Gathering (Chronicles of Empire 1)

by Brian G Turner

  On spotting the Emperor’s Guard, his soldiers were to charge and put them to flight, then maintain a steady pursuit into the ambush prepared. Lord Erannin of Gale had already taken his mounted crossbowmen ahead, to lie in wait.

  Normon addressed his soldiers. “Ride steady, keep in formation. And remember your orders. Last year I lost good men to peasants, who wielded nothing more than farm tools. The Emperor’s Guard have a foppish reputation, but they are armed and armored. Do not underestimate them.” He let that point linger as he stared at each of his knights. “Even if only one guard remains against a hundred of you, you will hold back and maintain pursuit, as ordered. You are my wolves to their sheep. But it’s the for the crossbowmen to finish them. Am I understood?”

  “Yes, my duke!” they chorused.

  Normon nodded, satisfied. “Execute your duty without mercy, and tonight you shall feast!”

  The soldiers cheered. Signal horns blared, and the first company started forward. Lord Rhannalith led them on his black warhorse, his mace aloft, his tabard quartered with the white and black shields of the Montis. The horses trotted with dull thumps to the earth. A carriage rumbled after, leaving behind furrowed grass and rutted tracks. Normon warned Rhannalith with a stare not to ignore his orders — the man had lost an elder brother in last summer’s revolt.

  Lord Marellan, the first of the reserve, followed next on his white gelding. His soldiers followed his sword, and the blue on yellow arms of the Corvello family.

  The other companies trotted after in turn. Their horses snorted, and raised up the smell of ruddy earth and dung.

  As the last of them left, Normon felt able to relax. All that remained were the servants and squires, and a dozen footmen to guard the camp. And the stores of food and drink to enjoy for their success. Shanks of beef, salted fish, fresh lamb. A fine herb broth, roasted turnips, and loaves of spiced bread. And barrels of first filter ale, casks of cider, and amphorae of wine.

  Normon returned to his camp chair and pulled a blanket over himself. A servant hurriedly filled a cup and place it in the duke’s hands. Normon sipped, then closed his eyes and yawned. Better to let the day wash over him. Tomorrow he would be back in his own lands, and among the comforts of home. All this silly politics would be behind him.

  His cares would be buried with the Emperor’s Guard.

  A Miserable Memory

  Sirath

  Sirath woke in an unfamiliar room, feeling like a weight of lead had been slammed into his forehead.

  Someone had put a simple bandage around it. He presumed he must have got riotously drunk and caught in a fight — his back and ribs had taken a beating, too. But he couldn’t remember anything from last night.

  He sat up from a hard floor, a musty blanket falling away. The room was dark, but swayed like he was on a boat. It took a moment to realize it was just dizziness. He waited for it to pass, before looking for Cal and the others. No doubt the explanation for the bump on his head would be hilarious, to some.

  His hand touched a purse at his side. He froze — it was cold, and heavy with money. He dared slip his fingers in, and brought out a gold coin.

  He stared, his heart racing. Then scrabbled through the rest of the pouch and found more of the same. There must have been a hundred crowns or more in there! He dropped a couple in a pocket for himself, and planned to split the rest with Cal. All he’d have to do was figure out where he was, and how to escape with this fortune.

  Light brightened behind window shutters, as if the sun had broken free of a cloud. That’s when he saw the bed with Erin laid in it, Ezekiel with his staff asleep beside it.

  Sirath’s heart sank. He was no longer in Canalecht, but in Corianth. Cal and his friends were dead. It was a miserable memory to wake up to. He put his face in his hands and took a deep breath, challenging himself not to weep. He let out a long sigh.

  He took in his surroundings. The noise of city life drifted in from outside. Carefully, he stood. It was hard to balance because the floor seemed to shift. He crept to a shuttered window and peeked through a gap. There was little to see, other than tall buildings beyond rooftops, and that it was day. Nothing looked familiar. But he knew he must still be in Corianth.

  The question was why they were no longer at the Lion Inn. Had they been attacked while they slept? It was frustrating that he couldn’t remember anything.

  He took his bag of gold, and carefully — very carefully — made his way down a narrow staircase. It was dark, full of must and dust. He passed two other floors, with small crates stacked in them. A blue-glass bottle near his head was filled with seashells, two small boxes by it brimming with feathers.

  Finally he made it to the ground level. He was in a small common room. There were four modest tables, and a large section of latticed glass across the front of the building. An old serving counter stood to one side, stacks of clay jars and amphorae behind it. It seemed to be a small tavern.

  Jerine and Tilirine entered through a side door. Jerine’s eyes became bright and smiling when she saw him. “Sirath! How are you feeling?”

  Sirath remained still, but his head kept spinning. “Why aren’t we ... at the Lion Inn?”

  “There’s not much left of it,” Jerine replied. Then explained what she claimed had happened last night, and how he’d saved their lives.

  The words that went together sounded unlikely. Sirath waited for the punchline, laughter, and to be told it was a joke. Why would he have stepped into a fight, instead of running away? He touched the bandage at his forehead. He couldn’t remember anything about it.

  But if they had been attacked, they needed to get clear of this city.

  “We need to leave,” he said.

  “We can’t.” Jerine walked over to him, concern in her expression.

  “Why not?”

  “Ezekiel doesn’t dare risk moving Erin, unless it’s essential. And we’ve arranged to meet Ulric and Dalathos here, when they return from their commission.”

  Sirath could only stare incredulously at her. Doing nothing was not an option — it simply invited being attacked again. And without the big men around to help, they were in even greater danger.

  Tilirine stepped forward. “Jerine, the cart.”

  Jerine patted Sirath on the shoulder. “You get some rest while we prepare supplies, for when we do leave.”

  Sirath could only stare as Jerine and Tilirine left through the front door. They passed briefly in front of the latticed glass windows, then turned out of sight.

  Cold silence returned.

  They were dead — all of them. Just like Cal and the others. Unless someone did something. And that was left up to him.

  He cradled his purse of gold in his arms. It promised a future, but only if used properly. It could buy more clothes. Or goodwill. Favors, from those who traded in them.

  Sirath might not know much about living rich, but he knew about cants and gangs, and how the streets worked. A jack might take an interest in Jerine’s safety — for the right price.

  If he could fine one — and persuade him to do that.

  Sirath crept to the door from the tavern, keeping alert for any sign of Jerine’s return. She’d try to stop him from leaving. Which was absolutely the wrong thing to do.

  He opened the door, and stepped into the cool morning air of the street. There was barely anyone about. Jerine had gone right, so he faced left, where the buildings were taller. Where the city would be busier. Where someone would seek easier pickings. And where Sirath would now have to bargain for their lives.

  Hugging his purse, he hurried away without a backward glance.

  Open as the Sky

  Ulric

  Ulric cupped his hands in the clear stream. He drank, then splashed his face to refresh himself. His body was tired and heavy. His insides groaned. And he couldn’t hear properly. But it was a joy to be in countryside again. Stood in the living land, he felt open as the sky.

  He left the mules to water, and climbed back up
the shingle stream bank. His uniform and breastplate and boots made his movements stiff.

  “Ulric, you’re wheezing.” Dalathos took a gulp from a leather canteen Portilla had provided, then grimaced.

  Ulric sucked in the comforting smell of damp earth. Birch trees rustled in the breeze. “Been a smoky few nights. Still don’t like camomile?”

  “Aunt Bronda forced it on me as a boy, when she thought I was ill.”

  Ulric pointed down to the stream. “Water’s fresh. Clean and clear, like crystal on the tongue. You’ll not get sick drinking that.”

  Dalathos looked warily aside. The rest of the Emperor’s Guard watered their horses away from them. “I don’t know how long we’ll stop. I wouldn’t want to get left behind.”

  Ulric had to tilt his face to hear, the world muffled to one side. “Should eat something, while we can.” He opened the bag Portilla had provided. He broke off a hunk of bread and chewed it. He didn’t eat too much in case it made him drowsy in the saddle.

  Riding was a challenge. But he’d finally found his rhythm, behind the Emperor’s Guard. They’d followed the paved road south and east. The officers had made them alternate between a walk and a trot, to maintain pace without tiring the horses. Farms and their patchwork fields lay behind. Plains rolled east into low hills, distant towers showing a town nestled there. The road they followed turned south, to snake over a low ridge that blocked his view.

  Dalathos pointed to the town. “That’s Glora-Farel. I stopped near there with the caravan, only a few days ago. I crossed this way to get to Arris Town. I never imagined I’d be back here again, as one of the Emperor’s Guard.”

  They both returned to their mules, then led them back to the road. Ulric patted his. Tam Fletcher had said that riders had to be wary that their horses didn’t fall ill. Ulric knew even less about mules. He’d have to take care to look after the animal. He stroked it, then put his new, thick gloves back on.

  Dalathos tapped him on the shoulder. “Looks like we’re wanted over there.” He pointed. The Emperor’s Guard stood together. Commander Mollinos addressed them.

  Ulric couldn’t hear what was said, only mumbling.

  As soon as they approached the commander ordered his men to mount up. The Emperor’s Guard returned to their horses.

  Dalathos drew near. “Did we need to hear what was said?”

  Commander Mollinos frowned at them both. “I have no words for you. You’re nothing but peasants.”

  Dalathos squared up to the commander. “I’m a knight of the Emperor’s Guard.”

  Commander Mollinos gave a short, mocking laugh. “You’re a disgrace to the uniform! You ride mules, and present yourselves with dirt on your faces. You wear that ridiculous sword at your back like some common mercenary. You’ll never be one of us.”

  “I have a commission from Chief-General Galadon that says otherwise. You should respect that.”

  “Are you trying to be impertinent, boy?”

  “Are you trying to disrespect me?”

  “I’m an officer! It’s my job to disrespect those who bring the ranks into disrepute.” Commander Mollinos narrowed his eyes. “Draw your sword.”

  Ulric stepped up, ready to come between both men. This argument had gone far enough, and wasn’t going to come to any good.

  Dalathos pulled Ulric aside, then began to undo the buckle to remove his greatsword.

  Commander Mollinos drew his saber, and thrust the point before Dalathos’s face. He held the weapon there. “That’s not your sword. This is. A quick blade, for the thrust. You strike first, for the eyes or the throat. If you want to act like an Emperor’s Guard, at least try thinking like one.”

  Ulric forced himself between both men. “That’s enough.” He pushed the saber aside. The commander stubbornly held it firm. Ulric grabbed it and tried to turn it away. There was a loud snap and the blade came away in his gloves.

  Commander Mollinos gawped at his broken weapon. He snatched the piece from Ulric’s hand, then threw it to the ground with the hilt. He grabbed the saber from Ulric’s baldric and waved it at them both. “Get out from my sight! Tomorrow the Emperor rescinds your commissions. Pray you never see me again after that.” He stormed away. Lieutenant Domus stood awkward, then followed.

  “Sorry, Dal.” Ulric had only tried to stop a bad situation getting worse. “Okay to call you Dal?”

  “That’s what my friends call me. And don’t worry about the officer. He already makes us ride at the back.”

  Ulric stared after the officers as they mounted up. He wasn’t sure if they were supposed to still ride with them. “So ... what do we do now?”

  “Remain to do our duty.” Dalathos picked up the broken saber and examined it. “I was right about the metal, though. I’d keep your ax loose, in case you need it.”

  Ulric nodded as they walked back to their mules. They may not be welcomed by the Emperor’s Guard, but he felt the spirit of this land embrace him. Just maybe this was the path he’d been looking for.

  We Have to Find Him

  Jerine

  “What do you mean, Sirath’s gone?” Jerine said.

  Tilirine stepped from the staircase and into the small common room. “We have searched the stables and tavern twice, and the street outside. He is no longer here. He must have left while we arranged for supplies with Portilla. He took his gold, nothing more.”

  After the attack last night it was too dangerous for Sirath to wander alone. He’d suffered a concussion that left him dazed and confused. That must be why he’d gone — he wouldn’t leave his mules otherwise. Or without saying goodbye to her. “We have to find him.”

  “Why?”

  Jerine was thrown by the reply. Sirath was the only person who believed in her. “Because he provided his mules for us to use. He helped us find the warehouse for the councilor. And last night he saved us all with his warning. What did you do?”

  “I provided the work you needed. I allowed your companions to join us. I led the search of the workhouses and found out about Berton Bellinis. I took the bishop from the warehouse, and helped save people from the fire at the Lion Inn. What did you do?”

  “I brought everyone together!”

  “And what a fine job you are doing of that. Dalathos and Ulric are gone, Erin is badly wounded, and now Sirath is missing.”

  Jerine felt a rare flash of rage. Before she realized it, she’d lashed out at her sister. Tilirine caught her hand and held it firm. For a moment Jerine could only stare, appalled by her own actions. She relaxed her muscles.

  Tilirine let go. “Never ... do that again.”

  Jerine turned and kicked a table leg with a yell of frustration. She was unable to understand the strength of her feelings. They’d escaped last night’s fire, and been given shelter. It should have been a morning of peace, and recovery. So why did she now lose all self-control?

  She needed some leaf. She quickly pinched one, and rolled it in her fingers — to let the calming juices flow faster. She placed it in her mouth and chewed urgently. The taste spread a soothing numbness under her skin. Her head felt lighter, and her heart began to slow its frantic beat. Jerine sagged, and looked sorrowfully at her sister. This wasn’t Tilirine’s fault, only her own. “I’m sorry.”

  Tilirine glared at her.

  Jerine closed her eyes. She tried to sense what the Goddess needed her to do next. There was a clear sense of movement. She opened her eyes. “I must find him.”

  “How?”

  Her gaze was drawn up the staircase. Then she knew. “Ezekiel.” His strange magic had healed Erin. Could it help find Sirath?

  Jerine was running up the stairs before she realized she’d moved. The steps were steep and tiring. She was breathless when she finally reached the top floor.

  Ezekiel was seated by Erin’s bed, his staff crooked in his arms. He looked up as she approached and smiled tiredly.

  “Sirath is missing,” Jerine said. “We need to look for him. Can you help?”

&n
bsp; Ezekiel turned away. She could feel his uncertainty.

  “He may be in danger,” she added.

  Ezekiel nodded. “I can try.” He closed his eyes, and sat as if in contemplation. He opened them. “There’s a busy main road close by, that leads to the hill at the end of the city.”

  “The Avenue of Processions. It’s the second main avenue through Corianth.”

  “He’s part of the way along that, slowly moving west. I recorded his biometric signature, so I know it is him. I can’t tell you anything more than that.”

  Jerine clasped and unclasped her hands, gladdened by the news, but fretful that Sirath might disappear before they found him. He could step into a shop, a side street, and be lost from sight as they passed. He could fall into a canal, lay bleeding in an alley. And then they’d never find him. Her heart fluttered in fear for his safety. “I need more. Can you come with me?”

  Ezekiel shook his head. “I must keep my ... staff ... on Erin. I might risk removing it later. I daren’t, yet.”

  Jerine slouched. The Goddess told her to move, and she had to trust in that.

  “Perhaps ... ” Ezekiel stood. He placed a hand in his robes, and encouraged his weasel to climb onto his arm. “Weasel has a very good sense of smell.”

  Use a weasel like a scenting hound? She should have laughed. Instead, Jerine rushed to the blankets Sirath had laid in. “Here!”

  Ezekiel left his staff beside Erin. He wandered over, and let his weasel run down onto the wool. It sat on its hind legs and sniffed the air. Ezekiel closed his eyes. The weasel explored the blankets. “Weasel has the scent.” Ezekiel lifted the animal and placed it in a robe pocket.

  Jerine frowned. “How can the weasel track him, hidden in there?”

  Ezekiel smiled. “Weasel will tell me ... in its own way.”