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Labyrinth War
Labyrinth War
Labyrinth War
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Labyrinth War

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Long ago, alien abominations ruled the world. Now, they have returned…

The fugitive aristocrat Titus Maximus fled into the giant living labyrinth of Gawana and vanished.

A decade later Octavos Maximus finds his father's journal. He joins an intrigue-ridden army headed southward with an unwanted arranged marriage awaiting him. But fate has other plans…

Bao is a provincial princess enraged at the prospect of marrying into the despised Maximus clan. Pity this one is so cute…

Curtis joined the army as a favor to a dying emperor – but a stranger fate than fighting barbarians awaits him…

Carina is a fugitive sorceress who took refuge with the thieves and peddlers trailing the army. Unfortunately, the witch hunters are already there.

Chimp is a military scout striving to keep his squad alive. However, they keep getting sent out on suicide missions…

Git-Vik's people fled this world long ago. Now they are back and are determined to regain their former prominence – once they deal with these pesky savages…

These characters and others clash in a conflict that spans the world – but has Gawana at its center.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherTim Goff
Release dateNov 12, 2024
ISBN9798230422303
Labyrinth War
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    Labyrinth War - Tim Goff

    LABYRINTH WAR I – Singer

    ‘I began this record as Titus Maximus, a Lord of the Solarian Empire.

    I conclude it as Titus Maximus, a Lord of Gawana.’

    – From ‘The Journal of Titus Maximus.’

    The man who thought of himself as ‘Singer’ closed the book. It’s a fake. It must be.  But doubt colored his words.  He stared at the tome on the table, drew a breath, hooked a long finger beneath the book's leather cover, and flicked it open.  Lines of neat script stared back at him, each word a truth, and each a lie.

    Worse, those words unlocked unwanted memories.  A mother who drank too much.  A stern, seldom present father.  Halls filled with hustling servants and scheming relatives.  Red blood on an exquisite green and yellow mosaic floor. 

    A tolling bell jerked Singer from his reverie.  Damn.  He’d been up all night. 

    I missed my engagement at the Pelican. Steric will be furious

    Two steps brought Singer to the apartment window.  His gaze settled on a collection of spires and domes lined in dawn’s red light.  He needed answers. And he knew where to get them. 

    Once, the Empire's best scholars, philosophers, and musicians attended the University of Solace. Scholars probed the mysteries of electricity and alchemy. Healers discovered ways to cure and prevent diseases. And the musicians mingled melodies from around the world to create songs never before heard. That was before the Purge, when zealots rampaged through the halls, burning sorcerers and bullying scholars. Now, the University was a shell of itself. But Singer loved it all the same.

    He descended three flights of stairs and stepped onto the street.

    Singer! The hail originated from a fat man with a black mustache behind a pushcart piled with steaming loaves.

    What’s the special today, Rollo?

    Rollo smiled. Sticky bun and sweet tea.

    Sounds delicious. He dug a copper bit from his painfully thin pouch and handed it to the vendor.  He needed a paying gig.

    I am pleased. Rollo handed Singer a hot bun and a paper cup of tan liquid. A man asked for you last night.

    Oh?  It was probably a client.

    He wore green livery with a gold chain across the front.  Rollo shook his head. Very arrogant.  He took three buns without paying.

    Green livery with a gold chain.  Red blood on a green and yellow floor.  His past was catching up to him.  Thank you.  He took a large bite from the loaf.

    You know this man?

    He nodded around a mouthful of bread.  It should have been delicious, but he couldn’t taste it.  He washed it down with equally bland tea.  Then he strode across the Sophocles Bridge and onto the University’s campus.

    A large sphere beneath a gazebo caught Singer’s eye: the globe of Vertis the Geographer, the best public map of the known world.  That infernal book mentioned multiple distant locations.  Here, he could match its lies against reality.  He strode past the placard that denoted the Great Geographer's accomplishments.

    The wagon-sized globe rotated with clockwork precision atop its axis.  Dawn's chill light illuminated the hemisphere nearest Singer.  He walked around the sphere’s base.  There: Solace, the city where he now stood, perched on the Carbone Peninsula in the Mare Imperium.  Singer’s gaze traveled west, past the Imperial Sea, to the bloodstained lands of Kitrin and Drakkar to the Mare Umbra, the Sea of Shadows.  A long isle that almost split that watery expanse in twain caught his attention: Nous Isle, with a dot marked ‘Saints Grave’ on its northern shore.

    A chill lump formed in Singer's gut. This proves nothing.  He directed his attention to the Shadow Sea’s far coast.  More names from the manuscript leaped out at him: Port Cray, Cendoza, Rhaiduni...and Gawana.  Those places did exist! He blinked. Then he whirled and stumbled from the gazebo.

    Singer paused briefly outside a colonnaded building with a façade cracked by fire – the Arcanum of the Celestial Circle, Solaria’s preeminent order of sorcerers. They could have answered at least some of his queries. But they were gone - fled or burned along with a hundred other wizards by the mad witch hunter Appius Ambrose. Now, their hall stood empty and shunned, and the arcane arts once openly taught at the university were banned, their remaining practitioners studying in secret. He considered ferreting out one of these hidden wizards but decided against that course. He had enough trouble without adding banned magic to the list. He shook his head and pressed on into the campus.

    Nothing moved in the Grand Athenium.  He strode to the polished counter that separated the library's public area from the stacks and peered into the dim recesses. He didn’t see a clerk, let alone the old woman. 

    I knew you’d be back.  The aged voice came from behind Singer.  The old woman lounged in a chair beside the entryway, gray hair sprouting from a shapeless black academic gown.  I brought something for you.

    More lies?  He fought to keep his voice from rising.  My father did not write that book.

    The aged woman appeared unperturbed by Singer’s accusation.  My, you’re a quick one.  And you’re right.  Titus Maximus did not write that book.  A palm-sized notebook appeared in her hand.  He wrote this one.

    The booklet was yellow with age.  Cuts and stains marred the pamphlet's cover.  More lies.

    The old woman shook her head.  Not lies, Octavos. 

    The man started.  That name belonged in the dead past.

    Elaborations, continued the woman.  Titus omitted items from his record you needed to know.  So, I expanded his account.

    The past is dead.

    The past lives, Octavos. As does Titus Maximus.

    Singer reeled.  He clenched the wall for support. You’ve spoken with him?  He couldn’t keep the eagerness from his voice.

    The woman tapped the packet.  Titus and I exchanged a few communications, she said.  She hesitated.  He asked about your well-being.

    How is he? What did you tell him?  Singer loomed over the woman as he spoke. 

    I said we communicated, said Doctor Isabella Menendez.  I have not seen Titus Maximus since departing Gawana. 

    Octavos glared at her. By all rights, the woman before him should be dead, burned along with the rest of Solace’s Sages by the mad witch hunter Appius Ambrose. But here she was. For a moment, he wondered how many other sorcerers here had escaped the purge – ten? Twenty? A hundred? He pushed the thought aside.

    Isabella did not meet his gaze. Instead, she thrust the booklet and a thick packet at him, Here.

    Octavos took the material.  His gaze flicked over the papers.  Maps. A list of phrases. Drawings. What is this stuff?

    Knowledge, said the old woman, You’ll need this knowledge.  You can peruse it aboard the ship.

    Ship?  What are you talking about?  My place is here, not the far side of the world.

    Doctor Menendez put a finger to her lip and pointed to the door.  They’re here.

    Singer’s blood chilled.  He peered through the entry.  Nothing.  He faced the old woman’s seat.  Empty.  Wretched trickster.  He stumped from the Athenium in a huff, ignoring his surroundings.

    Octavos opened his chamber’s door and stopped short.  A figure both familiar and unwelcome sat in his chair.

    Greetings, cousin. Manias Maximus smiled.  I apologize for the inconvenience, but you are a devilishly difficult person to find.  Why, one might almost think you are trying to hide from your kin.

    Octavos exhaled.  What do you want?  He remembered Manias as an obnoxious young prick.  He wanted to step across the room and wipe the smirk from his cousin’s face with his fist.  The large men standing to either side of Manias dissuaded him from that action.

    Manias rose to his feet.  He stood a good half-head shorter than Octavos.  It’s not what I want, it’s what the family wants. 

    He means Varro.  Again, Singer saw the body lying in a pool of blood on a tile floor.   I have nothing to contribute to the family, Octavos chose his words with care.

    I am inclined to agree.  Manias made a sweeping motion with his right hand, taking in the entire room.  It appears you don’t even have a pot to piss in. I have heard tales of you playing in taverns for copper bits.  I waited half the night in one establishment whose proprietor insisted you’d be gracing the premises.  He gestured at the bruisers.  When you didn’t appear, I had the lads toss the fellow off the wharf for lying.

    Singer’s face flushed.  No doubt Manias regarded his action as both restrained and appropriate. 

    And here I thought academics enjoyed at least some perks with their profession.  But piss-poor or not, Lord Patriarch Varro Maximus demands your presence in Hermosa.

    Octavos ignored the insult.  Why am I going to Hermosa?

    Manias’ eyebrow lifted.  Two reasons.  First, we save the Empire.  Then you serve the family.

    LABYRINTH WAR II – Curtis

    I spent much of the past year sailing from one end of the imperial sea to the other, encouraging the aristocracy to support Thomas for Emperor.  Father launched into a spiel about how superior Cousin Varro’s boy was to the other heirs.  Plus, Thomas boasts enough DuSwaimair blood in his veins to make him one of the family. Most of those notables agreed with me. His face hardened. Then you had to go and rip open old wounds.

    - From ‘The Journal of Titus Maximus.’

    I haven’t seen you in forever! Emperor Charles DuSwaimair extended his hand as Sir Curtis DuFloret entered the emperor’s private suite.  You haven’t changed a bit since the old days.

    I can’t say the same for you. Curtis inhaled air that smelled of sharp herbs and sour medicines. The emperor was a scarecrow of a figure, with yellowish skin stretched across his face and stick-thin arms protruding from the blue and white tunic covering his frame.  He looked like a plague victim.

    Thank you, Supremacy.  Curtis made what he hoped was a passable bow.

    No, no, no!  Lay off the bowing and scraping and ‘supremacy’ crap.  I get a bellyful of that every day.  We’re alone.  Curtis, it’s me, Charles, your old comrade in arms. 

    Curtis straightened and smiled.  I never did take well to the whole court etiquette thing.  I haven’t had much opportunity to practice these past few years. Because I was in Agba, the ass end of creation, helping my brothers turn decadent heathens into imperial subjects with no support whatsoever.

    There’s the Curtis I remember, said the emperor, stepping forward and wrapping his arms around the knight in a mockery of a hug.  His thin arms lacked any strength.  Curtis returned the motion but retrained himself for fear of injuring the Emperor.

    The two men separated.  The emperor motioned to a trio of armchairs upholstered in red velvet next to a small round table.  Have a seat. How’s Beatrice doing?

    My wife is renewing acquaintances among the ladies of the court. His marriage to Beatrice was purely political, especially after the second miscarriage.

    Hah! She’s still the social climber. The Emperor made a dismissive wave. No, don’t answer that. He leaned toward Curtis with a mischievous smile on his face. I wish to hear about you.

    Here is the Charles I remember!  He began reciting an anecdote about an amorous merchant’s daughter who’d spent time at his brother’s estate.

    ...So, she’s standing there stark-naked staring at the both of them, saying, ‘but I thought he was Liam,’ finished Curtis.

    Charles laughed and slapped his knee, a rich, deep sound roiling from his chest, at odds with his skinny frame.  Tears ran down his face.  Ah, what a sight that must have been!  I tell you, Curt, I live for moments such as this. 

    A knock sounded at the door, followed by the silent entry of an immaculate servant clad in silver and blue.  I apologize for interrupting, Supremacy, but the Admirals of the Fleet await without.  The butler's chiseled face conveyed no expression whatsoever.

    Drat.  I need to change.  The emperor looked at Curtis.  Your garb will suffice.

    What is this?

    A traditional ceremony prior to dispatching the fleet. The emperor rose and walked to a desk across the room. Nikolas, show Curtis the document.

    A middle-aged man with short curly hair emerged from a doorway Curtis hadn’t noticed. He raised an eyebrow. Supremacy, that might not be wise.

    Just do it, Nikolas. Remember our agreement. With that, Emperor Charles passed through another door.

    Agreement?

    As you command. Nikolas bowed and retreated into the other room before emerging with a sheet of parchment. This is a confidential document. Its contents are known only to His Supremacy and myself.

    Secrets. I understand. Curtis took the proffered manuscript festooned with seals and scribed in legalese. Still, the gist was clear, even to a backwoods knight like himself.

    Nikolas vanished back into his lair.

    There must be something in here the right size! Charles’ voice sounded through the door.

    Perhaps this, said the servant’s deep voice.

    God, that’s hideous.  That shade of purple should be outlawed as a threat to people’s vision.

    Hmm...This assemblage may be appropriate. Richard’s voice was as impassive as ever.

    It’s more subdued, anyhow, said the emperor.  Do you think it will fit? 

    It should.  Let me...there, a note of satisfaction entered into Richard’s voice.

    It’s heavy.

    Supremacy, you can bear the weight.  And the Admirals are waiting outside.

    Oh, very well.  The emperor strode into the main room, wearing a naval uniform dominated by a blue coat larger than some tents Curtis had seen, secured by a double row of gold buttons, head covered by a tricorn hat.  How do I look?

    Like a child playing dress up.  Very...nautical.  It compliments you.  That much at least was true, the uniform called more attention to itself than the man wearing it.

    The emperor whirled upon Richard.  I told you it was hideous.

    Richard’s hands fluttered.  Supremacy, the Admirals-

    Charles stamped his foot.  Oh, all right.  Bring them in.  Is the wine ready?

    Of course.  The butler’s voice carried a note of distaste. He swiveled on his feet and headed for the door.

    Charles turned to Curtis.  You read it? What did you think?

    It’s...clever.  But doesn’t the Privy Council have agents among the fleets?

    They do – but they pay far more attention to the legions - which is why I had to dispatch Auxiliary troops to Agba – they pay less heed to peripheral forces.

    The emperor took the parchment, folded it, and dribbled wax across the seam which he pressed with his signet ring.  He tucked it inside the jacket.

    The door opened.  Three men in uniforms almost as gaudy as the emperors entered the room.

    Richard put himself between the emperor and the new arrivals. Supremacy, I present the Admirals of the imperial fleets – Admiral Horace DuMars of the First Fleet, Admiral Peter Merrywood of the Second, and Admiral Gerald Whiteraven of the Third. Each officer bowed in turn as they were named.

    Today the empire requires your service, said Charles. Rise and hear my words: the pirates of the Free Cities are hounding our coasts, raiding villages, and capturing merchant vessels from Prospero Isle, which rightfully belongs to Solaria.  It would greatly please me to see this situation corrected.  He handed Admiral DuMars the missive.  Your sealed orders.

    Supremacy, we are honored, said Admiral DuMars.

    And now for the farewell cup, said the emperor.  He clapped his hands.  Richard carried a silver platter with a dark blue bottle and five tiny crystalline flutes into the chamber. 

    Sidon wine, from my private stock, said the Emperor.

    Richard uncorked the bottle and the aroma of wildflowers filled the room. With efficient motion, he poured a small measure of deep blue liquid into each cup.

    Admiral DuMars sniffed his carafe. I haven’t had this stuff in years.

    It’s quite rare, said Admiral Whiteraven.  Sidon berries grow in a single valley on Sancti Isle.  He swirled the liquid with a nut-brown finger.  In ages past, pagan priests would eat the berries to garner visions from the gods.

    The emperor tapped his glass.  A chiming sound rang through the room.  Gentlemen.  A toast to victory!  He drained the contents of his glass in a single swallow.

    Victory, repeated the Admirals and emptied their flutes.

    Curtis followed suit.  The liquor was sweet and tart at the same time.  His head seemed to expand, and stars filled his vision.  Then the cup was empty and there was a pleasant warmth in his belly.  He turned to see Admiral Merrywood staring at him with a puzzled expression.  I know you, I think, said the Admiral.

    I am Sir Curtis DuFloret, said the knight.  You commanded the squadron that took Nadak during the war, right?

    Merrywood nodded. Bloody work, charging ashore in the dead of night and seizing the wall.  That escapade is how I made Admiral.  He snatched a pastry from a tray.  But Horace there was in overall command.  He gestured at Admiral DuMars, who regaled the emperor with a fearsome tale of ship-to-ship combat. 

    At length, the admirals departed. 

    Thank you, Richard, said the emperor.  Sir DuFloret will be remaining with me for lunch.

    Certainly. Richard opened the door and exchanged words with somebody on the other side before pulling a metal-wheeled cart into the room, laden with covered dishes. Cardinal Cyril waits without.

    The emperor made a face. Send Nikolas out here. Then help me change.

    Very well.  Richard bowed deeply, turned, and rapped once on the door to Nikolas’s room.

    Nikolas stalked into the room and lifted the silver platter from the centermost dish, exposing a savory expanse of diced meats and vegetables swimming in brown sauce.  Curtis’s mouth watered at the aroma. 

    Nikolas noticed the knight's stare. Smells appealing, doesn’t it?

    It does.

    It is a delicious repast, fit for an emperor. Nikolas scanned the contents of the pot. Alas, it is a trifle over-seasoned for the Emperor’s health.

    Curtis sat erect. Poison?

    Nikolas read the knight’s expression. No need to get excited. He reached into his jacket and extracted a tiny vial filled with a clear fluid. Here. Drink this. It will keep your stomach settled.

    Curtis looked at the vial and then at the platter. I – what?

    You’d have a bellyache that would last through the night.

    Curtis stared at Nikolas. Who are you?

    A loyal servant of the Empire. Nikolas stirred a tiny packet of brown powder into the stew.

    What is that?

    A special spice.

    I don’t understand. Why?

    Nikolas eyed the door. Choose swiftly.

    Curtis grabbed the vial and downed its contents in a single gulp. It had no flavor at all.

    There. That’s more comfortable. Emperor Charles reappeared, clad in his original blue and silver. He eyed the cart. Did they add something extra to the stew?

    They did. Nikolas bowed and presented the emperor with a second vial. It would have left you incapacitated for tomorrow's meeting."

    Well, I shall just have to disappoint them. The emperor drained his vial.

    I’d best get out of sight. Nikolas exited the room without waiting for a response.

    Curtis couldn’t restrain himself. They tried to poison you! 

    Curtis smiled.  It happens.  They don’t want me dead, just out of the way. Now, compose yourself.

    Curtis took a deep breath as Richard placed the cart’s contents on the table.

    The emperor surveyed the repast. Very well, Richard, I suppose we’d best admit the good Cardinal.

    Cardinal Cyril’s great beak of a nose and small head reminded Curtis of the vultures that flew over Agba’s wastelands, ever alert for carrion. His beady eyes flicked over Curtis. Who is this?

    Cardinal Cyril, I present my old friend Curtis DuFloret, who recently returned from Agba.

    Hah. Just as well he’s back. Agba is naught but a drain on the Empire. With those words, Cyril dug into the meal, shoving spoons full of the stew into his mouth. A most excellent repast.

    One of the perks of being Emperor, said Charles.

    Curtis had to admit the Emperor was correct – the stew was delicious.

    Cardinal Cyril finished his bowl and a small glass of wine. Now to business.

    Curtis glared at the cleric. Can’t I finish this superb repast first?

    The Empire's business cannot wait.

    Curtis placed his spoon on the table. What now, Cyril?

    The Church finds your ‘Decree of Toleration’ unacceptable. Supremacy, we cannot have all these sorcerers, dissidents, heretics, and other free thinkers roaming about the empire causing trouble. They detract from the Empire’s greatness. I insist you retract it immediately less it creates complications.

    The Emperor cocked his head. Strange. Your second, Archbishop Green, supported the Edict. He called those people the best and brightest minds of the Empire – a position I agree with.

    I represent the Church, not that milksop! Cyril’s face colored. Cassius Maximus has expressed his family's displeasure with this edict.

    Cassius Maximus does not head the Privy Council. Lord Stewart DuPaul heads the Privy Council. He supports the Edict.

    Cyril’s face colored still further. Don’t be ridiculous. DuPaul will not, Cyril leaned forward and violently coughed, Defy the Church. A great wracking cough shook the priest's body.

    The Emperor watched the clerics convulsions. I say, Cyril, are you all right?

    I am fine. Cyril made a weak hand motion. Something went down the wrong pipe, is all. He finished the statement with another cough.

    I must disagree. Charles faced his butler, who’d stood silently against the wall the entire time. Richard, fetch a priest of Asclepius. Tell him Cardinal Cyril is ill and requires immediate attention.

    At once, Supremacy. Richard opened the door.

    Nonsense. This. Will. Pass. With those words, the priest toppled sideways to the floor right as a pair of priests with the serpent and stick symbol of Saint Asclepius entered the room, accompanied by a hulking bodyguard with a scarred face.

    They scooped the still protesting priest onto a stretcher and carried him from the room while Curtis sat there open-mouthed. What just happened? Curtis asked once the door closed.

    One of the worst Privy Councilors is taking a forced retirement. His replacement, Archbishop Green, has a much more reasonable nature. He will support the Edict of Toleration and other proclamations.

    But Cassius Maximus-

    Cassius Maximus will be distracted by family matters and be unable to attend tomorrow's meeting. Without his presence, Lord DuPaul will consent to the decree.

    Curtis stood stock still for a moment.  I prefer battlefields to this sort of intrigue.

    It is necessary. The Emperor moved to a large window.

    Curtis joined him.  Together, they gazed at the city below: noblemen’s townhouses, shops, stables, barracks, churches, and government offices. 

    After a time, Charles spoke.  Ah, there she is, Ingrid, the light of my life. He motioned at a muscular lady with flowing blond tresses holding court over a group of noblewomen seated in a semi-circle on a terrace below the window and to the left. Ingrid DuSwaimair, my very own ice princess from far off Gotland. His voice turned wistful. I would have liked to have seen her homeland.

    Curtis picked out Beatrice among Ingrid’s courtiers. She certainly has a commanding presence.

    Yes, Ingrid is formidable. She’s tougher than many of my palace guards. That toughness is why I married her – the scholars said the DuSwaimair line was breeding too close. She almost killed me on our wedding night. A band of youths led by a tall blond boy burst onto the terrace and launched into an impromptu battle with toy swords and spears. And there’s my son Thurmond. Quite the rascal, isn’t he?

    Curtis eyed the mock combat. He’s good. He’ll make a fine knight.

    Flattery? The Emperor raised an eyebrow.

    No, I’m serious. Thurmond has excellent form and knows how to press the advantage. See? He motioned right as Thurmond disarmed his opponent.

    Heh. Charles shook his head. I envy your robustness. The view through this window is what I see of my realm. I seldom leave the Capital. Hell, I seldom leave these chambers, let alone the palace. The weekly audiences invariably leave me bedridden.

    That sounds horrible.

    Below, the children vanished back into the palace’s innards. Ingrid spoke quietly with Beatrice.

    I have become accustomed to my limitations. They do not keep me from my duties. The Emperor faced Curtis. Now, tell me about the true conditions in Agaba.

    This is what I am here for. This is why I traveled four thousand miles. Agba fares poorly. We are deluged with refugees from turmoil in Celthania, a western cousin-state of Agba. He’ll think I’m mad if I tell him what prompted their flight. Many are decent folk but others demon-worshipping filth who infiltrate towns and institute reigns of terror. Good men are murdered in their sleep, riverboats vanish, and there is scarcely a legionnaire in sight. Put bluntly, we need troops or Agba will be lost."

    Troops, repeated the Emperor. Thomas Maximus is leading a hundred thousand legionaries and another twenty thousand Church Liberators south to repel the Nations of the Plains, who are amassing the largest horde in four centuries.

    I’d heard about that. Every bard, tavern keeper, and petty official he’d encountered on the trip here gossiped about the Horde and the massive Southern Expeditionary Force summoned to repel them. The gossipers spoke of reserve legions called to active duty, jails emptied, and press gangs pulling farmers from the fields to fill the ranks. He’d hoped the rumors were exaggerated. He won’t do it. He can’t spare the troops, not with an invading nomad horde. Agba could fall. There are no soldiers to spare, then? He tried to keep the despair from his voice.

    True, most imperial troops are committed to the Southern Expeditionary Force, said the Emperor, but not all of them. Two Auxiliary Brigades are mustering in Conon. When their ranks are filled, they’ll pedal to Agba along the northern route.

    Relief flooded Curtis. Two brigades – five thousand men - equaled half a legion. Thank you. They’ll be a godsend. We could take the war to the cultists instead of cowering in our strongholds.

    You are welcome. Now, tell me about the upheaval that spawned the havoc in Agba. Tell me about the Gotemik.

    Curtis started. You know?

    I do.  The Emperor motioned at a cubby crammed with papers. I receive hundreds of missives each day from across the world, each containing a plea, a threat, an offer, or some obscure tidbit. Most are deadly dull. Nikolas sifts through the pile each morning and presents me with the more interesting specimens. The ones from Agba often mention these Gotemik.

    Oh. Curtis thought for a moment. "I have not seen the Gotemik myself. The more trustworthy refugees say they resemble giant crabs.  Supposedly, they appeared from parts unknown a decade ago, conquered Celthania, and pushed into the southern plains. Some rumors say they attempted to invade Gawana but were repelled.

    They have functional mechanisms from the Dawn Times, most notably flying disks and weapons that can burn through a stone wall. They use captive warriors fitted with magic collars that compel obedience.

    I see. The Emperor stared into space.

    He’s going to change his mind. Nobody sane wants to confront a foe equipped with the weapons of the Dawn Races.

    You are a loyal friend and a doughty warrior, said the Emperor after a long silence. Furthermore, you possess esoteric knowledge. Those qualities make you suited for a special task.

    Name it.

    I wish you to join the Southern Expeditionary Force as my private agent.

    LABYRINTH WAR III – Carina

    ‘The witch hunter Appius Ambrose went south to Ismara, where he instituted a reign of terror that angered the entire populace. He fled the city when the Edict of Toleration was proclaimed.’

    - From ‘History of the Great Purge.’

    Carina sat cross-legged on the flat boulder, trying to reach her magic.  Eyes closed, hands on knees, she took a measured breath and recited the first focusing ritual.  In her mind’s eye, she stood at the base of a towering mountain of broken red rock.

    She released the wind from her lungs.  The image held.  She began the second cantrip.  She approached the mountain, grabbed hold of a projecting outcrop, and began to climb, pulling herself up the cliff to a wide ledge leading to a plain door of white stone.

    As she approached the door, a cowled figure materialized and blocked her path.  Your greed will not let you pass, the being hissed.

    Then you may have my greed, said Carina.  A black and green mist seeped from her body and formed itself into a serpentine shape which undulated towards the hooded being.  When it touched, serpent and spirit vanished, and a key of plain black iron tumbled to the ground.  Carina lifted the key and inserted it in the door's lock, revealing a small space dominated by a large glowing diamond.  Her long fingers closed about the gem, which erupted in golden light.  Carina blinked.

    Carina opened her eyes to find the diamond, door, and mountain were all gone.  Drat, she said under her breath.  She’d hoped to break the block this time.  Instead, she’d merely chipped the barrier.  She sighed.  It was more than she’d had before. 

    Carina rose to her feet and considered the sun's position.  The others would be waiting for her.  She began picking a path along the stony hillside, keeping an eye out for snakes and scorpions.  She detested the creatures.  A scorpion sting had killed Anatolia.  Given the chance, she’d roast every last one of the vermin.  Her vision started turning red.  She smelled smoke and heard distant screams. 

    Carina blinked.  The smell and sound were both real.  A chill sensation flooded her body.  She lifted her skirt and darted around a final outcrop, giving her a view of the Estate, two miles in the distance.  A column of smoke rose from its center.  The Witch Hunters had found this place. 

    Dear God, no, Carina muttered under her breath.  Then she was running. Maybe they won’t kill everyone.  Perhaps somebody got away.   Both thoughts were futile.  The Witch Hunters held a scorched earth philosophy, burning not just magic users, but their families and associates. 

    The screams stopped as Carina reached the fieldstone wall encircling the complex.  Lazy plumes of black smoke hovered above a wide circle of ash in the courtyard between the main house and the shed.  Two men in grey armor emblazoned with the sword-and-sun symbol of the Mithraic order walked about the scorched area.  One kicked a stone into the herb garden.  The other muttered snatches of scripture under his breath.

    The stone kicker paused and looked in Carina’s direction.  Heart pounding, she dropped flat to the ground.  Did he see me? I can’t stay here.

    Voices came from the wall’s other side. I thought I saw something. The voice was cultured.  Aristocratic.  It was also familiar. 

    Ambrose.  Carina stiffened.

    Unbidden, an image appeared in her mind.

    A row of tall wooden posts outside a stone wall, each holding the bound form of a woman or man – most of the petty wizards and charm sellers of Ismara.  A slender golden-haired man in aristocratic garb swaggered before the posts, addressing a crowd of Ismara’s citizens: Lord Templar Appius Ambrose, noble scion, and a power within the Church.  For too long, said the speaker, Ismara has been a byword for decadence and debauchery, a den of whores and addicts and pagans sapping the Empire’s strength. He raised his arm.  I intend to remedy this situation by purifying these sorcerous vermin.  His hand dropped.  Torches flew, igniting the oiled wood piled around the stakes.  The screaming began.

    Carina blinked. The past dissolved into the present.

    This place is unholy, said a second voice.  I say we finish the last one and leave.

    The words hit Carina like hammer blows. Superstition claimed bedded witches lost their power – a loophole eagerly exploited by sadists like Ambrose. 

    Tomorrow, said Ambrose.  I grow weary.

    Weary from raping Cassie.  Her curvaceous body made men howl. Ambrose would save her till the end. 

    Carina shifted, dislodging a pebble.  It sounded as loud as a thunderclap upon striking the ground.

    I tell you, there’s somebody out there.

    Then look.  I’m going inside.

    I shall.

    The sound of footsteps crunching on gravel approached Carina’s position.  I can’t stay!  I must flee!  Hide!  She drew a breath.  Calm. Reach for the magic.   She focused her mind, reached for a dollop of golden power, and uttered a spell.

    Huh – must have been a rabbit or stinger. 

    Carina could feel the man’s hot breath on her left ear.  She didn’t dare breathe.  Moving was out of the question. 

    A gauntleted hand dropped right in front of Carina’s nose.  Metal-wrapped fingers seized a stone and lifted it out of sight.  A moment later a dull ‘thud’ sounded in the field.  The deeds I do in God’s Name. Distaste filled the Witch Hunter's voice.  Perhaps a spark of decency lingered beneath the mask of piety he wore.  True God above grant me strength.

    Footsteps sounded as the witch hunter retreated towards the house.

    Carina raised her head.  Nothing moved in the courtyard. Exhaled. The bastards were all inside the house.

    The sorceress's gaze fell on a shed past the dwelling.  Her lips curled into a smile.  If Ambrose wanted fire, then she’d give him one.

    Carina skirted a group of picketed horses and reached the shed.  A minuscule amount of magic ensured the hinge's silence as she pulled the door open, and a flick of her wrist sufficed to conjure a glowing yellow ball.  Racks of tack and tools lined the left wall.  She moved the light, illuminating a row of amphorae: The Estate's supply of cooking oil. 

    Outside, footsteps cracked on gravel. 

    Carina froze.  Her heart thudded like a drum in her ears.  The last Witch Hunter hadn’t entered the house.  Instead, he’d walked around it.

    Whose here?  The sound of metal on leather accompanied the words.

    Damn.  Carina grabbed an ax from the rack.  Then, not stopping, she twisted into the entryway.  She caught a glimpse of the Witch Hunter’s plain face right before the ax split his skull. 

    Carina shuddered.  It’d been a dozen years since she’d killed another person, back in the Traag War.

    There’s something out there.  A shadowed figure appeared in the entryway of the house. 

    Carina forced herself to move.  She broke the cap off the nearest amphorae.  The lid clattered upon striking the floor.

    Somebody’s in the shed!

    It must be Thomas.

    Booted feet crunched across the yard.

    Carina grabbed a jug and tilted the big jar.  A portion sloshed into the smaller container but most struck the floor. 

    Thomas is dead!

    Raised voices followed the exclamation.  Get her! We missed one!

    I got you, witch.

    Carina turned.  A brown-haired man stood in the shed entry; blade raised. She threw the jug at him. 

    The Witch Hunter dodged the missile.  The jar struck the stones behind him and shattered.  Women can’t throw worth shit.

    Carina muttered a spell that should have knocked her assailant off his feet.

    The Witch Hunter stood there, unmoved. God protects me against your vile magic, witch.  He took a step towards her. 

    Carina’s grabbed the ax haft and heaved.  The tool seemed to weigh ten times what it had moments earlier.  She swung at her foe’s midsection.

    The fanatic stepped back and let the ax-head strike the doorframe.  Pathetic little murderer, aren’t you?  Weapon-play is man’s work.

    You’re the murderer! Carina screamed.  And a filthy rapist!

    The Witch Hunter advanced a step.  His face tightened. I am God’s hand.  I do His will.

    Carina took a step back.  She didn’t have the strength to swing the ax again.  There was nowhere to run.  She was going to die.

    The Witch Hunter raised his blade. 

    Carina threw herself sideways. She heard the sword ‘whisk’ above her head. 

    You have fire. A smile creased the Witch Hunter’s face. I like that.

    Carina’s hand contacted something liquid.  Oil. The broken amphorae lay on its side, amidst a pool of flammable liquid spreading across half the floor.  Then have some.  Carina focused her will.  The oil ignited. 

    The Witch Hunter’s pant leg ignited.  He shrieked and dashed from the shed.

    Carina curled her lips into a savage grin.  But flames licked at her clothes, so she dashed out the door – and almost lost her head to the blade of another Witch Hunter.

    What’s going on?  Ambrose, from the entrance.

    We missed one, Excellency.  The Witch Hunter before Carina shifted position as he spoke.  She killed Thomas and set Mark’s clothes afire.

    Carina started to run.

    Well, Dominic, kill her!

    Dominic positioned himself before Carina.  Mark rolled on the ground behind him and howled.

    Carina tripped and fell. 

    Dominic crumpled to his knees. Blood burbled from his mouth. Then the Witch Hunter fell face-first to the ground, a long dark shaft protruding from his back.

    Carina blinked.  She recognized that shaft.  Xenia!  She must have been out hunting. 

    Mark clambered to his feet.  Excellency! There’s more than one!  They just killed Dominic!

    What?  How!  Ambrose’s dark silhouette filled the doorway.  I shall settle this myself.

    Fear fueled Carina’s limbs as she dashed past the flaming hut and into the darkness.  One ran that way.  Mark’s voice.

    Good God, that’s a Monster Hunter's spear. Ambrose’s voice trembled.

    Carina’s leg slammed into a hard stone – the paddock. Hot pain flared along her shin.  She gritted her teeth and clambered over the barrier.

    I hear something, said Mark.

    It came from the fence.  Ambrose.

    Carina craned her neck.  She couldn’t see the Witch Hunters. Where was Xenia?  Had she turned herself invisible?  Invisibility was the upper limit of the Saban girl's magic. 

    Leather slapped against the stone left of Carina’s position.  At the same moment, she caught a glimpse of a dark outline against the glow cast by the burning shed.  The Witch Hunters were flanking her.

    Carina rose to a crouch and ran alongside the fence.

    I see her!

    Carina ducked, grabbed a stone, rose, and hurled it at the voice.  She heard the missile ‘ping’ against metal. 

    The damn bitch threw something at me!

    Go on, ordered Ambrose.  She’s a woman, armed with a bloody wood ax.  You’re a trained Mithraic knight.

    A long, thin object flew through the murk and struck Ambrose in the shoulder.

    Dat be a Night Adder, said a deep Saban voice from the shadows.  It bites, you die.

    Get it off, shrieked Ambrose. Aeeii!

    Carina leaped over the fence and charged.  The ax caught Mark square in his chest, knocking him to the ground.

    Ambrose seized the snake and threw it into the night. Now, we’ll finish – he caught sight of Carina.  His gaze flicked to Mark, squirming on the ground, and clenching his chest.

    Not so brave, now, are you?  The Saban voice came from behind Ambrose. 

    Ambrose halted his advance. Leave! He fled for the picketed horses. 

    Mark rolled to his feet and hobbled after Ambrose, clenching his gut.

    Hoofbeats sounded in the dark.

    Xenia's tall, thin frame materialized in the gloom; face framed by the dreadlocks that dangled almost to her waist.  She carried a shortsword in one hand and a snake in the other. 

    Carina took a breath.  Where were you?

    Hunting.

    Together, the two women entered the cottage.  They found Cassie sprawled on the floor with her throat cut.

    The next morning, they dumped the Witch Hunter's corpses in a deep pit, salvaged what they could from the wreckage, and began walking west, towards the Tefnu River.

    LABYRINTH WAR IV – Bao

    ‘Secrets and sorcery fill the air in Kheff.’

    – Old proverb

    Bao fumed as the litter carried her through Hermosa’s crowded streets. She’d spent three years studying at the Grand Librium, and now she was being packed off like some prize cow.  Naturally, she’d not been consulted about her impending nuptials.  Her prior engagement to Amentep had been ignored – what would he think?  But the crowning insult, the greatest humiliation, was her prospective husband – a Slaver!

    The litter halted. Its bearers gently lowered its poles until they kissed the paving stones. 

    Bao took a breath and forced her features into a blank mask.  Composure was crucial to the aristocracy, who had to appear calm and rational in all circumstances.  Right now, true composure was beyond her.  The mask would have to suffice.  She thrust aside the curtains.

    Ebony-skinned Maaike, Bao’s Saban bodyguard knelt and extended her mistress a hand. A pair of dark eyes framed by black dreadlocks peeped from within Saban’s hood, gateways into some hidden place.  Maaike pulled Bao erect without effort; but she’d been a Monster Hunter, stalking and slaying the thunder lizards and swamp dragons of the southern jungles prior to becoming a bodyguard. 

    Bao acknowledged Maaike’s service with a single nod before letting her gaze slide over the massive edifice before her: The Cabinet Obscure, a depository of odd relics attached to the Grand Librium.

    Inside, Bao strode past quasi-magical trinkets: fertility idols with huge penises, feathered tokens intended to ward off dream demons, divination cards, crystals, and fractured clay tablets written in obscure tongues.  A worn and vaguely disreputable air clung to the contents of the structure.  Were it human, the Cabinet would be the shady uncle fond of filthy jokes and pointless stories – much like its Master.

    Bao found that Master, Uday the Fat, in his workshop.  Uday boasted a bald spherical head atop a short round body draped in thin blue silks.  Talismans hung from a wide belt about his midsection.  His workshop boasted tall shelves filled with jars of glass and clay or metal, and flasks of colored liquid bubbled and hissed above the burners on the long table that dominated the center of the chamber. 

    The mage held a vial filled with brilliant blue liquid to the light as she entered, assessing its contents.  Ah, Lady Bao.  Uday’s gaze remained focused on the miniature bottle as he spoke.  I understand congratulations are in order.

    That confirmed it.  Bao’s already taunt nerves snapped. It was you, wasn’t it?  She jabbed a finger at the wizard.  You arranged my betrothal to the Slaver Prince.

    Uday lowered the vial. I merely made a suggestion to the Maximus Patriarch.

    But why?  I was engaged-

    - To a man you’d not seen in three years.  Uday wagged his finger. A childish infatuation.  Besides, he’s little more than a commoner.  Octavos Maximus will be a Prince of the Empire when his cousin ascends to the Luminous Throne.

    Bao stamped her feet. I don’t want to marry a Slaver! I’ll be an outcast, beset by false friends and status seekers.

    Uday’s face hardened. Show respect, young lady.  The Maximus are more than mere slavers. 

    But

    Enough, Bao.  You are overcome with female passions.  Uday tapped his workbench.  You must restore your center.  The mage's broad face changed. I have just the task. There are three boxes of relics in Chamber Four that require sorting.

    Bao’s heart sank. Her fury evaporated, replaced with resignation.  Yes, Master Uday.

    Bao held the palm-sized metal box to the light, squinting at the gears and strikers inside it.  A figurine of a veiled dancing girl stood on a disk atop the container.  A flat bar protruded from the side.  She fingered the projection and felt it move.  Encouraged, she twisted the key a full turn and removed her fingers.  High-pitched chimes and bells came from within the device.  The disk with the dancing girl rotated. 

    Bao placed the device on the table.  It was a music box, a trinket crafted by an infernally clever artisan in Equitant and sent here as a gift or toy to a petty potentate, who wrongly regarded it as magic, not mechanics.

    The Slavers preferred their subjects ignorant, and superstitious. Elsewhere in the Empire, priestly orders, guild instructors, and government scholars taught promising youths how to read, write, and do sums. The Slavers forbade such endeavors in Kheff.  The Grand Scriptorium outside Ennead had been burned to the ground by Maximus agents disguised as desert marauders.  The Advanced Engineering Academy in Gand had shut its doors amidst scandals and crippling fines.  Apart from the Great Librium here in Hermosa and the Sorcerers Pyramid in Ankh-U, there were no schools in the lands watered by the Tefnu.

    However, Ptath was far to the south, at the Empire's literal edge.  A third of the city's populace claimed descent from imperial troops, giving it a different character than Kheff’s other population centers.  Maybe, just maybe, the Slavers would overlook a school there.  At least, she and Amentep hoped such might be the case.

    Except now, she was being married off - sold - to a Slaver who’d no doubt frown on such an endeavor. 

    The music box stopped.  Bao sighed, pushed it to the side of the table, reached into the crate of relics, and extracted a rack of tiny glass vials filled with colored powders and liquids.  She squinted at the labels affixed to the bottle's sides: mercury, sulfur...what was this? 

    Bao’s gaze flicked to the fat green gem on the ring adorning her index finger.  That ring had been a gift from her grandmother.  ‘Spiders and Toads are both mortal,’ she’d said upon slipping the circlet onto Bao’s finger.

    A smile creased her face. Perhaps her marriage need not be permanent.  She slipped the bottle into her pocket. 

    Bao peered into the crate.  Empty.  No, wait – was that a reflection?  Perhaps something shattered?  She didn’t remember any broken glassware.  Bao reached into the box.  Her fingers clasped onto something solid, transparent, and flat.  She pulled her discovery to the light – a flat piece of glass inset with tiny wires and gems, etched with tiny letters along one edge. 

    Bao read the symbols. Gasped.  After all this time...

    LABYRINTH WAR V – Singer

    ‘Nimuk lifted his eyes.  Name your ancestors.  His tone was formal and distant.

    I recited my lineage on both sides of my family.

    Nimuk checked his papers. What seven praenomina’s are appropriate for Maximus males?

    I smiled at the clumsy attempt to entrap me. There are six, not seven: Cassius, Manias, Octavos, Quintus, Titus, and Varro; the praenomina of past emperors. 

    Yet you claim Victor Maximus as an ancestor.

    On occasion, another praenomen will be awarded for political reasons.  Victor’s mother was of the DuSarite family, a clan with imperial aspirations.

    Thomas Maximus being another of these exceptions, said Nimuk.

    Yes.  How did Nimuk know of Thomas? Thomas is a cousin of the imperial family. 

    Nimuk frowned at his papers. Ranking Solarian aristocrats have three names: praenomen, nomen, and cognomen.  You provided praenomen and nomen; what is your cognomen?

    I smiled. Nimuk Brote displayed impressive knowledge. Lesser aristocratic families have praenomen, nomen, and cognomen. When one’s ancestors are emperors, no other name matters.

    – From ‘The Journal of Titus Maximus.’

    Singer’s head pounded.  Too much wine.   He’d been drinking far too much since Manias had loaded him onto that leaky tub back in Solace.  Insufferable little prick.  Being with him would try a Saint’s patience. No wonder his wife is sauced out of her mind.  He put both feet on the floor and bent forward.  Fireworks exploded in his skull.  Elbows on knees, Singer grasped his head.   At least we’re on solid ground.

    The throbbing in his skull eased a fraction.  The colored tile floor receded in and out of focus.  No, not tile.  A mosaic.  He remembered Manias saying something about their accommodation’s once being an old palace, built by a merchant adventurer from Carbone.  Singer’s eyes tracked the colored stones.  Most of them were faded.  Others were missing.  But the pattern reminded him of something...

    He walked along a pastel hall, anticipating the sweet and spicy fruit medley at Cousin Varro’s.  He’d spent the evening resolving the chords of his latest composition.  His cousin’s door loomed.  He knocked.  No answer.  Instead, the door pushed open, exposing a neat chamber with a mosaic floor and the back of an overstuffed couch.  A table laden with cups, plates, and bowls dominated the room’s far end.

    Hello?  He took a cautious step into the room.  Perhaps they’d stepped out for a moment.  The apartment fronted a courtyard dominated by a large pool; Varro was fond of sitting out there, drink in hand.  Yes, that was it.  He took another step, moving past the couch.  Something caught his foot, making him trip.  He turned to see two bodies lying face down on the floor, blood seeping from beneath them. 

    And he fled.

    He lifted his head. His gaze focused on a pile of documents atop a nearby desk – his father’s original journal and Doctor Menendez’s expanded version.  In a sense, he couldn’t blame her for the forgery. Titus had been terse to the point of frustration throughout the manuscript.  He’d written two sentences about the passage through Drakkar: ‘This place is cursed,’ and ‘Louis DuPaul is still an idiot.’ His account of the voyage west took two pages, with one describing Cousin Quintus’s death.  He’d never once mentioned the Maximus Seal.  In the maze, Titus used pictograms more than words – but his text matched those in Menendez’s edition.

    The sound of marching chants and clashing metal drifted in through the open window.  The Solarian legions were encamped on the next island over.  He rose to his feet, strode to the window, and peered at the long barges filling the channel outside his window.  Nut brown laborers in white loincloths tossed barrels and crates onto craft tied to the piers, while soldiers loaded themselves onto others.  We leave today.

    A knock sounded at the door. 

    An old servant he didn’t recognize stood there.  I am Master Pindar. Lord Varro Maximus requests your presence within the hour.

    Singer nodded.  I need to bathe and eat first.

    A bath is in order. He clapped his hands, and half a dozen men and women entered, bearing a small tub and a platter of honeyed neat and sliced fruit, along with a pitcher Singer hoped contained wine but was willing to bet held juice. 

    Singer stripped and settled into the tub without embarrassment while a stern-faced woman inspected his wardrobe, pulling and rejecting garment after garment.  At length, she settled on his old Maximus House tunic.  Her expression said, ‘This will have to do.’

    Another woman began combing and molding Singer's hair.  He stepped from the tub and reached for his tunic.

    Pindar halted Singer with an outthrust hand. Prince, you are clean but must be made palatable.  He clapped his hands again and more women entered, carrying sponges and stoppered jars. 

    He eyed the containers. I don’t understand.

    You are in Kheff.  Pindar motioned at the servants, who unplugged the bottles. You must look the part. Your skin is much too pale.

    But I’m a Maximus! He shook his arms in frustration.

    Yes, you are.  Pindar motioned again, and a muscular woman forced Singer to sit on a marble bench. But conformity is important. Your family has ruled Kheff for so long because they are perceived as Kheffian.

    Oh.  The woman rubbed oil into

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