SENECA

The army of the Southern Empire traveled along the riverbank, cutting north through the savanna, heading toward the delta and sea. Seneca stood in his chariot, his four horses pulling him along rough ground, tussocks of grass, and jagged stones. It was a rough ride. There were no roads here, and they had no ships for the river. Each bump along the way rattled his teeth and made his sword clank against his armor. Finally he had enough. Tossing aside his imperial dignity, Seneca climbed out of his jeweled chariot, leaving the horses to pull the empty vessel. Emperor of the south, soon to be lord of all the Encircled Sea, Seneca Octavius walked.

His army followed, and Seneca kept turning around, kept looking at them, counting them over and over. He knew their numbers. Six thousand Aelarian legionaries. Twelve thousand Nurian warriors. Five hundred and five horses. Three hundred and twelve chariots. He was counting them several times a day now, memorizing the names of the cohorts and even the centuries, and each time he counted, he found some comfort, the appeasement of that cruel god of his fear.

Six thousand legionaries, he thought. Twelve thousand Nurians. Five hundred and five horses. Three hundred and twelve chariots. It will be enough. It will take Aelar. I'm safe.

And yet whenever Seneca turned north again, leading the army, and gazed upon the open country, that dread returned. Again and again, he saw them. The dead in Gefen. The battle in the Acropolis, Porcia slaying the senators and Ofeer fleeing him. The mob in Shenutep, stoning him, and the spear bursting out from Taeer's chest.

More blood would spill, Seneca knew. More horrors would haunt his dreams. And yet this was the choice he had made. These were the sacrifices of an emperor.

Leaders paint with blood and suffer the nightmares, Seneca thought, so that others can sleep throughout the night.

Hooves clattered behind him, and a resplendent horse the color of dawn rode up beside him. Imani sat in the saddle. She wore leather trousers and a breastplate, but her hair ruffled freely in the wind.

"The mighty Seneca Octavius, Emperor of Aelar—walking?" She smiled down at him.

"I'm not too proud to walk," he said. "I'm a man of the people."

Imani snorted. "You just get saddle blisters." She dismounted, held her horse's reins, and walked beside him.

For a while they walked in silence. Imani chewed her lip, glanced toward him, then back at her feet. Finally she spoke.

"Seneca, am I a fool?"

He narrowed his eyes. "Why would you be a fool?"

Imani stared ahead into the distance. A herd of wildebeests swept across the plains. When finally she spoke, she seemed to be speaking to herself more than to him. "You've loved women before. You've told me that. You loved Taeer, and you also treated her as a slave, and you drove her to such hatred that she tried to slay you. You loved Ofeer, but you hurt her too, you abused her, enslaved her, tried to kill her when she ran from you." She stared at a hippopotamus that floated in the river. "I told my brother that we can trust you. I told him that you love me, that you honor me. I told him that if we fight with you, that if Nur's warriors storm Aelar and place you on its throne, that you will be kind to us. That I will be your wife and queen, not just your concubine." Finally she met his eyes. "Did I lie to him, Seneca?"

He lowered his head.

Tear down the walls!

His own voice echoed in his mind.

Kill those fucking rats!

Guilty, guilty! Ship them off in chains!

Crucifixion! Crucify the rat!

The voice of a boy, drunk on wine, drunk on power, so afraid, so hurt. A boy raised by a tyrant. A boy beaten, abused, feeling so weak, so desperate to find strength.

"Yes," he said softly. "You lied."

Imani sucked in breath. She frowned. Her eyes dampened. "Did I?"

Seneca nodded. "You cannot trust me, Imani. When you told Adai that you could, you lied. I'm not worthy of trust. I slew many innocents. I treated the women I loved like dogs. I sailed into Nur to place a collar around your neck too."

A tear rolled down Imani's cheek. "Is that really who you are?"

"That is who I was," said Seneca. "But that man died. He died in Gefen. He died in Aelar. He died in the Battle of Tereen, fighting at your side. With every kiss of your lips, with every look into your eyes, with every time you trusted me—that Seneca was buried deeper." He looked at the distant herd, blinking. "I wanted to be like Porcia. Like my father. I lived as they did, I fought as they fought. But here in Nur, with you, I saw another way." He looked back at her. "I don't know if I'm a good man, Imani. I don't know if I was cruel because I was raised in cruelty, or whether that cruelty is ingrained within me, whether it still lurks inside. So no. You cannot trust me. But you can believe this, Imani, which I swear by the gods: You will never be my slave. You will be my guide to wisdom, my compass to morality. Fuck my father. Fuck my sister. They're both dead now." His voice was hoarse. "Right now the only person I want to impress is you. I promise you. We will make this a good world. Together."

Yet even as he spoke those words, Seneca thought back to only a few weeks ago, to confronting Imani's handmaiden in her pyramid. For nothing—no reason at all, just a perceived slight—he had nearly slain her. So many of those demons still screamed inside. Screamed for death. Screamed to capture Ofeer and strangle her for lying to him. Screamed to find the rebel Epheriah and defeat him in glorious battle. Screamed to capture Tirus alive and torture him slowly, cutting off piece by piece as the crowd roared. The blood, death, torture, glory, gold, wine, whores, victory—they stormed through Seneca's mind, demons dancing, calling him to join them, until his hands shook and he wanted to shout.

But he turned to look at Imani.

He looked at her proud mane of dark curls, sweetly scented and ruffling in the wind. At her full lips which he loved to kiss. At her perfect ears he loved to whisper into at night. At her eyes—warm, intelligent, brave eyes. Kind eyes. And slowly, as he looked at Imani, those demons faded from his mind, and only calmness remained. Taeer had never given him such calmness; she had only stoked his flames. Ofeer had raised his blood to a boil, igniting fires of lust and power.

But you, Imani, are a balm to my soul. You are not fire. You are water to douse my flames, cool, healing, and stronger than I ever could be.

Distant trumpeting sounded in the west. Seneca stared and frowned. He pointed. "Elephants? Lots of them."

Imani stared too. A line creased her brow. "There should be no elephants this far north. It's too dry up here. The herds all roam the lush lands south of Shenutep."

"Well, there's a herd about the size of an army heading our way." Seneca returned to his chariot. "And at this pace, they'll plow over all of us."

The herd approached, thundering across the savanna. There had to be hundreds—more elephants than Seneca had ever seen, trumpeting, shaking the earth. But this was no wild herd.

Seneca cursed and drew his sword.

"Battle formations!" he shouted. "Soldiers, form rank! Shields walls up, defensive lines! Cavalry, form the flanks!"

The elephants kept thundering toward them. Howdahs rose on their backs, little forts of wood and leather, and archers stood within. Banners rose from the beasts, displaying eagles flying over shattered fortresses. Seneca knew that sigil.

"It's the fucking Phedian auxiliary," he muttered.

"Who are they?" Imani shouted, leaping back onto her horse.

"Bad news," he answered.

The province of Phedia lay west of Nur, sprawling between a southern desert and the Encircled Sea in the north. Once Phedia had been a mighty city-state, a jewel of the Encircled Sea, and Aelar's greatest enemy. As Aelar had ruled the northern waters, the Phedian fleet, with its hundreds of ships, had ruled the south. Seneca's father had finally vanquished that ancient civilization, crushing Phedia in a great war when Seneca had been just a child. Their city had been razed, their ships captured or burned, and most of their men slain.

But some Phedians had survived . . . and joined the Empire.

Here toward him charged those men who had lived, who had bent the knee to Aelar, who had raised the eagle banners, who had formed a desert auxiliary for the legions. Their commanders were ethnic Aelarians, sent south from Aelar. Their thousands of troops were howling Phedian natives, heads shaved, arms covered in tattoos, armored with scales and wielding bows and javelins. As the elephants charged, more Phedians emerged behind them—infantrymen, horsemen, and chariot riders.

"Tirus, Tirus!" they chanted. "For the glory of Tirus!"

Fuck me, Seneca thought.

He was still days away from the coast, away from a chance to find more ships, and already that fucking Tirus bastard was striking.

"Chariots!" Seneca shouted, whipping his horses. "Chariots, lead the assault! Flank the enemy! Ride!"

He sounded his horn. The horns of his generals answered the call.

"Kill the fucking cunts!" Lidia Marcellus shouted at his side in her chariot, whipping her horses and charging into battle.

With a thunder of hooves and a storm of dust, the chariots charged toward the enemy host. Seneca and Lidia led the Aelarian chariots, a great swarm, their scythed wheels leaping over the rocky earth. Imani lead the Nurian assault, her chariots heavier, her warriors howling and raising their bows. Seneca's teeth clattered, banging together, and his spine rattled, and he nearly fell from the chariot as it leaped over stones and grooves. The elephants thundered ahead, storming toward him, their riders raising bows.

With battle cries, the archers in the howdahs released a volley.

Seneca raised his shield. Arrows slammed into it. Another arrow drove into one of his horses, but the animal kept charging.

"Cut them down!" Seneca cried.

He tried to draw his bowstring. His hands shook too much, and the arrow whizzed madly upward. More arrows rained onto him, and his chariot drove toward an elephant, and the beast reared, trunk raised, feet ready to crush him. Seneca had seen elephants from a distance before, never so close, so enraged.

Fuck. I'm going to die. I'm going to die.

Even as he lost control of his bladder, as the piss ran down his leg, Seneca lifted his bow.

He fired.

An arrow slammed into the elephant's hide, and Seneca yanked the reins. His chariot veered aside an instant before the elephant's foot slammed down, missing him by a finger's length.

He spared the battle only a glance. Hundreds of chariots were racing around him, raising clouds of dust, storming toward the elephants, firing arrows, then pulling back. Thousands of arrows flew from the howdahs, raining onto his forces. A chariot flipped over ahead of Seneca, its horses still dragging it through the dirt. An elephant charged into the Aelarian cavalry, knocking back horses, trumpeting with rage.

This wasn't supposed to happen, Seneca thought. He touched his arm, and his fingers came back bloody; he hadn't even noticed the arrow cutting him. Not here. Not in the south.

He bared his teeth. He tightened his grip on the reins.

"I will crush you here, Tirus," he said. "And I will crush you in Aelar."

He stormed back to battle.

His chariot contained several javelins. He grabbed one and charged toward an elephant. The beast reared, and Seneca tightened his jaw, narrowed his eyes, and tossed the weapon.

The javelin flew and slammed into an archer in the howdah.

More arrows whistled above. Seneca raised his shield, charging past the elephant. He grabbed another javelin. He tossed it. The spear cut an elephant, and the animal lashed its trunk and bellowed. It thundered toward Seneca, knocking horses and chariots aside. Dust rose everywhere, and thousands of men and beasts battled.

Seneca hissed, whipped his horses, and charged head on toward the lumbering beast.

As arrows rained, Seneca kept riding.

No fear.

Arrows slammed into his armor.

No fucking fear!

He grabbed a javelin. The elephant ran his way, trampling over men, seconds away, an instant away . . .

Seneca tossed the javelin, hitting the beast in the forehead, then yanked the reins. His chariot swerved, one wheel rising off the ground, its spinning blades slicing the elephant's leg. The chariot slammed down and kept racing. The animal collapsed behind him.

Thus are the wars of men, Seneca thought, trembling. An arrow had cracked his armor and stuck out from the breastplate. We bring beasts to fight and die for our madness.

As the battle raged around him, Seneca gazed farther back, past the Phedian front line. Upon a hill rose the largest elephant he had ever seen, its skin black, its tusks gilded. A man stood in the howdah, pulling ropes that furled and unfurled different colored flags. With every flag that rose, the Phedians changed formation, in turn crashing against the Aelarian chariots, the Nurian riders, or Seneca's infantrymen.

The snake's head, Seneca thought. The Phedian commander.

Arrows flew. Several hit the chariot, some snapping between the wheels' spokes, others hitting Seneca's shield and armor. One arrow hit one of his four horses, digging deep into the neck. Seneca whipped out his gladius. The horse crashed down. Seneca sliced the horse's reins, cutting it loose from the three other animals, and pulled left. They raced on. The chariot leaped as one wheel plowed over the dead animal, cutting it open. They kept charging through the battle.

Seneca weaved left and right, darting around elephants, and finally charged through a line of Phedian infantrymen. He fired his arrows and plowed through them, cutting men down, ripping them open with his scythes. He raced onward, heading toward the hill, toward the puppet master on the black elephant.

He charged uphill. With only three horses, the chariot kept veering left, and he had to keep tugging right.

"Southern Empire, with me!" Seneca cried. "Uphill! With your emperor!"

Chariots stormed forth behind him, whipping around the elephants and charging through lines of infantry. Legionaries raised spears within them. From across the battle rose cries, and Imani came charging around the enemy, leading a swarm of Nurian chariots. Dread filled Seneca that she fought while carrying his child, but she was too far to stop now.

Lines of enemy soldiers stood before the assault, raising pikes, protecting their lord.

"Charge!" Seneca shouted. "Charge, Southern Empire! Plow through them!"

The pikes formed a palisade ahead. Several charioteers—cowards!—turned and fled. Seneca kept whipping his horses, driving onward. He raised a javelin. He tossed it, hit a pikeman. He kept charging, and a new pike rose, and—

The world shattered.

Blood sprayed as the pike drove into another one of Seneca's horses.

The animal fell, tore free from the reins, and slammed into another chariot, sending it flying with a shower of sparks. Seneca's two remaining horses kept galloping, trampling over the pikeman. Seneca clung to his chariot as it flew into the air. For an instant the chariot arched over bodies, then slammed into the ground with a shower of wooden shards. A wheel exploded. Seneca screamed as his chariot overturned, still tugged forward, scraping across the earth.

His two remaining horses kept galloping. Seneca grimaced, clinging to the overturned chariot. Its second wheel shattered, showering him with chips, digging into his skin. The scythes flew overhead, shaving his helmet's crest. He clung on, on his side, dragging up the hill. Stones tore onto his side. He saw nothing but showering dirt, dust, and sparks. Another scythe tore free and flew toward him, slamming into the fallen chariot by his head, cracking the side of his helmet.

Seneca released his grip, falling from his shattered chariot. His helmet tore free and vanished into the battle. He rolled across the hill, bit his tongue, and struggled to his feet. He leaped back as a chariot screamed by, narrowly missing its scythed wheel.

He looked up. The black elephant stood mere paces away, the enemy general atop it. Seneca drew his gladius and hefted his shield.

Two Phedians raced toward him, brutes with shaved heads, tattoos across their bare chests. One man swung a sword at him, roaring, revealing sharpened teeth. The barbarian towered over Seneca, scarred, stronger, older, but Seneca had learned swordplay from Aelar's best masters, had been born and raised to kill. He parried, thrust, feinted, and cut the man down. He caught the second man's attack on his shield, swung his blade, and cut the barbarian's legs out from under him.

He ran forward.

The black elephant stood ahead. In its wooden howdah stood the enemy's general.

Seneca looked up and felt the blood drain from his face.

He had expected an Aelarian lord to command this legion. This was, after all, an auxiliary force in the service of Aelar, flying the banners of Emperor Tirus. Yet a native Phedian—an actual barbarian—commanded this horde. The brute was the largest man Seneca had ever seen, even larger than Jerael Sela or Remus Marcellus. His muscles bulged, inhuman.

They shaved a goddamn bear, Seneca thought.

The man's face, not just his size, was brutish. Seneca could see that even from below. It was scarred, wrinkled, ravaged, barely a face at all. It took Seneca a moment to realize—it was a mask. A leather mask. He thought back to the scroll Noa had given him, made of human flesh. He grimaced. The Phedian on the black elephant was wearing another man's face.

The general stared down from the elephant's back. Their eyes met, and it seemed to Seneca that the general smiled.

Seneca knelt by a dead Phedian and grabbed the corpse's javelin. He ran three steps and hurled the weapon.

The general fired an arrow. The javelin sank into the black elephant's hide. Seneca raised his shield, and the arrow glanced off the wood and whizzed overhead.

Trumpeting in rage, the elephant charged toward Seneca, gilded tusks lowered.

If I die, I die in battle, Seneca thought. I will stand my ground. The elephant charged, and Seneca raised his gladius, breath shaking, belly roiling. I will stand my fucking ground!

The beast charged toward him, and Seneca stood before it, a single man with a sword, staring, waiting for blood.

"Seneca!" rose a voice, and Imani rode her horse uphill. She tossed a javelin. It flew and the general grunted and ducked, tugging his reins. The elephant veered.

"Imani, get out of here!" Seneca shouted at her, terrified for the child in her belly.

He ran, dropping his shield. He reached the elephant. He grabbed his own javelin, the one still embedded into the beast, and pulled himself up. He grabbed a strap. He tugged himself toward the howdah and crashed into it.

The Phedian general turned toward him, growling, barely human. The withered face-mask, ripped off a victim, revealed only baleful eyes and a mouth full of sharpened teeth. Seneca barely stood taller than the man's shoulders. The brute swung a spiked club.

Seneca raised his arm in defense. The club slammed into his iron vambrace, cracking the armor, and Seneca screamed in pain. The club rose again, and Seneca thrust his gladius.

His sword hit the barbarian's bare chest, nicking the skin but sinking no deeper.

Seneca's eyes widened. He pulled the blade back. He had thrust with all his strength. The blow should have impaled the man. Yet it had left only a scratch between the ribs, as if the shirtless brute wore thick armor.

The elephant kept running below them, charging through the battle. The howdah jostled. The Phedian grinned behind his mask and swung the club.

Seneca raised his arm. The blow was so mighty it slammed his own arm into his head, and Seneca fell onto the howdah's floor.

The general slammed his club down again, hitting Seneca's breastplate. Seneca screamed. His armor cracked. His heart seemed to stop. He couldn't breathe. Seeing stars, he swung his sword, hitting the man's leg. It was a swing that should slice through bone, yet it only nicked the man's skin.

This isn't a man, Seneca thought. He's some kind of fucking sorcerer.

He stared up, eyes narrowed, at the man's chest. A tattoo appeared there of an inverted candelabrum. The symbol of Luminosity, turned upside down, dripping tattooed drops of blood. Seneca had never known men could be lumers, not to mention non-Zoharites, but this was no ordinary lumer. The old tales returned to Seneca, shaking his bones.

A dark lumer, he thought.

As the elephant kept charging, plowing through Seneca's army, the general leered and drooled and laughed. The club rose again, this time aimed at Seneca's head.

Before the club could swing down, a dark figure leaped up and grabbed the man's wrist.

"Seneca, kill him!" Imani shouted, yanking back the club.

Seneca rose to his feet.

There was no use stabbing this man. As the general roared, struggling to tear off Imani, Seneca reached forward and grabbed the man's fleshy mask. He ripped it off.

Fuck me.

Beneath the mask, the man's face was no prettier. It was withered, all raw sores and pale folds, the skull showing through the rotting flesh.

He must have been wearing this mask for years, Seneca thought, holding the grisly face. Never even took it off to wash.

He drove his sword forward. The blade shattered the general's sharpened teeth and sank deep into the head. The sword's tip banged against the back of the skull.

The barbarian shrieked. Black smoke blasted out from his mouth, his eyes, his wounds. Seneca's blade melted, leaving only a hot hilt. It seared his palm, and he dropped it.

"Stand back, Imani!" he shouted and hurled himself forward, barreling into the man.

The general crashed through the edge of the howdah, still shrieking, an inhuman sound like steam fleeing a kettle. He rolled across the elephant's head and hit the ground. The elephant's foot slammed onto the head, then the torso, and then the beast was charging onward, leaving a smoking corpse behind.

"What . . ." Imani panted, falling to her knees in the howdah. "What the abyss was he?"

"A dark lumer," Seneca muttered. "Taeer once spoke of them. Bastards." He spat, then pulled Imani up to her feet and embraced her. "You shouldn't be here. You shouldn't fight with a child in your belly."

She glared at him. "If I didn't fight, that child would be fatherless."

She was right, Seneca knew. Damn her, she had saved his life a second time. He kissed her cheek.

"I love you, Imani," he said. "Gods above, I fucking love you."

He leaned across the front of the howdah and reviewed the battle. The hosts of the Southern Empire—Seneca's two legions and Nur's warriors—were still battling Tirus's forces. Men and beasts lay slain across the field. With their leader dead, the black elephant's flags no longer signaling, the Phedian auxiliary had dissolved into chaos.

Seneca grabbed the elephant's reins. He gave a mighty tug, and the charging beast slowed. Seneca pulled several ropes, lowering the flags that rose from the howdah.

"Warriors of Phedia!" Seneca shouted. "Hear me! Your leader is dead. I am Seneca Octavius, son of Marcus, Emperor of Aelar. Hear me! Serve me!"

They paid him no heed. The battle continued. Several Phedians charged toward him, firing arrows. Seneca and Imani ducked, and the arrows peppered the howdah around them.

Of course these Phedians wouldn't follow him. His father had crushed their kingdom. And yet they had fought for Tirus. They still bore his flags. How had the bastard earned their loyalty?

"The king's mask fell!" shouted a Phedian rider, charging toward the elephant. "The king's face is gone!"

Seneca looked at the grisly human face in his hand, the mask the general had worn. It dripped rot.

The face of their slain king, he thought. The man my father killed.

He straightened. Several horses were now charging toward him, their riders raising javelins. Seneca grimaced.

The things I do for Aelar.

He placed the foul, reeking mask on his face.

"I have taken the king's face!" he cried. "The king of Phedia rises again!"

The horses reared and halted before him. Across the field, the Phedians turned to stare, and the battle paused.

"Hear me!" Seneca said. "See my face! See the king risen! Do not fight one another. Let this battle end. Our enemy lies across the sea! Join me, follow me, and an empire will be yours!"

Imani patted his back. She spoke softly. "Clever boy."

Seneca raised his sword overhead. "Kneel before your king!"

And across the field, the bald, tattooed heathens knelt. Thousands of them. A mighty army.

My empire grows, Seneca thought, then nearly gagged at the stench of the mask. I just hope I don't have to wear this damn thing all the way to Aelar.

They burned their dead. They moved on, a united army, complete with horses, chariots, and a hundred elephants. This time Seneca did not need to worry about a bumpy chariot or aching feet. He rode on the black elephant, heading north, dreaming of riding the beast into the imperial palace.