Age of War

Chapter 55

The servants had been uneasy when they brought it into Vion’s chambers. He reassured them that he had every right to make use of it. Not only was he the Imperial Consort, but also Lord Marshall of Atlas, supreme commander of the armies of Atlantis. There wasn’t a piece of military equipment in the land he couldn’t requisition if he so desired. Still, he understood their reluctance. This was an antique. When had it last seen war? Had it ever? It had been wrapped in mouldering canvas, and taken two sturdy men to lift. Now it lay on the darkwood table in the centre of the room. Albrihn had dismissed the servants. He would be alone for this. He unwrapped it slowly, revealing metal that still held its lustre. The Emperor’s armour. Its late owner had been no warrior, but he had made war, in his own way, to secure his throne. It was important that a ruler who intended to ask soldiers to die for him at least appear as if he was willing to make the same sacrifice. The Emperor had never so much as swung a blade in anger as far as Albrihn knew. The armour was untouched by nick or dent. It was a fine suit of half-plate, intended to be worn with mail. The breastplate was ornate: an exquisitely crafted masterwork, inlaid with gilt details. In the centre of its curving front was the ancient symbol of House Olympia, the rulers of Atlantis: a serpent coiled into a ring, devouring its own tail. No beginning and no end. Emperors and Empresses, nameless and eternal, enduring until the very twilight of the gods. Or so it had always been said. And yet, knowing what he knew now, could he take any of that seriously? Atlantis in its present form was no more than a millennium old. The weight of aeons no longer rested on the shoulders of the Empress. This armour was meaningless.

Perhaps that was true, he reflected. Perhaps Atlantis and Atlas and the throne itself were all built on a lie and barely worth fighting for. But this was also his father’s armour. He hadn’t known that until less than a week ago, but now it seemed to suffuse him, dominating his every waking thought. He ran his fingers across the breastplate and its device. Rayke Olympia. That should have been his name. And who would he have been? A pampered prince? A popinjay? A schemer like Saffrey? Would it have been him leading this rebellion now in his place? They said twins were bad luck. Some of what Jonis had told him about Omega and its dark past made sense of that superstition. There was a pragmatism to it though. Twins might vie against one another for the throne. Twins might turn Atlantis into a scorched wasteland. Perhaps, in the end, this had been the better way. Or perhaps not. There was no way to know.

Albrihn normally wore only fragments of armour. He was – he’d been, he reminded himself – a light cavalry captain. That meant speed and manoeuvrability were paramount. He didn’t like to be weighed down too much, so normally he rode into battle with a chainmail shirt beneath a battered old breastplate, fastened to a set of layered pauldrons which were more a symbol of rank than anything else. He rarely wore the peaked pot-helm, preferring to leave his senses uncompromised. Better to run from arrows than hope to weather them. He’d have to make some adaptations. As well as the breastplate there were greaves, vambraces, an uncomfortable looking gorget, a back for the breastplate so it formed a complete curiass, gauntlets and all manner of other accoutrements. He’d need a team of servants to dress him in this. He selected just a few pieces, only a little more than he normally wore, and carried them across the room. He set them on a couch near the mirror and began to don the armour. He already wore his chainmail, and his uniform was new, in mourning black. Strictly speaking that was for the Emperor, but he could name a dozen more who had earned his grief these past days. When the armour had been crafted, the Emperor was about his size. Still, he found it uncomfortable to wear and told himself it was just the greater weight. “Dead man’s shoes,” he murmured though as he strapped the greaves over his boots – mended, freshly polished. He straightened. He looked like he should be on parade. He realised what was missing. He crossed the room, a little stiffly, and retrieved his sword belt. It was plain leather. He didn’t even consider discarding it in favour of something that matched the ostentatious armour. He’d worn the belt for years. His father had made it, and so he honoured both men to whom he’d been a son today. He strapped it around his waist, and now that the familiar weight of his sword and dagger hung at his hips, he felt a lot better. He returned to the mirror.