The Fall to Power Read Online Free

night bartering with an on-duty guard for a few short minutes of illicit pleasure to break the monotony of guarding an impregnable fortress.
                  Just to the right of centre, nine-hundred yards, not too far from the city gates; through an open window he spied a group of youths, faces blackened with soot from working the forges of the city’s weapons district, lying drooling and insensate in the flickering light of a dying oil-lamp, spread-eagled across a scattering of cushions and blankets. A discarded pipe lay on the floor, a glaring clue to their condition. He narrowed his eyes, focusing harder on the caked remnants that lay unburnt in the bowl of the device; opium, imported from afar and carried by cart from the Merchant Coast. Pure, not cut with powdered rock as so often it was.
                  The King nodded appreciatively; the lads must have spent a considerable portion of their meagre earnings in pursuit of their stupor.
                  A cry of help that would have gone unnoticed by lesser ears drew his attention to a small alleyway off a market place just under a half mile distant; a merchant, reasonably wealthy by the looks of his robes and hat, had obviously made the mistake of venturing into the poor quarter in search of a drink and some female company. They were wont to do that, those who thought themselves wealthy and high of station, venturing into the less well-off areas late of a night, thinking themselves thrill-seekers for mingling with the unwashed masses.
                  It was not their hygiene that so concerned this particular merchant, rather the sharp blades of his assailants that glinted in the light of the moons, as they stabbed him repeatedly, before running off into the night with his coin-purse, leaving him to die, cold and alone, in the gutter.
                  The thought crossed the King’s mind momentarily that he could maybe help this poor fellow; he could be there in an instant, take him to an apothecary in another. No sooner had the idea crossed his mind than he quashed it with a wry smile. Were he to go about helping every dreg of society that should get himself in trouble, then he would get nothing done. Besides, he didn’t care if some poor fool got himself stabbed for his own misadventures.
    Long ago had he resolved to stop caring about people; his pretty words of earlier a mere mask, for his manipulation of the masses served only to make life easier for himself, the pursuit of an immortality of decadence and living in the moment his only real passion. The people were united for it served his purpose, allowing him to keep control on everything, ruling with an iron fist, taking what he wanted, when he wanted.
    He turned, away from the city, looking out from the oth er side of the bridge to the coast not far beyond, spying the rising crags of the Isle of Storms that rose, jagged and threatening from the choppy black sea.
    Soon, after the posturing and ceremony of the Beacon was all over and done with, he would venture further beyond, having grown almost bored of his current lands. Fresh pleasures lay beyond those waves, further even than he could see with his incredible eyes.
    He chastised himself, momentarily, for the Beacon was more than just pomp; it was the idea of the Seeress, and nothing she ever suggested was mere vanity, everything having a purpose, her every action geared towards furthering his power and, by extension, her own. The Beacon would further unite his people, building their patriotism to a rising climax, at which point he would unleash them in a wave of bloodthirsty Clansmen upon unsuspecting peoples from across the sea.
    He nodded to himself, turned and continued across the bridge, entering the tower that served as his own personal wing of the keep.
    The corridors here were luxuriant, the floor covered in carpets, thick and warm, the colour of spilt blood. Tapestries hung from the walls in the