Moutassim took a deep breath as a waft of cold, salty air washed over his face, along with a healthy spray of ocean wave rocking his flagship. Dawn was breaking, the sky a gunmetal grey colour that was reflected by the vast body of water underneath it. But Moutassim, who had just completed his prayers while struggling for balance, was undaunted by the bleak scenery before him. He was leading an expedition of ten ships across the Atlantic Ocean. He was finally carving out his legacy.
As he traced the name on the side of his ship, The Black Shiekh, Moutassim pondered legacies. His grandfather, Abdullah I, was known for bringing all the tribes together and forming the empire of Mesigan, with himself as emperor ruling over his vassal kings.
"The creator." Moutassim mumbled to himself.
His father, Abdullah II, had consolidated the empire and protected it from its enemies, both foreign and domestic. He had kept the empire together during the secession crisis of 1109 and had stabilized it's economy and army, as well as solidifying the tribute system.
The nurturer, Moutassim thought, idly fixing his arm guard.
And what would he be known for? Continuing his father's legacy? No, it was time to step out of his father's shadow and carve a path of his own. A path straight through the Atlantic ocean, in search of new lands.
"The grower," Moutassim muttered.
"What was that?" Tigrita's voice came from behind him. He spun around, his breath catching at how beautiful she looked, her wavy bundles of hair blowing across her face by the ocean breeze. He'd never get used to the way her presence made him feel.
"Nothing," he said, clearing his throat. "How did you sleep?"
Tigrita came to the side of the ship and looked out at the scenery.
"In Mathus, I'm used to roughhousing it and sleeping wherever I can," she said quietly. "I slept fine. You, my emperor?"
In truth, Moutassim had tossed and turned in excitement for hours before falling asleep. Excited about the trip, but also about Tigrita's presence. He couldn't explain it. He was always dutiful, always responsible, always noble. Yet he was increasingly finding it difficult to hang on to those qualities around the beautiful nomad.
Tigrita had begged him to come along, desperate to escape from his vindictive wife who had found every pretence to saddle her with extra work or to holler on her. But that was not his only motive for bringing her on this voyage.
"I slept like a baby." Moutassim lied.
Someone yawned loudly. Moutassim reluctantly tore his eyes away from Tigrita's clear grey ones, as his brother stretched and got up.
"Where's the wine?" Tarik muttered, scratching his bald head. "I hope you haven't hidden it. I swear I'll jump overboard if you have."
Moutassim pointed to one of several crates on the forecastle deck, struggling to keep the distaste off his face as his brother hurried to the crate, fell to his knees and began prying it open with his knife.
"Oh, stop judging," Tarik said, as he freed the bottle and held it up to examine it's cherry red contents. "I never wanted to come on this trip, you literally ordered me to come. I'll need wine if I'm to make it through."
"Knock yourself out," Moutassim said, rolling his eyes before turning his attention back to Tigrita.
"So... when do we reach land?" She asked.
"We should be reaching the volcano islands in a matter of days," Moutassim said. "They have never been properly mapped before, so I can only average and go by word of mouth from other explorers."
"I've heard stories about those islands," Tigrita rubbed her arms. "There's a reason they've never been inhabited, never been settled."
"They're just stories," Moutassim stepped closer, covering one of her hands with his and rubbing the side of her head with his other hand. She looked up at him, startled and worried, but didn't back away. "We'll only be resupplying and then we'll be off. We won't stay long."
"Okay." she said, looking down.
Moutassim turned and looked at the distance they had covered. They had made good ground. The coast of Mesigan was out of view. He squinted. Instead of the Mesigan coast, he saw something else. One of his ships was signalling towards them. Moutassim looked around for his captain, Hebron and the ship's pilot, a sullen, lanky man named Soth. Both men were standing on the quarter-deck, deep in furtive conversation.
"Hoi, you two!" Moutassim shouted. Hebron and Soth instantly snapped to attention. "Don't you see The Empress signalling to us?"
"Indeed they are," Hebron said, squinting at the ship. Soth picked up two yellow flags and signalled. The pilot on The Empress signalled back.
"They're telling us to wait for them. I think they have something to show us." Soth said.
"Then we wait." Moutassim said grimly.
🇬🇾
As was often the case, the Sieberon royal castle was a cold, bleak and quiet place at night. With the exception of guards on their regular patrols, scarcely anything or anyone moved. Most of the castle's inhabitants were asleep, covers drawn against the cold night air.
But in the royal bed-chamber, one of the largest rooms in the castle, King Votrek was wide awake. He stood in front of his fireplace, a shiny gold goblet of wine in one hand and a black, ornate looking knife in the other. He was barefoot, wearing nothing but a cloak thrown around his massive shoulders. The brass knuckles and gold medallion Votrek usually wore on chains around his neck were gone, replaced by a faintly glowing runestone.
The face of the runestone had an intricately carved cross with a leaf in the background. The entire stone was small enough to fit in the palm of Votrek's hand. And there were more where it came from.
On the king-sized bed behind Votrek was the bronze chest that Queen Bethos and Khalid had brought from Bremon. Inside were several other runestones, with different magical abilities that for now lay dormant but could be activated once bonded to a sumoso.
Votrek, who had Genda blood running through his veins, had rightly assumed that he would bond with one of these stones. He had also rightly assumed that if he could bond with them, then so could his father. If old King Bandhu had bonded with the healer runestone, which Votrek had recognised the instant he saw it, he could have kissed any chance of inheriting the crown goodbye.
Bandhu would have healed himself of his terminal cancer, indeed Bandhu would have turned back the hands of time on his body and reigned long after Votrek was dead and gone. Sumosos who channelled healing magic usually lived twice the average human lifespan. And there were many at court who feared Votrek and his ambition and preferred his father to sit on the throne. Small wonder, then, that Votrek had eliminated his father.
What had surprised Votrek was the fact that he himself had bonded with the healer runestone, which now lay against his hairy chest. Votrek, the Sieberon barbarian, commander of the greatest mercenaries the world had ever seen, possessed the magical abilities of a healer. He had joked with his brother that with such mundane powers, he would abdicate the throne and become a doctor.
Until he realized what the rare power of this runestone truly meant. How it could make him unstoppable and pave the way for King Votrek, to become Emperor Votrek.
Votrek put down his goblet and rolled up the left sleeve of his cloak. He took a deep breath. He and Otho had spent only a few weeks practising, but he was confident now that he could control the runestone. If he was wrong, well Sieberon would have a queen for the first time in over a hundred years.
Clenching his left fist, Votrek made sure the inside of his wrist was exposed and sliced through his radial artery with his knife in a quick but determined motion. Blood spurted against the fireplace and sizzled in the flames. At first, there was intense pain. Then came the weakness. Votrek looked down, dazed, at the blood that quickly pooled on the ground around him. His cloak was soaked with it. He staggered against the wall.
He struggled to focus, but each time he tried to pull his thoughts together they slipped away. Meanwhile, the room was getting blurry by the second. Suddenly he saw the imperial throne, as vivid as if he were back in Kalli paying tribute to the pretender.
As Votrek's thoughts solidified, so too did the glow from the runestone. Slowly but surely, the bleeding stopped and the gash in his wrist knitted itself back together until the spot was smooth, not even a scar.
But that wasn't all. The greys in Votrek's curly hair and beard slowly changed to jet black. The harsh lines in his forehead and crinkles in the corners of his eyes smoothed and became fresh again.
Votrek slowly pulled himself from the wall, looking down at his wrist and turning it over in wonder. When he raised his head, his usually dark pupils glowed with an inner, golden light, beautiful yet sinister. He smiled as a new vision sprung into his mind, one of fleeing soldiers, screaming nobles and a grassy field littered with bodies. And himself, walking through the carnage with the imperial crown on his head.
It was time.