Prologue
The Right of Might
AN 1215 (AZ 1452) - Late Winter
Atreides Sea, far north of Notos
In the land of Hijima, the Emperor reigned supreme. As the direct descendant of the sun goddess, none dared to challenge his authority. That was how it was said to be, but the reality was a different story.
Few emperors in history took an active role in the governance of the nation. Most of them were content to remain shut off from the world in the safety of the sacred grounds of the palace. The task of managing mundane daily affairs went to the local lords, each with a tiny fief and an eye for the lands of his peers. Petty disputes easily precipitated into full-scale wars.
War seemed to be the natural state of affairs and some were very good at it. They were known as warlords and their armies made the land run red with blood. Out of all who claimed such a title, few could instill as much fear as the warlord Akasame.
He was born into an obscure branch of the local clan, scarcely better than a mere peasant. He was at war with the world ever since he was a child and that warlike nature provided a way out of his life of poverty and misery when he was enlisted into the army of a neighboring lord. He rose through the ranks quickly and soon became the commander of his master's troops. On the lord's deathbed, he bequeathed his fief to Akasame instead of his own son, elevating the young warrior well above his original station.
He wielded his new power against his rivals with tireless vigor. Three fiefs fell into his hands by the end of his first year as lord. His conquest came with greater toil after that as the neighboring lords saw what a great threat he was becoming and started banding together to resist him. Even with these alliances, by the end of his tenth year, a total of eight fiefs had been added to his original domain. He stood on the verge of marching on the gates of the imperial palace itself. The lord who controlled the Emperor controlled Hijima. Some feared he would even go so far as to commit the gross blasphemy of crowning himself Emperor. The thought had certainly occurred to him.
Whatever his true ambitions were, they were not to come to pass. Almost all the remaining lords rallied to the cause of defeating the demon wearing a man's skin. In the months that followed, Akasame stubbornly fought for every inch he had gained, but even the greatest warlord of the age could not stand forever with all hands turned against him. Several of his lieutenants betrayed him to save their own lives and so he was driven to the sea.
It would have been easy to kill him and perhaps that is what his rival lords should have done. However, the oracles warned of curse on any who spilled his blood, so instead, he and some three hundred men still loyal to him were set adrift with a week's provisions. Let the seas take him or the pirates that preyed upon the coast.
Akasame vowed to take his revenge. First he would go west to the mainland and raise a new army, one that could crush the alliance that stood against him. Perhaps he would conquer all the mainland first and become an emperor above all emperors. This ambition too was thwarted when a storm rose up and sent his ships off course.
The ships first ran aground in a land of barren desert as far as the eye could see. He did not know where he was or how to set his course aright. Neither he nor his men were seafaring folk, but as they hugged the coastline heading westward in search of the lands they sought, they wandered farther and farther from their goal. It was as if the seas themselves had set themselves against him to prevent him from setting foot on his native soil again.
The days gave way to weeks and the weeks to months. They would raid the coasts for the provisions they needed to survive, but where were they going and to what end? It would seem that Akasame was truly cursed by the gods, but rather than surrender, he challenged the heavens. They would find a new land and take it for their own and he would be the king of this land, nay, its god.
The coasts ran west and then they ran south, but when they turned east, he took it for a sign their new kingdom was near. The currents then swept them away from the coast and into the open sea. Three weeks had passed. The last of the food and water had been gone for three days. The men were at their limit and they would not be silent.
It was around midday and Akasame was standing on the deck doing sword drills when most men were too weak to do anything more than lie there as dead men. He had to keep his arm strong. No mere lack of food or water would keep him from his practice. Yes, he could feel the weakness seeping into his bones, but that was all the more reason to train.
A soldier of middling rank approached him. It was an unusual sight, but Akasame did not let it interrupt his drills.
"My lord," the soldier said, "your men are weary. They cannot live much longer unless food and water can be found."
"What of it?" Akasame asked indifferently.
"The spirits are displeased," the soldier said. "All this company is cursed because of you. We have remained loyal to you this long, but what of your loyalty to us? I entreat you, my lord, to spill your own blood by your own hand, to sacrifice yourself to quiet the spirits' anger."
It would seem there were those who thought of treachery but feared the oracle that led to his exile in the first place. The hand that spilled his blood would be cursed. If Akasame was already under a curse, then by spilling his own blood, one curse would overcome the other. Just as it is said, to use poison against poison.
Akasame lowered his sword and stared silently at the impudent wretch before him. Every man was expected to give his life for his lord, even after the lord has died. Under what heaven does the lord lay down his life for his subjects?
He gave a quick swing that cut one of the man's legs off at the knee. When the man fell to the deck, Akasame then pinned the screaming carcass down. He picked up the severed leg and held it aloft. Glaring at his stunned men with the ferocious eyes of a monster, he bellowed in a loud voice.
"The weak are food for the strong! That is the order of the world! If you want food and drink, here it is! Any who die or any whose hearts are gripped by weakness and fear are nothing but fodder for worthier men. Hear now! The gods have chosen me to be a great leader and they will guide me to our promised land. Those whose spirits remain strong will have their share of the rewards. All who stand against me will meet the same end as this coward. Do not forget this!"
The men were completely silent. None dared to speak against him now. He held the stump of a leg over his mouth and squeezed out the blood as if it were a ripe pomegranate. The iron taste of the blood pleased him. A drink of iron to build men of iron. He then took out his knife and peeled away the skin to slice off a sliver of meat from the calf. When he took his first bite of human flesh, he found that he did not like the taste, but cowardly soldier was no dainty to be enjoyed by ladies of the court. It was food to survive and survive her would, along with any strong enough to follow in his example. The weak were food for the strong. That was the order of the world and that was why he would see his ambitions fulfilled.