Gathering (Chronicles of Empire 1)

by Brian G Turner

  He silently intoned for his totem spirit to aid Erin:

  Wolf is a great tracker, he finds those who listen. Wolf is a great herder, he keeps you on the righteous path. Wolf is a great protector, he can hunt your enemies down. Wolf is a clever guide, never giving what you want, but always what you need. This is the way of the Wolf Totem. May Wolf always keep you from harm, in this world, and the next.

  He said the same for Lucira and Mairir every night.

  Ulric opened his eyes to find Dalathos staring at him. “Said a prayer for Erin,” Ulric explained. “Like for my wife and daughter.”

  “You’re married?”

  “Lucira died in childbirth. Baby didn’t survive. Two winters ago.”

  Dalathos nearly choked on his ale. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. What happened?”

  Ulric shrugged. He’d had no reason to say anything, and no one had asked. “My auntie arranged the marriage when we were young. Lucira got with child not long after we hand-fasted. I’d already built a cabin for us, with help, in the woods south of Del. We were happy, for a while.”

  Dalathos waited. “And?”

  “Everyone knows birthing is dangerous. Merris, the wise woman, gave us advice, amulets, and taught rituals, to help make it safer. She promised to deliver the baby when it came.” He stopped. It was a moment he’d gladly return to, and make everything different. “The day Lucira said it was coming, a blizzard blew in.”

  It had whistled furiously outside. With each belly cramp Lucira had gripped his hand with surprising strength. Her eyes had been frightened. After nightfall she sweated cold and shrieked that something was wrong. When the sky cleared in the morning, Ulric set off to find help.

  “The snow was deep,” Ulric continued. “It’d drifted over the waist. Just after I left, another storm came. The world went white. It was like the ground had become sky and I traveled through clouds. There was nothing to measure my steps by. I couldn’t see no trails nor markers to guide me. The wind bit. I trudged on for too long. Became confused. When I came to Old Man Hawthorn, I knew I’d circled east. The sky darkened, and I figured best to just try to return. Took an age to find our cabin again.”

  There was ice by the bed because the hearth had gone out. Lucira was pale, cold to touch. A baby lay beside her, naked, gray, and dead.

  Ulric was quiet for a long moment. “A little girl, she was. My little girl. Me and Lucira called her Mairir. At least we got a name for her. That gave her a place in the Summer Lands.”

  He’d tried to make Lucira comfortable, but she couldn’t stop shivering. She was weak, and still leaked blood. The cold remained inside of her, even after he’d flinted a fire and cooked her a stew. Night came.

  “Lucira slipped away in the morning, holding my hand.” Ulric felt he should be more upset as he told it — he still remembered her smiling up to him, calling him my big hairy giant. Though his heart ached, his tears had long dried. He sighed. “Know what the worst thing was?”

  “I have no idea,” Dalathos said.

  “Couldn’t even bury them. Snows were too deep, and the ground stayed frozen. When the thaw finally came, cold winds returned and turned the slush to ice.” Because of the weather, he couldn’t even send out for a folk meet, to celebrate her life. Only a group of strangers had appeared, speaking nonsense and pointing their hands at him. Then they’d left him alone.

  “So what did you do?”

  “I wrapped up the bodies, Lucira in our bed and Mairir in her cot. Then I fired the timbers and burned our cabin.” It’d been the only way to ensure their spirits could be free, and no curse would follow him. “My mind weren’t right after. Nearly died that winter. For a few moons I slept rough, without shelter. Didn’t know what to do with myself, just wandered ... lost.” Ulric took the cup of ale offered. After a gulp, “My auntie found me and took me back. But the world’s never looked right since. When I hunted, the further I went, the better I felt. I love my auntie, but I needed away from the ghosts of them I failed.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Dalathos said, “Truly.”

  “My heart hangs low when I think on it. I remember us happy, and treasure that. They’re in the Summer Lands now, flown away from pain, with my ancestors. One day I’ll join them. Then we’ll be a family again.”

  “You did what you could. That’s all any man can do. But sometimes it isn’t enough and life is cruel. You could have told me before, though.”

  “Nearly did. At Nel’s, when we settled for sleep. Sirath said Nel fancied me, and I should bed her. But I couldn’t. Wouldn’t have felt right.”

  “Any other secrets?” Dalathos asked with a wry smile.

  “Well ... ” Ulric paused. His auntie had warned him to be careful sharing it. Not everyone would understand. But he thought it should be safe here. “I’ve a totem name. Silverwolf.”

  “That’s an old Thos tradition, isn’t it? I can respect the old ways.”

  “Not so queer, really, are they?” Ulric emptied the cup. He’d talked too much already, and it felt like rudeness to say more. So he didn’t mention the vivid dreams of that time — of riding rainbow dragons among the stars; another of him walking a land of cinders and bones, being called by the dead. “You ever married?”

  “Seven hells, no! My thanks for telling me about you, though.”

  Ulric nodded. It had been a bad spirit he’d wrestled with, and left behind. But he’d yet to find the path to his new life.

  The sound of footfalls approached, the stride hurried and accompanied by the jingle of spurs. A lone man stopped outside their room. He wore a blue doublet over a white-frilled shirt, and a wide hat of black felt. He peered in. “I say, would you happen to be an Ulric and Dalathos, of Tilirine’s party? The proprietor said this is where we should find you.”

  Dalathos gaped, and nodded mutely.

  “Good. I am Lieutenant Domus of the Emperor’s Guard. I have a commission for you both.”

  The Assassin Returns

  Lora

  She swooped and whooped into buffeting winds. Thick clouds rolled in from the sea and smothered the stars. Lamps in the city below looked like scattered jewels.

  She forced her leather wings out to full length to slow her. For a moment she held her position steady, then dropped backward into the night. With a thought, the wings snapped in and she dived like a hawk. Her tummy rose and her heart thumped like a drum. Icy air rushed against her and her eyes watered. She laughed aloud. For the freedom of it all.

  It wasn’t enough.

  She rushed toward the Euphemenon Tower. At the last moment she forced her wings open and veered aside. She glided over rooftops. Tendrils of wood smoke enveloped her. She looped over the line of lantern-lit statues along the Avenue of the Emperors, and looked out for her target street. She moved too fast for a landing, so she allowed herself a long arc around. She was in no rush to land, and danced through the air.

  A gust of wind shook her. Bitter cold crept through her clothing. Enough to shake her enjoyment, and remind her she had a job to do.

  She tamed the wind. She returned toward the glimmering statues, and dropped lower. She knew from last night that this was not an easy landing. The roof was angled too high, and she would need a vantage point — beside a dormer window on the top floor. She teased herself down until she could hop, bounce, run along the roofs. Laughing, she kicked back up into flight again, this time slower, more controlled. And circled.

  She focused on a landing point behind a wooden balustrade. With her wings outstretched full she slowed almost to float in the air. Then allowed herself to step down onto the pitched roof with barely a noise.

  The shadows were deep enough to conceal her. But there was little space to lay down her equipment. She snapped her wings shut, and kept her poise steady.

  The Lion Inn stood a short way ahead and across from her. Only the road separated them. It was distance enough.

  Crouching, breath misting, she unhooked her small backpack and carefully laid it down. Unpack
ing the contents, she removed the sections of bow and a handful of arrow tubes, and lay them at her feet.

  At the top floor of the Lion Inn, someone appeared behind open shutters — a hooded figure wearing red robes. Two men entered the room. These looked like the ones she had followed last night. And now they stood talking together. Vulnerable, and easy prey.

  She worked through the rest of her preparations, bow steady and the first arrow notched. Only when satisfied that everything was done did she touch her glowing coal to the end of the fuse. She looked away as the bright white spark erupted, spitting sharp smoke. She could do nothing to hide the light, but held her breath to avoid inhaling the fumes. She returned to her aimed position, held steady. Then loosed.

  The arrow whistled across the short gulf of night. It thudded into a timber beneath the window. The figures behind continued, unaware.

  She exhaled with relief. There was the taste of brimstone at the back of her throat. White smoked trailed from the burning tube.

  She reached for another.

  An Unlikely Weapon

  Sirath

  Sirath stood with his hose pulled down to his knees, and wiped with a clump of wool.

  The stink in the privy was suffocating. Someone had left a big dump by the hole in the floor. Probably Ulric. No wonder most people pissed up the walls, or into the slops in their rooms, instead. But there was wool here, in a leather bucket, that Sirath could clean himself with. And he didn’t want to risk soiling his new clothing by not being thorough. He dropped the used wool down the drain hole.

  There was a heavy thud.

  He froze.

  There was a lot of noise in a big place like this. But this was a wrong sound. He might be mistaken to feel alarmed, but a little caution never hurt anyone. Fear saves. If he was mistaken then he’d just laugh at himself. It was always better than dead.

  He quickly pulled up his hose and tied them, all the time listening out. He slinked to the privy door.

  Low, whispering voices came to him. Conspiring. Working men by their coarse language. A handful. Lifting something, out of breath. Another thud, and a curse from one.

  Sirath pushed the door ajar. He peered down the lamplit hallway. A couple of hard men in leather tunics stood by the stairs, all fists and gristle. Not good company, if you weren’t paying them. Sirath drew back, his heart thumping too hard. Something was going on that he should run from. He could hide, but didn’t want to be trapped in the privy. He peeked out again to find a clear way to escape — the men had their backs to him now. They stood around a large barrel. Someone took the lid off with a jemmy bar.

  Sirath took a deep breath, ready to quietly slip away in the other direction. Then the barrel was pushed over with a familiar thud. A sucking, glooping noise followed. Something emptied along the hallway to the rooms. Pungent oil vapors came to him.

  Sirath’s skin needled in fright — they were going to torch the place! If the Lion Inn went up in flames, so would all his gold. His dreams would become smoke before he’d lived them.

  And everyone down that hallway would be trapped, and burn to death.

  Jerine ...

  Sirath turned as another man walked into view with an uncovered lantern. If only Sirath had a blade! Dalathos had the right of it. Though Sirath didn’t know how to use one, anything right now would have been better than none. He desperately glanced around for something he could use. The only object was the leather bucket of wool. It was an unlikely weapon, but it was all there was.

  He grabbed it, then padded out into the hallway.

  The hard men stood ahead, with their backs to him. Three — no, four men. One touched a stick wrapped in rags to the uncovered lantern, until a flame caught.

  Sirath sucked his teeth, trying to move fast and soundless.

  The one with the burning torch breathed heavily. “Ready, lads?”

  Sirath’s legs trembled. If he struck now, at best he’d get a severe beating. At worse, he’d be killed. He’d have to cry for help. But you never shout that you’re being attacked — that makes people fear to approach. You shout fire because the same people will fear to keep away.

  He kicked the nearest thug in the back with his heel. The man stumbled and slipped in the oil. Sirath hurled the bucket at a second.

  As he ran and leapt up at the man with the torch, Sirath screamed, “Help! Fire! Fire!”

  Fear of Failure

  Dalathos

  Dalathos stabbed his finger at Tilirine. “I don’t care what you think!”

  Tilirine stared at him defiantly. That only infuriated him more.

  The Emperor’s Guard had asked for him by name. When the officer had taken out letters of commission, Dalathos had almost dropped to his knees in praise of Sephis.

  Him and Ulric had put a cross for their names on a piece of parchment, then taken the Emperor’s shilling — a unique silver coin, shiny, and beautiful. The officer had left with a salute, and Dalathos still in shock. He’d only had mind enough to rush out to find Tilirine, so she could read what they’d signed.

  Now they stood in the room she shared with Sirath and Ezekiel — his joy turned sour, then to anger. Ulric looked awkward and flushed.

  “You should care what I think,” Tilirine said. “I can hear drums. All around. Danger upon us.”

  Dalathos could only glare at her. What in seven hells had drums got to do with anything? He’d a commission in his purse — from Emperor Sephis VI himself, by order of Chief-General Galadon Merceyer — that made him a knight! He’d achieved more tonight than he could ever have dreamed of in a lifetime. What right did she have to object? Just because it was only for a day didn’t matter to him at all.

  “Your temporary commission feels wrong,” Tilirine continued.

  Dalathos clenched his fists. “Well it’s right by me.”

  “The Emperor’s Guard do not — ”

  “This is none of your business!” Dalathos snapped. “I asked for your help, not judgment.”

  Tilirine turned and strode for the door.

  Dalathos grabbed her arm in a fury. “Don’t you dare walk away from me.” Tilirine stopped. Dalathos realized he’d gone too far. He let go.

  “I heard ... a noise,” she said, and opened the door.

  Sirath’s voice screamed out to them. “Help! Fire! Fire!”

  Dalathos felt his anger drain fast. There was real fear in that cry. “Fire? Surely not?”

  Tilirine ran from the room.

  Dalathos followed, presuming it must be some prank or mistake. It couldn’t possibly be real.

  At the other end of the hallway, Sirath whirled like a mad thing as he scuffled with men. There were angry grunts, shrieks, the slaps and smacks of kicks and punches. The floor ahead was wet. Dalathos smelled flammable oil.

  The hairs on the back of his neck rose. Some rooms had lamps outside — naked flames that could ignite the fumes. If they caught, the fire would trap them.

  Ulric stepped beside him, his brows furrowed.

  “Ulric, move!” Dalathos shouted. He had to ensure the oil wasn’t ignited. He broke into a run after Tilirine. There was no time to draw Protector.

  The air crashed. A flash of hot wind and smashed wood assailed him. The force almost knocked from his feet. He stopped to steady himself, and looked back. The end of the hallway was missing, exposed to the night air. The floor was a ragged tangle of wood. The door to Tilirine’s room fell off its hinges and into a gaping hole.

  There was no sign of Ulric.

  For a breath he stared in confusion.

  An arrow thudded into the remains of the door frame. A tube tied to it hissed with bright smoke.

  He recognized that strange, white spark. From the warehouse. Before the fire. Before all seven hells had broken loose.

  He turned and stumbled into a run through the oil. He tried to yell a warning, but his lungs were empty. Tilirine ran before him. Sirath was no longer in sight. Ahead, a man held up a burning torch and grinned.

 
Dalathos had to —

  A hot weight slammed into his back. It lifted him through the air, and flung him through the hallway with Tilirine. Thunder shocked his bones and squeezed his heart. The floor rippled blue under his feet. The air became yellow and hot.

  He smacked into someone, over them, then slammed against a wall. He fell. Wood punched his body. Flames blasted the air above in thick, orange swirls.

  Then, as suddenly, it was gone.

  For a moment he lay stunned, with no idea where he was. He struggled to rise. Then realized he was sprawled partway down the stairs to the floor below. And above, the unmistakable roar of flames. For a moment he feared he was back in the warehouse.

  Groggily, he tried to move. He turned aside, only to face Sirath. He looked peaceful, asleep — but too pale, and splattered with blood.

  Dalathos groped for a hold to right himself. Another figure weighed him down, so he pushed it aside. Dalathos dragged himself unsteadily to his feet. Broken wood and splinters dropped from his mail shirt.

  Fire howled in his ears. Smoke billowed above and choked his nostrils. He crawled up the steps and saw flames consuming the hallway. The floorboards rumbled and rattled. He tried to approach but the heat was too intense. Two more figures groaned at his feet.

  Tilirine alone remained standing. Her veil and hood had fallen from her head to reveal a hairless wreck of angry skin — an ear missing, her nose a ruin. From the childhood burns he’d been told about.

  Her good eye was full of terror.

  Dalathos shook himself from the shock of the sight of her, to follow her gaze. He faced the flames, trying to see beyond them. The others were trapped. They would burn to death. And he was helpless to stop it. A baby wailed from one of the rooms. The need to act shook him to his senses. “Tilirine! What do we do?”

  She stood mute, shivering in fear.