Horizon of War Series - Chapter 174: Final Days

Final Days

Tiberia, The Imperial Capital

There was no creaking noise as the owner opened the intricately decorated wooden door that led to the back garden. Upon entering, the delicate sensory gem activated gemstone-powered bronze fans in the ceiling, which expelled hot air and drew cooler air from underground stone vents.

Three men dressed in old-fashioned ceremonial white tunics and red togas entered. The last man quietly closed the door behind him and followed the other two through well-lit corridors, courtesy of a large panoramic glass ceiling that extended to the garden at the back of the mansion. The soft gurgle of water, channeled through bronze plumbing, filled the air—a soothing sound that would drown out their voices and any unwelcome ears.

They sat close on the low stone benches as the host passed around a jug of liquor, a precaution against the servants who might be spying for the ministry. They smeared their lips with wine and shared cheap jokes, their laughter carefully measured—loud enough to seem genuine, but not so hearty as to arouse suspicion.

Contrary to rationality, the members of the Imperium’s ministerial council, known as the Sages—supposedly wise and benevolent—lived lives of debauchery.

This abnormality stemmed from a fanciful interpretation of the Ageless One’s teachings about celebrating peace. The truth didn’t matter, as those in power used it to discern friends from foes. Thus, since the dawn of the last century, officials who didn’t partake were viewed with suspicion and could face censure.

With each generation, the situation only deteriorated further. Hard work and critical thinking were seen as creating disharmony or even being regarded as disruptive to the Imperium Court and, therefore, punishable.

Offenders were encouraged to partake in “Imperium Peace” which meant living a life of indulgence—trying intoxicants, taking multiple wives, accepting lavish gifts, and embarking on obscene building projects. Those who refused faced censure, loss of rights, family shame, and numerous social terrors designed to enforce compliance. In this elite society, the nail that stuck out was hammered down, and dissent was drowned in wine.

A minister who couldn’t afford a grand estate, with its requisite lush sprawling gardens and opulent halls, was deemed a failure, bringing shame to his peers and risking his position. Conversely, a minister able to host lavish feasts, displaying his wealth and generosity, would see his influence and reputation soar.

In such a corrupt and decadent state, few good ministers lasted long. Everyone, except those at the very top, was under constant scrutiny. Even within the walls of their own estates, every move was watched by households loyal to opulence.

These three ministers, however, maintained a facade of corruption while keeping their moral compasses intact. They collaborated with a handful of like-minded individuals. Like the generations before them, they tried to steer the Imperium out of trouble, but with each passing generation, they found themselves increasingly powerless.

In the previous century, there were only 32 ministers. Now, the number had swelled to over 100, most of whom were new members with little credibility, appointed merely to accommodate the sons of powerful ministers. These additional ministers effectively silenced any dissenting voices in the Imperium Court.

“Don’t blame yourself. You did the right thing,” the host said to the young minister, who forced a chuckle despite the sadness on his face.

“You shouldn’t let your family suffer,” the second minister, a clean-shaven gentleman, added, pouring more wine for the young man. “Neither the left nor the right ministers will listen. They’re too absorbed in their games. Let them discover the truth on their own and spare us the risk.”

“But their agents are incompetent,” the young man objected.

“Not incompetent,” the host shook his head. “They simply know what to report and what not to report. It’s a structure that rewards those who tell the master only what he wants to hear.”

“Then is the Capital finished? Should we just sit and do nothing?”

The host stroked his graying beard. “Even without informing the top, their captains of the guard have taken some measures. I saw contingents hurriedly leaving for the west, likely in an attempt to quell the masses.”

The gentleman offered his advice, “You’re young. You should escape. Tell the ministry you wish to explore the women of the South and bribe them well. They’ll probably believe it.”

The young minister nodded, his eyes moist. “But what about you two, good sirs?”

“My wife was the one who reported us for censure. I have no other family. I’m prepared for a violent end,” the host replied.

The young man turned to the gentleman, waiting for his response. The man sighed deeply and said, “As you know, my son died young. He saw one of our peers smoking black poppy milk and tried it. He became addicted. My family and I were no better. I have no more worth; let the fire consume me.”

Suddenly, they heard the door open and quickly pretended to tell jokes, sharing a laugh.

But it was one of their own, who shouted merrily, “I brought edelweiss mead!”

“Splendid! Come, join us,” the three said loudly, eagerly tapping the stone bench and table.

The man, in his early thirties, sat down. Unlike the three of them, he was genuinely cheerful, a trait that seemed inherent from birth. He was content with tinkering with his gemstones and cared little for the Imperial Court, so much so that he rarely joined the Court at all. Surprisingly, those in power left him alone as long as he partook in ceremonial events and occasionally held parties at his estate.

“So, Paulos, why did you come? And what is the reason for this precious edelweiss mead?” the host asked as he brought more goblets for the mead.

Paulos uncorked the thick glass bottle and poured the mead, rich with a floral aroma, for everyone as he replied, “I’ve had a great breakthrough! I just established contact with the old Capital.”

The other three were stunned. “Really?”

“But how?” the host asked. “The western nomads’ incursion has been so deep and ever since we pulled most of our men to counter Gottfried, we’ve been unable to even send messages to Centuria.”

Paulos smiled with reddened cheeks, proud of his achievement. “Indeed, my vigilance in keeping watch has borne fruit.” He pulled a clip-on earring from his unpierced earlobe that was connected via a hair-thin wire to his inner pocket and showed it to them.

“It’s the dwarven ear artifact,” the young minister recognized.

“It’s not a dwarven original but a close copy. I’ve been improving it and playing with it with my wife to send messages as I work. Then one day, I heard someone else contacting me.”

The three ministers were piqued and did not interrupt.

“They’re clearly using an old model. It can only show colors and images. And you know what that implies?” Paulos grinned.

The three exchanged glances between them but shook their heads.

“Well, I think outside of what we’ve got in the Capital, there are only several left of that model in existence, and they’re in Centuria at the Old Capital’s vault!”

Nodding, the gentleman asked, “What exactly did you communicate with them?”

“They sent me a picture of farms and as a courtesy, I sent them a picture of the farm at the back of my workshop just outside the city wall,” Paulos replied happily.

“Oh, wonderful,” the host said, nodding amusedly. “Yes, they’ll need a lot of farms. We’re in crisis, and even if we somehow manage to create a safe corridor for supplies, we’re unable to send them any.” Those words put the three in a foul mood, and then one by one, they drank the expensive mead.

“But that’s not all,” Paulos declared, gathering his friends’ attention once more. “The man who contacted me is super smart. He made a series of colors and letters to make communication possible using only colors.”

“Who do you think that person is?” the host asked the gentleman, who stroked his chin but shook his head, replying, “All my friends in Centuria have been dead. I’m not sure who’s in charge of the old vaults now.”

The host turned to Paulos again. “So you’re saying, you can use this ear device to communicate with them?”

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

“Yes, using color code,” Paulos reminded the host, not wanting him to miss the good part.

“Right…” The host scratched his head and then, turning serious, asked, “So, what information do they give? Are they asking about reinforcements?”

“Not really… They seemed to have problems with their device. Whenever I asked about something they were unable to reply and just resorted to sending wood brown color.”

“Wood brown color?” the host squinted his eyes.

“Yes, that’s the code the Hero Kaen used—”

“Oh, I’m familiar with that story,” the younger minister exclaimed. “It’s for saying goodnight.” The two then went into a recollection of stories and shared a laugh.

The host and his older friend looked at them with fondness, hoping the Imperium would somehow survive to let these two talents thrive. Then, the host’s eyes widened. “Paulos,” he called out.

“Yes?” Paulos turned to face him.

“Tell me, do you ever wish to visit the south, like Elandia? There are a lot of old Imperium fortresses there.”

“Imperium fortress?” Paulos muttered, intrigued, while the two other ministers began to suspect a plan was forming.

“Yes, I read it in the old records. They should have a good collection of Dwarven artifacts. I heard there’s even a sealed vault somewhere,” the host replied.

“Ooh,” Paulos exclaimed, getting excited. He knew that a sealed vault was an Imperium armory, dedicated in case there was another Beastmen war.

The host continued, “Legend has it that it was filled with ancient weapons, armor, and Dwarven artifacts. Since we’re currently facing a crisis, it might be prudent to catalog them and see if they’re of any use today.”

Paulos’ eyes filled with admiration. “How do you know all this?”

“I’m not the August One’s Record Keeper for nothing,” the host smirked. “I have old records from the era of the 1st Emperor. I’ll give them to you so you don’t search blindly.”

“I really want to, but I’ve never been outside the Capital,” Paulos said without hesitation.

“There’s a first time for everything,” the host chuckled. “The road to Elandia is clear right now, so you should start your trip before the spring rains arrive. And bring your family with you; it’s going to be a beautiful trip.”

Paulos looked ecstatic but suddenly frowned. “But what about the Court?”

“Ah, that’s easy,” the host dismissed the issue. “I’ll arrange it so that you’re going on an official trip. That way, you’ll even get some money for the travel costs. Now, what are you waiting for? Tell your family to pack; you don’t want to get trapped in the rain and mud.”

After sharing another merry round of drinks, Paulos quickly left, his footsteps light.

“What is this plan of yours?” the young minister whispered. “Is the story of the Imperial vault even true? I’ve never heard of them before.”

The host’s eyes wandered as he answered, “They are true, but even in my predecessor’s time, they had become ruins. The wood had rotted, the iron rusted, and the stone vault itself crumbled after the great Elandia earthquake.”

Turning to the young minister with a grim face and voice, he advised, “You should go with Paulos. Tomorrow, I’m going to give all my savings to you and Paulos. Bribe your way and live there in peace, build a happy family, and support whatever kingdom arises from the ashes of the Imperium.”

The young minister was deeply moved and could only drink his mead to stave off tears.

“You’re a good chap with a bright mind. Also good with a sword. You’ll do well in life,” the host tried to comfort him.

Meanwhile, the gentleman took a deep breath. “I like the idea, but Elandia is now under Bengrieve. Do we even trust him? Also, I doubt it’s that easy to obtain a permit for one, let alone two.”

“No, I don’t trust that man,” the host admitted, playing with his graying beard. “But he’s better than waiting to die in the Capital. As for permits, the top ministers aren’t paying attention to the young ministers with little influence. And so far, the young in our group has never caused a scene.”

The gentleman nodded and drank his ale loudly before slamming his silver goblet down on the stone table. “If only I had money to give. Alas, as an addict, I doubt I even have enough to pay for my own funeral.”

The host and the young minister chuckled. At this point, they had grown accustomed to laughing at dark humor.

“You shouldn’t feel bad. Even without the gold, Paulos alone is enough,” the host said to the young minister. “Keeping him safe will be your mission for life.”

The other two looked unsure.

Noticing their expression, the host clarified, “He’s probably one of the few who know about Dwarven artifacts, capable enough to repair them, and even make copies of them. For the good of the people, we must not let such talent die.”

…

Four days later, as Paulos and the young minister busied themselves packing for the long journey and arranging the necessary escort, the top ministers had finally given their answer.

“They said what?” the gentleman asked the host as the two reconvened in the garden.

“They told me to supervise Paulos and also to take whoever I want to help me with the task,” the host still couldn’t believe what he had heard, but the stamped royal decree for four persons in his hand was real. “Possibly they hate my guts so much for petitioning so many things through their channels that they want me gone from the Capital.”

The gentleman laughed hard, tears streaming down his eyes. “What a stroke of luck. Then, who will you bring? I can suggest—”

“You, it must be you,” the host remarked firmly. “Old friend, we’re going together on this.”

“I—I’m flattered, but I’m an addict,” he said with a sharp sigh. “Without a regular dose of black poppy milk, the withdrawal is too painful.”

“You can do it. You’re the most hardy person I know,” the host tried to persuade him.

“That was before I started smoking. Now, my body has waned greatly along with my intellect. Promise me you’ll take someone else more worthy,” he said, then drank his wine to erase the bitterness.

“Old friend, there’s time before my departure tomorrow morning. Let me know if you reconsider.”

“No, you should depart now.” He rose, patted the host’s shoulder firmly, and whispered, “I heard rumors from the city guards that the contingent sent to the west had been routed. Soon, the top ministers will hear about this and seal the gates. Go now, take Paulos and our young friend.”

The host gave no immediate answer, so his friend added, “My House possesses a dwarven artifact that can inflict painless death. I promise to offer that option to your family after mine, before chaos and fire consume the Capital.”

With tears in his eyes, the host looked at his old friend. Both knew that their families would rather die than live without the luxurious lifestyle they had enjoyed since birth.

The two clasped their hands firmly. “Then, I’ll begin preparing to leave,” the host stated with clarity.

“I still have bolts of Centurian silk and a golden ringmail, the heirloom of my house. I shall fetch them for you,” the gentlemen revealed warmly. “Sell them, be well, and one hundred years from now, remember me on your deathbed. May the August One watch over you.”

***

Tiberia, The Imperial Capital

The flowers in the central plaza burst into vibrant colors, heralding the beauty of spring in the Capital. Hope was in the air as rumors of an impending deal with the Northern rebels spread—peace seemed finally within reach. Lavish parties filled the Capital’s market district, spilling over to the inner lake, which shimmered with the glow of festive lights.

But abruptly, it all ceased. Without warning, all four city gates clanged shut. Only then did the people of the Capital learn of the open rebellion brewing outside. The siege came not from an outside enemy, but from their own citizens.

Since Arvena’s fall, every community under the Imperium has been heavily taxed, levied, and robbed of its livelihood to fund wars in the west and the east. So severe were their hardships that they no longer feared threats from the west or east; instead, they recognized that the ruling class in the Capital was the one inflicting the most pain.

Last year, many had turned to banditry. Now, after a winter that inflicted so many deaths from famine, it grew into an open rebellion. The peasants around the Capital took up their farming tools and rampaged through the countryside. There were no nobles or knights to oppose them, as almost all had fled the Capital due to their distrust of the Sages.

Facing little resistance, their numbers swelled as more and more joined their ranks. They attacked the surrounding towns, destroying everything in their wake. When they couldn’t find food, they resorted to cannibalism. No one was spared, not even the children.

Guildsmen and merchants and their families were slaughtered; captured officials were paraded and then nailed to their office doors, left to perish from hunger and thirst. They wailed and cursed, and many committed suicide by biting off their tongues, dying from blood loss. Meanwhile, anyone resembling a guardsman was beheaded, their heads placed on pikes, and displayed like banners during marches.

Despite the staggering death toll and brutality, the rebels’ rage remained unsatiated.

Initially, they sought revenge on the Sages and the elites. Now, after a series of successes, they had tasted power and believed themselves divinely sanctioned by the Ancients to punish the wrongdoers. Thus, despite facing hunger and plague, they marched toward the Capital at the head of fifty thousand armed rebels, unstoppable by any force.

When the Imperium Court finally learned about the rebellion, heads quickly rolled as blame was cast on everyone even remotely responsible.

Every day, a dozen officials, their adjutants, and their confidants were put to the axe in the field next to the market, in front of a booing crowd that blamed them for their misfortunes. In reality, almost none of them were guilty; they were merely scapegoats.

The blood of the innocent officials and the tears of their loved ones were still wet when the Capital was finally besieged.

Seven thousand defenders stayed behind their walls, while fifty thousand rebels tried their best to mount an assault. However, without adequate siege ladders or siege towers, their only option was to attempt burning down the nearest gate using dried grass, firewood, and tallow.

Slowly, the gates were consumed by fire, but the defenders used water and sand from above to counter the flames.

Meanwhile, inside the Capital, three million souls were trapped. In just ten days, crimes surged as the poorest in society had nothing to eat. The market had ceased, and people were desperate enough to hunt rats in the sewer canals and frogs in the lake.

Clashes at night became frequent, filled with murders and robberies, with no one to stop them. The city guards only concerned themselves with the ruling elites. The city’s youth organized themselves as militia and patrolled the night. However, their zealous attempts to find and punish perpetrators only worsened the situation, leading to more bloodshed.

In response, the masses targeted merchants with storehouses openly. Shops and warehouses were looted even in broad daylight, escalating the situation into a crisis. Despite this, the ruling Sages, content that the defenses had not been breached and that they had ample supplies, merely shrugged at the soaring crime rates.

“That is just what the populace really is,” one sniggered behind their red silken curtain.

“An animal in human skin,” another senior minister mocked from the opposite row.

“These lowly people should be grateful that we allowed them the honor of staying in the Capital and breathing the same air as we do,” said an old minister, whose voice was old and frail.

A dozen ministers nodded in unison. They felt no need to devise a solution, merely lamenting as if observing a different race or a creature.

The Court’s only response, stemming from greed in the face of calamity, was to offer special permits—which had to be purchased at exorbitant prices—if any wealthy family wanted to stay temporarily inside the inner walls.

For the majority of the people trapped in the Capital, their only hope was for a hero as they shuddered and cowered in fear in their homes with their families. However, there was none.

Instead, a fire that had started in a looted warehouse and failed to be extinguished quickly turned into a raging inferno. It engulfed the surrounding buildings and soon became uncontrollable, burning everything in its path.

***