Gathering (Chronicles of Empire 1)

by Brian G Turner

  There was a knock at the door. A brutishly large woman appeared, carrying a tray of refreshments.

  Molric reflected, with idle humor, that the imperial staff included the ugliest servants. A drink, however, would be welcome — his throat felt dry as dust. He waved her over and stared at the parchments. They documented a number of problems to immediately address.

  The first was the Irithian issue. The death of Bishop Serannos meant that Molric would have to entreat directly with Nicepheros Comas. He also had legal business to attend to in Mardin, relating to Gilbarco Angelleri’s will — as Councilor Martellus had reminded of.

  The tray rattled at his elbow.

  Molric would need to ensure the capital safely under control before he could consider leaving it. He should send a delegation first, to stall for time. Once he reached terms in Mardin he could take the Allonian Road, and travel north to Corrillion, and deal with the three princes of —

  Something slammed into his arm. He yelled in surprise. He tried to turn away, but someone grabbed his shoulder. The servant loomed over him. She held an iron mallet in her free hand. She would not dare —

  She struck down and smashed through his Vox. The blow continued to his wrist. Molric screamed. He attempted to connect to his Vox for defense, but its signal died in his mind. The servant stood back with a grim smile. She kicked away fragments of the Vox that had fallen to the floor. She let go of him.

  Molric slipped from his chair, grasping his arm. Sharp pain shot through to his shoulder. He huddled on the floor, protectively. Fearing she might strike him again, he edged away, around the desk. She stepped back, watching with a grin. He shrieked for the aid of Lord Commander Nadian.

  No one came.

  Molric cradled his arm, knowing it was broken. He shouted himself hoarse, to no avail. That was the worst part of all. Somehow, he had been isolated.

  Finally, someone entered the room — a man in the black robes, and white under-cloth, of a deacon. Tall and shaved bald, his ice-blue eyes held a beatific smile. “Thank you, Miggy,” the man said with a soft, clear voice. “We appear to have his attention.”

  Molric’s stomach sank at how this deacon somehow commanded the situation. “Who are you?” he hissed through his teeth.

  “Why, I am Father Dinemetis. It is good to meet you at last, my loyal servant.”

  Molric was chilled by the statement. “Servant? This is madness! I am the caretaker Emperor — ”

  “You are what I say you will be. Obedience is a virtue. Be mindful of that.” Dinemetis stopped by the desk. Miggy stood beside him. “The three colleges of the Order of Omicron are united for the first time in a generation.”

  “Rodrigan is — ”

  “Rodrigan is no longer anyone’s concern. I have begun to rebuild the College of Cardinals. Within a month they will have elected me as their new Holy Father. I will be in a position to crown a new Emperor. One anointed of God. Consider that, carefully.”

  “You have done this already?” Molric was incredulous at the speed Dinemetis had moved.

  “Oh, like a spider at the centre of my web I have waited, more patiently than any prey could be. Now they find their flights of fancy snared into my trap, my web, my unseen hand-strung frame. It is time I make myself known to them.”

  Footsteps approached, light and solitary.

  Father Dinemetis indicated aside. “Another of my servants. I believe you are already acquainted?”

  One of the merchant twins — Daria — entered the room, wearing a fine white gown, her matching slippers trimmed with gold. “Oh, my dear Molric,” she said, “how good to see you again.”

  Molric stared. “You?”

  “Oh, don’t look so surprised. I suggested we work with Father Dinemetis at the very beginning. But you were too enamored with dear Rodrigan and lowly Serannos. And they so detested any association with the College of Administrators ... that I may have let slip ... nothing of it.”

  Molric felt a surge of fury on top of his pain. “You betrayed me?”

  “Have you understood nothing?” Daria tutted. “Surely you didn’t really believe it could end any other way? Father Dinemetis allowed your conspiracy. It served his purpose. Who else but you could be so cunning as to burn their own home, to distract the Emperor’s Guard at that vital moment? And Father Dinemetis is not the killer you are.”

  Father Dinemetis clicked his fingers. Lord Commander Nadian entered with a troop of Cardinals’ Men. “Escort Chancellor Molric to my White Monks. They should have finished with Chief-General Adoras by now. Here is a new soul, to be reborn.”

  Molric was grabbed from the floor by the troopers. He yelled in pain as they touched his arm — and in fright that his well-laid plans unraveled so fast. “I was going to save the world!”

  Father Dinemetis tutted. “The world is filled with sin and wickedness. It must be cleansed before it can be saved. The Lord has made me his instrument for that.”

  Molric stared in disbelief as he was dragged away: that this could have happened, and could still be happening. That he had been tricked and usurped. Because if he failed, this planet would burn. Billions would die. And humanity was doomed.

  EPILOGUE: Journey’s End

  Sirath

  Sirath swayed in the saddle, to the rhythm of his mule. Jerine rode at a lazy walk beside him. The cart rattled behind with the plodding of hooves. The air was warm, insects buzzed, and butterflies flitted across the track. Somewhere not far ahead lay their journey’s end.

  They’d set off from the town of Cammsbridge that morning, told that the keep lay less than a half-day’s walk, beside a stream on the track. There were two ways that led to it, and Jerine had chosen the longer route, to get a feel for the land.

  A sharp ridge of hills rose just ahead, the steep slope covered in heather and ferns. Tall pines grew all along the base. Everywhere else was just flat scrub or heath. It was all deceptively quiet. And too peaceful. Sirath kept his attention on every nearby cover that could be used for ambush.

  It had taken two intervals of travel to get here, surprisingly tiring on the back of a mule. So far the roads had been safe. But the danger remained that trouble would follow them out from Corianth, and catch up with them sooner or later.

  At least keeps were built for defense and protection. Sirath might live securely behind the walls of Jerine’s. He might even get a chamber for himself. He could have a chest to store fineries he expected to buy. The hope was to begin to live like a gentleman, not just dress like one. Fortune knows he’d appreciate that. He’d nearly lost both his life and his money in Corianth, and it was time to enjoy both. He was hungry to live well for a lifetime.

  The question was how to achieve that.

  It was plain he’d enjoyed his one big moment of Fortune, and must now make the most from it. But it troubled him that he had no income. Once his money was gone, he faced a return to the streets. And he was resolute that would never happen — he was done with the ritual humiliations of being poor.

  The trees ahead thinned. The remains of a low, drum tower stood on a mound of raised earth. The walls were tumbledown, its stones scattered everywhere. Their track forded a shallow stream that ran close by.

  Sirath gazed at it. “Did they mention a ruin like this?”

  Jerine’s face broke into a smile. “I think you’re right ... they did!”

  “Good. How far now?”

  Jerine reined in her mule. “No, I mean ... this is it. The keep I own.”

  Sirath looked up. His dreams of living rich crumbled before him. “But ... no!”

  Dalathos brought his tall white horse beside them. His harness jangled as he did so. “Are you sure, Jerine?”

  Jerine jumped down, and walked to the mound. “They said we’d find it beside a stream.”

  Ulric climbed down from his black warhorse. “Shame the walls are in disrepair.”

  “Shame?” Sirath’s chest tightened. “It doesn’t even have a roof!”

  “Me and Da
l could help repair it,” Ulric said. “There’s plenty of trees and I’ve got an ax. Got to be good for something other than hitting people with.”

  Jerine stared up at the remains of the keep. “I expect there are craftsmen in Cammsbridge we could hire. It’s not like we can’t afford it. The walls still look solid. It may not take as much work to repair as you fear, Sirath. Besides, what did you expect? When I won it we were told it hadn’t been lived in for a while.”

  “I thought that meant months, not centuries.”

  Tilirine put the wheel brake on the cart. She jumped down from the driver’s rig. “Repairs may take longer than planned. It may be prudent to construct somewhere to live, while masons work on the keep. We could use such a structure later, for storage.”

  Sirath’s guts had gone cold. He’d tried not to dream too much on what his new home might look like. But this was far worse than his lowest expectations. “It may be prudent just to abandon the place.”

  Jerine turned around. “It’s a challenge, to be sure. You don’t have to be rude about it.”

  Sirath glanced about, feeling too vulnerable. “Ah, Jerine, you know I’m not trying to sound ungrateful or nothing, I’m just being honest.”

  Erin was helped down from the back of the cart by Ezekiel. He walked with her. She leaned into him to keep steady, her left arm in a sling. “I presume, by Sirath’s complaining, that we must have arrived?” she said, her voice still husky from her injury.

  Ulric stamped his foot. “Good bones in the land. Can feel them.” He looked up and pointed to the sky. “Pair of eagles, on the up draft. A good sign.” He climbed up the mound with Dalathos to take a closer look. Jerine waited at the track.

  Sirath sighed. He dismounted and approached Jerine, and tried to fight his fears and disappointment. After all, it could be worse. At least he wasn’t properly homeless, or made to live on the streets. And it didn’t seem all that long ago he’d been lost in bleak hills. But the feeling remained that danger pursued him.

  Ulric and Dalathos clambered about the broken walls of the ruin.

  Jerine called up to them, “Is there anything inside?”

  Dalathos shook his head. “Just rubble and mess.”

  Sirath snorted. That was hardly a surprise. Still, at least he had the gift of money and time, to plan for a future. And he’d need it, to prepare for whatever might come.

  He glanced behind.

  Whatever events they’d set in motion back at the city would eventually catch up to them here. Until then, he could only make the best of whatever protection he had. Which was little enough by the looks of Jerine’s keep. “Bollocks,” he said.

  Coming Next

  CHRONICLES OF EMPIRE

  AWAKENING

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