'No one believes they are born at the end of the Empire.'
Valon turned and looked at Corum, he could not remember what he had asked the old man to prompt him to say such a thing. Corum had been his master long after Valon had outranked him, the bond between teacher and student was a hard one to sever. Four hundred years the Golden Empire had dominated the Sapphire Bay and now before him all that was left of it was aflame. Somewhere behind the smoke the summer sun was pouring down, though one would be hard pressed to believe it given the pall that fallen over the city.
It was quiet. There were sounds of course, the incessant sound of burning buildings and the occasional crying out of some accosted female voice but sound of battle, the clamor of resistance had vanished. The battle had been lost decisively by mid morning. Even as Valon watched it unfold from the outer walls the only surprise had been how unsurprised he had felt. Then again, they had been systematically beat back the crescent length of the massive Sapphire Bay all spring. The outcome outside the walls seemed less inevitable and more befitting than he could ever fare to voice out loud.
He could not recall when such thoughts began, they were not a soldiers thoughts he was sure and not at all befitting of the Captain of the Emperor's Guards.
The first resounding thud of impact against the doors of the Inner Walls brought him back into the now as if someone had shook him back awake. Corum was staring at him, stroking the lengths of him mustache that fell well beyond his clean shaven chin, a look that had gone out of fashion when Valon had a boy.
The following sound was several times louder than the first.
'How long do you think? Minutes?' Valon asked. The old man knew these walls far better than he did.
'More like moments I suspect'. The noise was rhythmic.
Valon walked the length of the parapet of the cathedral towards the stairs, Corum his chosen second, following behind. They walked away from the pounding sound of their deaths.
The stairs circled down fifty feet or more and opened to the cathedral's belly. Sitting or leaning around the steps that lead up to the throne, empty, were the other eighteen members of the Emperor's sworn guards. They made up the twenty finest individual swordsmen in the Empire. Each of them looked haggard, paled from lack of sleep. The younger ones, proven in combat but inexperienced for the most part in war, looked outright afraid.
For almost a hundred years the Empire had not faced any real threats, the one pounding on the bronze double doors of the Inner Walls had not been expecting. Only one guard had died to the blade in the last fifty years. All of them had taken vows to serve unto death, Valon expect most of them had never expect to have to keep that vow.
Emperor Flasson II arrived suddenly, out the door way that lead toward the kitchens. He looked every day of his seventeen years, his eyes wide in a boys panic, his lips and left breast side of his doublet stained faintly purple. Valon did not think he was a bad Emperor, in truth he had only had a handful of years to even be one but he was weak, a personality flaw not one brought on by his youth. His skin was pale, an unusual trait that had spurned all sorts of rumors upon his arrival into the world, and his hands and flesh, while thin, were so obviously soft. But more than that there was simply something about how he carried himself, more than any one particular moment or act, that had given inspiration to his nickname, amongst the Empire's dissidents, Emperor Flaccid.
Still, panic stricken as he was, Valon could not bring himself to think of him as a bad Emperor. He tried to remember the last great Emperor. Garret his childhood tutor would have been ashamed of him from struggling to remember, Corum would have been ashamed too, but for another reason. Flasson's father had been fair, admittedly no more fit for combat than his son, but at least had the appearance of virility and strength that a life of recreational hunting at least created. Valon could not recall Flasson's grandfather and namesake, he had been a child when he had died.
'How long will the doors hold?' Flasson asked, his voice exposing everything that was obvious in his eyes.
'Moments, my lord.' Valon answered. His voice flatter than even he had expected it.
'What do we do Corum?' Flasson asked panicky. In the months before, despite his love for his old sword master, the question would have infuritated Valon. He had been Captain now for three years. But Corum had been his father's Captain and in truth, Valon could not seem to summon up the energy to be offended by the circumvention of his authority.
'We are at the end, my lord.' Corum responded, there was such softness there in his voice. Those who had been sitting stood, those who had been leaning righted themselves. There was no enthusiasm in the movements but Valon was proud of them all the same.
Flasson scurried up the steps leading to the throne, golden like the empire it would preside over for a few more minutes. He sat and straightened himself and would have looked composed to any onlooker except for the desperate way in which he gripped the armrest, each carved to resemble a lion.
