Gathering (Chronicles of Empire 1)

by Brian G Turner

  Tilirine was surprised by the lack of evasion. “What do you plan to do now?”

  “Nothing, if you’ll pardon the expression. We can’t leave Erin alone. All we can do is wait here. And hope the others find their way back. All of them.”

  Tilirine clenched and unclenched her fists, fighting the tension that returned to her muscles. But Portilla still listened to their exchange. It was a challenge to retain a polite tone. “You said before that your gift was to bring these companions together. Are you so sure that nothing is what you should do?”

  Jerine spoke plainly, “I can sense what to do in this moment. Which is to wait. The Goddess will lead them all back to us.”

  “It is not enough to — ”

  “Do you really think that I don’t want them back? That I would leave Sirath out there, alone, after the panic I went through to find him? There is nothing I can do. The Goddess demands patience. Surely you were taught that spiritual lesson?”

  Tilirine stared at her. Understanding the difference between action and inaction was a fundamental lesson — Lord Kriya had taught that to Prince Ashok. Another revelation in as many heartbeats.

  Jerine spoiled the moment by continuing to speak, “You are too serious, sometimes. I’m going downstairs for refreshment.”

  Tilirine stared after her. She tried to gauge whether Jerine was utterly stupid, or subtly clever. It was almost as if the Monkey God, Ranhamman, wore her face as a mask to make mischief.

  Jerine and Portilla creaked away down the stairs. Tilirine remained alone with Erin. Their situation was now far worse than when the day had begun. She could follow down and demand a full explanation.

  Yet Jerine’s words were spoken true — Jerine was forced to wait, and accept that. Tilirine might not feel her sister’s being truly, but she saw where her gaze lingered, whom she talked with the most, and touched with affection. Jerine must feel hurt, for now she experienced the folly of follies. All the worse for it being Sirath. The one she had risked danger to find, the one she had left behind. The man Jerine was falling in love with.

  And that was the greatest revelation of all.

  Prisoners

  Ezekiel

  Ezekiel wanted to run, escape — but he was tied and bound, and marched behind Sirath through the streets of Corianth. Two lines of horsemen hemmed him in. The smell of hay tightened in his throat. Ezekiel stumbled, feeling sick and helpless. The size of the horses and noise from their hooves threatened to crush him.

  He was going to be tortured and killed.

  He’d tell them anything they wanted him to, but they’d never believe him — or care. Torture was something people did from vengeance or pleasure, never necessity. Why had the Great Matriarch’s delivered him to this fate? They’d said he must go to the end of this world, and quoted from a text his first incarnation had been named after: You shall be the fuel for the fire, and your blood shall be in the land.

  None of it made any sense. His death would be meaningless. What had he done wrong? He couldn’t help that Molric’s shuttle had dragged his own craft here, or that he was now trapped in its past. He’d only sought to do what was right. Now his journey, and his life, were wasted.

  A coldness deep inside of his body made him shiver. If he wasn’t forced to keep to his feet then he’d just sink to the floor — curl up and hold himself, waiting to die.

  Extraordinary to think of the lightness of being he’d felt after saving Erin’s life. It had been the most difficult, challenging, wonderful thing he’d ever accomplished. But by attending to her, he had not been able to seek Molric, let alone compose a presentation to explain the predicament to him.

  Now Ezekiel would never have chance to. He’d no plan of action, no way of breaking free — his bonds and the riders here ensured that. Without his facilitator, he was useless to save even himself.

  Something brushed his leg. He glanced down before he realized to keep his eyes forward. Warm fur — Weasel remained with him, hiding under his robes by his feet. He felt its fear, and it reflected his own. He should tell it to flee from this danger. But for the moment its presence brought one last comfort — that he wouldn’t die alone.

  The troopers halted.

  Ezekiel dared to look up, expecting to see some nightmarish place, worse than yesterday’s workhouses. Instead, there was a terrace of stone houses: smart and clean, decorative, with small gardens. These might be residences for the rich. Not somewhere he’d expect to find a torture chamber.

  The troopers parted. Lord Rodrigan addressed one of his men, “Ring the bell for Councilor Molric.”

  Ezekiel looked up and ice seemed to streak up his spine.

  That name.

  He disbelieved it could be the same Molric — surely only seconds had separated their entry into that spatial tear? But it was already proven that Molric had become organized. Enough to manufacture explosives. Enough to arrange for its distribution. Enough time for Commander Molric to seek power in this age. And use technology to elevate himself to councilor.

  Ezekiel refused to accept that seconds of difference might become years. Of all the possibilities, this was the one he’d feared most, and couldn’t accept as probable. A coincidence, an error. Anything but truth.

  A hard shove in the back caused him to stumble forward. Sirath was pushed up beside him. A trooper pulled a cord by a green door. A small bell rang within.

  They waited.

  Finally, the door opened. A figure came into view — tall and broad, wearing long purple robes.

  Molric stood before him.

  The man had aged, changed, but it was him. An Imperium Vox was fastened at his wrist, partly obscured by a sleeve. Ezekiel had sought to find Molric. But it was Molric who found him, and now made him his prisoner.

  Ezekiel’s gaze fell with his heart. He faced the worst of all outcomes — Molric established and powerful in this past. He would already have changed the timeline by his active presence. Anything Ezekiel tried now might even make matters worse. Unless Molric killed him, six hundred million years before Ezekiel had even been born. Is that how time would prevent him becoming a paradox?

  And there was nothing Ezekiel could do to prevent it.

  No Hope of Escape

  Dalathos

  The coachman whipped at the horses in a fury as the carriage rattled ahead. Lieutenant Domus cantered alongside it. Ulric struggled to keep pace beside Dalathos. Their mules were close to exhaustion and could collapse at any moment.

  Behind, the two knights and twenty mounted soldiers held their measured pursuit.

  Dalathos twitched at every corner, copse, or rise they came to. They were not being ridden down, but followed. And that only made sense if a trap lay ahead — to reinforce an already brutal advantage.

  Though he saw small farms and homesteads beyond fields, there was nothing they could easily reach and defend. They desperately needed to stop somewhere they could barricade themselves into. And soon.

  A high ridge appeared ahead. Beyond it lay the stream they had earlier watered their horses at. This mission could easily end there with their death.

  The road rounded a line of trees.

  That’s when he saw the horses. Soldiers with small crossbows walked among fallen blue and steel figures. The bodies of Emperor’s Guard who’d fled the field. And their killers, the ambush already sprung.

  A whisper of hope came that this gave him and Ulric a chance. They rode past while the crossbowmen were unprepared. Dalathos dared to wish that they might find safety before they came into range.

  The crossbowmen ran to their horses and mounted up. They wheeled to join up with the other pursuers, loading and cocking their weapons as they rode.

  The knight who led them all raised his sword aloft and pointed — and spurred into a gallop. His men burst forward with him, and began to spread out.

  The road snaked up the ridge ahead. It would slow them all down. This was where the chase would end, without mercy. This was the killing ground, and t
here was no hope of escape.

  Dalathos ground his teeth in bitterness. He could never have imagined his one day with the Emperor’s Guard would see him killed. Alarian would never know. He might never care. There was no choice but to fight until cut down. “Ulric, get your crossbow out!”

  Dalathos fought to control the reins. He placed Protector across his lap, and unfastened his crossbow from the saddle. His hands shook. He seemed to spend an age fumbling with the buckle. When he finally released the crossbow, he almost dropped it.

  He dragged it over his sword and saddle. He grasped at his quiver. The first bolt spun away from his fingers. He grabbed a second, and cocked his crossbow with a quick pull on the lever. He clicked off the safety catch and turned.

  His one chance was to fell the knights. That might just panic the pursuers. He tried to aim but the bounce of his canter made it impossible to hold steady. He pulled the trigger bar. The bolt snapped forward — too low, it impaled the ground far in front of the closing riders.

  He loaded his crossbow again. Ulric struggled with his. Though he trembled with fear, Dalathos managed to ready his weapon again. He turned, aimed, and shot. The bolt slid harmlessly into the grass. Hooves were over it in moments.

  The pursuers raised their crossbows. There was a crackle and hiss of bolts let loose. All fell short. But the soldiers were gaining fast.

  Ulric turned to shoot. Nothing happened.

  The carriage began its ascent up the ridge. As expected, the incline slowed it. Dalathos could only pray that it might make the knights easier to strike down. “Ulric, shoot!”

  “It’s stuck!” Ulric rested his crossbow on the flank of his mule. He fiddled one-handed with the mechanism.

  Dalathos managed to get a third bolt prepared. “What do you mean, stuck?”

  The air rattled and hissed again — bolts needled past them. Something glanced from his shoulder. A bolt embedded in a carriage wheel.

  Ulric’s eyes became wide in panic.

  Dalathos turned, sweating furiously. It was a shock to see how near the pursuing riders had closed in. They would be at the base of the ridge any moment. He aimed at the knight in blue and yellow, felt that he couldn’t miss — that his luck was about to change. He pulled the trigger bar. The bolt shot harmlessly over the knight’s head.

  “Dal, it won’t work!”

  Dalathos could feel all his body shaking now. They were halfway up the ridge, but wouldn’t safely clear it. He looked impatiently at Ulric. “Did you take the safety catch off?”

  The carriage lurched. The back wheels vaulted up too high, then crashed down. The rear axle smashed. A wheel loosed and span away. The carriage skidded, twisted, then overturned. The driver was thrown from his seat. The horses collapsed. The carriage splintered and shattered in a welter of debris, and rolled apart.

  “Safety catch?” Ulric clicked it off. Then turned, and stared at the carriage wreck. His saddle bounced, and his crossbow shot into the hind of his mule.

  The animal bucked and kicked. Ulric was thrown, and flipped down the grassy slope. He came to his feet a moment, then fell on his back.

  The pursuing riders started up the incline. They would be upon Ulric in a heartbeat. The crossbowmen prepared to shoot again. And at this range they couldn’t miss.

  “Domus, Ulric’s down!”

  The lieutenant slowed his horse. “The carriage!”

  Dalathos saw no choice. He’d led Ulric into this ill-fated mission. He wouldn’t leave him to die alone for it. He pulled hard on his reins and turned his mule about.

  Ulric rose unsteadily with his breastplate buckled and hanging loose from one shoulder. He was greased with grass and mud and blood.

  Another volley of bolts hissed out.

  One struck Dalathos’s own crossbow, embedding in the wooden frame. He heard Lieutenant Domus cry out and feared the worse. Ulric staggered back, bolts sticking out from his chest.

  “Ulric!” Dalathos threw his crossbow to the ground. He put Protector in his hands and kicked his mule hard. It brayed and buckled, a bolt in its snout. Dalathos jumped clear as it collapsed. He ran, stumbled, blindly with Protector raised — ready to defend his friend or die trying. Dalathos roared as he charged: for rage, for shame, for his last breath of life.

  His legs faltered and gave way, shaking uncontrollably. He tried to rise, but the ground seemed to move under him.

  The air was shocked by horns and trumpets.

  The pursuers immediately pulled back on their reins. They halted in disarray on the slope — so close that Dalathos could see the fright in their eyes.

  And then thunder, a continuous, deafening rumble that shook the ground.

  Dalathos turned.

  Burnished steel poured over the ridge like a flood of silver. A wave of knights rode on barded warhorses, their banners streaming behind them. Brandished swords flashed to a wind struck by trumpets and blaring horns. The rampant lion stood prominent on their painted shields and battle helms. Sunlight glittered on polished plate armour as like from water.

  Dalathos couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. The knights rode around him as they engulfed the ridge in a deafening roar and flourish of arms. There must have been a thousand of them.

  They surged past and onto the terrified pursuers — who dropped from their horses and threw away their weapons.

  Dalathos scrambled to get to his feet. He stumbled into a run to Ulric. The noise of so many hooves too close thudded through his bones.

  Ulric was knelt up in the grass. Dalathos feared him mortally wounded. He grabbed Ulric’s shoulder and stared into his face, looking for signs of life. Ulric stared back — three bolts impaled in his breastplate. “Ulric! Are you hurt?”

  Slowly, his eyes focused on Dalathos. “Dal?”

  Dalathos searched for signs of wounds. Ulric’s armour and face were splattered with dried blood from the previous attack, but he found nothing fresh. He grasped at Ulric’s breastplate to unstrap it: the bolts had pierced through and gone into the mail, but hadn’t got past the black leather beneath.

  Ulric sagged. Exhausted, elated, or both. Dalathos wasn’t sure what to say or do. With no strength to rise, he knelt by his friend, holding them both steady.

  Brass instruments continued to blow. The last of the knights rode past. They surrounded the surrendering soldiers. One group detached and attended to the carriage.

  Dalathos tried to watch, but his attention was dragged away to Ulric’s heavy breathing. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

  Ulric pointed. “An army, Dal. An entire, bloody army.”

  Dalathos slumped onto his backside, overwhelmed by it all.

  A handful of knights trotted to them on powerful chargers. All wore flaring white cloaks. The one at their lead was armored in lavish plate, enameled white in the form of a rampant lion, his ornate helm plumed with white feathers. They halted before Dalathos and Ulric.

  It was too hard to think with all the noise and color around. But Dalathos realized he still held Protector. He lay it carefully down on the grass, so as not to be threatening. He was about to rise, but was suddenly aware that his trousers were warm and wet. Fearing that anyone might see that he’d soiled himself, Dalathos simply bowed his head — embarrassed and dirty and clumsy before this lord and his personal guard.

  The lord saluted, then removed his helm. A man of middle years, a sweat on his bald head, stared down. “I am Lord Perillian of Ansel, and serve King Lithos as my liege lord. Now, what the blazes has been going on here? What are the Emperor’s Guard doing so far from Corianth?”

  Dalathos stared. These were the knights Rhalinias, the master smith, had traveled to serve — the same lords Dalathos might have smithed for — had he not continued on to the city. He could only stutter in reply, “You’re Prince Renforth’s men?”

  Lord Perillian smiled. “We are his Royal Lancers, and fly our banners proud. We just arrived at our camp, less than a mile from here. Our outriders saw you Emperor’s Guard in trouble.
And knights of Lionossus never refuse, or retreat from, battle. Looks like we came at the right time, too. Now, good knight, answer my question.”

  Dalathos couldn’t explain. He didn’t even know what their mission was. He could only presume that it involved the carriage, and that someone of importance traveled in it. He managed only to babble something about speaking to Lieutenant Domus.

  Another mounted lord approached, a pale chiseled face with bright eyes and short black hair. Two stripes of blue enamel lined his chest plate. A pair of knights with blue cloaks rode with him, as did Lieutenant Domus.

  Lord Perillian turned at their approached. “Lord Nimes, what have you learned?”

  “Not much,” Lord Nimes replied, reining his horse to a halt. “The guard were expecting a carriage. They were told the old Cardinal Pontifex would be in it. Trouble is, it’s empty. The driver is going to require the attention of a surgeon and soon, before we can question him.”

  Lord Perillian nodded gravely. “We’ll bring him back with us. Anything else?”

  “Yes. Apparently they had a skirmish further back along the road. The lieutenant says they lost a good few men on the field back there.”

  Lord Perillian shouted, “Herald Gisard!” A young knight rode up. A fluttering banner was fixed high from his saddle. The lord pointed to the where the pursuers were held at sword point. “Whom do those knights serve?”

  The herald observed a moment. “The arms are most likely for the Corvello and Montis families. They both serve the Duke of Cammenia, in the Kingdom of Arrehnia.”

  Lord Perillian frowned. “What in blazes are Dreyfarius’s men doing this far up the river? Are they a rogue group, a scouting party, or an advance guard?”

  Gisard the herald shrugged. “I have no idea, my lord.”

  Dalathos could only watch in silence, fascinated by the exchange.

  Lord Perillian addressed Lieutenant Domus. “I don’t know what you’ve got yourselves into, but if I know my books, you’ve found yourself a decoy. If I were you, I’d ride back to Corianth as quickly as possible. I’ll send Lord Nimes with a battle of knights to look to your wounded, then seek out the enemy camp. The last thing we need is surprise movements, especially in these times.”