The dead mans empire, p.1
The Dead Man's Empire, page 1
By the Same Author
The Last Blade Priest
AS WILL WILES
Care of Wooden Floors
The Way Inn
Plume
The Anechoic Chamber, and Other Weird Tales
ANGRY ROBOT
An imprint of Watkins Media Ltd
Unit 11, Shepperton House
89-93 Shepperton Road
London N1 3DF
UK
angryrobotbooks.com
It takes a woman
An Angry Robot paperback original, 2026
Copyright © W.P. Wiles 2026
Edited by Simon Spanton Walker and Andrew Hook
Cover by Alice Claire Coleman
Set in Meridien
All rights reserved. W.P. Wiles asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Sales of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as “unsold and destroyed” and neither the author nor the publisher may have received payment for it.
Angry Robot and the Angry Robot icon are registered trademarks of Watkins Media Ltd.
ISBN 978 1 91599 828 6
Ebook ISBN 978 1 91599 829 3
Printed and bound in the United Kingdom by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY
The manufacturer’s authorised representative in the EU for product safety is eucomply OÜ - Pärnu mnt 139b-14, 11317 Tallinn, Estonia,
hello@eucompliancepartner.com; www.eucompliancepartner.com
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
d_r0
CONTENTS
BOOK TWO OF The Holy Mountain
PROLOGUE: TECRELI
PART ONE: SYZENNE
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
PART TWO: DUNA
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
PART THREE: ANZOLA
12.
13.
14.
15.
16.
PART FOUR: SYZENNE
17.
18.
19.
20.
21.
PART FIVE: DUNA
22.
23.
24.
25.
26.
27.
PART SIX: SYZENNE
28.
29.
30.
31.
32.
PART SEVEN: DUNA
33.
34.
35.
36.
37.
38.
39.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
BOOK TWO OF
The Holy Mountain
“How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives: who will wipe this blood off us? What water is there for us to clean ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to invent? Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it?”
– Friedrich Nietzsche
PROLOGUE: TECRELI
Six weeks after the fall of the Brink
“Listen, all of you, you must listen.”
It was not a strong beginning, but it worked. The crowd quieted. The young priest’s voice had carried high and clear above their heads, up to the mouldy, soot-darkened prayer flags that hung from the steep pitched roof of the temple. Duna knew this was not going to be the polished oratory of a League merite. But the priest, Elecy, had something nobles did not: raw, nervous zeal. Every word came from a well of deep truth, with an edge of … what was it?
Terror. She spoke with terror. Not that she was in a state of terror – she cast it outwards.
“Our gods are dead and our holy places are defiled.”
A mingled groan of dismay and disbelief rose from the crowd, but she quieted them again with an impatient wave. “We – we, the priests, we, the so-called protectors of the Mountain, not you, the good followers of our creed – we, in the Tzanate, brought our doom upon ourselves! Listen, and understand what has happened. Our leader, the altzan-al, had brokered a peace with the heathens of the League, intending to fight the Elves. But just as this dishonourable design was complete, he was betrayed and murdered by one of his lieutenants, altzan Ving, a heretic and a tyrant! The murderer Ving, seeking to cover his guilt and remove the altzan-al’s anointed successor, accused my brother-in-faith, the blade-priest Anton, of this treason, and almost had him put to death – but a small number of the faithful, including myself, discovered the ruse, and learned of Ving’s guilt, and we freed Anton.
“It was too late! Denied their shabby treaty, the League attacked us, and invaded the Hidden Land, where no enemy has set foot since the apostate Emperor Augardine, centuries ago! Our army was away, at Cassodar! The League captured my brother Anton, intending to install him as a puppet! And at the Brink, the mightiest fortress of the world, they used the most forbidden, the foulest magic to break the walls and secure their triumph. A ruin-scourge, of a breed not known in the world for centuries! Worse even than this crime, the witch’s abilities were concealed from the divine Custodians by use of Elfcap, the berserker poison of the Elves.”
Another howl of alarm and disgust came up from the crowd, and Duna swallowed. How would this mob respond if they knew that the user of this most forbidden, most foul magic stood before them, right beside the young priest who addressed them? We cannot lie to these people, Elecy had said. They must be given the truth. But some of the truth was clearly postponed.
Elecy was still speaking. “Where were the divine Custodians, while this supreme blasphemy was committed at the threshold of the God they exist to defend? Nowhere. My friends, it is no secret that those great beasts have been in retreat for centuries, and that their power has waned. Now, they have gone from the world. And worse still, the hated Elves, taking advantage of this chaos, have entered the Hidden Land. Blasphemy on blasphemy. Without the Custodians, the Mountain itself, the source of all magic, the fount of power enough to rend the world, lies exposed to the depravity of heathens and Elves. Our sanctuary is defiled and our every sacred duty has been failed.”
The audience had exceeded its capacity for shock. Wails and weeping still arose from among the upturned faces, but the general quiet of the multitude was eerie. It stood dazed, a beast stunned by a blow, awaiting the knife to its throat. Elecy fell silent, her energy momentarily spent, and looked down at the faithful. And then she amazed Duna.
She smiled.
She didn’t just smile, she grinned. Her face was lit with ecstasy. She looked out on a sea of misery and greeted it with delight.
“You think this means the end!” she said, laughter in her voice. “You think I come here to tell you that our faith is finished, that the Mountain is gone, that its light shines no more? My friends, the Mountain shines brighter, and darker, than ever! It calls to us all! Our faith must grow to match it! What we have lost is a decayed pyramid of fools who bickered and plotted while evil swarmed. We have lost the illusion of safety, the complacency, that came from life under the protective wing of demigods. We have lost the torpor of centuries of decline. Yes, war has come, and will engulf the world. But there have been wars for the Mountain before, and they have been won by the faithful. Today we will set forth anew, and we will win.
“You think this means the end? This is the beginning, my friends – the greatest beginning the world has seen.”
PART ONE
SYZENNE
Around the time of the fall of the Brink
1.
For weeks after the ship left Penzique, she stayed in her cabin, rarely eating, rarely speaking. Every day, the envoy would enter, offer some consoling words, and tell her what wonders she was missing.
“Your serene excellence, the ship is passing the vine-cliffs of the Ario coast – perhaps you would enjoy seeing some monkeys?”
She would not.
“Your serene excellence, the ship is putting in at Jinnon for fresh water – it has a magnificent temple with a roof of yellow tiles, quite glorious. We have a fine view from the deck, would you care to come and see?”
She did not care.
“Your serene excellence, we are rounding the Cape of Clubs, revered by seamen – its crags are quite spectacular, might I recommend you take this opportunity to admire them?”
She recommended that the ship be steered into the crags so that it might sink and drown them all.
He was tireless. All through those long weeks, he spent a little time with her every day, attempting polite talk, and inviting her to sight-seeing. Even when there was nothing to see but the ocean. Even when she cursed at him, or pretended he didn’t exist, or threw books at him. It never seemed to make any difference to his polite concern, and she tired of it.
“What’s your name, anyway?” she asked, on the thirtieth day of the voyage. She had been told his name before departure and had forgotten it. Tactical forgetting was a skill that princesses learned young a nd enjoyed using to dismay officials, but this was real forgetting. She had been very upset at the time, and it had not gone in.
“Lord-Envoy Fengg, your serene excellence,” he said. His head tilted slightly at the question – a lapse in his usually statuesque mien, but not one that gave anything away.
“You’re very annoying, Fengg, but also very persistent, and I admire that.”
Fengg swallowed. “Thank you, serene excellence.”
“Stay a while.”
Now she could read him: his eyes sparkled with surprise. “Gladly, serene excellence.”
The cabin was small, and had only one real chair, which Syzenne occupied. Rather than trust his long limbs to the footstool that was the other option, the envoy sat on the bed. He folded his hands in his lap and smiled at the princess in a pleasant but formal way.
“Now that I know you, Lord-Envoy Fengg, is there any chance you might drop the ‘serene excellences’?” Syzenne asked. “I feel they have filled half the voyage, and it has been such a long voyage.”
Fengg inclined his head a polite inch. “Your serene excellence, it is unwise to forget oneself. To address you improperly, to fall into that habit, would be to invite a slip later, when it matters a great deal.”
“I refuse to believe that you are capable of a slip, Lord Fengg,” Syzenne said. “Seldom have I met a man more in command of himself. I can see why you were chosen for this task.”
“It is a matter of considerable delicacy, your serene excellence, it’s true.”
“Nevertheless, some informality on your part would be very welcome, Fengg. Being able to forget would sweeten the voyage.”
“You must not forget, your serene excellence,” Fengg said. Syzenne bristled at the must not, she rarely heard its like, but Fengg was still talking, and there was importance in his quiet, measured words. “I hope you will forgive my clumsy attempts to distract you. Your comfort and safety are my responsibility, but I can do nothing to address your unhappiness. The task facing your serene excellence is fearful indeed. No one would be happy in such circumstances. All I can offer you is my sympathy and my guidance.”
Syzenne blinked. All those days when she might have availed herself of their envoy’s gentle solemnity, and the graceful music of his speech. Syzenne could feel his fears for her, and in turn she felt a crumbling within. “And it is welcome, Fengg, most welcome.”
“Your serene excellence …”
“Will they kill me?”
“Excellence, I …”
“They will never accept me as their Empress. If this endeavour had any hope of success, we would not be doing it this way. It is madness. Rank madness. They will behead me, or deface me.”
“Excellence …”
“I am expected to fail. I am an insult, a living insult to Miroline.”
“Syzenne.” The envoy’s long arm had stretched across the small space of the cabin to rest on her shoulder. Never before had he made physical contact of any kind. His touch was shocking.
“Miroline is not what it was, your serene excellence. The empire is in no position to confront Penzique. They are hardly able to fight the wars on their doorstep, let alone start a new one half the world away. They will be very arrogant and rude, because that is their way – it is all they have left, in place of power. But this is an offer of a foreign alliance to a court desperately in need of allies. There is great potential for advantage.”
“Then why me? Why not one of my sisters?”
“There is … always an element of risk,” the envoy said, spreading his hands. She already knew, of course – her father would not put one of his natural daughters in this danger. Then, in a more generous tone, raising a long and slender finger, Fengg added: “They will not risk killing you. That is the belief of the King, and it is my own belief.”
“They do not have to kill me,” Syzenne said, with a shiver. “What I have read of the Mirolinians, their punishments …”
The envoy shook his head sadly. “Decadence is a kind of madness, a madness that affects states. It comes with great age, like senility. But states can recover. Penzique is recovering.”
“Penzique never did … the things Miroline does.”
“Few states are as old as Miroline. Few are as mad.”
“Mad enough to make me their Empress?”
The envoy smiled. Not mere politeness – genuine amusement. “The philosopher Zulno observed that the mad are capable of moments of wisdom.”
Syzenne sighed. “You’re too kind, Lord Fengg. Tomorrow it would please me to do some sight-seeing.”
After that, Syzenne joined the envoy on the ship’s prow every morning, and they passed an hour in two in conversation. The air was cooler and fresher than that of the south, and dolphins often trailed the ship, diving and darting, as if urging them on. Off the starboard side was a hilly country, tending to the mountainous, its brown slopes scattered with cedars, cypresses and olive groves. Compact villages of pale brick and red tile were sometimes spied on hilltops or tucked in coves, and the dark ziggurats of the Mountain faith. This was Mirol, the peninsula that birthed the people who later called themselves Mirolinians; a peninsula that had given its name to the whole world.
“It doesn’t look like much,” Syzenne sniffed. “Where’s the good land?”
“The good land is in Jesh, and Vell, and the Shaddavale,” Fengg said. “The places that Miroline conquered. ‘If our home gave us all that we needed, we would never have left it’, a saying of Vanadine, the father of Augardine the Great.”
On every topic, Fengg had a line of conversation, an aphorism, a historical fact, a quotation from classical literature. He was the seamless work of Penzique’s schools of protocol. Unswervingly formal he might be, but at least he always had something to say. The ship’s crew, separated from Syzenne by a difference of rank wider than the ocean, never spoke a word to her. She had exchanged only a dozen sentences with the captain, mostly on the subject of a bowl of water she had been given. The nymphs sang so loudly from that bowl, she could not believe that only she heard them. She asked – commanded, really, a princess of Penzique did not request – to see the barrel it had been drawn from, and it too roared and chorused. Throw it overboard, she told (commanded) the captain. He complied, and they did not share another word.
The crew stared and whispered. But they were obedient.
When she set foot on Mirolinian soil, there would be no more obedience. Her power would be at an end.
“How long until we put into port?” she asked the lord-envoy.
“Two more days, serene excellence,” Fengg said, dipping his head a little, a gesture of grief.
Syzenne’s cabin had been stocked with books about Miroline, to help her prepare. But among these volumes, only one – tombstone-sized, almost too heavy to lift – came from Miroline itself, and included a double-page painted view of the city. However much Syzenne hated the very idea of Miroline, she found this painted picture fascinating, and lost hours staring at it. In the foreground, a line of docks and walls, turret after turret, in a forest of masts and sails. Behind, a labyrinth of red-roofed houses, punctured with blunt dark spires of Craithe-shrines – none of Penzique’s bright, low-pitched roofs of shining tile here. Behind, a line of mountains, and in a cleft between two peaks, a flight of sculpted terraces, dripping with greenery – the Emperor’s palace. One mountain stood above the others: Marnass. Not Craithe, the great God-Mountain these people regarded as magical, which was far away, but its local stand-in, studded with corpse-towers and monasteries. And, to one side, the fiery cone of the volcano Shaddagore.
Now she had the chance to look at the real city, and the prospect filled her with dread. Only part of this was the consequence of being dragged from her home to live among these brutal and vile foreigners. She also feared that the city could exceed the obvious mightiness and richness hinted at in the painting, and that she could be cowed by the sight. That, beholding the glory of Mountain-sworn Miroline, throne of the world, she might go weak at the knees and feel the urge to bow and cringe, like the defeated kings and barbarian lords in the histories.
Her fear was misplaced.
They slid past the island-fortress of Treby, where the Mirolinian fleet was moored: an unremarkable rock, girdled by slimed shipwrecks stained white by the birds. She had to ask Fengg to point out the volcano Shaddagore: a smoke-stained peak far across the bay, not next to the city at all.
