Excerpt: Prologue

The Tithing of Abrogall

Go forth, sons and daughters of Azrithar, with my Spears at your side, and bring back what is ours by right and ruin. All shall bear witness to the might of the Silver City. As they have always done, so they always shall.
—Decree of His Excellency, Grand Regent Sythor-Kaahn Abban VII

Year 6,799 after the Founding of Azrithar

Meredyth Barsha’an had long desired to wear the fine silvered robes of an Azritharan delegate. She ran a finger over a button, the pearl smooth under her touch. They fit her perfectly. Tailored by practised hands over many months, and adorned with brilliant white gemstones that not a soul in all of Abrogall could afford in ten lifetimes. To her, this was simply tradition.

The crest of the Grand Regent shined brightly on her chest as she followed the procession through the Upper Districts of the city. It was a dreary day, with grey skies churning over grey cobbles, the damp, earthy smell that comes before rain lingering in the air. Banners caught high in the breeze, the crest of Azrithar over bone-white cloth atop engraved poles of silver. The bannermen numbered in their hundreds, and before her were the other delegates, thirty two in all, surrounded by the lesser ranks—clerks, financiers, advisors, scribes. Then the artisans—bards and acrobats—as they sang of victory and danced in the streets. Behind her, like rolling thunder, marched the Spears of Abban, the silver-armoured personal guard of the Grand Regent himself. Two legions, he had sent, nearly ten thousand men, when but a dozen would have been enough. Finally, pulled along in a carriage of impossible opulence, sat the Envoy. Hand-picked by the Grand Regent, they were the most senior officials in Azritharan politics, and they had led every Tithing personally, as they had done for over four thousand years.

This was the 191st Tithing of Abrogall, and yet Meredyth’s first. She had grown up hearing about them, of course, as all Azritharan’s did. The heroic tales of sacrifice, the songs of battle, and the celebrations of victory as each Envoy returned with the wealth of cities far away. There were but nine cities in all of Tha’Shoran, yet it was Azrithar that was the first, and inarguably the largest and most powerful. For millennia the Silver City, as it was known, had brought culture, structure and order to the Lesser Cities. They should be grateful, Meredyth had been taught. And yet, as she moved with the procession, the uncountable faces of the Abrogallan cityfolk that stared back at her looked anything but grateful.

***

The Spire of Abrogall rose a thousand feet high, the tallest of its towers piercing the low clouds as they threatened rain. And yet, to Meredyth, it appeared insignificant against the Spire back in Azrithar, smaller even than some of the storage towers at its base. The only concern among the delegation was the docking capacity. Above, a fleet of silver-hulled airships formed a line that stretched a half-mile, like a giant metallic serpent in the sky, each one waiting to make berth. The Spears of Abban would no doubt be busy stacking the holds of each airship high before the long journey back. The offering was impressive for such a small city. Sacks of grain, chests of gold and precious gemstones, and locally mined metals from the banks of Doshan’s River.

The Tithing negotiations had concluded far faster then she had anticipated. In fact, it barely seemed to be a negotiation at all. Every demand from the Envoy had been met with a nod from the Abrogall Seer’s Council, though with two legions of the Spears’ lining the streets, what choice did they have? Stranger still, nothing was offered in return. Wasn’t hers a city of influence, of culture? Her own idea of inviting students of the Spire to exchange their research had been waved away as a pointless waste of time. She could still hear the slurred words of the Envoy, drunk on wine and reveling in his own authority over these people. This was not what she had been training for.

The first reports of unrest came three days later. What had started as a total capitulation had grown, through rumour and hearsay, into whispers of protest, the first seeds of rebellion. Nothing she had not expected, though bearing witness to it firsthand was a considerably more unpleasant experience than reading about it on yellowed parchment.

She stood back from the gathering crowd, the shadow of the Spire splitting the street into dark and light. Angry shouts rose, faces leering, scrunched in disgust as fists were raised.

“You should leave, Madam Delegate,” came a voice from behind. A Spear of Abban, his face hidden behind a silver helm, stepped beside her, his long spear gripped firmly at his side.

“I shall do no such thing,” she replied. “These people are free to speak their mind.”
The warrior nodded. “They are. And we are here to keep order.”

Meredyth eyed his spear as he pointed it forward.

“You shan’t keep order with that, soldier.”

“Our orders come from the Envoy, ma’am.”

She knew that. The other guards were moving into formation as the crowd approached. Perhaps they would see sense and let them pass.

“Madam Delegate, I’m afraid I must insist.”

The guard took her arm, but she twisted away, pulled herself free, a strip of silver cloth torn and hanging from his gauntlet.

“Stop!” she snapped, levelling her gaze on him. “I am a delegate of Azrithar. Any protest shall be resolved diplomatically. You must—”

A sudden, sharp pain in her side. She gasped. A purple stain under dripping chunks of rotting fruit. The smell was rancid.

“Get out!” came a shout, then repeated by a chorus of voices.

“Fuck off!” came another. Then, “Get the silver bitch!”

She turned away but several men broke from the crowd and dragged her back. She stumbled, falling hard. Hands pulled at her hair, boots stamped at her face. One of the men knelt beside her, clawing at her robes, tearing them away until her breasts were exposed, the chill air biting at her skin. She held her hands up, tried to push the crowd away.

The thunder of iron on stone came, growing louder. A man above her held a fist ready to strike, but before he could land the blow a silver gauntlet clamped around his neck and lifted him clear off his feet. The guard threw him aside like a child’s doll, his body laying in a crumpled heap on the cobbles. The crowd swarmed the guard, but it was too late. His spear was already arcing through the air. The blade passed through men like they were made of water. Gobs of blood streaked over her, stinging her eyes. The crowd erupted and rushed forward. The guard grabbed her arm, pulled her to her feet then dragged her back and stepped into the wall of silver. She was swallowed by the formation, pushed and jostled back until a row of spears and shields stood between her and the mob of cityfolk.

Her breaths came in ragged gasps, bruises welling up over her face and body. Her robes were stained with red, her hands wet with the blood of men she didn’t know. What was happening here? Why did he have to kill them?

She turned, watched in stunned silence as the crowd crashed, hopelessly, against the unmovable wall of the Spears of Abban. The warriors advanced. Their weapons flashed and men, women and children fell, until the streets ran red with blood. Above, as if a herald of death, the darkening skies cracked and rain fell.

Meredyth dropped to her knees and wept. There was nothing else she could do.