Gathering (Chronicles of Empire 1)

by Brian G Turner

  The grip was poor, the blow was rushed. The blade caught Rodrigan in the breastplate. The officer flipped back from his saddle, hit the ground on his neck, then tumbled over the paving stones.

  Protector followed through and struck a timber corner building. And stuck fast.

  The next rider flashed his eyes at Dalathos — and rode over Rodrigan. The officer flailed under the second horse that followed. The other riders managed to pull aside and avoid him.

  Dalathos tugged at his sword, trying to dislodge it. The blade wouldn’t budge. He was exposed and defenseless. Sounds of screaming, shouting, hooves, rushed to his ears.

  Two — three — four troopers jumped from their horses. One cried orders, and they took defensive positions around their fallen officer. Rodrigan lay face down and unmoving, his arms and legs sickeningly twisted.

  Dalathos pulled, but his blade wouldn’t give. He might have to defend with his saber. But alone and on foot, outnumbered by cavalry, with an unfamiliar weapon, he’d be slashed to ribbons.

  A trooper on horseback pointed his sword, as if to lead an attack. Then turned in alarm.

  Ulric clattered a charge from behind, atop his black warhorse — ax swinging wildly, breastplate flashing in the sun.

  The mounted troopers scattered in disarray. The ones by their fallen lord held their guard.

  Protector came loose, and Dalathos backed away.

  Ulric pulled hard on his reins and his mount halted beside him. “Dal ... your horse.”

  Dalathos ran to where it had stopped. His legs trembled so much he was barely able to mount the stirrups. Sat in his saddle, Protector in hand, he turned to Ulric. “Now we leave.”

  The mounted troopers regrouped, then charged.

  Dalathos kicked his heels. His horse surged forward. Hooves pounded the paving. He turned with Ulric at the last corner, and sighted the North Gate. Derry and Yodeman were already ahead, streaking away through parting crowds. The second group of troopers rode in pursuit of them, but there was enough space for Dalathos and Ulric to pull out in front of them.

  Shouts broke from above the walls — city watch, and more troopers. The air creaked with the sound of jarring metal. A heavy portcullis began to descend, threatening to block their escape. Derry and Yodeman easily cleared it. Ulric made it through. Dalathos was forced to duck down in his saddle, then was under the gatehouse. The drum of their hoof beats echoed. The portcullis clanged down behind. Only shouts and curses followed, the pursuers forced to a halt.

  Derry led over the bridge as people pulled themselves tight to the stones. Then they broke free from the crowds, away from the bridge, and clear on the road.

  The clang of bells rang out behind. It was as if the city saluted him. Dalathos punched the air with a yell of relief as he left it behind.

  Free Will

  Jerine

  Jerine slouched by the hearth and faced a new day — and the decision of whether to continue alone, or not.

  Morning light streamed through broken shutters. Plastered walls crawled black with mould. The cottage stank of damp and vomit.

  Ezekiel had been sick through the night. She’d attended to him as best she could, but his stomach had refused to hold down any medicine. She’d been left rubbing his back for comfort, until he’d finally calmed and drifted to sleep. The worst was now out from him, but the effort left her drained from yet another disturbed night of caring. At least Erin hadn’t required her attention as well — it was too dangerous to move her, unless essential. So Tilirine had spent the night in the cart with her, to ensure Erin remained warm, safe, and settled.

  It was clear they needed to get far from the city. And there was one place they could all go. She dragged over her satchel, then opened it. She removed the leather folder, containing the deeds to the keep and land that she’d won at cards. That promised somewhere everyone could rest, heal, and recover from what they’d suffered in Corianth.

  But was that the right choice?

  She touched the silver serpents at her neck — the necklace she’d also won at cards, worn by her locket. The Goddess clearly protected her, and provided gifts she would need for her fate. But the others had suffered for her company. Tilirine had warned about that. And she’d been right — they’d barely survived the city. Erin had only been saved by Ezekiel’s strange magic, but he’d wept that he no longer had that power.

  It was past time to think only of herself. While others shared her path, they also shared its dangers. While she gladly gave her life to the Goddess, she couldn’t ask that of anyone else.

  The fire in the hearth crackled and spat. Ashes glowed and rose up the chimney. Something in the flames explained it all. And that filled her with an uncommon dread.

  She turned to face Sirath asleep, wrapped in his blankets. He looked so peaceful, so innocent. But there was a bruise on his forehead, turning to yellow. Her heart fell to know he’d been harmed. There had to be a way to keep him safe. There must be a way to keep everyone safe.

  Her future had always seemed set. At the very least, fixed at points. How she reached those might be a matter of choice. What was best for everyone now?

  For guidance, she sought glimpses she’d seen of things yet to pass — brief flashes that showed little and explained nothing. One had her trudging through snow, surrounded by people. Another was of her robed in a white gown, stood on sandstone steps beneath a fierce sun. There was one of a dark landscape, covered with thousands of lights. None made any sense. Least of all one of her laid in a blue room, somehow surrounded by stars.

  There was nothing about Sirath or the others in any of them. Did that mean she should go her own way, and let the others go theirs?

  She held the deed for the keep by the flames. If she burned it, would that protect them? With no clear place to go, everyone might drift away, as she’d previously feared. Could she make that choice? Was it even hers to make? Did she have Free Will in this moment, or was it an illusion? She stared at the fire. There must be a choice. There must always be a choice. Which should she make?

  Sirath stirred from sleep. He stretched and yawned, then sat up. “Where am I?”

  She managed to smile, glad to see him at least looking rested. “Not still feeling concussed this morning, I hope?”

  “Oh ... I remember.” Sirath grabbed for his clothes, placed on a small frame by the hearth. The movements exposed his pale, naked shoulders and chest.

  It would have been proper to turn aside. But Jerine looked anyway, curious, expecting the sight to titillate a little. Instead her heart dropped to see his skin covered in scars.

  “Good, they’re dry.” Sirath began to dress under the blankets. He brushed a hand through his hair. “Ouch!” He carefully drew away a sliver of glass. He looked at it, then threw it into the fire. “Great. Yesterday I had straw in my tunic, today I have glass in my hair. What next? Ants in my pants?” He grinned at her, then stood with his hose pulled up. “What’s that you’ve got?”

  Jerine looked down guiltily at the folder. “The deeds for the keep I won yesterday.”

  Sirath nodded. “At least you’ve got somewhere to go. Me? I’ve no idea. I’ve got money for the first time in my life. But I keep ending up in worse and worse lodgings. Seems the richer I am, the poorer I sleep. At this rate I’ll probably end up kipping in a ditch tonight. Maybe that’s where I get the ants in my pants from?” He stretched his back and hips, then sighed. “I dunno ... I dress like a lord but I sleep like a tramp. Still, at least I’m alive. And we are going to put distance between us and that city, as fast as we can, aren’t we?”

  “I thought we might go to the keep I’ve won. All of us. For a while, anyway.”

  “You mean ... to stay? Me as well?”

  “Of course. Unless you have plans otherwise I think we all need somewhere rest and get our breath back, after the past few days.”

  “Anywhere far from here seems a bloody good idea. When do we leave?”

  “As soon as Ulric and Dalathos retu
rn.”

  “You think they’ll find us here?”

  She pretended to sound a little uncertain. “I think so.”

  Jerine returned the folder back into her satchel. A moment ago she’d thought she might have a choice. But it had always been made for her. And if there had been the flicker of chance of Free Will, it had passed. One way or another, she remained on her path — to give her life for the Goddess. The hope was that Sirath and the others might leave her long before then. For their own sake.

  Being

  Erin

  Erin stared up at the canvas. Light hazed in, and she guessed the day must be a bright one. A warm breeze teased her face. If she did not attempt to move she almost felt comfortable.

  Someone approached. Tilirine climbed into the back of the cart, causing it to creak and rock slightly. She seated herself at Erin’s side, and carried a bowl.

  Erin could smell something savory, and her mouth watered. It was only then she realized how hungry she was. She wondered when she had last eaten.

  “How are you today?” Tilirine asked.

  Thankful, was the word that first came to mind. Thankful to see a new day, thankful for the ordinary experience of being alive. “Better ... thank you. My body does not feel so ... numb anymore. Especially my legs.” She gently wriggled her toes under the blankets. It was the only movement she dared manage without inviting pain.

  “Good. I have made you a broth. It should bring your colors more into balance, and build up your strength.”

  Erin tried to smile, but it was tinged with guilt. She feared there might be some meat in it. After her vision, eating of it would seem wrong — all of those great minds had been every living thing. Each had been some expression of God, and she could hardly eat that.

  Remembering her vision only reminded of how constrained she felt in this physical form. It was if, out there, was an ocean of her being — yet her body held only a cup of it. A feeling remained of being incomplete.

  She realized that Tilirine watched her, and felt rude for not answering the offer of food. Erin attempted to smile, though her cheeks were still stiff. “I would be grateful for broth,” she said. And then realized that whatever condition she was in, she could not toilet by herself. She was as weak as a fallen leaf. Her eyes moved to Tilirine. “Would it be wise to feed me? My bodily functions ... ”

  “Do not trouble yourself. I have already attended to such needs. I can give you a pan when you are strong enough to use one.”

  “Thank you,” Erin replied, feeling equally embarrassed and grateful to have to rely on her.

  Tilirine carefully lifted Erin’s head.

  She was not properly comfortable, but when a wooden spoon touched her lips, and warm liquid drained from it, flavors burst in her mouth. She gently chewed on lumps that followed, as if it was a strange new experience to feel her teeth, her tongue, and jaw, all working together. She could only use small movements, but it was enough. She had never realized how much texture there was in food.

  Tilirine brought the spoon forward again. “A little more?”

  “Please,” Erin replied, then guiltily remembered her resolve. “Is there meat in it?”

  “Just spring vegetables, and herbs, that were given in kindness.”

  Erin took the spoon readily with her lips.

  “How does your body feel?” Tilirine asked.

  “Sometimes ... when I used to wake from a long sleep, I might try to hold something but find my grip weak. That is how my entire body feels now.”

  “At least you are able to feel it.”

  Erin chewed slowly. She knew little enough of why she was here, but recognized that somehow, somewhere, she had become injured. She also knew, by Tilirine’s manner, and being unable to move, that it must be serious. She almost did not dare to ask about it. “Tilirine? Is it a bad wound?”

  Tilirine looked her in the eyes. “Yes, it was a bad wound. When I found you, it seemed you might die. And yet here you are, asking about it. The injury no longer looks so grave. Your healing is nothing short of a miracle.”

  Erin considered this. If so, how long since she had been hurt? She knew she had drifted in and out of waking, but little more. “How long was I ... unconscious?”

  “This is the second day after your injury.”

  Erin was surprised by that. Somehow she feared it might have been longer. She took another spoon of broth, glad that she had not spent so long in senselessness. “Then I have not missed much.”

  Tilirine laughed.

  It was so unexpected that Erin forgot to breathe. She nearly choked, and fell into a fit of coughing. Each movement sent an immense pain through her body, as though it was being sliced from within. It took some time for the pain to subside. As she recovered her breath, she felt immeasurably tired.

  “My apologies,” Tilirine said. “I did not mean to startle you. A lot has happened. But more about that when you are better rested. Is there anything else I can get you?”

  “Nothing ... thank you.”

  Tilirine nodded, rose, and clambered down from the back of the cart. There came a disturbance outside, and voices. Tilirine turned and smiled. “Dalathos and Ulric are returned. They appear in good spirits.”

  “Good ... ”

  “We will be leaving, shortly. Rest.”

  Rest seemed a very good idea. She could feel a tiredness stirring, and submitted to its embrace.

  She held one thought before sleep could claim her.

  She had approached the city of Corianth torn by questions — of her faith, her life, her future. Now they all seemed such a pointless care. She was at peace. Doubts had given way to simply being. She was alive, and all her previous cares seemed to pale in comparison to that gift.

  Drowsiness came upon her. Apparently, she had slept through two days. A little more would hardly go amiss.

  Erin closed her eyes and smiled.

  The Spider’s Web

  Molric

  Molric stepped onto the Imperial Deck and faced the packed stadium, while trumpeters in fine white livery blew a fanfare.

  Nearly two-hundred thousand people were about the stone benches. A sea of batons tied with colored ribbons waved in anticipation of the chariot races. But the excitement stuttered and died when they saw Molric, and not the Emperor.

  Molric raised his hands, as if he commanded this silence. “Citizens and honored guests, welcome! I am Chancellor Molric of the city council.” He projected his voice, the stadium’s acoustics causing it to echo. “I bring sad news. Last night the Emperor died, peacefully in his sleep.”

  The crowd began to mutter. Some cried out. The imperial banners that flew at the top of the stadium were lowered to half-mast, as planned.

  “The responsibility is left for me to grasp the reins of rule. I will continue governance of the city, and now the empire.” And he continued his speech, using notes inducted from his Vox. He promised to uphold the rights of the common man, preserve the nobility, and fight corruption — standard rhetoric for any politician. All the time planted agents called out Emperor Molric to spread acceptance of him. That little stirred the mob, anxious at the transition of power.

  And for the games to begin.

  Molric kept his speech brief. He did not wish to overwhelm them with his vision for a new golden era. He only needed to assure them that life could continue as normal, for the immediate future.

  He announced the races. That brought the crowd back to him. Then he lifted his arms, and the gates beneath the Imperial Deck opened up. A fanfare blew again, and white-robed officials strolled onto the track. Behind them came the four chariot teams: green, blue, yellow, and red. Each was accompanied by attendants and drivers, clad respectively in colored leathers. The horses wore plumes and ribbons the same.

  The stadium erupted with a deafening roar. Everyone rose to their feet as the teams began their parade around the track. The noise was almost frightening for its intensity.

  Molric stepped back and took his seat. C
ouncilors Scouros, Pinnius, and Brannon, did the same beside him. Cardinal’s Men took up guard positions around the Imperial Deck.

  The chariot races began, and the stadium was filled with the thunder of hooves and frenzied shouting. The crowd cheered as each round was won. They were even louder when a driver smashed his chariot to splinters.

  The day dragged. And all the time that he watched, Molric wondered where Rodrigan was. The man should have been here. It was disturbing to find him gone from his side at their moment of triumph.

  Molric forced himself to remain to the end of the day, to ensure that his presence was seen, heard, and felt.

  Finally, the last race came up, and the stadium was on its feet. Musclosios and golden-nosed Scorpios clashed and crashed their chariots. The men escaped the wreckage unharmed, and the red team driver won a surprise victory.

  To close the event, Molric had the chariot team leaders escorted to the Imperial Deck. There he awarded their prizes, more generous than ever: ten thousand crowns each to the blues and the greens for drawing the tournament — with the caveat that it was to be paid in ten days, less costs for any damage caused by that team’s supporters. Molric thought that a clever touch to encourage an uneasy peace in the city.

  He also awarded two thousand to the red team, for winning the last race, and titled their driver Epaphroditios as the Swift. The crowd lapped it up. They were now his.

  With that function concluded, and the day waning, Molric left. He walked down the steps at the back of the deck. Rodrigan’s superior, Lord Commander Nadian, accompanied. Molric paused at one of the landings between hallways and rooms — this place was a maze.

  The Lord Commander indicated aside. “The Emperor’s rest quarters are this way.”

  Molric followed, enjoying that the title was already considered his. He entered airy rooms with large, arched windows. Walls faced with pink marble reflected the evening light like glass. A desk in the corner was already set with documents. He seated himself in a high-backed chair beside it. His own notes had been lost in yesterday’s fire. That had grated. But he no longer needed them. And Amberlin’s agents could no longer stop him. All those who opposed him had fled the city, or were dead. The empire was his.