Gathering (Chronicles of Empire 1)

by Brian G Turner

  Dalathos crouched, and clamped a hand at her shoulder. “We need to get the others out or they’ll die!”

  The smoke came at them in black, choking waves. Dalathos was forced to kneel, to shield himself from the worst. He covered his mouth with a hand.

  The oil started to burn out and the flames receded. Patches of blackened wood appeared on the floor, but curtains of orange streaked up the walls.

  Despite his fear, Dalathos was now a knight of the Emperor’s Guard. Steeled in honor, armed with valor, only the bravest carried that title. He must help Ulric and the others, before the fire fully rooted in the wood. There was a chance he could run through it and reach them. Only if he acted now.

  “Tilirine, see to Sirath ... make sure there’s no threat here. And wait for me!” He coiled back on his haunches, trying to ignore the fierce heat. He counted up, to muster his courage. “One. Two.”

  Tilirine turned and stared at him.

  “Three!”

  Dalathos surged forward. He sprinted as fast as he could. His boots thumped over burning floorboards. The heat was terrible — it crushed his breath, scorched his skin, and seemed to scald him in his own sweat. As he pounded through he couldn’t breathe and his lungs found only smoke. He gagged instead of coughing. Then saw the world open black in front. Too late, he remembered the end of the hallway was gone.

  He fell.

  And twisted and grasped for anything. Something struck his arm and he grabbed at it as his legs swung away beneath him. He held onto broken floorboards for dear life. Burning debris fell spinning to the street below. Smoke poured out above his head. Dalathos coughed himself dizzy, straining to maintain his grip.

  He couldn’t hold on for much longer.

  Gulping air, he hauled himself upward. His own weight tore at his arms and shoulders, and threatened to snap the timber he held onto. He swung a leg up, and managed to roll himself back onto the hallway. Smoke flooded over him like a torrent — left him choking. His eyes watered and stung. Blinded and giddy, he’d no idea where he was. He tried to rise, but felt himself sway and feared to plummet back over the edge. Orange light blazed brighter ahead and he knew there was no way back.

  He tried to call out for Ulric, but the smoke smothered him and seared his lungs. The heat grappled and whipped him. He fumbled to his left, and felt for a door. He knew Jerine’s room must be somewhere close.

  A floorboard gave way underfoot. It spun away, down into darkness. He had to move fast.

  His hands scrabbled and found a handle — so hot it was painful to touch. Gritting his teeth, Dalathos clasped it and threw all his weight into barging the door open.

  He stumbled into cool air — and slammed the door shut behind. It could only hold back the fire a moment.

  His vision was blurred. He tried to wipe his eyes to understand his surroundings. A soiled smell lingered in the air from Erin. He saw with relief that Jerine and Ezekiel stood unharmed by her bed.

  “Dalathos!” Jerine cried. “What just happened?”

  Dalathos turned to answer but fell to his knees. His mouth opened to speak. Instead his stomach emptied itself. His jaw, his throat, his chest all strained more than he’d imagined they could. He vomited repeatedly — until all he could bring up was dribbles of brown water. Finally, eyes watering, mouth drooling, nose running, he stood and tried to recover himself. A coughing fit took the last of his dignity.

  Jerine rubbed his back to steady him and waited. “Ezekiel, can you grab me some water, please?”

  “I ... daren’t ... move!” Ezekiel said. “I’m keeping ... Erin alive ... and the room ... protected. I must keep ... concentration.”

  An arm draped across Dalathos’s shoulders.

  “Here, drink this. It should help,” Jerine said.

  Dalathos glugged it down, exhaling hard after. He could feel the cold liquid rolling down his throat and dribbling over his chin. But he also knew now that they were safe, for the moment at least. And he was so thankful for that.

  Finally he was able to control his body again, and stood straight. He wiped his eyes, and the snot and drool away. Splashing water to his face, to cool and refresh, he then handed the canteen back to Jerine. “Now,” he said, wheezing, “let’s get you out of here.”

  And then he wondered how in seven hells he was going to do that.

  There was no way back through the hallway — he could hear the fire crackling louder. They might possibly be able to get to the hole that had been Tilirine’s room. But there was still the heat and smoke and sudden drop to contend with. And the floor was already breaking outside. Even if Jerine managed it, even if Ezekiel did, Erin wouldn’t. Not without risking further injury to an already serious wound. There had to be another way.

  He glanced about the room, and remembered how the wall to the street had been destroyed. An idea struck him.

  “Everyone, clear the way!” Dalathos cried. He unbuckled Protector from his back. Ensuring there was a safe space around him, he pulled it from the scabbard.

  If they couldn’t leave through the door, then they’d escape through the walls.

  He slammed his blade into the paneling — and gashed it, but little else. He’d give all his gold for Ulric’s ax right now. “Again!” He ran forward and hurled the blade at the wall, trying to put as much force behind it as he could. A panel cracked. There was a muffled scream from the next room, and a baby cried. There were more people trapped on this floor.

  At this rate Protector would be blunted and broken long before the wood smashed away. Dalathos began to ram his pommel into the broken panel. He opened a split, then a gap. “Stay back!” he shouted through. He threw his full weight against it. Parts of the paneling splintered. He kicked and barged and pulled to leave a gaping hole.

  Sweating with exertion, and from the heat, he looked through. An old woman and two younger ones crouched together. One gripped a babe to her chest, another a knife in her hands.

  “Fen yammo!” the old woman cried.

  He inwardly cursed that they might not speak Corianth, and think he was trying to attack them. “Keep clear so I don’t cut you!” he yelled.

  He’d no idea if they’d understood. He hacked and ripped at the wall anyway, until there was a big enough space to push through.

  The women kept their distance. Dalathos waved them aside as he readied Protector, his focus on the next adjoining wall.

  This one was harder to break. Maybe it was less damaged, maybe he was more tired, but it took more strikes to breach. Now he was really starting to flag. Sweat dripped from his forehead. His arms felt leaden. Jerine appeared again with some water, and he drank for a moment. Then he returned to smash through the wood with his pommel.

  All the time he could hear the roar of flames nearby.

  The next room was dark and empty. Dalathos stumbled into it, then stopped by the next wall panting for breath.

  Jerine touched his arm. “There must be another four or five rooms that way,” she said, then indicated left. “But through that wall ... we should only have a door between us and the next hallway to the other staircase.”

  Dalathos grunted, and nodded. He moved toward it, trying to clear his throat of the sickly taste of smoke.

  There was a horrendous creak and groan. Something snapped and a fiery beam collapsed through the room that the women were in. They shrieked and fled to Jerine. Dalathos would have to move quickly, even though his strength drained from him.

  All he could do was put every thought, every effort, every weight of his being into breaking through this wall. He settled into a rhythm and it was almost like working the forge back home — you didn’t think, you just acted. This time, fire was not a welcome tool. But he knew it was above and behind him, ready to consume everyone he was trying to save. He kept moving, even though his arms and legs began to tremble uncontrollably. From exertion, exhaustion. From fear of failure.

  The Rage of Flames

  Tilirine

  Tilirine faced the beast
of an inferno. It whirled and writhed and clawed with a savage heat. The flames roared a promise to finish what it had started when she had been a child. And it trapped Jerine.

  Tilirine had been unable to react, even to think.

  Until Dalathos challenged it.

  He ran at, through, and beyond the blaze. A shout showed him as still alive. A door opened and slammed shut. Dalathos had reached Jerine.

  Fire had been mocked. And defeated. That broke its enchantment.

  Tilirine blinked, astonished. And regained her wits. The Song of the World drummed hard in her mind, and her heart followed its manic beat. Danger surrounded her, and she needed to act.

  A thug groaned at her feet and his hand grabbed her robes. She slammed her heel down his head and rendered him senseless.

  She pulled her hood and her veil back into place — then turned her back on the flames and leaped down the staircase. Sirath lay limp over the steps, another thug unmoving beside him. She touched Sirath’s neck — he was alive, but out cold. A swelling already formed on his forehead.

  Tilirine willed herself to be rock, and lifted Sirath into her arms. She carried him down the stairs, all the time yelling, “Fire! Fire!”

  When she reached the common area, people were screaming in panic.

  Michalas Harolmeyer shouted and waved for his guests to flee. His staff rushed to him with filled pots and jugs.

  Tilirine continued across the floor, through a door, and into the cold night air of the city outside. A drizzle blew. Burning debris rained down and littered the street. She hurried to the Avenue of the Emperors. When safely clear of any danger, she propped Sirath up against a doorway.

  Drums pounded louder in her mind. She turned. A great black shape whorled through smoke above her head — then was gone into darkness. She stared, trying to understand what she had seen.

  A shriek distracted her — flames burst out from the roof of the inn. Jerine was still in there.

  Tilirine dashed back. She fought through a rout of people to get into the inn, and across the common area. She ran up a staircase, shoving where needed. Tilirine refused to slow down, even though she could feel her muscles stiffen in protest.

  Serving staff carried buckets sloshing with water, spilling a slippery trail up the stairs.

  When Tilirine reached the top floor, the beast had grown fast and fed angrily. But she no longer feared it, only for her sister’s safety.

  A section of roof crashed through the hallway. A terrific shower of sparks flurried up.

  Shouting and footsteps from her right — Dalathos lurched into view, his face streaked with soot and sweat. Women with a baby followed him. Then Jerine.

  For all Jerine’s folly and reckless abandon, Tilirine could have embraced her then, just to find her safe.

  Jerine pointed back. “Erin’s still in there! Help me get her out!”

  She nodded, and followed her sister into the other hallway. Then through a smashed door and broken walls. She passed a fallen beam smoking with embers. Ezekiel held his staff over Erin’s bed, his expression strained with effort. A wall cracked and popped. Smoke whispered through.

  Tilirine wrapped Erin in the blanket she lay under. She sensed where it would be safe to touch, then lifted her up. Jerine grabbed their bags from under the bed and led them back out.

  Flames punched through the ceiling. A cloud of fire landed on the bed where Erin had lain a moment ago. Burning wood scattered across the floor. But it was already behind them.

  They descended the stairs to the floor below.

  Ulric stumbled into view. His face was covered with cuts and blood. His trousers were torn in places. Bags weighed on his shoulders. He looked groggy. He lifted the crossbows for Dalathos to see. His voice was hoarse, “Knew you wouldn’t want to lose these.”

  “What happened to you?” Dalathos said, then coughed.

  “Fell through the floor. So did our things. Banged my head and couldn’t think right for a bit. Then thought best to grab what I could.”

  There was a horrendous crash above. The floor trembled under their feet. Blazing planks clanked down the staircase.

  Tilirine moved without thinking, carrying Erin in her arms down the next flight of stairs. The others followed. And after them, the flames raged and shrieked in fury. Though it might have the inn, it would not claim the sisters. Not tonight.

  Not ever, if Tilirine could help it.

  Leaving the Lion Inn

  Jerine

  Jerine stood with the crowd on the Avenue of the Emperors. Many huddled in nothing more than the shifts or under-breeches they’d fled in. A light rain blew as they watched the Lion Inn burn.

  Jerine chewed frantically on a leaf. Even that failed to calm her mind. Or stop her hands from shaking. Fire had returned to haunt her, attempting to claim what was left of her family. She pulled her jacket tighter, her arms cold and numb.

  A blazing section of the Lion Inn fell away. It hit the road with a bright splash of sparks. Men of the city watch fought with long hooks to drag burning debris away and douse it. Others hung wet canvas sheets across nearby buildings to prevent the flames spreading.

  A deep rumble grew. Soon it was louder than the roar of the blaze and shouts of fire fighting. Hand bells rang out as more of the city watch forced their way through the disheveled crowd. Oxen pulled wagons of sand into the space created. They stopped a safe distance from the fire. Guards and volunteers ran to fill leather buckets.

  Jerine took another leaf from her pocket. She rubbed it between trembling fingers. She served the Goddess, and her survival was proof of divine protection. But earlier tonight that belief had been shaken. She hoped never to experience another moment like that.

  She put the leaf in her mouth, but the bitter taste was of little comfort. She shivered continually. What she needed was warm reassurance. But this was her path, and she walked it alone.

  Except now she had traveling companions.

  Ulric and Dalathos stood close by, and wheezed to recover their breath. Both were too pale and streaked with soot. Ulric also with blood — one of his ears a ragged mess. She would need to treat that once her hands steadied. Poor Sirath was slumped beside them, a swelling the size of a goose egg on his brow. He was now awake, but uneven pupils showed him as concussed. Tilirine held wounded Erin in her arms. Ezekiel stood anxious behind them.

  Tilirine had the right of it, and it was a terrible truth. Tonight they had suffered for Jerine. Others had, too. Why hadn’t she seen how her path might affect them?

  She shuddered, revolted by her own thoughtlessness. It was past time to correct that.

  Michalas Harolmeyer wandered among his shocked patrons. He tried to calm some, and answered questions from others. As he drew near, Jerine grabbed him for attention.

  “Yes?”

  Jerine pointed to Erin. “We need to move her to shelter.”

  The proprietor stood and opened his arms. “I have nothing.”

  “What of the mules?” Jerine asked carefully, mindful that Michalas had lost his livelihood tonight.

  “Safe. The grooms emptied the stables and drenched them at the first sign of a fire. The animals were taken through the rear yard, to the street behind. Some of my staff remain there to keep quick hands from taking them.” His tone became strained. “Why, would you like your animals sent to you?”

  Jerine looked at Erin again. That would not be enough. “Is there anything more?”

  Michalas scratched his head. “A canvas-covered cart was abandoned outside, with two ponies harnessed to it. I had it sent to join with the animals — ”

  “I’ll buy it from you.”

  “It’s not mine to sell. It may have belonged to the false draymen who began the fire.”

  “I’ll give you what you want for the cart and the ponies. And blankets for Erin.”

  Michalas Harolmeyer narrowed his eyes at her.

  Jerine knew she asked for too much too fast. But Erin remained in dangerous ill-health. Exposure
to the cold and wet would endanger her more. And though the proprietor appeared to be good-natured, behind that, Jerine sensed his greed and need for money. To emphasize her point, she drew out her purse and reached inside. She intended to grab a few guilders, and hope that their value was enticing enough. Instead, her fingers touched the largest coin first — the decate sovereign Sirath had cooed at in the cave. The one coin too big to sew into the lining of her satchel. Jerine retrieved it and held it under the proprietor’s nose. “We need help.”

  The gold gleamed. Michalas licked his lips and his fingers hovered near it. Then he snatched it. “Well, you are a good customer. And suffered such misfortune! I have my own, but by the Mother, the South Guild of Taverners will see me compensated. Else someone will take a long walk from the West Gate.” Michalas placed an over-friendly hand on her shoulder. “The cart and ponies are yours, and I’ll have blankets found for you.”

  Jerine smiled with genuine gratitude. But she felt a need to remain still, with her purse open.

  Michalas sneaked a look at the coins in there. “Have you somewhere to stay?” he asked carefully.

  Jerine shook her head. Everyone in the city belonged to some group that could care for them. A family, neighborhood, a guild, or a temple. As outsiders to Corianth, Jerine and her companions had enjoyed Councilor Amberlin’s patronage. But since he’d fled, they were alone.

  Michalas fell into routine charm. “Ah, but everywhere will be full for the Spring Fair. You’ll have nowhere to go. I can’t leave my patrons to suffer so. I tell you what, my sister, Portilla, lives across the city in the Carpenter’s District. She runs a small tavern, called the Bod and Bumpkin. There are no lodgings for hire, but the top floor is empty, except for a bed that could be made up in a moment. If I ask her to, she will give you whatever hospitality you need. It would be no great expense. I can send a message ahead, to tell her to prepare for your arrival. If you wish it?”

  Jerine glanced at her companions, miserable and in pain. She faced the proprietor again, and smiled. “You have a kind heart. I would be grateful for any help you can give.”