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Dardar Alemeyu stood on the highest balcony of the Gebbi Senafa. From that point, he could gaze out over much of the panorama of Khambawe. During the daytime, the Jewel City stretched below him like a colorful carpet laid out for a deity. At night, the torches that lit Khambawe’s streets and homes glittered like stars shining in a sky fallen to earth.
But this night, torches were not all that was aflame in Khambawe. On street after street, burning buildings blazed like sunbursts. Slowly, inexorably, those fires were creeping closer to the palace.
Alemeyu was clad in garments of war. Armor of leather and steel decorated with silver and gold sat loosely on his lean frame. Atop his head was a helmet covered almost completely with hair taken from the manes of lions. It was said to have been handed down from the great Dardar Issuri himself, as was the sword that hung in a gold-chased sheath at his side.
Many years had passed since an Emperor personally had led Matile troops into battle, however. On this night, the Sword of Issuri would remain in its sheath.
Tradition required Alemeyu, as Emperor, to don the martial raiment of an imperial commander. Reality dictated that he remain far from the scene of combat. For good or ill, the Dejezmek, Jass Eshana, would lead the remnants of an army that had once held sway over a continent in what Alemeyu sensed was the final battle against an ancient foe.
Alemeyu looked at Issa. The Empress was dressed for travel rather than war: loose cotton tunic and senafil; no chamma or jewelry, save for the inevitable hair ornaments that glistened in the light of the torches on the balcony.
Issa gazed at the fires, which still burned at a long distance from the palace. Faint sounds of fighting drifted to her ears, and Alemeyu’s. Moment by moment, those sounds intensified.
“They are getting closer,” Issa murmured.
“I know,” said Alemeyu.
He said nothing about the even worse news Eshana’s messengers had been delivering: the full-scale invasion of Uloans; the walking dead fighting at the islanders’ side; the steady advance of enemy forces. The intervention of the Tokoloshe and the dwarves had slowed that progress only temporarily; the Uloans were swarming through the city like an invasion of vermin at a garbage heap.
“Mesfin.”
The voice came from behind the royal pair. It was Bekele, the officer Eshana had assigned to see to their safety. Bekele was a strong-limbed young man who reminded Alemeyu of himself at a younger age, when he was still a prince and not yet obliged to sit on the Lion Throne.
Alemeyu and Issa turned to face the soldier.
“What is it?” the Emperor demanded.
“Jass Eshana has sent another message,” Bekele said. “He thinks it best that you leave the Senafa now, and go to the Gebbi Zimballa – the Old Palace.”
A sharp hiss marked the sudden intake of Issa’s breath. Alemeyu said nothing.
“Soon you will not be safe here, Mesfin,” Bekele continued. He said nothing more. The final decision belonged to the Emperor.
“We will go,” Alemeyu said.
They followed Bekele from the balcony. Later, surrounded by the Emperor’s Guard, and accompanied by Makah, the Emperor’s cheetah, they departed from the Gebbi Senafa. Behind them, a long line of servants carried items that were the last legacy of a long dynasty. Now, they were going to the place where that dynasty had begun.