Emperors & Assasins

Emperors & Assassins

By: Wahida Clark

Prologue

The people in the world of Dellos needed a hero. An explosive light resonating in the grim darkness, a gift from the god's sent to fight tyranny and oppression . . .

Chapter 1

Viridius Vispanius wasn't their hero; never would be. With a deep sigh, he yanked the head of his axe out of the skull in front of him and wiped the blood and brain matter across his leather breeches. Battle exhausts everyone, even the most battle-hardened. And for those who survive, it's a curse. A curse that can only be cured by dying in the next battle. But Viridius was never that lucky.

He was a mercenary in Batopia, a lawless land in the north, a cesspool of the worst kind-his kind. He had been hiding in the north for almost a year, longing for a way to get back to his old life.

I hate Wolfryian raiding parties, he thought.

A silky black crow squawked behind him, cracking the still air. He turned his neck slightly and watched the bird fly over his shoulder, its white droppings splattering against his leather pauldrons as it climbed higher into the sky.

Damn Dellosian crows-worthless animals, he thought, smearing the white droppings off his armor. By the gods, I hate this damn place.

He spat a stream of tobacco juice from between his pursed lips, the majority of it hitting the dead body. The sun overhead beamed down on his head as the beads of sweat slowly dripped off the stubble on his chin. His skin was dark, the battle scars across his chest taut and thick.

Glancing at the bodies around him, Viridius snorted and then took a long pull off of his canteen. The field lay littered with the dead and those who would be joining them shortly.

He slammed his ax head into the wet ground and leveraged himself up with a loud sigh, his joints popping and creaking an unwelcome sound. He walked toward the woods on the far side of the blood-drenched clearing and took to the grim task of dispatching the unlucky mercenaries still alive. He sawed their throats like a woodsman felling a tree.

He drowned out the moans and gasps they made with a low whistle as his knife slid across their throats. After finishing, he walked over the threshold of the woods with his ax swung over his shoulder. Glancing into the sky for any birds large enough to swoop down on him for an easy dinner, he misstepped and stumbled over a tree root. He struggled to his feet and swiped the palm of his hand over his sweat-drenched face, and then turned around.

He cleared his throat and spat. Damn, I really hate this place.

With a quick glance over his shoulder, he grabbed his pack and walked out onto the road leading to the village of Pistoryum. The dust swirled around his ankles as he walked, the smell of blood heavy on his leather armor as he approached the gate.

He stayed in the shadows as he meandered his way to the closest bar in the village. The few coins he managed to take off the dead jingled in the pouch hanging from his belt. He slipped into the bar, the patrons barely noticing his hulking frame.

He wasn't handsome by Wolfryian standards, but he would do as a bed warmer in Batopia. His most noticeable feature was his eyes, one dark green, the other a smoky hazel.

He sat down on a rickety bar stool and ordered a mug of ale with a mutton pie. He ate quietly, and after he finished, he pounded his battle-scarred fist on the table and looked around.

Where's that barmaid? He took another pull on the brittle wooden lip of his mug. Haven't got all day. I need another drink.

He stared at the man next to him in disgust as he watched him shovel more gruel into his mouth. Shaking his head, Viridius glanced at the faces around him.