Fate of an Empire (Talurian Empire Trilogy Book 1)

by Pasquariello, Jonathan

  “Gleb!”

  Gleb, so deeply lost inside his head, almost didn’t hear his friend Jarak calling him from across the courtyard.

  The fellow Harmite jogged over, “Hey! This man might be able to use you for something.” Jarak pointed to a giant man that followed close behind. “The soldiers were spreading the word that they needed to find someone who spoke Kitam—to assist the General. I thought of you.” He smiled.

  Jarak was a nobleman’s slave. His constant exposure caused him to be less intimidated by the Talurian people. With his positions throughout the noble society, he also had acquired a more refined look and demeanor. His clothes were always immaculately pressed and his hair always at a perfect low shave.

  Despite the outward change, Gleb still saw the same young Harmite he had known since childhood. To their sadness, since Jarak moved from the labor jobs to indoor services, they had slowly drifted apart.

  “I know you love to learn the more obscure languages of the island, so I thought perhaps...” Jarak twirled his hand in the air.

  “I have studied a few of the mountain people’s languages and unique dialects,” Gleb responded while keeping his eyes toward the ground as a slave should, not to disrespect the man with Jarak. “What would the General need with that?”

  “This man—” started Jarak.

  The tall man stepped forward, “My name is Thandril. My master is in need of me elsewhere, so I need to find someone, besides myself, who can speak the difficult language.” Thandril reached over and tilted Gleb’s face up, “You do not need to humble yourself before me, young man.”

  Gleb was surprised by the breach in protocol.

  “The army outside the walls speaks Kitam. I need you to translate messages for General Saris while I am away. Can you do that for me?”

  The young man nodded nervously.

  “Good, thank you,”

  Thandril walked away, and Jarak followed him while flashing a broad smile back at Gleb.

  He mouthed the words, “Good job.”

  As the two walked away, a soldier came up to Gleb and motioned for him to follow. Reluctantly, he fell in behind.

  What have I gotten myself into…?

  * * *

  The guard left Gleb standing outside the deceased Baron’s library—a large room, which dominated a good portion of the eastern wing of the Keep. The man had thought himself a scholar and enjoyed governing a quiet town. It provided ample time to indulge in his intellectual hobbies.

  Gleb stood for a moment, anxiously rubbing at his wrists. His fingers moving over the scarred lines of his slave brandings.

  He looked down at his clothing. They were muddy from the day’s work, and he felt embarrassed to meet the General in such condition. Hesitantly, he reached out to turn the metal handle. The heavy door creaked open, and the warmth of a fire rushed out the doors.

  “Shut that door! Damn it!” A strong, commanding voice yelled from inside.

  Gleb fumbled the latch closed.

  Standing with his back against the door, he scanned the room for the General. The library was awe-inspiring, rows and rows of bookcases lined the floor while, against the walls, books stretched from floor to ceiling, creating three separate levels. A wheeled ladder was attached to a metal pole running the length of the crown molding, allowing easy access to even the most seemingly out-of-reach books. Beautiful pillars of marble lined the room, and candles shone atop twisted wrought-iron holders.

  “Who’s there?” shouted the voice again.

  “Sorry, I’m coming,” Gleb yelled back.

  He moved in the direction of the voice, swerving through the books. He reached an open area furnished with antique couches, chairs, and study desks. Moving around another bookcase, Gleb almost ran into the man he had met in the courtyard

  Thandril, he said his name was.

  Quickly fixing his gaze to the floor, “Sorry, sir.” Gleb apologized. “I was not watching my step close enough.”

  “It’s alright. General Saris waits for you.” He pointed to a chair with its back toward them. A black and silvered head could be seen over the cushioning. “I was just leaving.” The man took a slight bow and moved past him.

  Gleb swallowed hard and walked to the chair.

  He moved to the side of Saris and bowed a formal greeting, “Sir, I am at your service.”

  Saris took his eyes off the book he was reading and slowly looked Gleb over, “You took long enough. And you are defacing this magnificent library, tramping around with all that dirt and grime falling off of you.”

  Gleb kept his eyes down, “I am sorry, sir. Would you like me to go bathe and return at a later time?”

  Saris dropped the book and bolted to his feet, standing with his face inches from Gleb’s. “No! I do not want you to go bathe! We have an army outside these walls if you haven’t noticed! No man, especially a slave, has the luxury of bathing right now!”

  Gleb stood, trembling from the verbal assault. “I was not thinking, sir. I apologize. I am here to aid in your research of the Kitamite people.”

  The red in Saris’ face slowly dissipated and he rested back down on his chair. Speaking much softer than before, “Of course, I know why you are here.” He straightened the collar of his uniform, “I am sorry for the outburst. It was uncalled for.”

  Gleb proceeded cautiously, not wanting to bring forth another violent explosion, “W-what would you like to know first?”

  Saris placed his hand on the book in his lap. “I’ve learned some things from these books, but there’s a lot of information and not a lot of time. First, they have with them some magic users. Is this normal for their people?”

  “No, not at all. They are a tribe of hunter-gatherers. They usually move around in small groups. The harsh winter of their homeland, near the base of the Merkadian mountains, doesn’t support much but the hardiest of plants.”

  “Yes, the Merkadians. I read that while the Kitamite people have never had bad relations with the Merkadians, they still remain separate. Surprising, since the rest of the smaller people groups in the area, have joyfully sworn fealty to King Melidarius.”

  “Maybe they are allied now? That would explain the weaponry I heard the men speaking of.” Gleb had a thoughtful look on his face.

  Saris caught the stare, “What is it?”

  “Well, the strange thing about this situation is that I didn’t believe there to be this many Kitamites alive. There are thousands of men outside these walls, and a typical tribe family would only number twenty or so. There may be more to this than we know.”

  Gleb found himself looking Saris in the face, not keeping his eyes lowered during the conversation.

  “What is your name, slave?” Saris asked.

  “Gleb, sir.”

  “How did you get to be such an educated young man?”

  “When I was younger, before my mother died, she told me to take every chance to learn about this world we live in. She said that, since I was born into a life of slavery, the only freedom I have, is the freedom of thought and knowledge. I learned to read from another slave, and I barter for used books at the beggar markets on Seventh Day.”

  Saris looked Gleb in the eyes, “Your mother sounds like she was a smart woman, and I can see she raised a smart boy. She is right, you are nothing because of the blood in your veins, but an educated slave is a valuable slave. You can get away from this filthy labor work.”

  Saris collected himself, “In any case, you have given me some things to think about. I would like you to go find Corporal Kaster and work on making contact with the Kitamites. You are dismissed.”

  He waved Gleb away and started sorting through another pile of books to take back to his room.

  * * *

  A cold, hard storm from the east reached Hillsford by nightfall. Torches were being lit along the walls and throughout the crowded, wet courtyard. It had been one day since the enemy army had shown themselves. They did not move any closer and, so far, left the people outsid
e the gate alone. But new fires were started in different untouched areas of the city every couple of hours and the people, in and around the Keep, were getting sick from the thick, smoke-filled air.

  Rurik found the General sitting at a desk by the fireplace in his room, flipping through a dusty book. “Sir, the air is worsening still. We have filled all the rooms and still nearly two hundred people remain outdoors. Not to mention the citizens still waiting outside the gate. More and more are falling ill.”

  Waiting for a reply, the Corporal noticed the largely discarded pile of already thumbed through books next to the desk. Saris had been held up inside his room or in the library, since Thandril left, with orders for only Rurik or the slave, Gleb, to be allowed in.

  The General slowly looked away from the book and up at him, “This baron had a very extensive library of history, military, and cultural anthropology books. I have found more information about the Kitam tribe, and the conversation with that nervous slave boy added a little more insight.”

  Rurik took a seat next to the desk, “I want to know why they carry Merkadian weapons. Are they allied with them? Is there anything in those pages that would hint at a higher level of weaponry than previously thought?”

  “No, nothing of that sort, and I don’t have an answer for the question of allegiance right now, but if the Merkadians are handing out weapons to the other tribes, we are in a lot of trouble.” Saris had a concerned look on his face, then switched his gaze, hinting at a shift in thought. “Have they still been repeating the same sentences?”

  “Yes. Gleb has been trying to get them to communicate further, but to no avail.”

  Saris moved to a nearby window and looked out through the smoke, as hundreds of campfires lit up the burnt city. “Well, if they don’t do something soon, Thandril will be here with my army, and we will crush them from behind.” He started calculating how many men there must be. “Has to be at least four thousand men down there. We only have a hundred or so soldiers, and maybe another two hundred untrained men and boys.”

  Chapter 12: Massacre

  Captain Arteus knocked over the game piece with his own. “Ha! You’re finished!”

  The campsite’s central fire hissed and crackled behind the two men, making sounds that complemented the angered stare from Captain Barolas. “I think you are cheating…that’s four in a row now.”

  Arteus moved the pieces back into their starting positions. He reached into his pocket and dropped six coins onto the table. “Care to make this a little more interesting?” He raised one brow, taunting his long-time comrade.

  Barolas grinned. His grimy teeth looking, even more, disgusting in the firelight. “Fine, but this time…” He rotated the game board. “I’m going to use your pieces.”

  Arteus laughed and slapped his legs. “Whatever makes you happy to lose your money!”

  “So…” Barolas blindly reached for his ale, precariously resting on a nearby log, “should we grumble about those bastards, Saris and Thandril, and all of their wondrous accommodations?” His hand found the teetering stein, and he pulled the drink to his lips for a drawn-out gulp. “Lucky sons of a bitches.” With the last drop of liquid dripping from his chin, the Captain tossed the empty vessel over his shoulder. “What I wouldn’t give for…”

  Barolas’ words were cut short by a blood-curdling shriek, reminiscent of a young animal being slaughtered.

  Both Captains jumped to attention.

  Barolas gripped the axe across his back. “What was that?”

  A thick fog belched forth from the earth, causing the entire camp to scramble to their feet, scattering away from the expanding cloud. The starry sky seemed to dim even further, pinching the light of the center fire.

  “There!” A nearby soldier shouted, pointing into the sky.

  Arteus’ looked up. His mouth dropped open. “By all the gods I dare not worship…”

  A lone figure hovered in the sky, wrapped in a floor-length, black robe and hood. Wind twisted and cut at his image, sloshing his outfit in the moonlight. The screech raised in volume again, echoing through the campground. Men covered their ears, desperate to stem the repulsive sound.

  “Now that I have your attention.” The words boomed in a deep guttural tone. The man fell from the sky, crashing into the center of the fire.

  The action sent a ripple of movement through the Talurian forces, clearing a perimeter around the alien being.

  Barolos glanced to Arteus. “Any ideas?”

  Arteus bounced on the balls of his feet, gripping the handle of his blade. “Not one. This is well outside of my department.”

  The intruder rose to his feet. Fire engulfing him. A chilling calm from a brazen scene.

  Breaking the nightmarish pause, he moved from the fire. His hood fell away. A featureless face stared back at them. Deep crimson eyes pierced the surrounding darkness, dripping like wet blood over his shadowed clothing.

  Arteus stood frozen.

  Barolas jolted forward, pulling the axe from his back, and released a rallying cry to pull his men with him. He jumped into the air, preparing to bring his weapon down upon the man’s head.

  With a simple wave of his hand, the intruder turned attacker threw Barolas twenty feet through the air.

  The following soldiers fell in around the enemy, slashing and stabbing, but he moved inhumanly fast, dodging every strike. With a sudden switch in his stance, he shot his hand into the air, and bright strands of red light formed around him. Swords and spears bounced off the shimmering barrier.

  “Cease your useless endeavor!” The assailant shouted out over the crowd. The voice so dark and unnerving, so ominous, that the men reeled from its sound. “South. You must go south. Your leader needs you.”

  Barolas had regained his composure. “You think this gains our trust?” The words flew back with vehemence. His face twisted in anger. He assaulted the barrier with wild flails of his axe, stirring more soldiers to again attack the black-robed man.

  Arteus watched in horror, as one of the mightiest Talurian warriors couldn’t break through the strange, magical defense.

  “Gah!” The man cocked his head to the side, “Fine! I will make you run to your General…” He shattered his own barrier and spread open his robe, brandishing two polished, curved blades. “…in fear.”

  Like a whirlwind, he moved through the Talurian forces taking men apart limb by limb. His robes leaving faint afterimages of his fluttering movements. A haze of death blinked about the area, dropping mangled, dismembered corpses to the ground.

  Captain Barolas swung his axe through the air, trying to make any contact. His brow creased. His breathing intensified. Each strike moments too late, slashing through the image of what was there a second past. “How are we to ever—”

  A sudden cold numbness shot through Barolas. The world stilled. He dropped his head to find both blades protruding from his chest. His axe fell from his hands. “No.” He shook his head.

  “Why, yes.” The darkened voice teased his ears. “You thought there could be any other ending to this?” The man laughed. “Although, do not worry. I still have a use for you, but not like this.” The words ushered a final strike. The ethereal blades pulled from his back, ripped through the air, and cleaved his head from his shoulders.

  Chapter 13: The Other Side

  Thrump. Thrump. Thrump…

  Thrump. Thrump Thrump…

  Thrump. Thrump. Thrump…

  The large, Kitamite warrior repeatedly rolled his three fingers against the lacquered wood of his table. The only unscathed piece of furniture in the burnt out building. His eyes darted between the organized chaos of charts and maps before him.

  “Commander, did you not hear me?” The smiling young man asked. His eyes gaining intensity as his grin grew. “Ceth? The fires have been lit, and the men have set up the tents. This cover of smoke and clouds was a great idea!”

  Ceth slowly raised his eyes to the lanky soldier standing before him, flattening his mustache
with two fingers. “You've done well, Dageros. I’m grateful your father sent you along.” He dropped his gaze back to the charts, still searching for his next revelation. “How are you feeling?” He casually tossed out the question.

  “Well, I should be able to keep this going till my brother is done.” Dageros started pacing back and forth. “It’s strange really. I haven’t felt this way before. Well, yes, it is certainly the largest amount of copies I’ve held at once, but I underestimated the alien feelings I am experiencing.”

  “Mmhmm…”

  “And! Not to mention…” Dageros squinted his eyes, peering out through the doorway into the lifeless streets of Hillsford proper. “They are a tad creepy, only responding to the most basic of orders—unable to do anything that would require the slightest amount of physical or mental competency. Nevertheless, I feel like I should be watching out for a treacherous one among the bunch.”

  “Interesting…” Ceth took to his feet. His armor clinking against itself. He grabbed a nearby pencil and proceeded to draw a triangle north of Hillsford, followed by three smaller ones, off to the east.

  Ceth straightened, looked his markings over, and nodded to himself. “Well, Dag, they are products of your own self…”

  Dageros laughed. “That is what scares me!”

  Ceth grunted. “Hopefully, we won’t need anything more complex from them. Our group of forty looks like an army of thousands! Let’s pray to that god of yours, Dar’jaal, that the Talurians don’t realize everything is just a clever trick. I can’t lose the rest of my Kitamite brethren!”

  The Kitamite leader motioned for Dageros to follow him outside.

  The young man clasped Ceth’s shoulder. “Thanks for half-listening.”