Fate of an Empire (Talurian Empire Trilogy Book 1)

by Pasquariello, Jonathan

  Fate of an Empire

  Book One of the Talurian Empire Trilogy

  By

  Jonathan Pasquariello

  www.jonathanpasquariello.com

  A Chronicles of Ethindriil Novel

  Copyright © 2015 Jonathan Pasquariello

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Design by Jonathan Pasquariello

  This novel is a work of fiction.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by an electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author.

  To my beautiful wife

  For her love and support through this entire process

  Table of Contents

  Prologue: The Grand Scheme

  Part One

  Chapter 1: Welcome to the War

  Chapter 2: The General

  Chapter 3: Forest Meeting

  Chapter 4: War Plans

  Chapter 5: A Grieving Brother

  Chapter 6: A Son Is Born

  Chapter 7: Keeping Order

  Chapter 9: Trouble

  Chapter 10: For Your Head

  Chapter 11: The Slave

  Chapter 12: Massacre

  Chapter 13: The Other Side

  Chapter 14: The Haunting

  Chapter 15: Searching

  Chapter 16: Firestorm

  Chapter 17: The Changeling

  Chapter 18: A Dark Savior

  Chapter 19: The Aftermath

  Chapter 20: The Prisoners

  Chapter 21: Execution

  Chapter 22: Preparations and Goodbyes

  Chapter 23: Waking the Dead

  Part Two

  Chapter 24: The Ancient One

  Chapter 25: On the Road

  Chapter 26: Meeting the Maker

  Chapter 27: The King

  Chapter 28: Pact with the Devil

  Chapter 29: Ambush

  Chapter 30: First Encounter

  Chapter 31: The Gates of Talur

  Chapter 32: The Family Line

  Chapter 33: Night Strike

  Chapter 34: Betrayal

  Chapter 35: Gaining Ground

  Part Three

  Chapter 36: Then Came the Night

  Chapter 37: A Second Try

  Chapter 38: The General’s Estate

  Chapter 39: Closer

  Chapter 40: Sickness and Power

  Chapter 41: The Law

  Chapter 42: Deeper into the Web

  Chapter 43: Growing

  Chapter 44: Temporary Alliance

  Chapter 45: A Competition of Brothers

  Chapter 46: Finished

  Chapter 47: A New Role

  Chapter 48: Victory

  Chapter 49: Rescue

  Chapter 50: The Return

  Chapter 51: Politics

  Chapter 52: Sacrifices

  Epilogue: For What the Future Holds

  A Closing Note

  Prologue: The Grand Scheme

  His opponent’s body fell to the ground, sealing his victory.

  All went silent, save for the hammer of a heartbeat ringing in his ears.

  Valen jerked his blade free.

  Wind pushed past him, cooling the sweat that dotted his skin.

  He faced the headmaster, who sat perched high above the arena. Warlords of the region fanned out to either side of him.

  They always seem to be on the prowl for new fighting blood.

  Valen crossed his sword over his chest and bowed deeply in salute. Blood dripped off his armor, dotting the dusty floor of the battleground. Dark brown hair hung past his face as he waited for the official sounding of his triumph.

  “Valen of Gralcor, you have ascended to the top of your class.” The proclamation boomed through the air. The officiator entered the arena, gripping his forearm and lifting it overhead. “You have claimed the title of Champion!”

  With those words, the teenage warrior raised his eyes back to his superiors, nodded to each member of the panel, and retreated into the arena tunnel. The same he had entered through only moments before.

  The stadium erupted with noise.

  Surrounding students took to their feet and cheered, banging their swords and spears against their bucklers, shouting loyalty to their new leader. Valen held no emotion on his face. A true warrior did not gloat, did not delight in his fame. He humbly took measured steps past the line of clan flags fluttering in the coastal breeze.

  As he made his way through the tunnels that formed the underbelly of the academy, students and faculty members greeted and congratulated him.

  All he returned was a mere nod to each.

  He reached his destination, a benefit of his victory—a gold-veined door of polished wood and carved artwork from generations before him. A sign marked the entrance to the Champion’s Suite. Valen entered and latched the door shut, smudging the knob with a bloodied hand.

  He let out a long sigh and rested his back against the revered doorway, relishing in his first moment away from the public. His mind swirled with the sound of swords echoing through the arena and the reverberating cheers as he claimed his title. He threw his leather chestplate down and scattered caked dirt across the floor.

  His lips started to curl and he clapped his hands together. His sea blue eyes lit up as he scanned the luxurious living quarters.

  A real bed…A couch…Beautiful linens and draperies...

  A full smile broke through the stoic warrior facade. He threw his fists into the air and opened his mouth for a muted cheer. I’ve made it. Champion!

  “Your enthusiasm is palpable.” A sudden voice declared from a shadowed corner of the room.

  Reacting to ingrained discipline, Valen jumped behind the nearest chair as cover and drew his sword, keeping the tip leveled in the direction of the intruder. “Identify yourself!”

  “So ready for action.” A figure moved into the center of the room, light now fully focusing on him.

  “Master Orin?” Valen cocked his head to the side, his brow pinched, staring at the school’s only non-combat teacher. He looked over the elder’s ornate robes—far from Academy regulation. “What are you doing here?”

  “We don’t have much time.” Orin swung a satchel off his back and placed it on the floor, before proceeding to move all the furniture to the perimeter of the room. “Two or three days, at most.”

  Valen stayed quiet, watching the aged teacher survey his newly staked territory.

  “That should do.” Orin ran his fingers through his ruffled gray hair and then tugged at his wiry beard. He plopped on the ground, wrapping his legs around each other, and patted the rug next to him. “Come, come, boy.”

  Valen, realizing he still held his weapon at the ready, sheepishly tucked it away and took a spot next to Master Orin.

  “Are you alright? How did you slip in here so quickly after the fight?”

  Orin pulled his bag over and started to dig through its contents, at one point his arm looked deeper than the bag should have allowed. “Ah! Here they are.” He pulled out a second small pouch and emptied a pile of stones onto the floor, moving each into a pattern. “I’ve been here all morning—an exquisite sitting area, I must say.”

  Valen frowned. “And if I had not won the tournament?”

  “I knew you would,” Orin responded confidently
. “Now, to the point! We are on a limited timetable before this city lies in rubble. We need to get you prepared!”

  “What?” Valen’s eyes went wide. “Sir, you are not making any sense.”

  “I am; you just don’t know the full story.”

  “Here we go…” Valen shook his head, finally getting a typical response from the senile history teacher. “I’m sure you have a grand story to paint for me, full of doom and gloom and destruction.” Valen waved his hands in the air, pantomiming a soothsayer from the capital.

  “Boy, I will do more than paint it.” Orin pulled up on his sleeves, revealing thick, twisted tattoos running across his forearms.

  “I didn’t take you for a cultist.” Valen laughed.

  Orin ignored the comment and closed his eyes.

  “Not a painting. For does a painting have a taste? Smell? No, no. We will live it. Breathe it. Feel it.” Orin pounded his fist against his chest.

  A moment later all the sound in the room dropped out, and the candles blinked into darkness. As quickly as the blackness came, glimmering strands of energy ignited within the tattoos that Valen had just criticized.

  “By the gods…” Valen's hand slid to the grip of his blade.

  Orin started a chant—not in any language that he had ever heard. The energy poured into his hands and illuminated the stone pattern on the floor. Right when the stones looked to explode from their sheer magnificence of light, they expelled the pent up magic and projected out a dome around the two.

  The floor seemed to drop away, as swirling colors birthed around their seats. Valen jumped to his feet.

  Orin threw out his hand and held the boy in place, giving only a stern look to solidify his physical halt.

  The room faded from Valen’s vision and soon he realized they were floating down upon a battleground. He looked down to see tiny dots of men charging a fortress; fiery lines marked siege weapons’ trajectories; smoke labeled beaten outer defenses.

  “Be my guest in this vision, boy. A viewing of the past—a past that is going to come crashing down around you all too soon.” Orin grimaced as the two touched down on the dry dirt. “Welcome to the war…”

  Part One

  “There I stood, freshly molded, new to the world, even if the world was but seconds old. Ink and parchment in my hand. Knowledge in the fiber of my being. I was created for this. I was the first of my kind, but there were also the others.

  There. The beginning. The catalyst. The Twelve emerged from their birthing, standing tall against the pillars of light, carving Ethindriil into shape. Steam swirling away from their naked flesh. They were perfect—unscathed, yet to be soiled by His new world, in which they were cursed to command. Some good and some evil, for He knew the world required balance.”

  The Historian, Volume I, Journal I, Pg.1 (Year 1)

  Chapter 1: Welcome to the War

  Eyes, may you see clearly.

  Feet, may you move sure and swift.

  Sword, may you strike with fury.

  Shield, may you hold true.

  The sky was dark with ash. Thunderous echoes clapped across the battlefield. Boulder after boulder slammed into the weakening barrier. Trebuchets screamed under pressure and then moaned at the sweet release of their burden.

  Each blast moved the Talurian army closer to victory.

  It’s almost time.

  Please let my men rest their heads under the stars again.

  The splintered wood pleaded to give in to the onslaught; the wall trembling under each blow. Shouted orders made evident the fear from within the fortress. The Kilgarian warriors knew what was coming. They had seen the soldiers sweep across their outer defenses like a wave flattening a sandcastle. Death now waited at their doorstep.

  One…

  Time slowed. Rurik’s chest rose and fell underneath his armor as the words of his father’s mantra repeated in his head. Wind whistled through his helmet. The tone changing in pitch as it cut over the spiked rivets that lined the edges, disguising the sounds of death echoing from within the Kilgarian stronghold. His sword weighed heavy in his hand. Sweat matted his dark hair against the back of his neck. He watched a final stone barrel overhead, smashing the fortress wall inward.

  Two…

  Dust whirled around the Corporal of the Talurian Army. The iron-like smell of blood filled his nostrils. He turned to the left and winked at his brother, Aamin, whose young, bright eyes gave hint to a smile under his faceplate.

  Three…

  The stench of war was not the only thing that floated across the air. Their victory tiptoed just out of reach. The wall crumbled down, tempting their blades, urging a bloodletting.

  “Now!” He gave the order, and his men jumped into action.

  The company swarmed the newly made opening—warrior ants invading an opposing mound. Rurik hit the gap first, followed by Aamin, and then Klaric, his lifelong friend.

  He lunged into the fortress, swinging his blade through the air. Spears flew at his head, his sword knocking each aside. A trained and practiced formation dropped him to his knees as his own soldiers fired back with bow and arrow. A sequence of thrusts, parries, and jabs won him the opening and troops spilled in through the secured entrance.

  The flaming innards of the stronghold opened up into a vast expanse of wooden barriers and hastily made traps. Rurik scanned the area, his ears still ringing from the final stone that won their admission. He spun his arm in the air, hurrying his forces into action.

  The twisted maze of palisades bulged with the blackness of Talurian platemail. They filled every route and flushed out every pathway, butchering their leather-clad opposition.

  The Kilgarians fought back with their primitive weaponry, giving only dents and dings to the moving wall of steel. For every handful of Talurian casualties, dozens of Kilgarians fell. A trail of cruel slaughter marked their progress into the heart of the fortress.

  I need the higher ground. I need victory.

  Rurik motioned for Klaric and Aamin to follow. They split away from the mindless wave of soldiers. He set the pace, jogging along a narrow pathway in the direction of the surrounding wall.

  He pointed toward the west, a blinding sun blinked through the smoke-filled air. “We make for the tower. Their banner will fall today!” The Kilgarians’ honor rested in their ancestral banner, rumored to be brandished in every major victory throughout the tribe’s history. Rurik knew their will to fight would fall to nothing without it waving proudly overhead.

  They reached a covered staircase attached to the perimeter wall. As they ascended, a pair of hidden Kilgarian warriors jumped at the men’s sudden appearance and rushed to meet their attackers. Rurik blocked two strikes and took a step back as Klaric and Aamin stabbed forward, catching the warriors off balance. Rurik kicked the dying men to the stone floor below with a shout, blood arching across the sky in their descent.

  “Nothing gets your blood rushing like a good skirmish in the morning!” Klaric shouted at the brothers. A grin split his thin face. He opted to forgo a helmet during the day’s ‘festivities’. His cheekbones emphasized the dirt that smeared across his stubble grown face, a frequent appearance on the battlefield.

  “Get down!” Aamin threw a dagger over Klaric’s head and, with a quarter spin of his blade, took an approaching enemy in the neck.

  “Appreciate it.” Klaric winked, his knotted curls bobbed with a quick head gesture.

  “We need to keep moving,” Rurik growled.

  They ran along the wall, constantly changing formations, to protect every angle from surprise. Soon the tower came into view. A small group of Kilgarian warriors exited the last guard post.

  “Rurik, make for the flag,” Klaric spun his blade in the air. “We’ve got this.”

  Rurik nodded and turned his gaze to Aamin. “Stay safe while I’m gone,” he said with a wink.

  Thirty more yards and Rurik shoved his boot through the door of the citadel, the timber exploding with a crash. Immediately two blad
es struck out at him. He lashed forward, catching one of the defenders in the wrist and the second in the thigh. With both disabled, he pushed through the doorway, finishing them as he moved past, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. He ran up a flight of stairs. Then another. And another, before reaching the drop door to the roof.

  A single champion, hulking and tanned, stood waiting for him, tossing a large obsidian blade back and forth between his hands. His long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, a traditional styling among the tribesmen. A taunting smile emphasized the scar etched down the side of his face.

  Rurik approached with caution.

  Sword, may you strike with fury. Shield, may you hold true.

  The defender jumped forward swiping his weapon downward. Rurik raised his shield, and with a loud crunch, the metal barrier split in half.

  So much for holding true.

  Exposed edges of metal cut into Rurik’s muscled forearm. He shook his arm trying to free it, but the damaged buckles had jammed. The champion swung furiously at him. Rurik was left with no choice but to bide his time and dodge the attacks without a counter. The two moved around the room—the Kilgarian attacking and Rurik retreating.

  He watched, waiting for an opening.

  The man is a raging bull—all strength, no finesse.

  He stayed patient and, after a time, the giant’s movements started to slow. He was tiring and soon Rurik would have his chance. A quick sidestep placed a support beam between him and his foe. The warrior chased after with the tip of his sword, burying it into the wooden post.

  He was too slow releasing the weapon.

  Now.

  His eyes grew large as Rurik’s sword jolted into his chest and exploded out his back. Rurik pulled his blade free. The man dropped to his knees, coughing blood from his sagging mouth. Taking advantage of the lull, Rurik sawed at the leather straps on his shield, freeing his wounded limb.

  He curled his fingers and flexed his arm. Not so bad.