(Note: This section is early worldbuilding I posted many years ago for the fantasy universe that grew into the backstory of Francois He’s world. Although many of the details have changed along the way, I’ve chosen to leave it up.)

The Vermilion Empire

 

Once, the Vermilion Lands were known for nothing save the cinnabar that gave their name. Located in the remote west, divided between a patchwork of petty princes, and in thrall to the horse nomads of the interior, only a fool could imagine them as anything but a backwater.

And then, in one Vermilion city, a particularly great fool inherited the throne. Determined to overthrow the nomad yoke, the new prince embraced pike and gunpowder, drilled and redrilled his troops in the new weapons, levied taxes to pay for his army and hired administrators to oversee it all. He died before seeing his moment, but the tools he built passed intact to his son, the Phoenix Prince.

What his father did for one state, the Phoenix Prince did for all. Heaven had blessed him with wit, will and charisma, and when a succession crisis distracted the nomads, the Prince seized his chance. Over the next year, many of his fellow rulers joined him through persuasion; others, through fear; and the rest, through force — but only after peace had been struck on the most generous terms. When the nomads next demanded tribute, the Prince replied with steel and shot instead.

When the dust settled, twenty years later, the nomads had been broken once and for all. The Vermilion Empire was born — but without the Phoenix Prince at its head. Disease did what no nomad could: the Prince died in the hour of his triumph, without ever being crowned emperor.

His successors shared his military talent, but none of his vision. With their ancient enemies defeated, they led the Vermilion armies east across the continent, with Vermilion settlers following in their wake. The Prince sought to be loved; his successors thought fear would do as well. The Prince had been famous for clemency; his successors razed any city that fought. The Prince sought out representatives of every faith; his successors shrugged at their new subjects’ beliefs, so long as they publicly followed the imperial cult.

And yet, it worked. When the regiments finally stopped at the new frontier, a thousand miles away, the Vermilion Peace began: two hundred years of stability, security, and prosperity. Cities grew beyond their walls. Trade flourished — even overland, where violence had long prevented it going far. And where the merchants went, men and women of letters followed, spreading philosophy, poetry and scientific inquiry. With the nomads — the bane of civilisation — defeated, it seemed as though the Vermilion golden age could last forever.

It did not. Over time, the emperors grew weaker, the officials greedier, the magnates stronger. Local identity, never far from the surface, regained its strength. Armies increasingly identified not with the far-off emperor, but with their governor — or their general.

Into this tinderbox came three sparks: an epidemic, which started by gutting army camps and ended by killing thousands a day in the great cities; famine, which ravaged the countryside; and, when it seemed things could get no worse, the death of the emperor without an heir. The factions bickered. Civil war loomed.

Even at this late hour, there was still one man acceptable to all: Grand Duke Kohai, greatest of the magnates. If he had displayed a ruthless streak during his ascension, well, that was how great men were made. Surely nobody would begrudge him the methods of the early emperors? But as Kohai began to lift the crown, an unknown assassin shot him dead.

No mortal could have filled his shoes, but a spirit did: the Phoenix Prince, called back to the world after centuries. Advising the Prince were men and women of equal wonder: Artorius of Cairbrunn, the spirit soldier who had been fighting since ancient times; Tian Kizo, the administrator who had summoned them with the rarest of magics; and Kizo’s niece Tian Risa, builder of the first flying machines. The new “Revivalist” government made a promising start, reforming law codes, modernising academies, appointing officials. Given time, it could have worked.

But by then, with the empire’s institutions so weak, and faith in them so low, one stone could trigger an avalanche. That stone was the mutiny of a single frontier general, and the avalanche began when the troops sent to apprehend him defected instead.

Just like that, the Vermilion Empire shattered like a pot. Province after province declared independence; commander after commander went rogue. The Revivalists fought back, but no matter how many battles the Revivalist armies won, supported by Risa’s fledgling Sky Corps, they could not win the war. With each province that broke away or fell into rebel hands, revenues shrank; when revenues fell, armies shrank; when armies shrank, territories slipped; and the cycle began again.

Five years since the civil war began, and two hundred and fifty years after the Phoenix Prince first defied the nomads, the unthinkable happened. The last army of the Revivalists, the most legitimate claimants to the empire, went down in defeat. The capital fell to rebels; looting, burning, killing. The Vermilion Throne was hacked to bits. Artorius and the Phoenix Prince were blasted back to the spirit realm; Tian Kizo died with his country.

But one reed of hope remains. Tian Risa escaped on board the greatest flying machine yet built, the sky frigate Windrider, bringing three hundred survivors with her. The rebels agreed on nothing beyond enmity to the empire, and with ancient grievances bubbling back, they must surely turn against one another soon. If Risa can find new strength abroad, amongst allies and Vermilion exiles, the opportunity to return may yet present itself.

Vermilion history is at a crossroads…

 

The Isles of Lune

 

For centuries, the Sea of Lune has formed the crossroads of the world, and the isles of Lune have been at its heart. The produce of every nation on earth can be found in the markets of Lune, brought there by men and women from every continent: transported by local sailors, funded by Vermilion bankers and underwritten by Kephalan insurers, blessed by Cascan priests and Northlands sorcerers.

With goods came merchants, and with wealth came conquerors. Wave after wave of immigration and invasion has left the islands politically divided but a cultural melting pot. The Lunites have returned the favour: throughout the world they are renowned as sailors, shipwrights, pirates, and traders, and Lunite ships carry grains, spices, fish, cloth, tea, coffee, lumber, iron, and manufactures of every description.

Most recent to come was the mighty Vermilion Empire. While traders from the Vermilion Lands had always come to Lune, it was only a hundred years ago when the Empire established an outpost on the northernmost of the isles, Pearl Island. In name, the Lunite kingdoms became Vermilion tributaries; in reality, the Lunites kept their cake and ate it, preserving their independence while benefiting from the Vermilion Peace. Well-to-do Lunites sent their children to study in the Empire; they came back speaking Vermilion and bearing technical knowledge, ready to be converted into business opportunities.

The resulting years were a golden age. Ample rice (owing to Lune’s southern latitude) fed the masses. Coal and, increasingly, aethite fed the forges and manufactories, brought their products within reach of ordinary folk. The resulting boom in iron and cotton fed the industrialists. And the profits of commerce fed artists and architects, princes and priests. Only the war gods went hungry — under the Vermilions’ watchful eye, the Lunite kings let their armies and even their fleets go to rust.

But now, with the Vermilion Empire all but a memory, danger beckons again. For predators who prefer taking wealth to making it, the islanders’ riches make them a tempting target. Piracy is on the rise, and not every Lunite monarch is happy with the current borders. Who can keep the peace? Certainly not the Vermilion Revivalists at Pearl Island, who withdrew their garrison to fight on the mainland.

It has been in Lune, these last hundred years, that life has been least nasty and least brutish. It is in Lune that the embers of the Ascent burn brightest. They could grow, and one day bathe humanity in light — or some tyrant’s boot could stamp them out.

These few, rainy, crowded islands may turn out to hold the fate of the world.

 

The Kingdom of Itria

Ever since civilisation arose, the land of Itria has been one of its shining lights. Itrians farmed while the rest of the world hunted; built cities while the rest of the world farmed; built monuments when the rest of the world first moved into cities. The monuments still stand today, their weathered stone enduring long after the names of their builders faded into dust.

Over the millennia, Itria’s fortunes have risen and fallen, as history turned like the wheels of a chariot. At various times, Itria has been an independent realm, the seat of empire, a satrapy, and a nest of warlords. Itria’s conquerors have come and gone, come and been absorbed into the fabric of Itrian life, come and been overthrown.

Latest to spin the wheel were the Kephalans, who started as horse nomads but proved all too willing to adopt new ways. While the Itrians may have been among the first to farm, urban subjects of the Kephalans were among the first to cast cannon, and Kephalan slave-soldiers among the first to use them. Kephalan armies marched far and wide, and by the time they reached Itria, the proud old kingdom was just another morsel in their path. The Kephalans’ great guns battered down Itria’s walls, their governors installed themselves in the ancient palaces beyond, and there they settled for the next eighty years.

The Kephalan yoke did not last. As the Kephalans’ politics turned more fractious, their lords could not waste their attention on distant provinces. In Itria, a man who could talk to spirits led a religious awakening — and when the spirits told him to fight, religion bred rebellion. Mountain bandits and rural grandees alike became holy warriors; in time, the holy warriors became trained soldiers. Gunpowder is a tool that fits many hands, and the Itrians learned well from its original master.

After years of fighting, the Itrians finally drove the Kephalan invaders out, chased them through one subject land after another until the reborn kingdom of Itria had doubled in size. But that was not the end of things. The Itrians were appalled by the heresies espoused in their new territories; and with new leadership and a clear threat to face, the Kephalans were regrouping in what remained of their empire. Itria could not put aside the sword quite yet.

And it never really did, not for the next hundred and fifty years. To the Itrians, even decades-long periods of peace were never more than breathing spaces between wars: Itrians and Kephalans, Itrians and rebels, Itrians and heretics, Kephalans and heretics (on Itrian soil). Conflict has honed Itria’s army into the finest in the world, skillful, experienced, and quick to adopt new technology.

Unfortunately, paying for this war machine costs the King of Itria money. Lots and lots of money. Were Itria’s commerce more developed, there would be a bigger pie to tax; were Itria’s administration more developed, and the landed gentry less powerful, the King could claim a bigger slice. Be that as it may, Itria is known for its soldiers, not its craftsmen, clerks or merchants. Neither is it known for its bankers, and the King has already exhausted his credit abroad. If the money cannot be taxed or borrowed, it must be stolen, but from whom? The Kephalan border is both poor and well-guarded; if it were that easy, it would have been done by now.

The King’s advisors have the answer, one last roll of the dice. Look outward, they say. The Kephalans grow fat off trade with distant lands; why not outfit a fleet to cut them off? Any foreigners encountered might be useful allies after proper instruction in the faith — and if they won’t cooperate, hopefully they will prove easy prey. The profits could be stupendous, as attested by the first few captains to try. But so are the costs, and the failure of any expedition would surely leave Itria open to her foes.

Fortune’s hand is on the wheel of history, but whether to slow or spin, only time will tell.