Out of the dark ages of the Interregnum emerged the Second Empire. Once again in the space of a millennium, the banner of Imperial Earth waved above the decimated lands of the inhabited worlds. Four generations of conquerors, heirs to the greatness of the Thousand Emperors, had recreated the Galactic Empire, by force of arms. But technology, the Great Destroyer, was feared and forbidden. OnHy witches, warlocks and sorcerers remembered the oHd knowledge, and the mobs, tortured by the racial memories of the awful destruction of the Civil Wars, stoned these seekers and burned them in the squares of towns built amid the rubble of the old wars. The ancient, mighty spaceships — indestructible, eternal — carried men and horses, fire and sword across the Galaxy at the bidding of the warlords. The Second Empire — four generations out of isolated savagery — feudal, grim; a culture held together by bonds forged of blood and iron and the loyalty of the warrior star-kings… Quintus Bland, ESSAYS ON GALACTIC HISTORY
I
Kieron, Warlord of Valkyr, paced the polished floor angrily. The flickering lights of the vast mirrored chamber gHinted from the jewels in his ceremonial harness and shimmered down the length of his silver cape. For a moment, the star-king paused before the tall double doors of beaten bronze, his strong hands toying with the hilt of his sword. The towering Janizaries of the Palace Guard stood immobile on either side of the arching doorway, their great axes resting on the flagstones. It was as though the dark thoughts that coursed through Kieron's mind were — to them — unthinkable. The huge warriors from the heavy planets of the Pleiades were stolid, loyal, unimaginative. And even a star-king did not dream of assaulting the closed portals of the Emperor's chambers.
Kieron's fingers opened and closed spasmodically over the gem-crusted pommel of his weapon; his dark eyes glittered with unspent fury. Muttering an oath, he turned away from the silent door and resumed his pacing. His companion, a brawny man in the plain battle harness of Valkyr, watched him quietly from under bushy yellow brows. He stood with his great arms folded over the plaits of grizzled yellow hair that hung to his waist, his deeply-lined face framed by the loosened lacings of a winged helmet. A huge sword hugged his naked thigh; a massive blade with worn and sweat-stained hilt.
The lord of Valkyr paused in his angry pacing to glare at his aide. "By the Great Destroyer, Nevitta! How long are we to stand this?"
"Patience, Kieron, patience." The old warrior spoke with the assurance of life-long familiarity. "They try us sorely, but we have waited three weeks. A little longer can do no harm."
"Three weeks!" Kieran scowled at Nevitta. "Will they drive us into rebellion? Is that their intention? I swear I would not have taken this from Gilmer himself!"
"The great Emperor would never have dealt with us so. The fighting men of Valkyr were ever closest to his heart, Kieran. This is a way of doing that smacks of a woman's hand." He spat on the polished floor. "May the Seven Hells claim her!"
Kieron grunted shortly and turned again toward the silent door. Ivane! Ivane the Fair. . Ivane the schemer. What devil's brew was she mixing now? Intrigue had always been her weapon — and now that Gilmer was gone and she stood by the Great Throne…
Kieron cursed her roundly under — his breath. Nevitta spoke the truth. There was Ivane's hand in this, as surely as the stars made Galaxies!