Gathering (Chronicles of Empire 1)

by Brian G Turner

  Dalathos lurched after them. A riderless horse blocked his way, so he punched it in the face. It kicked out and bolted — then Dalathos saw him.

  Ulric stood with his ax in his hands, his face held low. He was covered in blood. The two soldiers attacked him. Dalathos felt his heart scream in fear that Ulric would be run through.

  Metal flashed. The first soldier gurgled as his jaw flew away to the grass. Ulric swatted the man silent, then jumped onto the second, hacking wildly. That soldier fell screaming and writhing, until Ulric had shredded the man bloody and silent.

  Ulric stepped back. His chest heaved like mighty bellows. He kept his gaze steady and alert, eyes burning like seven hells unleashed. He stared into the distance, as if ready to challenge the sky.

  Dalathos had feared Ulric injured. Now he was terrified by the change in the man — they no longer recognized one another. Dalathos stepped back. He slowly lowered Protector. Too sudden a movement might see Ulric lash out and gut him without thinking. “Ulric ... Ulric! It’s me ... Dal!”

  There was no change for too long. Then Ulric’s face sagged. His eyes blinked alive. He glanced about, as if woken from a dream.

  Dalathos ran to him and grabbed an arm. “Are you hurt?” Ulric moved his mouth but made no reply. There was no sign of any wound on him — the blood on his breastplate wasn’t his own. That was some relief. Dalathos propped him up. “We’ve got to get away from here.”

  The remaining soldiers fled the field, only a couple still in the saddle. Bodies lay strewn around. The air was full of pitiful crying. A few horses stomped wildly among the fallen, their mules among them.

  Ulric’s eyes went wide with shock. “We should help. They — ”

  “No, we must get to the carriage,” Lieutenant Domus ordered. “The empire depends on it!”

  Dalathos had no strength to argue, and sought their animals. The ground was slippery with blood and mud. He tried not to look at it, and ignore the stink of viscera and the sound of pleading by his feet.

  The mules were unsettled and rolled their eyes, but Dalathos was able to mount up. He kicked on to the road, and waited for Ulric and Lieutenant Domus to join him.

  He looked to where the soldiers had fled.

  And his guts sank.

  Another company of mounted soldiers appeared. These were led by a knight upon a white horse, a tabard of blue and yellow over his breastplate. The knight Dalathos had knocked from the saddle rode to them, his black and white tabard torn and flapping.

  “Ulric, ride!” Dalathos kicked his mule to a canter. It only now occurred that he should have grabbed a horse. Domus surged ahead. Dalathos looked back to ensure Ulric stayed with them.

  And behind, a knight raised a sword and swung it forward, and signaled his men to pursue.

  City of Sin

  Rodrigan

  Rodrigan barged between both men and caught them by surprise — elbowed one in the face, and kicked the other in the groin. Then grabbed their hair and slammed their heads together. The sound was like knocking wood.

  Both brawlers staggered back, cowed.

  Their companions retreated with them, blue or green ribbons on their batons. Supporters for opposing racing factions, out to prove themselves.

  Rodrigan strode at them. “Do you want to face me?” he shouted. “Do you really want to take me on?”

  They scattered like vermin.

  He stopped and glared at their fleeing backs. His chest pumped hard, his blood fired. His rage seemed to be without limit today. He would have been glad to fight them all.

  Troop Captain Cario ran up, Salvian a step behind. Too late to help break up the street fight. “My lord,” Cario said, “you could’ve been harmed.”

  “Then next time keep up.” Rodrigan panted as he strode back to his horse.

  The Spring Fair always saw rampant crime. The tournament factions especially caused problems. He would ensure that the fist of justice dealt with them all in this city of sin.

  But first he must find Amberlin’s agents. They’d proven cunning, unpredictable, and treacherous. And could still seek to disrupt Molric’s plans on this most important of days — their day of completion. A nose had trailed them into the Carpenter’s District, but had been unable to proceed farther. That area was under the protection of Pure Heart, a girl revered as a messenger of the Mother. A dangerous heresy, with dangerous followers.

  He would have to take his troopers in to search. He would tear the place apart if he had to.

  He mounted his gray gelding, and patted its neck. The horses would require rest after the morning’s patrol. “We’ll water our mounts at Pirralis Square.”

  As they trotted back to the Avenue of Processions, his soul lifted to be out in the open, leading his men again. He no longer feared to be followed by Dinemetis’s spies. Nothing could truly harm him now but the retribution of God.

  If Erin was truly dead.

  A part of him was convinced that he’d killed her. And yet, doubt remained. An acolyte was seen to be carried from the Lion Inn — wounded, but still alive. Had that been Erin, or another guest? He had to find out.

  One or more of Amberlin’s agents may have been wounded, from fighting off Five Fingers Jack’s men. That at least might make them more conspicuous, if they dared travel the streets. And by Omicron, Pollos, and the Light Rodrigan would have them if they did.

  He’d already stopped groups on the road, looking for any likeness. There was always the chance the agents now disguised themselves. But not the Duke Dalathos — such a man took pride in his arms, and would be easy to spot. Rodrigan would have to face such an adversary himself.

  North Keep stood ahead, the North Gate behind it. He trotted past the cooking smells from eateries and inns. His troopers followed in an ordered line behind.

  Tonight came the culmination of years of work. Molric must succeed, and Rodrigan’s father return. Nothing must stop them. Especially not Amberlin’s agents. All the more necessary to hunt them down, and finish them.

  A Prayer to Fortune

  Sirath

  Sirath’s return to the tavern dragged on longer than he wanted.

  He’d persuaded Jerine to stop and buy an old cloth sack, and rags to stuff in it. Then hidden their gold inside. That would foil simple teasers, rag pickers, and bag cutters. And fool wandering eyes from realizing the wealth hidden there.

  He’d then bought a new belt, and a simple cloth purse to hang from it with the bottom cut out for misdirection. Then insisted on a small pouch to fit in an armpit, where he could keep a few guilders for when he needed, without having to open the sack of gold coins just to buy something.

  Simple precautions. To keep their money safe, until they got back to the tavern. Where they could hopefully meet up with Ulric and Dalathos, after their little ride through the countryside — then leave.

  “We’re almost there,” Jerine said.

  Relieved, Sirath followed with Ezekiel off the main avenue and onto a cobbled road of tall, wooden tenements — poorer than much of the city, but still better than most places he’d lived in. Many ground level windows had large shutters that opened up and down — the top to serve as an awning, and the bottom as a stall for wares. Pies, pasties, and fresh bread all called to him with their aromas.

  Touts were everywhere. Now dressed as a gentleman, Sirath attracted more interest here than he’d ever had in his life. At first he was flattered, but soon grew frustrated. He tried to remain polite, not wanting to start a fight by cursing or striking them — and all the attention that would bring.

  He hadn't experienced so much hassle before. But he couldn't remember if he'd even come this way. It was a relief when the touts dropped away, as the road opened into a long market square. Colorful awnings surrounded a cluster of stalls. Carts and wagons stood around, including a few packed with straw.

  “This is Pirralis Square,” Jerine said, and pointed ahead. “The Bod and Bumpkin is just down that road.”

  Sirath nodded, reli
eved to soon escape the simple dangers of the streets.

  A few sellers attempted to start conversation. They complimented Sirath on his clothes, and asked where he came from. He ignored them, knowing they only wanted to measure his money to set their prices by. Fortune forbid if Jerine told them she was from Irithia, else they’d try selling her shit for silver.

  Jerine tripped, and fell into Sirath. He steadied her, grateful to be of use, even in some small way.

  Jerine smiled, then turned aside and knelt down. “I’ve got a loose buckle on a boot. Carry on, while I fasten it tight.”

  Sirath slowed his step and swung about, not wanting to keep her out of sight. But it was hard to resist glancing at the stalls. He drifted nearer the wares. Now he had money, it was difficult not to look at what he might afford. Ezekiel stayed by him, nervously looking ahead, as if wanting to keep moving.

  A stallholder invited them to peruse painted vases, oil lamps, and glazed bowls. “Special price, just for you.”

  Sirath shook his head. Still, it was welcome to be well-thought of, instead of shouted at, or chased away. Even when he worked on the markets, it was made clear he was easily replaced. Even after he’d learned to be good with numbers.

  The sound of clipping hooves drew near. Another patrol of Cardinals’ Men appeared — a dozen troopers in two lines, moving about the edge of the square.

  Sirath itched to hide again, but he was caught in the open. He’d have to keep still to not catch their attention. Then he remembered the bandage at his head, and wondered why he hadn’t removed it. It made him conspicuous, and he cursed that it only occurred to him now.

  The patrol continued past the stalls. They’d be out of sight in a moment. He looked at the lead officer, who seemed somehow familiar.

  The officer turned. His gaze met Sirath’s. And held it there.

  Sirath couldn’t shake the stare. He saw recognition in the other man’s eyes.

  The officer halted his troop, then pointed. “You!”

  The word struck out, clear as a bell. Sirath grabbed Ezekiel and pushed him ahead. “Jerine, move! Time to go!”

  The officer started at a trot. “Stop that man!”

  Sirath turned and fled. At first people grabbed for him, and he was forced to dodge them. Then the air was filled with screams and the clatter of hooves.

  In the open, he was good as caught. So he ducked back among the stalls, scrambling over and through them. He could only hope that Jerine and Ezekiel escaped the same. His gold! Sirath turned to look for her and his wealth, but could see nothing of either.

  Hands grabbed at him — one caught his red doublet. Sirath fought it off, and escaped from the market and into the square. Now he’d have to run, perhaps for an alley a short sprint ahead. Somewhere they couldn’t ride after him.

  His new shoes slipped on the paving. A trooper loomed up from nowhere.

  Sirath threw himself back. He almost tripped by a stall, and grabbed a pole for balance. It came away from its support. The canvas awning collapsed onto the trooper — who fell from his saddle to crash onto a display of earthenware. The trestle collapsed. Pots smashed at the hooves of the stomping horse.

  Sirath felt a gagging panic. Merchants and assistants rushed at him. Shoppers scattered hysterically as hooves rang out again.

  There was nowhere to hide. His attention caught a narrow alley again. This was his one and only chance to flee. He burst out running, his chest tightening fast. Hooves hammered the square behind, but he was almost safe. Then realized with horror that the alley was a dead end.

  “Ride him down if you have to!”

  Sirath glanced about frantically. A staggered roof at the corner looked low enough to climb.

  He leapt up, grabbed it, and hauled himself over.

  The movement wrenched at his arms, and he was starting to feel light-headed again. But he needed to get higher. He ran at the next level, praying to Fortune not to slip on the tiles, or plummet through them. He jumped, and struggled to pull himself onto it.

  His arms and legs were starting to tremble, and his head began to sweat and throb. If he could get onto the next level, he’d have the rooftops to himself, and a real chance of escape. The tiles overhung, but if he could grab the guttering over the street front, he could lift himself up.

  He jumped, and reached it. His body strained to maintain his hold. His legs dangled over the square and his strength drained fast. He tried to find purchase with his feet, but the curled tips of his new shoes prevented any hold.

  Tiring quickly, breathless and panting, all he could do was whisper a prayer to Fortune — and hang on for dear life.

  Dizziness came again. Not as bad as before, but the worst place to get it. He needed to think, and fast. Else die a rich man without having enjoyed it. That would be a bloody tragedy. He dared move his head slightly, and stared down the market too far below him.

  Now would be a good time for Pure Heart to step in, and have a cart or wagon of straw pushed beneath him. Or just pile up some to break any fall. That might at least give him a chance.

  The crowd was excited and noisy, the troopers among them. Sirath searched for sight of the officer. There must be some way to plead innocence with him. But the officer trotted over and pointed a crossbow at him.

  Sirath swallowed and shut his eyes. He waited for a crack of pain, and to plummet to the paving. His heart beat hard. Nothing else happened. Then the guttering creaked. He couldn’t hold on much longer. “Help me!”

  The officer kept his crossbow trained on him. “I am Lord Rodrigan, of the College of Armaments. And you are a dangerous man.”

  Sirath knew he’d made enemies in this city. It sounded like he’d just found one. Or the other way around. Not for much longer — his arms trembled with the effort of keeping his grip. A crack came from the guttering. “Just get me down! I’ll talk all you want!”

  Lord Rodrigan paused. He waved a hand at his troopers and pointed to the roof. Some dismounted, and scurried to the building he clung from.

  At last, he might just be saved. Sirath shut his eyes against the pain in his limbs and his back. Just a little longer, then they could bring him down safely.

  The guttering creaked mournfully. Then snapped and lurched down at an angle. Sirath gasped — and squeezed shut his eyes. He begged to Fortune that the troopers might reach him before he fell. And if they didn’t, that it wouldn’t hurt too bad.

  Cardinals’ Men clambered over the roof, getting closer. There might just be time for them to —

  The guttering frayed away like a rope. Sirath dropped to swing screaming across the face of the building. He lost his grip and flailed through the air. Colors flashed by. He hit an awning — bounced, skimmed, tumbled over the canvas, over a brown horse. And into a cart filled with straw, to thump into the wood.

  Sirath lay stunned, unsure how wounded he might be. But if there was breath in his body he had to flee. He tried to rise and run. Instead he stumbled and fell from the cart. He landed on his back. Too dazed to move, he waited for his fate. Shouting and cheering came to his ears.

  Puffy white clouds drifted across an open blue sky. In that moment, it was a sight of true beauty. Then Lord Rodrigan’s face appeared, and glared down at him.

  Sirath was dragged to his feet, then pushed to his knees. Hands scrabbled through his clothes. They yanked free the pouch at his armpit.

  “Be glad that I want you alive,” Lord Rodrigan said. “But not necessarily able. If you attempt to escape again I’ll hamstring you both. Understand?”

  They bound Sirath’s hands behind him, and pushed him beside Ezekiel.

  “Form up, double column, prisoners in the centre!”

  Sirath had nearly lost his money, then his life. Dazed, but thankful to be breathing, he was now held prisoner. The question was, where was Jerine, and his gold?

  Revelations

  Tilirine

  Tilirine danced through the air, fists and feet flying, her spirit in union with Agadesh.
<
br />   Then attempted the Khalaki.

  Fear and loneliness stabbed through her. The world burned.

  Again, she fell and hit the floor, and lay dazed. It happened every time she reached out with her being. At least it no longer took so long to recover from the effect. She stood — infuriated, confused. Ready to try, yet again.

  Something disturbed the edge of her consciousness — Portilla, waiting on the stairs. As Tilirine recovered her breath, she wondered how long the woman had watched.

  “I’ve made the herbal tincture Jerine asked for. To help Erin, when she wakes.”

  Tilirine grunted in reply, words still too base to grasp. Her wits slowly returned. She nodded. “My thanks.”

  Portilla hobbled over to where Erin lay. “What were you doing? It looked like you were fighting yourself.”

  Tilirine opened her mouth to dismiss the question. It was a meditation, a dance, you would not understand. Then Tilirine froze. Fight herself? Of course! That was why she could not reach Khalaki. She struggled against her own Atmah. She was not supposed to oppose it, but use it: her fear, her anger, her hatred. Tilirine stood open-mouthed, astonished that so great a revelation came from so idle a comment.

  Footsteps came up the staircase, light and brisk.

  Jerine appeared, her face red from exertion. She dropped an old sack to the floor with a thump.

  Tilirine waited for the others to appear. Ezekiel at least, perhaps Sirath, too. She sensed no presence beyond her sister. “And?”

  “There’s a problem.” Jerine panted.

  Tilirine frowned. She could only wonder at what new calamity her twin had brought upon others. “Problem?” She glanced to Portilla. Tilirine had cold words to give to her sister, but she did not want an argument in front of others. It would be better not to share such a low opinion, when Jerine made problems enough for herself. Tilirine attempted to sound calm and reasonable. “Something ... happened?”

  Jerine sagged. “The Order took Sirath. And Ezekiel. I only escaped because I hid out of sight.”