Shadowblade: An Epic Fantasy Adventure Romance (A Dance of Fire and Shadow Book 1)
Shadowblade: (A Dance of Fire and Shadow Book 1) – Chapter 1

M, THE SITUATION IS even worse than I feared.

Now you must fulfil every action you have pledged, and quickly.

This is our only hope.     J

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The Emperor’s heavy footsteps echo on the marble floor. The obsidian walls of the wide passageway tower above him, the polished raven-black alternating with tall panels of white bas-relief rising fifty feet to the vaulted ceiling. Ashur Purmut the Usurper, first of his great dynasty––or so he assumes––holds his head proudly, the tawny lion’s mane he wears over his thinning hair rippling with the brisk pace of his progress. For him, it is a mantle of embodied power, reminding all who see it that even while clawing his way up through the ranks of the guilds he had been able to buy his way onto the lion-hunts of the aristocracy.

He feels the double-row gaze of past Rapathian emperors upon him, emperors who have paved the way, established this final threshold to his ambitions. Their carved images are surrounded by their histories, long centuries of their conquests when the Rapathian hordes overran this rich land of marsh and forest and subjugated its inhabitants into slavery.

The conquerors’ stern faces might be frozen in the sculpted stillness of bleached stone but Ashur Purmut is sure he senses their approval. His achievements so far have ruthlessly increased his power and wealth and that is a significant step, ready for his ultimate goal. Soon, he will control all the known world and all its riches.

Irritating small obstacles like the one he is about to deal with will soon be a thing of the past. Once this creature has been swatted out of the way like a louse, once the Rapathian legions are positioned along every border…

He exhales sharply, trying to control the anger that is surfacing again at the very thought that anyone would dare to defy him. Raw emotion is an unseemly display for one wishing to embody ultimate power to the lesser beings whose role in life is only to obey his Imperial will.

And that includes not only his nobles and secretaries, but every servant and soldier, right down to the guards opening the heavy door for him and the grubby jailer waiting for him at the foot of the twisting stone staircase.

Inside the cell the prisoner is pinned to the bloodied stone wall with iron shackles, his face blackened and disfigured, his naked body blotched with pitch burns. Several fingers are missing while the rest hang broken at unnatural angles.

Purmut resists a twitch of returning anger. No subtlety has been applied here. He needs to find better operators than this. Even with the best treatment there will be no recovery here, no fluttering hope, no spark of temptation to trade information for release.

“Well?”

The jailer shakes his head, unwilling to risk speech that might cause offense. The Emperor steps closer to the prisoner and presses his bronze-plated boot on the row of naked toes, crushing them against the dark-stained stone floor. No response. He steps back, his gaze cold, merciless. In his imagination he appears regal and commanding.

“Sertis Scrian. Junior administrator and Samarian spy. It matters nothing that you choose to withhold what you know. We have traced your activities and calculated the information you have passed on––already enough to make you more useful to us than to the spymasters who sent you.” Ashur Purmut waits, estimating how long it will take the man’s pain-addled brain to work out how to negate anything he might have accidently given away in this interrogation. It has worked well before. In these desperate efforts sometimes a fragment of useful information leaks out.

The silence is going on for too long. Maybe the stupid jailer has caused enough damage to prevent speech. Then the words start, clear and precise through battered lips.

“Your plans are doomed. Your Imperial invasion of my beloved Samaran will ultimately fail. You are cursed. Nothing you do will change that, nothing you ever achieve will last––”

The words cut off suddenly as the Emperor’s jewel-encrusted dagger lodges in the prisoner’s throat. Purmut clenches his jaw in an effort to hide the anger that once again has taken control of his actions. No matter, the louse is crushed and probably had nothing useful to impart anyway. He addresses the jailer without bothering to look at him.

“Get rid of the body and make sure my dagger is cleaned before returning it to me.”

He turns on his heel and climbs the twisting staircase. As he walks back along the arched passageway it is somehow a fraction harder to imagine the approval of the towering stone figures.

When I control the world, I will be able to control this anger.

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