THE EMPEROR

  The sky was grey as the snow hit the glass of the Imperialis Tower. The Emperor looked out, his nose blocked by mucus and snot frozen in his nostrils. Aeryan licked his lips and blinked to keep his vision steady.

  Sar William Sartem stood by his side on his comfortable chair, lined with cushions and great silks. “Your Majesty,” the knight said, “I apologise but you do need to call the War Council.”

  Aeryan sighed, and closed his eyes. “I know…call the Council, Sar.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Sar William bowed and took his leave.

  Aeryan stared back out the window, watching as the winter snows kept falling. The last snows of the winter, Aeryan thought, always so bittersweet. The winter brought great desolation to the Empire, yet the snows always looked so beautiful as it fell.

  Below the window, slaves worked tirelessly to clean up the snows melting at the heated floors of the stone courtyard. The Queen’s statue was covered so much you could barely see her great beauty and the only part untouched was the torch she was holding, heated by candles and fire inside.

  It was early noon when Sar William returned, “The Council is ready, Your Majesty, they wait for you.” The Lord Commander dipped his head as the Emperor stood.

  “Get my coat,” Aeryan told the chamber slave. The collared man grabbed the great big purple cloak with the fur mantle, the Crowned Pheonix emblazoned on it. The slave pushed it on his shoulders, and tied it down with a knot tucked inside the outermost layer of his clothes.

  Emperor Aeryan stepped outside, the chambermen bowing as he walked past, and one opened the door for him, and closed it behind Sar William.

  Guarding his chamber door, Sar Arnim Lemmings and Sar Jiame Kollen, dressed in Imperial White, and full Rammsteel plate with white capes with grey phoenixes. They greeted their emperor with bows as he passed.

  Keep your weight on both legs, don’t lean, Aeryan said to himself, think of something else and let the muscle memory work for you posture and pose. That had always been how he’d done it, let himself stand proper from the years of practice after being the Emperor for almost three decades.

  Ready yourself for their arguments, it’ll go quicker and better. There was always the same argument proposed however,: Mobilisation. Sar Klaevesster Thorne had been proposing a full mobilisation ever since Lady Marya appointed him to the position of Lord Commander. Refuse him, Aeryan told himself, a mobilisation would kill thousands more.

  Yet, all of that was easier thought than said nor done. The war had dragged on and on, and it has killed a million men alone, and more died daily.

  The door to the War Chamber was made of great spruce, lined with black iron belts and golden buttons and handles. The door locks clicked open as Sar Arnim unlocked and pushed open the two doors with a creek.

  The slaves quickly entered to pull back the giant metallic chair that was in the far part of the room, its backrest made of a shield, the armrests made of swords with pommels to hold onto, and spears on each side with a lance in the middle that rose in the air.

  The Imperial Banner hung on each wall, the great crowned phoenix of House Illeryn on red with the wreath of command.

  Aeryan Illeryn sat on the chair forged by Cassius Lancharus almost a thousand years ago, as the slaves pushed it inside. Sar William and Sar Jaime stood at his sides, hands grasping tight on their sword hilts.

  “My lords, may we begin.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” the Lord Princar-Coratus , Alric Temn, agreed. The thin man stood, the veins in his hands seemingly attempting to escape his skin as he put his weight upon his hands. “First of all, we have had a letter sent deeming that Sar Lemore Water has been killed at the siege of Darin, Sar Lucius Kemperr is currently acting Lord Imperator ‘til we appoint a new one.”

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  “Do we have any candidates?” Emperor Aeryan asked.

  “I would propose Sar William Kemperr be kept as Lord Imperator,” said Sar Klaevesster Thorne, a broad shouldered man with a balding head and a greybeard. “He has earned a great reputation, and his men are loyal to him, Your Majesty.”

  Aeryan acknowledged the suggestion with a nod. “Do we have any other candidates, my lords?”

  “I would like to suggest Lord Jaime Merriwe,” Sar Thoren Voyer spoke, knocking on the wooden table to gather his Emperor’s and fellow lords’ attention.

  “Lord Merriwe is not a good man to command our only real army at Army Shore, he’d rather be better as a vanguard lead than a Lord Imperator,” spat Lord Senator Varserys, an old man with greying hair, with teeth old as sand and white as snow. “I’d first ride out there myself before putting a half mad killer as one of the most powerful men of the imperial army.”

  “Lord Alric, wouldn’t you be a good charge for the position?” The Lord Princar seemed almost stumped by the fact that he would even be asked to take up the position, or even have it offered in the first place. His face twisted for half a second, seemingly almost as if he was insulted somehow.

  The great lord stuttered, “Your Majesty, I—I—I”

  Lord Varserys broke in, “I agree, Lord Temn, but I also agree that there is no other able. All else are devoted to other fights. I give my name to His Majesty’s order.”

  The Lord Princar-Coratus took a deep sigh and stood, “I solemnly accept the charge I have been given, Your Majesty.”

  Aeryan smiled and gave a nod of his head, and only gave the simple reply of: “Good.”

  Lord Alric Temn sat down, “Whoever else may talk and take their actions.”

  The Lord Scribe, an old withering man in a white robe that hung loosely to his loose hanging skin, and a long white beard that dripped down to his stomach, pulled out a rolled up parchment sealed with hot wax that was stamped into the Coat of Arms of the Seventh Imperial-Custodiaus. “News from Sar Overn Sartem, for yours and your eyes alone, Your Majesty.”

  Aeryan Illeryn took the piece of paper and broke off the seal. Sar William and Sar Jaime marched two steps forward, evading their eyes from the contents of the unfurled letter. Aeryan read it once. Then again, and then a final time, his eyes shortening at each word.

  The Emperor set the parchment aside, and the Lord Scribe quickly snatched it up and furled it and stamped it with a new, temporary seal. “Sar Klaevesster, what is the closest legion to castle Stone?”

  “Either the twelfth or the nineteenth, Your Majesty,” the Lord Commander quickly responded.

  “Lord Scribe, order them to relieve the Seventh Custodiaus immediately, orders from their Lord Commander.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Send the message now, my lord, I want as little time wasted as possible.”

  “Right away, Your Majesty,” said the old man as he stood and quickly retreated with a broken bow. Sar Arnim clicked the door shut as the last piece of the white robe dragged behind the old withered lord.

  “Any other petitions, my lords?”

  “Your Majesty, please consider a mobilisation of Velmyrian forces.” Sar Klaevesster had said the same argument many times before, and each time he was proven more and more correct. Don’t let him think you're wrong, it breeds unrest. “We need fresh levies, Your Majesty. Give me the power and I can gain us twenty thousand more soldiers, we are losing, Your Majesty. We need to replace the men we lose hourly. The Winter Plague has already affected our numbers, it will only go down during the spring rains and coming battles.”

  “Sar, a million men marching to war means half a million that will never return, I will not let so many march to their deaths.”

  “Your Majesty, if I may so speak on this issue,” Lord Varserys said, raising the pointer finger of his right hand. “The census calls have recorded that at least two and a half million have already died from the war, if the tales are true though, ten million could have died.” Lord Varserys’s face seemed to twist into disgust with himself at the thought of the words he spoke next. “What is worse? Keeping soldiers alive, and letting millions die in foreign raids and pillages, or laying down a few hundred thousand lives at most to end a war in a few slashes of a sword?”

  “I will still not order a full march, my Lord of Senate.” He is right, give Sar Klaevesster more men, Aeryan thought. “But, I shall admit that Lord Varserys does present a truthful argument, I will allow the call of four legions to arms. That should fill your numbers enough, Sar Klaevesster, I hope.”

  “It truly does, Your Majesty,” Sar Klaevesster replied, his voice thankful and a smile crept on his face for a slight moment.

  The Emperor stood, “If there are no more matters of state that require my attention, I shall take my leave, my lords.”

  “Of course Your Majesty.” The room stood as the Emperor took his leave, his sworn knights following after him.