Gathering (Chronicles of Empire 1)

by Brian G Turner

  Elba interrupted, “The Cardinals’ Men are about the city, and no one knows why. We should hurry.”

  Jerine led a pair of mules to Sirath. Her face was a frown, but she didn’t argue. “You just make sure you catch up.”

  Sirath took the reins for the animals. “At the speed you’ll be traveling? I could do that at a walk.” He tried to smile as they faced each other, cold rain dripping down their faces.

  “You make sure that I see you again, Sirath of Canalecht.”

  “I’m like a bad pox. You’ll never be rid of me.” It was a poor choice of phrase, but they were the first honest words that came to mind.

  Jerine nodded, then left to mount up on a mule. Two more were hitched behind the cart. Tilirine took the drivers rig, a lantern beside her.

  Elba saddled herself on a gray pony. She waited for a broad man, a bushy black beard under his hood, to trot up beside her. Then she kicked forward to lead. “Let’s move!”

  Jerine stared longingly behind.

  Sirath waved and then turned, so she wouldn’t see how unhappy he was to see her go without him. She was right, but Sirath had to do this. He could only hope to Fortune that Ezekiel was already on his way back.

  A figure appeared and stumbled toward them, wet robes slapping his legs. Even in the dark, he recognized the albino. “Ezekiel!” Sirath turned. “Jerine, wait!”

  Ezekiel looked drenched and miserable. He carried his staff, now bent in half. He mumbled, rather than spoke, and might have been crying in the rain.

  Sirath guided him to a mule and ensured he was mounted for riding, before Sirath saddled himself. His wet hose squelched on the leather. It wasn’t comfortable, but at least he could leave. He started forward at a walk, but made sure that Ezekiel accompanied, before he looked at Jerine again.

  “So, where we going?” Sirath asked.

  Elba’s face was etched with cares too old for her. “A couple of miles out from the city. A refuge we sometimes use, to help people escape injustice.”

  Sirath felt his back shiver, and not from the cold. He’d tried to leave the underworld behind when he’d fled Canalecht. He didn’t have to like being part of it here, especially when mixed up with someone as strange as Pure Heart. It was another reason to be gone, and quick. He leaned forward to whisper to Jerine. “Do you trust them?”

  “They serve the Goddess. They’re allies.”

  “You sure?”

  “Will anyone else help us?”

  Sirath could only hope this refuge was what it claimed to be. One thing he was sure of — they wouldn’t survive another day in Corianth.

  The cart rattled and clanked as it lurched through the mud. They turned onto a clear market square. This is where he’d climbed for his life, nearly to lose it in a fall. The place looked very different now, empty and dark.

  Rainwater dripped from buildings and ran from gutters. There was nothing to be seen but the city asleep. Tilirine’s ghostly lantern led through it. It was almost eerie how calm and quiet the streets could be.

  He became aware of a low rumble. The sound grew louder. As they entered the main avenue, a train of heavy wagons came into view — pulled by massive aurochs. Iron-shod wheels ground paving stones as the wagons traveled into the city.

  Sirath kept looking behind. Partly to ensure Ezekiel kept with them, but also to watch for anyone following. He saw no one.

  They reached the end of the avenue, and had to travel around a great fortress. The road continued again, and shortly to the North Gate.

  They were forced to wait as the night watch raised a heavy portcullis for them. He noticed they took orders from Elba, and didn’t answer back, even in jest.

  They trotted across a stone bridge over the city moat. Then Elba led them directly into the shanty town beyond. They weaved through a warren of dirt streets, barely wide enough for their cart. Sirath turned at a noise behind, to see people pull up loaded wagons and barrels to block the road after them. That give him the biggest shudder — Pure Heart’s people were very organized.

  Eventually, buildings dropped away to lone shacks and shrubs, then trees. The city was now a long way behind, but he’d no idea where they now rode. That unnerved him, and left him feeling vulnerable. Though he’d asked for Pure Heart’s help, the question was: at what price? Pure Heart had refused his gold before — did she want it now? Or would she want to deal in favors, the preferred currency of a street jack? That was always the more costly.

  He looked back, realizing he’d been forced to escape a second city in as many months.

  After he’d seen the bodies of Cal and the others, Sirath had sneaked back to their den. Only to find it in flames, and surrounded by thugs — and an angry Gutter Jack. Father Murrano’s betrayal had been complete. The priest must have taken all the tax money, and blamed Sirath and Cal and the others for the theft. With no likely way to prove his innocence, or avoid Gutter Jack’s vengeance, Sirath had gone to ground, deep in the city drains. When night fell, he’d crept out from Canalecht, then fled across fields hard with frost and ice. It seemed he hadn’t stopped running since.

  He slouched in his saddle as Elba led them around a winding track into a deep, wooded hollow. A tumbledown cottage came into view. Tilirine’s lamp reflected on water that flooded the ground.

  Elba stopped. “You shelter here. There’s a stable around back, for your animals, and cart.”

  Only when Sirath dismounted did he realize how numb his limbs had become. The icy rain had soaked him through. He could only hope for a warm hearth inside.

  Elba lit a horn-shuttered lantern. She led them around the building, and through a back door. The cottage was dank, stank of damp, and was even colder inside. She stepped into a musty little room, with an unused slate fireplace and chimney. “There’s dry wood, flint and steel, in the cupboard.”

  Sirath felt too cold to move. Jerine looked miserable, too.

  The man who’d accompanied built the fire for them. The flames brought light and the promise of heat. “Replace the wood you use before you leave,” he said.

  Sirath seated himself on the floor and rubbed his hands, trying to get some feeling into them again.

  “What about Ulric and Dalathos?” Jerine asked. “How will they find us?”

  “We’ll lead your friends here,” Elba answered. “If they return. You can also use these.”

  Sirath was handed a heavy woolen blanket. Elba took more from a cupboard, and he took a second. Sleeping in wet clothes would keep the cold inside of him. He began to take off his shoes, his tunic, shirt, and hose. He wrapped his naked body in the blankets, and huddled by the fire. He shivered terribly for a while, but a tired warmth finally began to flow through him.

  He was still alive. And Fortune had delivered Jerine to safety. He yawned, then closed his eyes. And dared to hope they both still had a future.

  Now We Leave

  Dalathos

  Despite the bright morning sun, Dalathos rode to the North Gate under an angry black cloud. He’d been awed by the city when he’d first arrived. Now he cared little for the towers and walls. His dreams lay with Lieutenant Domus, strapped over the officer’s horse using a harness from Sirath’s dead mules. Dalathos led it beside him, the reins tied to his saddle horn. Ulric trotted behind on his black charger.

  Dalathos wore his full guard uniform, though it was tarnished, and the jacket slashed open along one arm. His body ached all over from yesterday’s riding and fighting, and his breastplate jostled his armpits. Ulric wore his uniform, too, but his helmet was missing, lost on the battlefield. Dalathos would see them dutiful to the end, with the last of his pride.

  They’d made good time on the new horses. Bigger and stronger, they traveled fast, even at a trot. Dalathos enjoyed the power of his white mount. He felt more in control than he had on a mule, even though his thighs felt stretched by the broader saddle, and the long stirrups that kept his legs straight.

  As with the East Gate, there was a queue of noise to enter th
e city. Dalathos made it plain that people should move from his way, or he’d ride over them. The crowd hurried to part, and he broke through their bustle.

  He reached a bridge over the city moat, where the city watch stood to demand the city tax. Dalathos puffed out his chest and ignored them. The Emperor’s Guard returned with their dead, and would accept no challenge to enter. None was given.

  He clipped over the bridge, and passed under a gatehouse, smaller than at the East Gate, and nowhere near as impressive. A fortress ahead forced the road both ways around its square perimeter. Then he was back on one of the main avenues. It was busy with a crowd before rows of shops and stalls.

  Dalathos was forced to slow to a walk by the carts and wagons in his way. Though he was in no hurry to return to the guard, he needed to find Tilirine — she had his gold. After everything that had happened, that was his one compensation.

  But first he had to find her. He knew to look for the sign of the jester, for the road to turn off onto. But everything looked so different in the full light of day. Finally, he spotted it, and led into a narrow street. Bakers spilled out over the flagstones, and it was a squeeze to get through. Then the shops fell away, and he crossed an empty square, and onto the road he thought should lead to the others.

  He slowed, immediately.

  Ahead was devastation — a timber building had collapsed, filling the road with wreckage. The Bod and Bumpkin had been flayed open, to show wounded rooms on each floor. Debris was everywhere, and charred by fire. A few people were busy clearing it, pilling it into tall heaps. That all too familiar smell of brimstone hung on the air.

  There was no sign of Tilirine, or the others.

  Dalathos approached cautiously, then came to a halt. His blood ran cold for fear that everyone might have been killed.

  A burly old man strode toward them, his gray hair trimmed in a neat bob. He wore an embroidered tunic, worn and faded, mismatched buttons along the front. His eyes were hard, and his smile was sharp. “You’ve finally arrived. The knights Dalathos and Ulric, I presume?”

  Dalathos was uncertain whether to reply truthfully. If Tilirine and the others had been attacked, then both he and Ulric might also be hunted. “What business is it of yours?”

  “I am Darrin,” the man replied, his palms raised. “Your friends are safe, and outside of the city.”

  “Which friends?”

  “Jerine and Tilirine, Sirath, Erin ... and an Ezekiel. Pure Heart has ordered that you be escorted to them, immediately.”

  “Who’s Pure Heart?”

  “Someone who takes in an interest in your safety.”

  “I can do that myself.”

  Darrin sighed. “I appreciate that you have not learned to trust me, but if you want to find your friends you will listen to me.”

  Dalathos gazed again at the destruction along the street. Clearly the others had been put in danger. But there was more than one duty to see to this morning. He lifted the reins for Domus’s horse. “We must return the body of our officer to the Citadel of the Guard.”

  “Leave him here, I’ll see to that,” Darrin said. “We need to get you two out from the city, as fast as possible.”

  Dalathos was about to ask how Darrin could do that, while escorting the body of Domus. Hooves pounded behind and he turned, fearing a trap.

  Two riders approached. At the lead rode a young woman, dressed in a light green tunic, her blonde hair braided back. Her smile was warm. Behind her was a hard-faced Lithian, with streaks of gray hair, a leather vest worn over a woolen shirt. Both had a sword at the hip.

  Darrin hailed both riders as they halted, then turned. “My knights, this is Derry. She’ll lead you to them. Yodeman will escort.”

  “We must hurry,” Derry said. “The Cardinals’ Men now control the city gates. Are you ready?”

  Dalathos hesitated. If these people planned to harm him, they could surely do so without all this theatre.

  Ulric nudged his horse forward. “Dal, we can leave Domus. They’ll see his body’s respected.”

  Dalathos nodded. He’d wanted to leave the body this morning — they could point men back for it later. Ulric had argued on respecting the dead. Dalathos had relented, only because he’d remembered his friend’s tale of being unable to bury his dead wife and child. Then Dalathos had had the idea to strap Domus to his horse. If Ulric was happy to leave it now, with these people, that was good with him.

  Dalathos placed the reins into Darrin’s hands. “Honor him. We were brothers in blood.” He glanced about one last time. No doubt Tilirine would also have her own story to tell. He pulled his white mount about. “When you’re ready.”

  Derry led at a trot, back the way they came. Yodeman kept behind them. When they reached the main avenue, Derry dropped to a walk. “We don’t want to draw too much attention.”

  Dalathos had ridden this way with the Emperor’s Guard, leaving the city in pride and glory. Now he sought to slink out, like a kicked dog. And this time, a noisy flood of people were at his stirrups. Despite Derry’s warning, the chaos looked normal for the city, and the disorder almost calming for its lack of urgency.

  Derry glanced back at them. She dropped back. Discretely aside, she said, “There’s a patrol of Cardinals’ Men behind us. Only two, but that’s already too many. Keep your eyes forward, and don’t look back.”

  Dalathos nodded, to show that he’d heard. He remembered too well how troopers had stopped them entering a workhouse. Now he wore his guard uniform, and realized that could draw attention. Perhaps it hadn’t been such a good idea to wear —

  An urgent clatter of hooves came from behind.

  Yodeman shouted, “Derry!”

  Dalathos turned. Troopers trotted onto the main avenue from a side street. They followed behind. Dalathos stared at the officer who led them. Something about that face held an inexplicable but foul familiarity.

  “By the Mother!” Derry cried. “It’s Rodrigan!”

  They were clearly in trouble. But with the crowds around, there was little chance to act.

  Dalathos felt his blood pump and heart drum. The North Gate wasn’t far. Yet if they maintained their pace, this Rodrigan would simply signal his men to close the portcullis. Then they’d be trapped.

  His only hope would be to ride through the crowd, and get through the gate before the order was given. Until then, this was a battle of wills, and Rodrigan hunted them at his leisure.

  Dalathos refused to be helpless again, as like yesterday. He would finish this his own way. “Derry ... when I give the signal, you and Yodeman break off left around the fortress. Me and Ulric will break right. If we meet on the other side, we’ll gallop out through the gate together. If we don’t make it ... well, then get yourselves safe, and give my regards to Tilirine.”

  He expected her to argue, but she nodded. Dalathos glanced each to Ulric and Yodeman, and they nodded their assent.

  He looked for gaps in the crowds he could ride into first. He wanted to avoid riding over anyone, as they might trip the horses. There were also the hazards of wagons and carts, other riders, handcarts and stalls, to avoid.

  Dalathos took a deep breath. He felt more alive than he had all morning. “Hee-yah!” He jabbed his heels to the flanks of his horse, willing it to break into a gallop. Instead, it reared and stomped. People cried out, and pushed away from the clatter. Dalathos kicked again. His horse lurched as the crowd panicked before him — then broke to a canter.

  Dalathos gripped the reins with one hand, and loosened Protector with his other. The crowd parted with shouts and screams. Display tables were knocked over as people fell to escape. Men of the city watch rang their hand bells for danger.

  Horseshoes hammered the paving stones. The troopers behind burst into chase.

  Derry and Yodeman drifted left, Dalathos and Ulric to the right. The Cardinal’s Men behind split into two groups — this Rodrigan led the one that pursued Dalathos.

  There was now a clear line to the fortress ahead
. It was a race to ride around it, then reach the North Gate behind, before they could be stopped.

  Dalathos held Protector over his lap, and looked back.

  Rodrigan was gaining — he shouted — and the troopers drew their swords as one, steel blades catching the light in a glittering wave.

  There were too many. Even if Dalathos could break out through the North Gate, pursuit would follow. To Tilirine and the others. It would become a repeat of yesterday, but with no knights of Lionossus to save them. The lives of his new friends would be forfeit.

  They approached the corner to skirt right round the fortress. Dalathos pulled Protector free of its scabbard. He needed to stand and confront this Rodrigan. Only that would give time for the others to leave safely. Dalathos might be cut down for his actions. He accepted that. Better if one should die so that others may live. Honor and sacrifice were knightly duties. In a life with no purpose, he might manage one moment of meaning.

  The world seemed to slow. The mane on his horse flowed almost lazily. Ulric rode ahead with a soft, floating rhythm. Sound was stretched out and too loud, unreal. His sight was sharper than he’d ever remembered. He could see detail like nothing before. A merchant at his side slowly stumbled over baskets filled with beads, spilling them in a gentle waterfall of color.

  Ulric rode right at the corner, and out of sight.

  Rodrigan was now only a few paces behind.

  There was less than a moment to act.

  Dalathos leaned hard into his saddle as he took the corner. He stood up in his stirrups, and gripped Protector — then leaped.

  For a moment, it was like flying.

  The ground came up hard. Dalathos rolled as best he could. The paving stone bit against muscle and bone. Then he pushed to his feet.

  Without waiting to measure his balance or stance, Dalathos swung Protector up. Too late, he remembered his mistake of aiming for the man, not the horse.