Empress Fallen - Prologue

Prologue

The Validian Dynasty
Year 7056, 11th day of the 2nd Caelum month

Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell;
Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace,
Yet grace must still look so.
Macbeth, William Shakespeare

Space was cold. Deathly cold. But inside the frigate, it felt even colder. Silence and anger fused together to form a terrible, icy atmosphere, where even the harsh electric lighting seemed unwelcome. The hollow metal creature hung there in the void, like a broken ship gutted by the ocean.

Juliava pulled the heavy black cloak tighter over her shoulders, the silver braiding woven into the shoulders in stark contrast with the red uniform beneath. She stood in front of a curving viewport at the prow of the frigate.

'Empress, your majesty . . .' a low, wavering voice murmured directly behind her. She let her eyes wander aimlessly over the star strewn abyss yawning before them. The voice resumed falteringly, taking her silence as affirmation to continue.

'The primary Imperial port has fallen. All remaining forces have been ordered to defend the Vaults. But – but two have been lost, the first destroyed by – by them, the second, looted by renegade merchants. M-many Wolf-Class frigates have fled. Our remaining cohorts are making a stand near Sanctus, but the Armada’s just too strong. There are reports coming in of mass . . . mutinies.’ The man swallowed, sweat stinging his eyes, hands clenching and unclenching. The Empress did not move. He continued, his voice breaking, ‘And word from the surface: the southernmost Tyrannian border has been overrun. Our casualties stand at 49 cohorts . . . The Armada's ranks have been reinforced by fresh reserves from the revolted colonies on Ignis-’

'Vaidan-Sho,' the Empress murmured, still facing the stars, the ice in her voice almost tangible. He froze. 'How did these slaves reach Tyrannis unchallenged?'

Her words prowled into the silence.

'Your m-majesty . . .'

Juliava tensed, her eyes sliding shut as irrepressible anger threatened to cloud her reason.

'They have salvaged one of the three hundred and thirty-three Exodus prison ships.'

The movement was so fast, so sudden, that the skinny man stumbled backwards, slamming his knee hard off the silver floor. The Empress now towered over him, emerald eyes burning, the clawed black tattoo around her right eye more menacing than ever, and the legendary Imperial sword she wore under her robe drawn just touching the man's neck. The slender weapon, hilt coiled and jewelled, hosted strange markings along its blade. The man couldn't tear his gaze from her livid face, couldn't move, couldn't breathe, paralysed by his own naked horror.

A deep, guttural voice cut the air like a shot from a plasma rifle. A tall, white-haired man stepped forward from the tightest shadows in the corner of the room.

'Which ship?' he spat. The Empress glanced at Dragutin-Ax Ultor, the new Marshal of the Validian army, realisation coursing through her, twisting her gut.

The man hunched on the floor flinched. His eyes widened infinitesimally as he licked his lips. It was barely a whisper. 'Vessel 162 . . . Epsilon-Rho.'

The Marshal's acidic blue eyes flashed. Juliava turned back to the man, a Commandant, no doubt elected to deliver the information by his superior. She distantly wondered which of the Brigadiers was so cowardly, and so wise. Her eyes closed as Ultor spoke again in a hiss, his voice heavy with uncontained fury.

'Who is their leader?'

'A female Ignian slave, of Caelum birth-' the Commandant stopped abruptly, as though realising what he had just said.

'Who?'

The Commandant squirmed, inching backwards, instinctively edging his hand closer to the plasma rifle secured across his back.

'Her name? . . . Aliyanca-Thrin Soter.'

It was too much. The Empress surged forwards, brandishing the great blade. The man tried to drag himself back towards the door, drawing his rifle in desperation, hauling it up.

But it was too late.

Juliava brought the sword above her head, screaming. In one smooth motion, quicker than breathing, she swept the blade in a wide arc through the air. It sliced down the Commandant's front. His mouth was left yawning open, cut down the left side all the way to his waist. She merely deflated with relief, a revolted grimace marring her features as the man's insides spilled onto the glinting floor with a sickening noise, and he slumped, motionless.

The Marshal shifted his weight uneasily across the room.

'Shall I . . . call someone to-?'

'Leave it,' she hissed, turning back to her vigil before the viewport. The thick glass reflected the faintest image of herself back at her. A ghost.

Ultor stood frozen, fighting a gag reflex at the stench. Such a form of injury was strange to senses accustomed to laser wounds.

'Fate kisses reality with purpose,' she exclaimed suddenly, 'with ambition. Isn't it funny?'

Ultor watched her back nervously. The black robe concealed her body. Like an eventide raven.

'Destinies interweaving, locked, fluctuating.' Her voice was louder now, head tilting slightly. 'My father conceived the schematics for Eversor . . . And I implemented them . . . So who – who should . . . But is it even fault? The Purge was decreed by Vindex . . . Is it fault?'

She turned sharply, fixing him with an unblinking glare. 'Is it?'

Silence gnawed through his mind as he squirmed, blindly stumbling for an answer. ‘I - I don't-’

'No,' she snapped, moving once more in front of the viewport. She slowly raised a hand, pressing it to the cold surface, trying to claw at the stars. 'All our fates have been tainted from birth . . . Haven’t they? We strove for more. A higher power. Beyond our star. But no, Vindex has spoken. We are not – not ready . . .’ Something passed over her face. ‘And yet, I am threatened, this cannot be right. Who would stand in my way?’ The words were barely a whisper now, charged with some potent horror.

‘Who?’ she screamed at the darkness, throwing her head back, ‘A slave?’ The eyes shut. ‘A slave? My blood, my father's blood. It can't be.’ A murmur. Then, she drove the sword at the ground. It bounced off the metal with a hair-raising clang.

‘A slave?’ she bellowed. The Marshal took a step back, swallowing.

She fell quiet for several minutes, her heavy pants gradually slowing. He opened his mouth, but was devoid of any intention to speak. The hand against the viewport clenched into a fist, and she broke the skin of her knuckles with a bestial snarl.

'Only Vindex could have done this. Augustus said it was a sign. A message from the one. A sickness. Diseased souls. The Purge was the key, but the slaves, they - they, and my people are . . . Vindex awaits me in Hell . . .' This last part was a whisper, barely wielding a shred of coherency. 'The markets have fallen, Denarii are worthless, the Arcanum reserves, gone, the Sanctian monks fled into exile, abandoned us. The slaves - the slaves live. They live. Anarchy. Anarchy. Purpose? Was this it? Yes this is the work of divinity, but the Purge, not me, impossible . . . What was I to do?'

The Empress bowed her head once more, shoulders visibly shaking with rage.

‘What was I to do?' Livid desperation stretched taut over her face as she whirled round, sword aloft. Dark circles ringed her eyes, strands of damp hair loosely hanging over her cheeks. She pitched forward abruptly.

For one wild moment, Ultor thought she was going to advance on him. But she stopped over the Commandant's mangled body, swaying as though caressed by the autumn wind that stirred the forests on Caelum.

'Your majesty?' he offered into the quiet. She wavered, staring down at her own hands, gripping the magnificent sword. Very slowly, like a Sanctian water falcon, she fell, crashing onto her knees.

'The Purge?' she whispered, ‘Eversor . . .’

Ultor tensed in horror as he watched the Empress' arms rising. Before he realised what was happening, she had turned the glistening weapon round, raising her head, eyes closing gently with a deadly resolve.

The terrifying blade was now poised over her own heart.