He did have something in that druid, though. Thandril was something special.
“They must have planned for my assassination to cause disruption within the army. Without me in the picture, things would be grim indeed.”
There goes his soaring ego.
“Sir,” Rurik finally spoke up, “Why Hillsford? Why attack here?”
“Well, I have had a lot of thought about that. It’s a relatively minor city in our empire, but it is the most direct route to Talur. I think this is a straight forward rush—a massive strike right through the heart of our empire. I don’t think there is any cunning plan or hidden diversion. Melidarius wants to be the alpha male on this island and, by pure force, is going to try and bring us down.” Rurik kept listening.
Why has Saris asked me here?
“Fascinating…” Rurik humored him. “So, what is it you wanted to see me about? Or are we just going to talk about the coming conflict?”
“Oh, no. You will not be here when the fighting starts.” Saris said.
Where am I going to be?
“I have a special mission for you.” Saris grinned. “You have met my fiancé, Amira, right?”
“Yes, sir.” You bastard. “Charming girl.”
“Yes, indeed. Looks like she’ll be a real pleaser in the bed, eh?” Saris winked at Rurik.
They both laughed. Rurik forced his.
“What does she have to do with my mission?” Rurik asked.
“It’s her and my boy, Archaos. They need to be very far from here when the fighting starts. That is where you come in. I have acquired a wagon and two horses for you. You are going to pose as a merchant traveling to Talur for a nice vacation with your wife and newborn son. Get it?” Saris winked. “I would like you to pick two more men to go with you—one posing as your business partner and another acting as your slave attendant.”
Time with that amazing woman, Rurik thought. “Interesting, sir. But why the secrecy? Why not just send me with a convoy of lancers? The journey would surely be faster.”
“It would be faster, but I have many enemies within the other houses of Talur. Many attempts have been made on my life over the years. I am sure they have spies within my own army, waiting for me to take a wrong step. If they knew my future wife and my only son were traveling out on the open rural roads of the empire, without my personal guards and I—Well, I can only think the outcome to be unimaginable.”
“Very well, I will do it. For you, sir, it would be an honor.” Give that woman some time away from you. Rurik rose from his seat. “When would you like us to leave?”
“If yesterday were an option, I would take it,” Saris said.
“Okay, I will gather the men and see to the provisions for the trip. We should be ready to go before the noon meal.” Rurik saluted and turned to leave. Who should I take along?
* * *
The decision was obvious after a second thought. How better of a way to repay Private Galro and Gleb for their courage and leadership in the Kitamite attack and aftermath, then get them away from the fast approaching conflict? Gleb already looked the part, since it was his life, but private Galro looked uncomfortable in his new tunic and trousers. He was a “rough-around-the-edges” soldier, not a city merchant. He wanted his uniform—wanted to blend in.
There was one other matter to see too. There would be another man on this little caravan, but Rurik didn’t see the harm in not telling Saris.
Rurik walked over to the detention quarters. “Where can I find Private Holm?”
The little man at the front desk stared hard at him. “Who is asking? I haven’t heard he was allowed visitors. That usually comes in paper form, before the soldiers get seen.”
Rurik put his assertive face on. “I am Corporal Rurik Kaster, the arresting officer of Private Klaric Holm. I am here to question him.”
The man responded back in his most condescending voice. “Very well, he is down the hall to the left. Cell seventeen.”
“Thank you.” Rurik nodded to the man.
* * *
“Hey! Get up!” Rurik yelled through the peephole of the prison door.
“Go away, slave bitch! I’m not hungry.” Klaric shouted back, waving his hand at the door. He was lying on a thin cot in the corner of the room. His face toward the wall.
“Klaric, it’s me. Rurik.”
Klaric spun around on his cot and leapt to his feet. He ran to the door and spit through the opening. “I don’t want anything to do with you! I can’t believe you had me thrown in jail! How long were you planning on leaving me in here? A couple days? A week?”
Rurik wiped the saliva from his cheek. “You were drunk and going to get yourself hurt or worse. You needed to cool down and get away from everything for a little while.”
Klaric made a sarcastic laugh. “Oh! So you did this for me? How kind… Asshole. I was in here with only the memory of your brother’s death to comfort me. Then almost burned alive when the attack started. Thanks. It was so cozy. You think about him much? Or too busy with your new master, General Saris?”
“Shut up. I came here to get you out. A massive army is coming here and from what I can guess, will raze this place to the ground. I am on a mission for Saris—”
Klaric chuckled, “Of course.”
Rurik ignored him. “I am not supposed to take you, but I’m going to sneak you out on our wagon. If you’ll go. I’m sorry. For everything. I took out my frustration with the past weeks’ troubles out on the wrong people. I truly apologize.”
Klaric looked at him. Silence hung between them for a few long moments. “Fine, get me the hell out of here!”
* * *
Rurik and the men were loading the covered wagon when Saris and Amira were spotted coming out of the main citadel. Klaric had already been tucked away behind some of the large barrels carrying food and weapons. Rurik noted that Amira looked the happiest she had in weeks—getting away from that man.
Galro and Gleb knew about Klaric and had both been warned not to let Amira know about him until Rurik had some time to feel her out, whether or not she would mind him sneaking along.
A slave carried the luggage for Amira. Galro stopped him at the back of the wagon and took the bags inside himself. The woman seemed to always have the baby and if someone else attempted to take care of him for a little while, she would appear agitated. She really was falling in love with that little boy.
“Now, my dear, you need to be very careful on the road. It is dangerous.” Saris cautioned her. Like she had never been outside the city in her life.
Galro and Gleb jumped up into the back of the wagon while Amira wanted to sit up front for the first leg of the trip.
“I’ll be fine,” She said back to him, not even looking in his direction. She turned toward Rurik, with those big, beautiful eyes, and gave him a look of, please get going.
“We will take good care of her, sir,” Rurik said.
Saris ignored him. His manner and tone changed, hardened. “Amira…enjoy your last few weeks of freedom. I’ll come for you soon. Then you will be my wife, and you will do as I say…”
Rurik heard enough.
He flicked the reins without waiting for Saris to finish up his heartfelt goodbye. The wagon jerked forward and made its way past the gate of the Keep and out through the main city. Saris didn’t wait to watch it leave. He had to get ready for what was coming. He had to find a way to win because he didn’t know the taste of defeat—yet.
Chapter 23: Waking the Dead
Crows circled the bloodstained ground—the place of the fallen Kilgarian fortress and, more recently, the location of the northern Talurian campsite. The stench of the Dead wafted into the sky and traveled for miles.
Meticulously, the shadow of a man walked across the decomposing bodies. The carpet of death seemed to move apart where his feet landed, the corpses never touching him.
The ethereal being, the same who had scared the Talurian army to run back to Hillsford and who had extinguish
ed the fires, approached the decapitated body of Captain Barolas. He scanned the ground looking for the head. He saw it laying a few feet away underneath another fallen soldier.
Stretching his finger out, he magically moved the skull over to Barolas’ body. The muscles, arteries, and rotted skin stretched and contorted, wrapping back around the severed neck. The man knelt down and rested his hands on the newly attached head. A low, humming glow pulsated from his palms. Suddenly, Barolas’ body violently pulled a deep breath of night air into its lungs.
Whatever was inside the body that made it Barolas was no more. Barolas’ spirit had long departed. It was a shell, waiting for a new tenant.
The form laid there, breathing heavily. Each breath a labor on the broken body—an undead abomination had been created. The ghostly man who had resurrected the crippled being, melted down into a pool of black liquid, crawling onto the warrior. It collected on his face and then funneled into the mouth, nostrils, and ears of the waiting body, shaking him furiously.
Once the body acclimated to its new owner, He stood to his feet.
The man twisted and popped the tight joints in his neck and back. He flexed his hands and arms, kicking his legs out, one at a time. He jumped a couple of times to get his body going and then sprinted up a nearby embankment. His inhuman body responded with equally inhuman speed and agility.
During the little test of his new vessel, the body had been slowly regenerating, now his throat and vocal cords were fully restored. He let out a blood chilling howl, before settling down into a crouched position—there lurked a bold figure of death magic. A grin crossed the cold, pasty face. He outstretched his arm, palm open. A staff of stone and dirt grew from the ground, dotted with bones from the fallen men of the field. His fingers closed around the shaft, and he lifted it over his head.
“From the death of men, comes the life of the dead!” He shouted.
His head reared back and a beam of red light blasted into the sky, growing an ominous black cloud, blotting out the moon. An unholy darkness covered the killing field. The man rattled off a string of words in some unknown, singsong language, and flashes of energy lit up the area, striking at the mangled corpses on the ground.
The bodies curled into the fetal position. Their mouths, the ones who still had their heads attached, dropped open for a scream, which their decomposed bodies could not produce. A chorus of gurgles and chokes echoed through the air.
“Rise, my army!”
They twitched and trembled to their feet.
The man blew a glittering dust out across his risen warriors. As they breathed it in, postures straightened, seizures stopped, and their bodies righted themselves. They now stood ready, looking toward their master. Hungry for commands.
Part Two
“Man is young. They barely understand how to survive among the harshness of this world. The Twelve do not interfere—much. They play the role of Gods. They laugh at the peoples’ cries, and ignore their pleas for help. The Wild One has her moments of fun and slaughters the weak like wheat to the harvester’s scythe. The Kind One and the Thinker try to temper the mischief of their brothers and sisters, but so much power grows boring over time.
The Youngest stays to himself, molding pets and toys for his amusement. The Dark One, in turn, destroys his brother’s creations with delight. The Head watches all of them, deciding which direction he will go, which path he will dedicate, which role he will play in their family. He sneers in contempt and disgust over both the good and the evil, for he sees through both.”
The Historian, Volume XIII, Journal XVIII, Pg.79 (Year 782)
Chapter 24: The Ancient One
The powerful force seared through Taverous’ veins once again.
He fell to his knees.
The floorboards of his solitary cabin shuddered from the sudden impact. His vision tunneled. He pulled at every ounce of strength to stay conscious. Breathe through it. I can feel it starting to die down. Patience…
The mental assault warranted investigation.
Taverous needed to search out its source. He crossed his legs under him, trying to rest his palms comfortably at his sides. His breathing fell into a slow rhythm. He started to chant a short incantation over and over until his eyes shut and he drifted off into a dreamlike state.
A blank canvas blossomed inside Taverous’ mind.
A glowing orb, representing his subconscious, took shape in the center of the frame. Colors whirled around him. Vibrant blues spilled across the picture, forming into the oceans. The sphere vibrated with pent up energy and then exploded with momentum, leading the vision to the answers that Taverous sought. Waves crashed against rising landmasses. Mountain ranges rose and fell underneath him. As the image progressed, streaks of green highlighted the jungles of the Jeweled Isles and the Vale of Shadows, followed by the forested Kingdom of Kal’Mordain.
His journey ended as the transforming, twisting worldscape centered in on a large continent in the northern hemisphere of Ethindriil.
He hung, high in the sky, looking for anything that could produce the unsettling power. The surge erupted again, and his gaze narrowed in on the epicenter. Now with a target, the orb shot toward the ground but stopped short due to a suddenly visible, dark cloud.
The orb circled the darkness, discovering it covered a large part of the land and extended out into the ocean for miles. It would be invisible to the naked eye—he had nearly wandered in by accident. Only one attuned to powerful magic would be able to shift their sight to bring it into view.
He cautiously entered the cloud.
The moment the sphere touched, thoughts of death, fear, sadness, and callused hatred beat against the defenses of Taverous’ mind. The wave flooded him with images of murder and perverse evil.
The vision fell away, and Taverous’ eyes shot open. Sweat dotted his brow.
This is not good.
He reactively wiped his ear, smearing a newly hosted stream of blood running down onto his cheek. Pushing himself to his feet, his stomach rebelled and summoned forth a wave of bile across the floor of his hovel.
Not good at all.
The room was dim, with only a few candles scattered around the floor. He felt cold, weak, and violated by the darkness that had just invaded his mind. The stench of his stomach contents only added to the ominous emotions.
He stumbled to the desk and grabbed his robe off the back of a chair. He wrapped his arms around himself, as an alien tingle crawled up his spine. Shaky hands fumbled to open the shutters on the windows, letting light rush in from outside.
A series of weak exhales turned the candles into dancing smoke trails and, with staff in hand, Taverous was out the door. He paused on the steps of the small cabin, drawing in a deep breath, then another.
He nodded to himself.
Better.
With a mere thought, he vanished into the air, echoing a ripple of energy off the valley walls that hid his refuge.
Taverous appeared in a long, downward-sloping hallway. Wall-mounted torches ignited as he rushed past them. Their flames flickered off the ornate carvings on the ceiling. He reached a door inlaid with magical glyphs and symbols. A wave of his hand undid the latch and a current of energy discharged from beneath the door.
As he stepped through, a man in a hooded robe moved from the shadows.
“Welcome, Ancient One.” The guard bowed and motioned for him to continue. “The Council knows of your arrival.”
It has been a while.
Taverous gave a quick nod and walked down a second, shorter passageway before entering the banquet hall. Heavy, metal doors closed behind him and sealed shut. There was no other way in or out of the room.
Diamond chandeliers hung from the ceiling, displaying ornaments marked with spider webs and the musk of time. Across the walls, faded purple and gold linens hung dejected from their metal rods. A massive, wooden table sat in the middle of the room, stretching from one side to the other. People lined up on each side and, at the head,
sat stairs, leading to three, raised thrones, but they sat empty.
One of the three revered spots belonged to him. A position that he once thought he would never abandon.
The figures at the table all wore the same hooded robes as the guard from the door, making the gender of the group unknown. When he entered the room, no one said a word—their heads unmoving, facing forward. A chilling stillness filled the air. Taverous moved around the table, taking his place at the center throne.
Upon sitting, the whole room changed.
The shadowy illusion dropped away. Bright greens, yellows, and blues spirited across the ceiling. The table became filled with sweet smelling fruits, robust creamy cheeses, and succulent meats. The seats held men gorging on food while servers hurried about refilling goblets or removing them from certain, overly drunk men. An instrumentalist sat in the corner, strumming away on his lute, mimicking their jovial mood in the form of a lively tune.
A true picture of lacking discipline and restraint. A people void of purpose. A people in need of responsibility.
Before, Taverous appeared to be of middle age and of modest means, but now there sat a man of great age and might. His short brown hair faded to a snowy gray color and his bright green eyes glimmered in the brilliant light of the chandeliers.
His tattered robe swirled into a masterfully crafted suit of armor made from the dark green scales of a Crylon—a beast long dead since the Blood War. At his side, hung a sword of ice, with tongues of flame dancing along the blade’s edge.
He took to his feet, standing tall and powerful.
A man entered the room and ran toward the throne. He bowed and, with a giant smile, greeted the old man, showing his infamous dimples. “Taverous! It is good to see you! I have gathered the Council.” He cocked his head to the side. “To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?”
Fate of an Empire (Talurian Empire Trilogy Book 1) Page 11
