A grand, airy hall lay illuminated by row upon row of immaculately crafted windows of stained glass, bathing the chamber they overlooked in coruscating flashes of vibrant color. This was the royal court, a great space within which generations of the Empire’s rulers had awaited petitioners seeking redress, dispensing of the crown’s justice, or addressing waiting couriers as they enacted their will into law. The sun beams cascading through the stained windows projected their contents, the origin mythology of the Empire, onto the bare stones of the floor of the hall in a patchwork story of radiant light.
Depicted was the first Empress of Albion, Morgan, and the keystone in the events that had established the foundation of the Empire for generations to come. According to legend, she had been raised by wolves as a mere babe, living among them until her teenaged years. Found by hunters, she had made a stir in court with her wildness, dressed in a rugged assortment of rough furs taken from animals torn apart by her bare hands, her hair fashioned in a great scraggily mane cascading down her back that had become the ubiquitous hallmark of her presence in every piece of artwork made ever since. Impressed by her ferocity, the King of Albion had adopted her into his family as a companion for his own young son, a youth of a more timid nature that required a strong guiding hand.
Despite her adoption, she was not one to put on the affectations of a noble lady, to be content with a position of inferiority as consort to the King’s son. Instead, she was a wild and reckless creature, said to resemble in both appearance and action the very beasts by which she was raised as she slaughtered her foes with impunity, wielding a massive great sword with wild abandon. She was often depicted in contemporary artwork to herself possess some of the features of those creatures which she so resembled, bearing animalistic ears and tail and often being shown howling madly in defiance at some unseen foe, although such stylized renditions lost popularity in the subsequent years following her death.
Known for her unusually great strength and skill at arms in her day, even in comparison to her male contemporaries, she had aided the then Kingdom of Albion to grow from a small state beset by foes on all sides, to that of a great and powerful Empire. Her final sacrifice, valiantly defending the then small village of Maegwyn against an invading force from what had eventually become Aachenwald, had ensured Albion’s independence from that tumultuous collective. Her body, according to all accounts lost in a sea of Aachish corpses, had never been found, nor was that of her storied great sword, Lloergan.
Underneath the lore bearing glow of the stained windows lay a great space, its dizzyingly high ceiling supported by gracefully curved, twisting arches of finely chiseled stone overlooking a wide chamber, bereft for the majority of either furniture or ornament. At the head of the hall sat a colossal construct of hewn granite upon a wide dais, its gray exterior polished to a shine as it formed the shape of a great chair. Upon its seat sat a cushion, a plush pillow crafted of silk and goose down so that even one of a delicate constitution may sit comfortably upon the hard stone.
This was the Empress’s seat, the throne of Albion, and its time worn edges were decorated with hundreds of marks of sigils, engraved words of wisdom, and carved effigies of fantastical creatures or famous events. The oldest of these were directly carved upon the sides of the stone throne, succeeded by younger marks as moving towards the high back of throne that still remained a massive, but unrefined granite boulder, allowing space enough to carve more marks for centuries to come. These were the marks left behind in memory of the past rulers of Albion stretching back centuries, detailing their feats and accomplishments as well as the messages they chose to pass on to future generations, all writ upon ageless stone.
A long carpet, its fine vermillion threads of dyed wool shining in the light, stretched from the foot of the dais to the great doors of polished mahogany that formed the hall’s primary entrance. This was the petitioner’s walk, upon which those seeking the Empress’s clemency or mediation would arrange themselves in a fine line, before prostrating at the foot of the dais. To either side of the carpet was bare stone, uncomfortable to stand atop for long, it was the designated area to wait for all those summoned to imperial audience.
There were no chairs in the hall, only the Empress could comfortably rest upon her throne as she addressed peasant and noble alike. Surrounding the edges of the chamber, was a small stone pathway, half hidden behind the supporting columns of the chamber, but from which one could with ease observe the proceedings of court. This section was the domain of the Empress’s Shield, acting at all times to protect her person from harm from alcoves around the chamber from whence they could act quickly, forming a protective shield of ranked steel before her or cutting down offending nobles in equal measure.
A chill atmosphere pervaded the royal court, its still silence marred only by the hushed whispers of frightened and nervous men. Seldom did the Empress hold court, and even more seldom were those rare days in which she did so, not for the sake of meeting with petitioners, but for that of addressing noble guests. It was no secret that she cared little for the aristocracy, even those meek enough to not resist as she stripped them of their privileges in the wake of the civil war, and therefore those that still drew breath, were leery in any interactions with her and usually avoided attending court at all costs. Thus, it was highly unusual for such a heavy attendance by the artistocracy at court this day, rank upon rank of lavishly dressed men present, bedecked in delicate silks dyed in all manners of exotic colors. Their clothing was however, somewhat frayed at the seams and rough in appearance, largely being aged vestments. Impoverishment was no excuse for not looking one’s best in a rare formal appearance after all. From the queasy looks several men gave as they waited and gossiped, it was evident they were not present by choice, messengers from the palace having been dispatched late the previous night with demands for their, along with all of their heirs, attendance at the next day’s session of court. As leery of her often tyrannical whims as they were, it was clear that none dared, at least openly, to defy her will, as not a one of the local peers was absent.
The Empress herself sat regally upon the grand throne, her arms splayed out calmly along each carved armrest, fingers firmly gripping the stone as she looked down imperiously upon those she had decided to call. Whenever her wandering gaze seemed to settle on an individual, her eyes meeting those of a member of the hushed crowd, they quickly turned away, none in attendance possessing of such daring as to stand out by meeting her gaze directly. As awkward silence hung in the air as she made no move to address the hushed crowd, allowing them time to ponder and sweat, thoughts cast to the many mistakes they had made in their lives that had culminated with their presence in that chamber under her predatory gaze. Nervous feet shifted about atop the hard stone floor, the clattering sound thus created rendering a fine accompaniment to the eerie quiet. Face set in her usual mask of formal neutrality, the Empress loudly cleared her throat, drawing the utmost attention of all present to herself.
“First, I would like to thank you all for attending the royal court this day on such short notice. I am well aware such urgency can be trying, especially when you fine gentlemen are so busy that you cannot attend even the regularly scheduled and publicly announced sessions of my fine court. Truly, it is quite a sight to see my own noble and elegant court so bare when I seem to recall that of my father’s having far greater attendance. But I digress, your lack of dedication to my rule is, while duly noted, not the subject of today’s meeting. I have summoned all present for one matter and one matter alone, the betrayal of my uncle, the Duke of Brackenweir, and his alliance with Aachish mercenaries with fell purpose to despoil the countryside.” Speaking gravely, but unable to resist playfully prodding the fearful nobles, the Empress put aside her petty animosity to calmly address the nervous crowd. They had decided to answer her summons after all, therefore it was only sensible that she was willing to grant forbearance upon her many grudges to those that knew their place.
The once silent crowd degenerated into a chaotic cacophony of sound at her announcement. Surely that dreaded Duke, the same man whom had conspired with the then youngest and meekest princess to seize the throne and destroy the stranglehold the aristocracy had long held over the crown’s power, would never cast aside his loyalties out of a mere petty desire for power. If that had been all it took to sway his allegiance, then the seemingly endless offers of bribery the nobility had hurled at him during the war would surely have succeeded, and the aristocracy would still reign ascendant within the Empire. But paradoxically it seemed, that stoic, principled man, that had been incorruptible shield and sword both for the Empress during the civil war, had been suborned in some fashion and now came for her head and the heads of all whom still bowed down before her.
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It was an unthinkable course of events, one that may have served as a means to recovery of their deserved rights had the Duke just offered for them to join his cause before his rebellion. But now they served only as a deathly promise of an inevitable destruction, as the few lands over which the nobility still held sway were sure to be despoiled by his rampaging army without discrimination on their advance to the imperial capital. The Empress waited for the hall to still once more as the worried whispers died away, her stoic, icy face, unchanged by the circumstances, serving as an anchor to calm the minds of the worried nobles.
“The Duke’s army shall trod over each of your lands as he advances on Maegwyn, about that I have no doubt. While the crown is organizing the defense of the city itself, none present now possess power enough to defy him. Therefore, I henceforth reinstitute your right to levy the peasantry, and to organize and maintain personal armies for the protection of your lands. In recompense, I shall require from each man present to enter into his service every able bodied man between the ages of fifteen and thirty five as he has existing retinue in his service enough to train. I am quite informed of your quietly creeping quantities of bodyguards you may be intrigued to learn, and I am sure they will serve as fine drill masters for the peasants soon to be inducted in your name. You are expected to muster the forces so raised, and march them to Maegwyn within the month. I expect all of you to finance this levy from your own personal coffers as owed military service to the crown. Your men will be quartered within the outer city, at which time as they arrive will have been stripped bare of its current occupants. This decree is made in accordance with your oaths and duties as noblemen of the Empire, and I expect not a day’s delay in its enforcement. I will remind you, that if the army of the Duke of Brackenweir is not put to rout at Maegwyn, it is your lands lying in adjacency to the capital, and with not a pittance of defense in comparison, that will be ravaged first. To save your lands and the lives of both your families and your people, you must participate in the city’s defense, and together we will throw the invaders back from whence they came.” The Empress finished reciting her aggressive decree, her eyes cold as she stared directly into the eyes of the slack jawed nobles before her, daring them to defy her will, their shock too great to even think of averting their gazes.
The announcement was as shocking, if not more so, than that acknowledging the Duke’s treachery. Ever since the dark days of the civil war, those nobles that had survived with riches and lands intact had been forbidden from holding more than a paltry sum of professional fighting men within their personal retinues. It had always been the guiding principle of the Empress to strip the power of the aristocracy at every turn, yet here she was offering a way for them to return to power! As a collective, if they were able to marshal even a few thousand men each, then they would once more possess might enough to pressure the Empress into restoring the rest of the privileges, and perhaps reestablishing their influence over the crown may not remain a feeble dream. Furthermore, having personally experienced her tactics in forcing the disbandment of their past armies, they would be able to effectively oppose her efforts with unity if she attempted the same once more.
However, this was a cursed olive branch, while seemingly presented as a means of reconciliation with the aristocracy in times of crisis, within its honeyed promise lied the sharp thorns of the Empress’s deception. The disempowered nobility, already largely improverished, could ill afford the sudden costs of training the thousands of inexperienced peasants that she had demanded. In the pursuit of regaining their former privileges, many among them would likely become totally destitute, only made more so if the Duke’s army were to ravage their lands in their absence. Their survival in terms of life and finance both, would be utterly dependent on the whims of a victorious Empress. Betrayal was quite simply, not an option.
“I refuse! Having already stripped us of land and wealth, she would rather toss us to the waiting jaws of starving wolves to gain herself even another second to live. The costs of so mustering the forces that she has demanded will see each and every one of us no less devastated than if the Duke himself had despoiled our lands entire of wealth and men. Do I speak no sense, who is with me?” An angry voice rang from within the crowd at the conclusion of the Empress’s address.
The crowd of nobles quickly parted before the Empress’s fierce gaze upon hearing the slanderous words, their faces transformed into that of terror, their complexions pallid and colorless. No matter the insane demand, her will could not be defied they knew well. What fool among them dared to so openly question her, having already learnt the cost of defiance during the purges to which they all bore witness? A thin man, his sagging skin lying in folds over where once there were rolls of fat, with ruddy brown hair dressed in well worn silks was revealed, his jaw clenched and face flushed red with anger. This was Baron Heath Somer, a noble whose finances had been struck a particularly fatal blow by the abolishment of serfdom, droves of his populace having run away from his own petty tyranny upon gaining their freedom. Standing beside the Baron was a woman and a teenager dressed in similar attire, presumably his wife and son. Facing the direct, frosty glare of the Empress however, now that there remained not a man in sight to conceal him from her wrath, his anger gave way to fear, and his reddened face drained of color as his eyes met hers.
With a nod of her head, a heavily armored man stepped forth from between the shadowed columns of the perimeter of the hall, his face entirely concealed by a heavy steel great helm, a member of the Empress’s Shield. As he advanced, the two standing beside the Baron distanced themselves in a frantic hurry, their expressions turning into that of outright terror. The wife’s body trembled like that of a leaf in the wind, while that of the youth stood wide eyed at the approaching soldier. With a rapid upraising of a large axe, the soldier cleaved down against the Baron, caught unawares as his attention remained drowning in the fierceness of the Empress’s direct gaze. The baron’s head separated cleanly from his shoulders in a scarlet spray as the axe descended, covering soldier and family member alike in his still warm blood, as his headless, twitching body collapsed on the ground in a rapidly spready pool of sanguine ichor.
“Congratulations on your coronation, young Baron. I was sorry to hear about your unfortunate father, but I trust you will be able to provide the required quantity of men in time?” The Empress’s neutral face took on that of a jovial nature, her lips quirked in the trace of a smile as she beamed at the Baron’s son, her eyes however having frozen into an even harsher glare, untouched by her otherwise light hearted expression.
“O-o-of course. Y-y-your Majesty!” The terror stricken youth replied, quickly kneeling down, his knees dipping into the pool his father’s blood, his silken pants greedily drinking the liquid as they dyed themselves in a gaudy red. He trembled fitfully under her gaze as she looked on in approval.
“Good, good. I am glad that the next generation of the aristocracy is already proven to be so much more reliable than that of ages past. I will trust in your abilities then. This session of court has been concluded, all present may now leave. Don’t make the mistake of disappointing me when all lives in the capital remain at stake.” Seemingly taking delight in spreading terror amongst the assembled crowd, the Empress cheerfully relayed her final warning before dismissing the assembly.
It had been a long time since they had last seen an execution, most of those that defied her having died in battle as her legions assaulted their strongholds, or otherwise vanishing under mysterious circumstances. It was so easy to forget her temperament, her coldness, her ability to take a life with neither thought nor feeling, and sometimes even enjoying it. It was truly a frightful thing to witness, and the remaining nobles were thoroughly cowed by her gruesome display. While outwardly sympathizing with the plight of the now half orphaned youth, unprepared for the sudden responsibilities he had now had foisted upon him, inwardly each man was happy the same had not happened to him. As she declared the meeting adjourned, every man, woman, and child save those of the Empress’s Shield fled the hall. Some walked quickly, keen to maintain their personal sense of dignity, some walked slowly heads cast down, trying to draw as little attention as possible, and some dashed madly, not a thought spared for appearances as they ran to escape her. All fled madly, no matter the means, under her baleful, icy gaze.