Gathering (Chronicles of Empire 1)

by Brian G Turner

  Ezekiel yelped — and let go of his facilitator. Gravity claimed him. As he fell he grabbed her foot. He could only watch as his facilitator spun away into darkness. Cold fear coursed through him — he was now helpless. The girl stamped down at his head.

  Her harness was unable to take their combined weight. The world moved wildly as they lost height.

  The clouds flashed. A hard rain rolled at them like a monstrous wave. It hit and engulfed and buffeted them both.

  Ezekiel struggled to hold on as her leathers became slick. He was losing his hold all the while that she pounded down on him.

  One of her wings snapped back and they fell faster, spinning dizzily through the air. The city streets whirled toward them. The last wing rattled and shook and was ripped clean away.

  Ezekiel’s stomach lurched as they plummeted.

  She screamed and kicked with final desperation.

  A rooftop flashed by, then the front of a building. All he could think about was how badly he’d failed.

  His grip slipped and he lost her.

  A long, black shape rushed at him — then he plunged into freezing water. He gasped from the shock as it slammed into his body. It flooded his mouth and cold smacked his lungs. He knew he had to reach to the surface. But he no longer knew which way was up, or down. He fought the urge to gag and failed. He flailed with the taste of dirt and rot in his throat and began to drown.

  Then his face broke the surface and he spluttered and coughed. His arms splashed as he tried to remain afloat. He struggled to gulp air. His desperate movements threatened to drag him back down.

  Frantically he kicked out with his legs, and swept out with his arms — all the time choking on water. It was too dark to see clearly, but his fingers touched something solid. He grasped it, pulled himself to it, trying to recover his breath and his senses.

  He held onto a timber-reinforced bank. The dark shapes of warehouses loomed above. Barges rocked close by. Black rain hammered down. The icy embrace of the water fast drained his strength.

  Ezekiel pulled at the timber to haul himself up, but his wet robes were almost too heavy. He managed to inch his way up and over, and crawl upon dirt in the cold of the air.

  His stomach heaved and he vomited water. When finished, he lay on his back, gasping.

  Something splashed near him, but he was too weak to look until the sound had become wet footfalls. The girl limped away on the quay opposite, and disappeared into the gloom between buildings. She was getting away, and there was nothing he could do about that.

  She would not lead him to Molric. Not tonight. But for now, he was simply thankful to be alive.

  Finally, he hauled himself to his feet and looked for bearings. A weak light to one side might be from street lanterns. He might use them to find his way back to the Bod and Bumpkin.

  He stood, then stopped as grief felled his heart. A short way ahead, bent at an angle, lay his facilitator — silent and broken.

  Make it Stop

  Dalathos

  Dalathos had never felt so leaden tired, but his mind remained restless — he still needed to temper the day with some kind of meaning. None came to him.

  He tried to distract himself, and took Protector out to oil. The steel gleamed in the light of the camp fire. But blood remained on the blade — he’d forgotten to clean it earlier. Ugly streaks had run into the fuller and dried. Small lumps smeared the flat. He realized with horror they were viscera, pieces of other men on his sword. Disgusted, he forced himself to the sickly business of wiping it away.

  A hard anger flared as he found something worse. Partway along, the edge had become blunted and notched. Probably from when he’d struck the knight on horseback. He cursed himself for not thinking straight. He should just have stepped around to the shield-side of the rider, then cut away the legs of the horse. It was a cruel way to treat a noble animal, but a practical choice for survival. Now his precious blade was damaged. He might grind out some of the bluntness, but he wouldn’t be able to repair the edge to the same standard. He could try to heat and hammer it tight again, but that risked weakening the core. What had possessed him to strike at a man’s breastplate? It was sheer stupidity. He snorted, angry at himself.

  He set to work, his grinding stone in his fist. But he kept snagging his knuckles where the metal had beveled. It was frustrating work and grated his nerves. He’d need a wheeled grindstone to even begin to smooth this out.

  The trees they sheltered under flashed white from lightning. The thunder that followed was a long time in coming. The horses shifted and sighed. At least they seemed settled enough, hobbled nearby, and made no effort to break free. Lieutenant Domus whimpered and groaned as he lay in his blankets.

  Ulric grunted as he cleaned his dented breastplate with an oiled rag. He didn’t look at Dalathos. He hadn’t all the time that he’d worked to build a shelter of branches and ferns over their heads, and a mattress of moss.

  Dalathos sank inside. His prize sword needed proper repair work. And the man he’d laughed with over ale in the city was too quiet. Dalathos could only stare guiltily — he’d almost got both of them killed. All for his pride in joining the Emperor’s Guard. Ulric should’ve had no place in that.

  Ulric put his breastplate down. He took out a small knife, and poked at the broken shafts of crossbow bolts that pierced it.

  Dalathos reached for a drink, but found his canteen empty. “Ulric? You any drink left?”

  Ulric rifled under his black fur cloak, and handed over his. He kept his gaze averted.

  Dalathos took it with thanks. Tired as he was, his smile felt like it came through his teeth. It became even more of a grimace as he tasted cold camomile. He took a few gulps then handed it back.

  A log spat in the fire. Lightning flashed again.

  Dalathos looked out, past the copse of trees, and wondered when the rain would reach them. It might be better to look for a farmstead for shelter. He turned to Ulric. “Is it wise to stay under trees when a storm’s coming?”

  Ulric shrugged. “Here’s as good as anywhere. Pines on high ground will draw the lightning.”

  “You sure?”

  “After the day we’ve had, I don’t rightly care.”

  Despite the tone, it was good to hear Ulric at least talking. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

  Ulric stopped working. He didn’t reply at first. “No, Dal, I’m not feeling better. Just ... different.” He looked up. “You could see their faces, and the fright in their eyes. They tried to hurt us. We had to try and hurt them worse. I never want that again.”

  Dalathos tried to look understanding. Ulric faced away, and poked at his breastplate, even though the bolts had been removed.

  Dalathos looked down to where his own lay with his helmet, by his blanket. He’d already cleaned them as best he could, ready to return them when they reached the city tomorrow. Then the Emperor would proclaim their commissions ended. Dalathos would no longer be one of the Emperor’s Guard. It was all such a crushing disappointment.

  Lieutenant Domus screamed.

  Dalathos scrambled to his feet. He stood with Protector in guard, to fend off attack. There was no sign of anyone or anything nearby.

  Domus turned in his blankets and vomited. Dalathos hurried to the officer and knelt by him. Domus had barely finished when he began to shriek and thrash.

  Dalathos had to step back, trying to find words that might soothe — wondered whether to pin the officer down with force.

  “Make it stop! Make it stop!” Lieutenant Domus wailed, and gripped the sides of his head.

  The cries pierced the night. It seemed like the whole world would hear them. For a moment Dalathos feared that bandits, bears, or other dangers might be drawn to it.

  Ulric appeared by his side, and Dalathos resolved then to hold the man still. Ulric helped, and Domus weakened and fell to moaning.

  Dalathos pulled the officer’s blankets up, to try and make the man more comfortable. He cleared away the si
ck as best he could with his cleaning cloth, then hurled it away through the trees. Lieutenant Domus’s breathing became light, but regular. Dalathos had no idea how to help him, other than ensure they rode to the nearest settlement at first light. The whole event had caused his nerves to become even more taut. He tried to hide the fact that his hands now shook.

  He seated himself down again on his blanket, his body sagging heavy. Every muscle ached as though he’d hammered for days without stopping.

  Ulric lay down and wrapped his furs around himself. Shortly, he was snoring, still wearing his mail and padding. The big man must have been exhausted.

  So was Dalathos. He set his things aside, and settled in it for rest. But he couldn’t get the fear and fighting of the day out of his mind. And Lieutenant Domus’s screaming from before.

  Dalathos listened to the night. It was quiet. He could hear Ulric’s breathing. Why couldn’t he hear the lieutenant’s? He resolved to check on the officer again.

  Lieutenant Domus looked peaceful. Gently, Dalathos touched the officer’s cheek, hoping not to set the man to fright. The skin was cold. Dalathos tried not to think the worse — he sought heat from breath, and a heartbeat. He found neither.

  Dalathos slumped down beside the dead officer.

  Three of them had escaped the ambush. Now there were only two. Why had he and Ulric survived? What made Dalathos’s life so special as to live when so many others had died? He hadn’t been able to save everyone from the burning Lion Inn, either, or the warehouse. He didn’t know what to think.

  Is this what being a warrior was about? Being terrified, and soiling yourself? Feeling guilty, exhausted, and confused? That you were robbed of all dignity, and left with nothing more than a life full of doubts? They never said any of that in the stories of Sephis.

  Dalathos sat in silence.

  He’d thought joining the Emperor’s Guard gave him a place in the world. Even a day’s commission had seemed an achievement beyond imagining. Now he saw how far it was from what he really wanted.

  He needed to be home, with his auntie and uncle. He wanted to share with them what he’d seen of the city, and of walking on the old Eiom wall. And he needed to see Alarian again, and not be ashamed to tell him how he felt. Just maybe he might feel the same.

  Dalathos looked to where Lieutenant Domus lay. Life already seemed too short for unspoken regrets. Had Domus wanted to tell someone he loved them, as he lay dying?

  The rain came down and rattled the leaves.

  Dalathos remained alone, with the ruin of his dreams.

  The Sound of History

  Rodrigan

  Rodrigan shivered in the saddle, from nerves and the cold.

  Thunder clapped and startled the horses. His men were forced to settle them, as they waited before the townhouses of Ophis Square. Shouts carried in the air from distant fire-fighting.

  Finally, their man appeared — the general that Councilor Brannon had groomed to sedition. He unlocked the brass gates that barred entry to the Emperor’s Rock, then stepped aside with his head bowed — against the rain, or for shame.

  Rodrigan led his twelve picked troopers through, all of them disguised in the uncomfortable uniforms of the Emperor’s Guard. As they ascended the road, oilskin cloaks offered only some protection from the rain that howled in sheets against them.

  The palace stood like a gray ghost in the storm. There was no guard, anywhere.

  Rodrigan had rarely seen it this close, but had been briefed on how to reach the imperial quarters from the stables at the south wing. Dismounting, and leaving the horses with weary grooms, he led his troop through double-doors and into welcome dry air.

  They strode through tall corridors of red and cream marble, shining with lamps. Sections of wall were lined with lush tapestries, and gold-framed paintings as tall as the men they portrayed. A few servants were about, cleaning, but none had the authority to challenge him.

  His directions had been clear, but he became less sure of his bearings in this maze of ostentation. He feared to end up in the wrong rooms, alerting the stewards, prelates, or Chamberlain Andros. Any of whom could ask awkward questions and unravel this plot.

  He turned into a hallway of paneled wood and brass lanterns, praying for Pollos to keep him steadfast. Then he glimpsed the blue of a guard uniform down a side corridor.

  Rodrigan waved his men to follow, and kept his clicking stride steady. This was the man they had to be careful with. Rodrigan stopped and saluted to his chest. “Captain Arellian, to relieve you of duty.”

  The other officer saluted back. “Captain Linnios, relieved.”

  Rodrigan went through a set of doors with the captain. This is where having trusted blades became a necessity. If their ruse were uncovered, Rodrigan needed his best swordsmen at his side.

  The imperial apartments surprised him. Not because of the gold decorative work, nor because of the colored marble and purple rugs and statues and paintings everywhere. Nor even the stink of urine. But because it was full of naked children, boys and girls. A thin old man, draped in a purple cloak, chased them — squealing excitedly with a gold cup in his hands, and an erection between his legs. This man, this ruinous Emperor, made Bishop Serannos look as chaste as a hermit. No wonder he’d failed to produce an heir.

  Captain Linnios called his men from the perimeter of the chambers. He saluted as they withdrew in order.

  Rodrigan returned the gesture, and waited, watching, until the real Emperor’s Guard had removed themselves through the doors, and their footsteps receded to nothing. Then he stood with his troopers in this scene of sin and insanity. A finger twitched, then his sword wrist. Rage rumbled in his gut. The empire stood in turmoil: the Order of Omicron becalmed, Irithia preparing to declare independence, and Lionossus at the brink of civil war. Yet all the while, the Emperor of the Corianth Empire indulged in nothing more than shameful, selfish amusements, while millions were left to suffer his negligence.

  Rodrigan clenched his fists in disgust. “Troop Captain Cario, clear the children from the room. Gently now, and cause no fuss. Salvian, Barbos and Fench, you’re with me. We’re going to take the Emperor for a little walk.”

  The old man looked at them with rheumy eyes as Rodrigan and Salvian both took an arm. With firm insistence they began to walk him to the rear double doors from this room. Barbos and Fench kept in step behind.

  This corridor was dark, mirrors glinting the rich light of the room they left. The Emperor glanced about, and Rodrigan smelled his sweat and fear. Finally, Emperor Sephis VI understood something of his situation, but all too late.

  Rodrigan made sure of his grip. This was the point where a man tried to break free and run, or resigned himself to his fate. The Emperor continued to walk where they led him, and slouched, his arms limp and erection gone. The man had given up, without a fight.

  Rodrigan lifted his face up, glad that so far everything had run smoothly, as required. Even better, it would not be on his conscience to kill the Emperor. Now that his one child was dead he had no stomach for it. No, Molric would be waiting for them at the end of the corridor. There would also be a priest, to give the Last Blessing. Then Molric would touch the Emperor and stop his heart, and the throne would become vacant. It would be the least suspicious death. And a more civilized one than Rodrigan had given King Servitos.

  Their boots clacked and echoed along the corridor — the sound of history being made.

  Refuge

  Sirath

  Chill rain splattered down Sirath’s neck, and soaked through his dust-stained red doublet. The road was a quagmire, covered with broken wood from a collapsed timber mill. The air reeked of smoke and rotten eggs. He shivered and clacked his teeth.

  The Bod and Bumpkin stood a ragged thing, the front of the building scoured away to reveal a jagged succession of floors. The cart and mules stood nearby. It had been a fight to get it past the debris that had blocked the stables. Tilirine fussed over what should be packed in the back, under the c
anvas with Erin.

  There was still no sign of Ezekiel.

  Sirath gave no credence to the story of him flying. But nothing would surprise him anymore. He could no longer fight the world, and was resigned to whatever Fortune gave him.

  Especially Pure Heart’s followers.

  They worked to douse fires and clear debris. Men from the city watch — familiar and respected here — labored beside them in a muted lantern light. Their efforts disturbed greasy rats that fled into darkness.

  Sirath had tried to help. Until he’d found a pony’s head on the road. It was more spine and a blackened stump than anything. He wished he’d never seen it, but knew he’d never forget it.

  There was plenty tonight he wouldn’t want to remember.

  Jerine walked back to the cart, and Sirath realized she was ready to leave. He wasn’t.

  He lifted a lantern and looked for any sign of Ezekiel returning. There was none. After all that they’d been through, it would be strange to travel without him at their back. After today, it was important to.

  A woman approached Jerine, curls of fire-kissed hair showing under her hooded cloak — Pure Heart had introduced her as Elba, and left her in charge and to confer with Jerine.

  A shout went up — timbers fell away from a building beside the wrecked tavern. They slumped with dull thuds to the ground, but nothing more came free.

  Jerine waved over. “Sirath, saddle up.”

  “You go on, I’ll catch up.”

  Jerine stared at him. “I thought you were desperate to leave?”

  “I still am. But a debt is a debt.”

  “What?”

  “Ezekiel came looking for me — ”

  “I came looking for you.”

  “And if you were in trouble, I promise, I’d wait for you. More than anyone. But he helped set me free.” Cal had shown him the importance of keeping promises. It had kept Sirath alive in Canalecht. Now he owed Ezekiel in Corianth. He hoped Jerine would understand.