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283 pages

English

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The king is dead, long live his successor!The young King of the Kaldonians, Alastair, lies dying in an Asian palace, surrounded by his generals and subjects. Alastair has conquered a vast empire but has no children and his natural successors are considered unsuitable heirs by his generals. The foot soldiers, however, retain loyalty to the royal family and force the commanders to accept Alastair's obscure half-brother and unborn son to be made joint monarchs. Many of the generals see opportunities for themselves to carve up the empire but are suspicious of each other of wanting to usurp the puppet kings and seize total power.What is behind the spate of unnatural deaths spreading from the palace, through the city, that draws an ordinary brother and sister into an alliance with two exotic adventurers to stop a world-threatening menace?Looking on are the conquered people of the empire. Is this the time to throw off the yoke of Kaldonian oppression for the restoration of their ancient liberties?As predicted by the dying Alastair, only the strongest would be his final successor.

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Thriller

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Publié par	Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
Date de parution	30 novembre 2022
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781398454989
Langue	English

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T he S uccessors “ T o the s trongest”
S A Robertson
Austin Macauley Publishers
2022-11-30
The Successors “To the Strongest” About the Author Dedication Copyright Information © Year 0 After Alastair Year 1 After Alastair Year 2 After Alastair Year 3 After Alastair Some of The Characters of The Successors
About the Author
S A Robertson, when young, studied ancient history and archaeology at Edinburgh University, which involved him participating in excavations in the UK, Near East and the Mediterranean. After graduating with a MA (Hons) in Archaeology, Stuart completed an MBA at the City of University Business School, London. This was followed by a varied career in business, including the dubious honour of being involved in one of the earliest British.com collapses. Throughout his life, Robertson has been a keen reader of history and fantasy novels and this book is the culmination of both these interests.
Dedication
To my patient family:
Joanna, Emily and Charlotte
Copyright Information ©
S A Robertson 2022
The right of S A Robertson to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781398454972 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781398454989 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published 2022
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd ®
1 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5AA
Year 0 After Alastair
Mid-morning heat pervaded the vast darkened room, as the Babelian summer sun defied the twenty-foot-thick mudbrick walls. The cloying dampness of the Euphrates River mingling with the smell and smoke of incense rising from a hundred spluttering burners.
Around the chamber were praying holy men from the countless tribes and nations. Priests of a far flung, conquered empire: Brahmins from Hindustan in saffron-dyed flowing robes; Farsian Zoroastrian priests in long flowing gowns with wide sleeves, threaded with gold and silver, their thick black hair tied in a bun and their beards flowing down their chests in tight black locks; shaven-headed Aegyptian priests with white linen cloths flung over their shoulders; contrasting vastly with the near naked shamans of the great northern plains, their bodies covered in blue tattoo images of wild beasts and wilder warriors. All posed in their preferred positions, favoured by their Gods: some kneeling; others cross-legged and others standing, with their eyes looking upwards, hands extending out with palms upturned. A cacophony of clashing languages filled the hall, all praying for the recovery of their sovereign.
In the centre of the throng stood an enormous bed carved out of a single piece of pure white marble, luminous in the dimness, its sides carved with scenes of fabulous animals: winged eagles with lion’s heads; half men half bulls and scaled dragons, all linked together in an eternal writhing battle. Above the bed was a simple linen canopy upheld by four golden ionic style columns, the work of long-dead Anglian craftsmen, who had laboured for the now vanished Great Kings of Farsia. At each corner of the bed stood a kilted Khaldonian guard, their heavy breastplates chased in gold, their shields painted with the royal sunburst, armed with spears, wearing, despite the heat, plumed iron helmets. The troops stared blankly into the gloom, showing all the emotion of stone statues.
Dwarfed by the bed, lay a man, his bronzed scarred body sweating profusely. The small stature of the man belied the legendary vigour and energy he had possessed in health. His torso was fanned by a court eunuch, chosen for his grace, while another, of even greater beauty, mopped the fevered brow of the sick man; their dark eyes and blue black hair contrasting with the sick man’s golden hair and grey eyes.
Pacing at the foot of the bed was a tall, broad-shouldered man, his weather-beaten face a testimony of years of hard marches. He looked older than his thirty-eight years, his light brown, straight hair and clipped beard already heavily flecked with grey. But a man of unmistakeable authority, forged by leading proud, quarrelsome men. Although even he was uneasy, unsure of what to do when the time came.
Phergus noticed the eunuch Pagoas damping the dying man’s brow, whispering into his ear; what deceits was the pretty Farsian pouring into the King’s ear? Malicious lies from the favourite had been the death of many an innocent man, even a Satrap’s. But Phergus always made sure he kept Pagoas’ favour, with words of praise and gifts suitable for a prince. It was through the eunuch’s whispering that Phergus had secured the position of second in command of the Empire, vacated after the death of Hamish, the King’s boyhood comrade and more. Still, when the King was dead, Phergus thought there would be no use for the Farsian.
Khaldonian Commanders, Torquil, Ernest, Patrick, Lorcan and the others, stood throughout the hall, separately or in huddles, sharing the same unsettled sensation, so unfamiliar after years of victories, led by a man who had defied mortality. Yet there he lay, dying, with only days, hours to live and no successor, no Khaldonian son, to claim the fabulous inheritance.
It was a mixture of feelings that ran through their thoughts. Eleven years earlier, following their King, Alastair, they had burst from Europe into Asia, carrying all before them like a spring flood, surging from a thousand valleys. The King had been young, only twenty-two at the start of their great adventure, but then they were all mostly young; Torquil just turned forty-four was among the oldest of the assembled Commanders.
Alastair disliked his inherited, veteran Generals; he had no time for their caution and disliked being constantly compared to his father. Strategically, the young King left the older Commanders behind to guard the Royal Army’s lines of supply, as the Khaldonians advanced further into the crumbling Farsian Empire. The new monarch liked to be surrounded by young men of his own age, because they shared his sense of adventure and daring and also because he liked young men.
At the beginning, it had gone well. Stunning victories were made against overwhelmingly larger armies, sealing the young King’s fame as a military genius and the Khaldonian army as the supreme fighting machine of the known world. In victory, Alastair had shown great generosity to his companion in arms and compassion to most of the defeated, winning him great loyalty from both his old and new subjects. But the further East the army marched, the greater the King’s ambitions grew and discontentment set into the troops.
After more spectacular triumphs and conquests in Hindustan, the army had had enough, only desiring to return west, ultimately to their homes. After crossing the Indus, a mighty river, the troops refused to march further east. After the army’s rebellion, Alastair’s bitter disappointment, anger and a growing belief in his own divine status caused him to change. His soul had been poisoned, no longer was he a merciful Khaldonian King, he became the ruthless King of Kings, lord of a boundless Empire. Cities and peoples who resisted the Khaldonians were no longer shown clemency in defeat but put to the sword, every last man, woman and child. Alastair had even forbidden that prisoners could be ransomed.
Alastair’s wrath drove him to mete out a severe punishment to his own army. The Khaldonians could have returned west through territories and peoples already subjugated, with easily obtained supplies. Instead, the troops had been forced to march back from the jungles of Hindustan, through the terrible, desolate Farsian desert. No human enemies confronted the Khaldonians on the westward march, no battles were fought but the heat, lack of water and basic provisions on the trek inflicted a tremendous casualty on the army and the camp followers, greater than experienced in any conflict. Another Commander would have faced a mutiny but Alastair’s prestige and esteem was such that the men meekly submitted to their chastisement.
The past two years, Alastair’s change continued; he couldn’t bear to be contradicted: he wouldn’t listen to advice against his plans to conquer all the countries of the entire Middle Sea; to force the Khaldonians to act more like Farsians and the Farsians more like Khaldonians. All of Alastair’s recent ambitions and plans were unpopular with the troops and most of the officers. The King’s suspicions and paranoia grew, fed, some believed, by his Farsian courtiers, skilled in the art of agreeing with an absolute monarch.
Summary executions then followed: the Farsian Orsines, whose only crime had been to offend Pagoas; then Percy, who Alastair believed was plotting for the throne, followed by his old father, Peregrine, murdered on the King’s whim.
The death of his beloved Hamish the year before had further maddened Alastair; it wasn’t known whether his old comrade had restrained the King’s extreme behaviour or his death had caused it. Satraps and governors had been called to account and executed. Even the European Regent, old Paeder, had recently been summoned to Babel, where it was speculated he could expect a similar fate met by the others. Instead, the old Regent