. For who could threaten the Morgovian Empire of the Ishtari, one thousand years strong? The dragons were given the skies and Guardian Emperors continued to rule over the Earthly realm. But just as a leaf in the dew of autumn can only carry the crystal droplets of past rains upon its thinly webbed surface for so long, so too did this false peace collapse under the weight of its illusions. A violent humility. Vorgoth, whose size consumed the sky, scorched the Emerald Grasslands and the children’s screams cursed the soil. The Ishtari answered in kind. Blood followed blood. An empire in ruin. Ibrahim lifted his head from the pages. The accounts after the genesis of the conflict were sparse and disorganised. The battle, bloody and wild at the outset, transformed into a pulsating war of attrition that ebbed and flowed, seemingly endlessly. Few history books remained and even fewer scholars to fill them. Ibrahim wondered if it mattered. Are there any words that could do justice to the darkness that I have witnessed, the pain that corrodes my soul, the wails that haunt my dreams? As he lay a soft touch on the blackened burns that scarred his face, he thought not. Memories were punishment enough. Why should one immortalise it in ink? What vestiges of his people remained sought refuge in small pockets and enclaves throughout the continent, forging what passed for survival amidst the ruins and ash. Few structures remained unburnt and unvanquished. Sothomir Castle was one of them. For their part, the Balathu’ur had retreated to the mountains at Zanobar Ky. This stalemate must end, Ibrahim beseeched himself. But how? Why have the beasts been quiet for so long? As he ruminated on these thoughts that danced like a lullaby in his head, The last Guardian Emperor finally succumbed to the gentle embrace of sleep. He dreamt of his son, laying in the grass of a homestead from a different time, laughing, his voice infusing the air with a joy until the laughing stopped and Ibrahim saw the grass become flames and his son was no longer his son but one of the winged beasts, his mouth contorted in a terrified grimace and from it a sound so terrible emanated, it extinguished the light of the sun until there was only sound and fire, sound and fire accursed Ibrahim, screaming, screaming, screaming …

Voices. Ibrahim snapped his head towards the polished oak doors that led out of his study. Ishamel. The dream felt like embers in his mind, slowly dying. There was no use salvaging it. His son was already here. Ibrahim ran, grabbing the circular handle and yanked the wooden panels open, eagerly awaiting to see his son’s face. War shatters all men’s hearts alike, like an iron hammer brought down onto a porcelain idol. The shards pierce the spirit, a tangle of thorns that beget cruelty, guilt, and loss. So it was that Ibrahim had been cruel, ridden by remorse and his cries of grief went unheard as the war consumed his country and his people. Then the boy was born. And as he held his tiny body in his battle-scarred arms for the first time, Ishmael became his heart, whole again. He yearned to see him now. The outriders slowly filed into the cavernous hall, lit with a single flame that danced atop an ornately carved stone sconce suspended in the air. The old Ishtari masters were practitioners of Suma Sae, or ‘light-crafting’ and imbued the flame with a power to amplify its glow until it was as though thousands of torches were alight. Bathed in the magical radiance, the hall was a resplendent testament to the artistic prowess of the old empire. Grey stone columns lined the hall, intricate engravings and bejewelled carvings decorating their smooth surface from top to bottom. The columns branched, tree-like from earth to heaven, sculpted so that they grew out of the spectacular vaulted ceiling and into the expansive floor of gleaming marble. The walls shimmered, boasting the fine craftsmanship of the Ishtari sculptors who had engraved spectacular tableaus of their culture across their ruby, jade and sapphire canvas. Gods, war, glory, love and death, all were depicted, a clash of artistic styes that created a hall that seemed to come alive. How would the artists depict the image Ibrahim saw before him now, as he waited in anticipation? Something was wrong, he had assumed as much as the outriders had shuffled in meekly into the hall, all refusing to make eye contact with their Lord Emperor. A tremulous fear seemed to reverberate through them and they all stood hunched as though in collective defeat, afraid of something. One soldier, the youngest, was shaking. Ibrahim remained where he stood, watching as the last outrider stalked to his position in the column, his eyes darting across them all. Where is …? A thought crossed his mind, fleeting and too terrible to consider. Silence. The outriders were all kneeling, now. One broke away and stepped forward. It was Aladar Mauria, the Ashanti lieutenant who had led the squadron.

‘My Lord Emperor.’ His voice bounced of the walls, echoing. It was a soft tone as though the lieutenant were a child on the verge of confessing his sins to the father.

‘Mauria, where is my son?’ The Emperor’s voice was inflected with composure but inside him something was coming undone.

‘Sire, we were crossing the outer valleys. We’d sent out scouts to screen our crossing but we – we thought it more a precaution than anything else. The marshes surrounding the Lunar Forest have been uninhabited for months. There was nothing, no one we …’

Aladar trailed off as Ibrahim descended the stairway moving towards him. The Guardian Emperor was built for the battlefield. He towered over his companions, muscular and imposing, his extensive scars intensifying an almost mythical reputation of a ruthless warrior. He relied on that reputation now, his grey eyes unreadable and his burned face unmoving, as he stalked towards Aladar. The Ashanti soldier cut no small figure but when the Emperor stood before him on equal ground he was a foot shorter.

‘Look at me, Lieutenant.’ Ibrahim’s voice was a whisper, laden with a latent rage. Mauria locked eyes with the Emperor and Ibrahim saw trepidation in them. ‘My son. Tell me what happened to him.’ There was a momentary pause and Ibrahim saw the Lieutenant’s neck ripple as he gulped. Soon enough, he found the words.

‘T-taken, your Majesty. Ishamel, has been taken.’

Ibrahim blinked once. Twice. Taken. He repeated the word out loud. It felt like poison on his lips. The hall seemed to darken around him, the murals taunting him as they closed in. Taken. It cannot be. Possessed by some primordial force, Ibrahim’s hands grasped the soldier’s throat and lifted him into the air. The lieutenant flayed and behind him his outriders were back on their feet looking around, frantic and confused, as their leader gasped and choked for air. Some of the younger men made to move towards their lieutenant but were held back by their more experienced companions. Mauria’s lips had turned blue and his legs had begun to lose their vigour, shaking in bursts. Ibrahim released him, his rage having abandoned him as quickly as it had come. The lieutenant crumpled to the floor, his eyes rolling back in his head. Ibrahim stood in a daze regarding the unconscious body. Taken. One of the outriders rushed and knelt next to Aladar and checked his pulse.

‘He needs a healer.’ Ibrahim’s silence was acquiescence enough and the soldier gestured to one of the younger soldiers who jogged out of the hall.

‘What … who took him, who took Ishmael?’ Ibrahim asked, the guilt of his impulse exacerbating his current misery.

He hoped Lieutenant Mauria would live. There was a time when he would have hanged every one of the wretched men that knelt before him now without a second’s hesitation. But able-bodied men were in short supply and age had tempered his worst impulses, if not completely. And of course there was Ishamel. Ishmael who had rejuvenated the still pools of his heart so that they flowed like a roaring river. But now Ishamel was gone. The soldier that had knelt next to him straightened himself and looked directly at Ibrahim. He was Artemis Stollworth, a recruit from the Varangian provinces in the East. His tone was composed, and his voice had a gentle lilt.

‘A Whisper Wing, your Majesty', replied Mauria. 'At least, that is what we believe. Lieutenant Mauria was right when he said that there was absolutely nothing for miles in the outer valleys. Whisper Wings are stealth creatures, sire. They make no sound, and they are completely invisible in the cover of night. It is the only possibility.”

Ibrahim felt the fog of madness begin to clear from his mind. ‘The Whisper Wings are supposed to be all dead,’ he retorted, sharply.

‘There have been rumoured sightings for some months, your Majesty, but reports suggest that only a handful remain. Given their unique capabilities, the dragons may only deploy them strategically for matters of extreme importance.’

‘Like kidnapping the Guardian Emperor’s only son.’

Artemis Stollworth did not answer. Instead, his eyes momentary flicked downward, his manner becoming sheepish. Ibrahim continued.

‘How can you be sure that he was taken and not …’ Ibrahim could not bare to think it, let alone say it, to breathe life into it with words. ‘… and not killed?’ He turned away.

'The dragon left this behind, sire.’

Stollworth extended a hand and an outrider rushed forward, something dangling in his hand. He passed it to the soldier and resumed his place amongst the ranks. Ibrahim turned back to look at what Stollworth was showing him and felt his heart strain under the weight of a renewed grief. He recognised the vest, the one he had placed on his son only days ago. A picture was being formed in Ibrahim’s head. This was how the Balathu’ur planned to answer the stalemate. Murdering the heir to the shattered Morgovian kingdom would only invite more bloodshed that would be endless and all-consuming. Neither side would survive, and this empire of ruin would decay as a graveyard and a monument to the condemned before the hands of time would wipe even that pitiful remnant from existence and memory. But now, the Balathu’ur had something to bargain. Something to negotiate. A small hope whimpered in the Emperor. His son was alive. But he had one more question. It burst forth, dripping with accusation.

‘Why was Ishamel alone? Why were you not there to protect my son?’

Artemis seemed to expect the question. Still, he chose his words carefully. ‘Sire, we had made camp some distance from the Lunar Forest. A day’s ride only for Sothomir. Dimytar and Tauron had first watch, but they swear the little one snuck away late in the night. By the time we realised, it was too late.’

If there was to be punishment, it would have to wait. Nothing was more important than Ishamel and his safe return. He needed council. ‘Summon the Val Ishtar,’ he ordered, Artemis Stollworth. ‘Immediately.’

The fireplace in the Chamber of Shadows was alight in a flickering flame whose yellow luminance seemed eager to dispel the blue pall of moonlight that floated in from the window. In front of the fire, a stone table stood with three chairs spread neatly around it. Each seat was occupied by a member of the Emperor’s personal council of advisors, the Val Ishtar or, Ishatri Wisdom. Along the length of the table’s left-hand side sat Jaladine Rohar, the Ishtari Sagemaster, her auburn hair falling haphazardly along her mouse-like features. Across from her was Utwek who had counselled three Guardian Emperor’s before Ibrahim, outliving all. It was Utwek who had advised sending Ishamel with the outriders as a symbolic reminder of the endruing Ishtari and to bolster the morale of the nearby townships. Finally, at the far end of the table, dressed in black robes adorned with silver threadwork sat Rhakar Khan, the Volari sorcerer from the Banished Outlands. Ibrahim al-Ibrahim, the Guardian Emperor, placed himself at the other end of the table. They all waited for his first word.

‘Thank you, all, for coming on such short notice. I trust you are all familiar with …’ Ibrahim paused for a moment, then regained his composure. ‘I believe you all know what we are dealing with. I ask for your council.’

Utwek responded first. ‘The young emperor is strong, not unlike his father,’ the old man said, his commanding tone juxtaposed with his fragile figure. ‘I am certain little harm will come to him, so long –‘

‘It is not pithy assurances that interest me, Utwek,’ Ibrahim barked. ‘How must we respond? There is little time and my son…my son needs me.’

‘Sire, the Balathu’ur have shown themselves to be desperate with this act’, Utwek continued. ‘What has happened to your son is, without a doubt, a horrendous new development in this conflict, one we must act swiftly to remedy. However, we have far more influence in this exchange than may first appear.’

The old man had piqued Ibrahim’s interest, but his patience was beginning to unravel. His reply was blunt. ‘Speak plainly, Utwek. How can we influence anything when they hold my son?’

The old man offered a deep nod and continued. ‘Forgive me, sire. What I am simply suggesting is that we pay greater heed to the effort that went into the kidnapping. It is one thing to track the movements of the young emperor, especially one who is so closely guarded and heavily protected. How many scouting missions do you think the Whisper Wing embarked upon before finding the outriding party? Ten, twenty, fifty? Following from this, it is quite another thing to even deign to follow through with the act itself. But, even granting this second condition, it is wholly unthinkable that the Whisper Wing would spend what precious time it had, undressing the child and laying its vest for us to see. It is clear that great pains were made to ensure that we would know Ishamel was alive.’ The vest lay next to Ibrahim, a small, clothed heap on the table. At the mention of it, he clutched it tight and tried to stifle a rising tide of sadness that threatened to drown him. Utwek noticed this but did not dwell on it. He continued, ‘Killing the child would have been a show of force, but –

‘Utwek! Speak of my son’s death again and I’ll throw you from the walls of this holdfast myself. What is your point. Speak it!’

‘Simply, that the Balathu’ur are on the brink of collapse, your Majesty, and they are desperate for an end to this conflict.’ Ibrhaim suddenly grew quiet, listening intently.

‘The mountain ranges of Zanobar Ky are an inhospitable wasteland, hostile to all who try to make it their own. Soon, the Balathu’ur will die there, it must be so, elsewise they would have never risked such an act. They seek a compromise with you, my Lord. That is why Ishamel is still alive. They want an end to the war so they can save themselves.’

Ibrahim considered the old statesman’s words. If Utwek were right in his thinking, then he did hold leverage in this exchange. But how to wield it?

Jaladine Rohar’s words interjected Ibrahim’s musings. She raised herself of her chair but did not stand up straight, instead half kneeling and leaning across the table.

‘Utwek’s right. The dragon scum are suffering. Their Flame is no longer enough to sustain them in the frigid temperatures that high up. They’ll freeze to death.’

The Sagemaster resumed her seat, her youthful looks belying the depth of her knowledge.

Ibrahim sat quietly, the glow from the fire beside setting his face alight as though the flames were taunting the burn scars that adorned his cheeks and jaw.

‘The Balathu’ur wish to speak. How do we speak to them?’ Ibrahim asked

The Volari, Rhakar Khan saw his time to strike, ‘My Lord,’ he bellowed, a grin revealing gold studded teeth, ‘only the Dragon Warlocks can speak to the Balathu’ur.’

Ibrahim gazed into the empty eye sockets of the Volari sorcerer. Those who dabble in the Volari dark arts seek to master The Sight, the ability to gain access into new realms concealed by the Gods. For that reason, the Volari consider vision a God’s trick, a fool’s illusion. A sorcerer must relinquish his sight to gain The Sight. Ibrahim held little regard for such blasphemous beliefs, but the Volari sorcerer guilds proved vital in the Dread Wars. As reward, they were offered the prestige of the Ishtari Wisdom.

‘Rhakar speaks truly,’ Utwek answered. The Volari nodded his appreciation in response.

Ibrahim felt uneasy. The Dragon Warlocks once numbered in the hundreds, blessed with the ability to speak the Dragon Tongue. As their numbers dwindled during the wars, they were rounded up and detained in the Great Dungeons as a means to protect a valuable commodity that might prove useful in the coming conflict. But there was also another reason, one less spoken of. It was said that the Warlocks did more than just communicate in the Dragon Tongue. Tales of unspeakable acts between Warlocks and the Balaathu’ur began to take root across the continent. Some Warlocks were said to ride the Balaathu’ur, others sired hybrid spawn that were neither beast nor human but a perverted combination of both. Reports of the first pogroms came from the smaller townships along the Blade Reefs, soon spreading throughout Morgovia. Warlocks were hunted and burnt at the stake, hanged, drowned, and stoned. Chaos and rumour bounded across the land while the Balaathu’ur waged their own war.

Now, Ibrahim had to call upon them, these deviants. How many remained? Almost as if he had heard the question in his Emperor’s mind, Rhakar Khan spoke in his accented Volari.

‘There are three in the Varangian Provinces, and one resides here in the dungeons beneath the castle. Draquar, they call him.’ The sorcerer smiled slyly again, his ebony skin glinting in the firelight.

‘Summon, Draquar,’ Ibrahim ordered. ‘And send outriders at to the God Cities in Bal Moro to set a signal fire. The Balaathu’ur will meet us there, in our city.’

‘My Lord,’ Jaladine Rohar said, ‘what do you plan on saying to the Balaathu’ur. Ivthor rules them now and it is said he is quick to anger.’

‘By the sounds of it his anger is all he’ll have to keep him warm in those mountains. If he wishes to end this war, he will give me my son first. Utwek, if the Balaathu’ur are as desperate as you say, how best do we use our leverage?’

The old man pondered for a moment. ‘Extract every concession imaginable, my Lord. Ivthor and his legions will be counting on your grief for your son and your desire to have him returned. They’ll think you’ll accept whatever they offer in exchange. But remember, they face a cruel fate if these negotiations fail. You must act as though your son plays second fiddle to the war. Whether or not this is true, Ivthor must believe it. Only then will this end in some semblance of peace.’

‘Very well,’ Ibrahim concluded, solemnly. His face darkened as he considered the prospects that lay ahead. What the histories would write about him, he wondered.

Draquar, the Dragon Warlock, seemed more of a ghostly apparition than a living being. His skin was pale as the Lunar Forest, stretched almost translucent over his sickly figure. His eyes were grey like a dusk fog and thin whisps of hair dangled from his head over his jutting forehead. They had retrieved him from the dungeons beneath Sothomir, a vast expanse of cells that lay damp and dark beneath the earth. Draquar had been standing in his cell as if waiting for Ibrahim and his outriders to come get him. When asked how he had known, he merely offered a weak smile in response. The Emperor’s unease was not alleviated in the presence of the Warlock. Rather, it grew the longer he spent with him. What little words Draquar spoke were barely audible and any other sounds were almost animalistic in nature. At times he would hold eye contact several moments too long uttering no words and other times he would experience bouts of laugher at nothing in particular. He had a general, almost child-like strangeness about him, as though he were mimicking something he did not understand. Ibrahim inquired with the Mastersage, Jaladine about the Warlock’s imprisonment.

‘Seventeen years, he’s been living beneath Sothomir.’

Perhaps he’s trying to imitate human interaction, Ibrahim thought to himself. He hasn’t experienced any in almost twenty years.

Ibrahim had led the escort across the Emerald Grasslands. Stollworth had insisted on riding with the escort as penance for his previous mistake. The night sky was awash with a glittering expanse of stars stretching across the black canvass under which they rode. Moving during the day was out of the question. Decades in the sun-starved dungeons had made Draquar’s skin sensitive to any form of light. In the shine of the moon, his translucent skin shimmered giving him an ethereal quality. His soldiers had set the region around Bal Moro ablaze and Ibrahim hoped the Balthuu’ur had seen it. They road for several hours and no-one spoke until they reached the first God City of Bal Moro. What was once the ancient glory of Morgovia was now nothing but a patchwork of charred buildings jutting out of the scorched earth, decorated by the bones of those who had refused to flee the dragonfyre. They made their way to a clearing, what was once the city square. Ivthor the Balaathu’ur King was already waiting. His oily emerald scales gleamed in the starlight and his long neck curled around his tremendous body. The dragon’s eyes shone like tourmaline gemstones, and they regarded the newly arrived party with contempt. He raised his neck and shifted his body, staring down at them. Ibrahim felt a chill. The same disquiet he had felt when the outriders had first entered the Great Hall was in the pit of his stomach now. A soldier brought Draquar forward to stand next to Ibrahim who seemed unable to remove his eyes from Ivthor. Something is wrong. Turning to Draquar, he uttered a command.

‘It is your time to speak Warlock. Tell the Dragon King I am here to claim my son.’

Draquar turned and looked up at the behemoth. He closed his eyes and spread his arms before unleashing a guttural melody that raked Ibrahim’s ears. It had no discernible structure but as the Emperor glanced at Ivthor, he saw the beast swayed almost in rhythm with the grating sound. The melody stopped. Ivthor swayed back tilting his snout upward and bellowed a deep, rumbling cacophony of sounds that churned Ibrahim’s soul. It was inhuman and cruel. Draquar seemed confused, and his face slowly began to contort as though he was overhearing something he was not supposed to. He faced Ibrahim as Ivthor stopped his melody. His grey eyes were teary eyed.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he murmured.

‘What…?’ Before Ibrahim could finish his question, he realised he and Draquar were alone.

Where are my men? Ibrahim frantically jolted his head around the clearing.

‘Ishamel was not kidnapped,’ Draquar continued.

Ibrahim froze in his place. He looked at Draquar and then the Balaathu’ur King, trying to make sense of what he just heard.

‘What did you say?’ He asked. It was not anger, but fear that inflected the Emperor’s voice.

‘It was an offering, my Lord, this war had to end and only one side could win that’s what they said,’ Draquar muttered, ‘so they offered Ishamel but…’ Draquar trailed off as Ivthor uttered a gentler symphony of sounds.

‘Not an offer, a lure…they wanted to send…’

Me. Ibrahim knew he would not find his men. He knew he would not find his son. Draquar the Dragon Warlock bellowed something to Ivthor who opened his jaws and split the Earth with his demon howl, a thunderous groan.

Ibrahim, the last Guardian Emperor, closed his eyes.

He thought of Ishamel.