The Noble Warrior

Smashwords Edition

The Noble Warrior: The Empire of the North Book One

By Brendan DuBois

Copyright 2013 by Brendan DuBois.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors' imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

All Rights Reserved.

Cover art by Jeroen ten Berge

The Noble Warrior

Empire of the North: Book One

By

Brendan DuBois

This novel is dedicated to writer and editor John Helfers, who started this whole ball rolling some years back.

I met a traveller from an antique land

Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,

Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown

And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,

The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed.

And on the pedestal these words appear:

"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"

Nothing beside remains: round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

---- Ozymandias, by Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1818

Prologue

At an intersection in the southeast section of Quebec City, capitol of the Kingdom of Quebec, sixteen-year-old Sire Randall de la Bourbon watched the horse-drawn wagons and occasional electric coach pass by on the cobblestone streets, and checked his watch. Five minutes to go before his young life was to be changed forever, if he decided to follow through with the mysterious invitation he had received earlier this day, at his room at the Chateau Frontenac.

He took three paces, adjusted his cape, and then retraced his steps, looking up at the dusk sky as an airship slowly glided in from the south across the St. Lawrence River, heading to the Imperial landing field in Ancienne-Lorette, about 11 klicks away. All about him buildings of stone and brick were clustered on the narrow streets, and where he stood, the land quickly fell away to the banks of the wide river, where sailing ships and ferries were at work. Nearby was a wooden utility pole, and tacked up on the pole was a Wanted poster for a servant named O’Neill Helen, age fourteen, who had run away from her employer at 12, Rue de la Port. Randall gave the poster a quick glance before turning away.

Another check of his watch. Two minutes to go. He was nervous and excited, and knew his father --- if he had been here --- would have chastised him for pacing like this. It would be a sign of weakness, the old man would say. Father was always one for sniping, complaining, correcting everything and anything his only son did. But luckily for Randall, his father was no doubt hard at work at his ministry, back in Toronto, their home and the capitol of the Empire of the Nunavut.

He forced himself to stand still. He looked at the graceful lines of the airship, wondering where it was coming from, wishing he could have taken a quick airship ride here instead of the bumpy and loud train. And he recalled his arrival earlier today to visit a sickly aunt --- and had planned to see the old crone for about ten minutes before going someplace more amusing --- but a note had been left on his hotel room’s desk with a single typewritten sentence: If you want a chance to change your life and the Empire, be at the corner of Avenue St. Denis and Rue de la Port at three p.m.

So here he was. And he was about to check his watch one more time when a black electric coach hummed up and came to a stop before him. The windshield and side windows were darkened and there were no identifying tags on the polished wooden front bumper. Randall waited, to see if someone would come out and open the rear door for him, but no one emerged. He looked around, to see if anyone was nearby to see his humiliation, but he had the street to himself.

To change your life and the Empire. Randall thought a bit of humiliation was a fair price to pay for such chance.

He opened the rear door and got in.

The seat was smooth brown leather. The windows were all curtained and firmly latched, so he couldn’t see where he was going. A thin wooden partition hid the front seat. He gathered his cape about him and waited. His so-called chums back at his prep school --- the Upper Empire College in Toronto --- would be scared to pieces at what was happening, but excitement was overwhelming his unease. Randall stood apart from his classmates in so many ways --- from cheating to lying, events that usually meant expulsion but not for him --- and another was his love of betting, whether on horses, dogs, or hockey. This time, Randall was gambling for his life and the possible future of the empire. It was a fun, exciting, tingling feeling.

The coach made a stop, a turn, and then another turn, and then slowed down. He leaned forward, to the wooden partition. No sound. The coach came to a halt.

Randall leaned back in his seat. And waited. And then he opened the coach’s door, stepped out, blinking his eyes in the dim light. The coach was in a stone garage. Before him was an open wooden door, with a stone corridor leading out, lit by flickering gas lamps set on the walls. The place smelled of old things, old secrets. He readjusted his cape, wished he were carrying a knife or a short sword, and started walking.

The hallway curved and opened up into a small room, with a wooden bench in front of him. He sat down on the bench without being invited. Three figures sat on chairs on a rough-hewn wooden riser about three meters before him. The ceiling was cement and the walls were exposed stone. There were damp, weeping rivulets of water from the stone, and gas lamps flickered, casting odd shadows about them. Electrical lamps were based in the ceiling above the figures, partially blinding Randall, emitting a buzzing noise. All he could see was that they were wearing loose gray robes, like those belonging to a monastery. But he had a fair feeling none of them had taken vows of poverty or chastity.

The figure on the left said in an old man’s voice, You seem to be a bright young fellow, so we’ll dispense with the usual threats and harsh words about keeping what you hear here confidential. Instead, we have questions. You’re due to attend the Imperial Service Academy in a few months. Are you looking forward to it?

The buzzing noise from the electrical lamps partially disguised the man’s voice. Randall knew what his insipid fellow students would say, about the opportunity for learning, for meeting other young nobles from around the Empire, how privileged one would feel to be there. But even at his age, he knew those words wouldn’t work for these three.

"Not for a moment, monsieur, he said. I’ve had enough of school, of thick teachers, of equally thick classmates, of homework and assignments and mandatory sports. There are more important things for me to do. The Service Academy isn’t one of them."

The center figure said in a softer voice, also partially disguised by the buzzing noise, You feel, then, you are more suited for something else? Even at your age of sixteen?

"I am, monsieur, he said, his voice filled with confidence. Otherwise, why would I be here?"

Although the trio before him didn’t say anything, he could see from their slight movements that he had made an impression. From the time he had gotten the note to when he was picked up by the coach, he had pondered why he would be chosen for anything. The only answer was his family background, as slim as it was.

The figure on the right folded his arms, revealing a heavy red signet ring on one finger. The sight thrilled Randall. The man on the left said, Self-confident young man, aren’t you.

"So I’ve been told, monsieur," Randall replied.

But from what we know, you’re not so confident among your classmates, now, are you. Especially among the young girls. Is that true?

He felt his cheeks burn. Perhaps. I really don’t pay that much attention.

And your grades certainly don’t reflect any confidence, do they, young sire. You barely do well enough each semester to be passed ahead for the next.

He suddenly wasn’t as excited as before. His voice sullen, Randall said, "I’m sure, monsieur, you know there’s more in being a success than just grades. There’s drive. Ability. Not being concerned about the past, but thinking about the future."

True enough, the man said. So we’ll talk for a moment about the future, as you noted. The empire is now facing challenges for its very existence. For nearly three centuries, ever since the War of the World, we’ve been living in splendid isolation. But now… sailing ships from lands beyond the Atlantic and Pacific are calling on our ports. There are more disturbances to the southern badlands, beyond our border. And some of the kingdoms to the west… such as Brit Columbia and Yukon, grow restless. There are also rumors of trouble within our servant class. For the empire to survive in these times, a strong hand is needed. And many feel we don’t have a strong hand at Court. Do you agree, young sire?