Fate of an Empire (Talurian Empire Trilogy Book 1) (11 page)

Crows circled
the bloodstained ground—the place of the fallen Kilgarian fortress and, more
recently, the location of the northern Talurian campsite. The stench of the Dead
wafted into the sky and traveled for miles.

Meticulously,
the shadow of a man walked across the decomposing bodies. The carpet of death
seemed to move apart where his feet landed, the corpses never touching him.

The ethereal
being, the same who had scared the Talurian army to run back to Hillsford and
who had extinguished the fires, approached the decapitated body of Captain
Barolas. He scanned the ground looking for the head. He saw it laying a few
feet away underneath another fallen soldier.

Stretching his
finger out, he magically moved the skull over to Barolas’ body. The muscles,
arteries, and rotted skin stretched and contorted, wrapping back around the
severed neck. The man knelt down and rested his hands on the newly attached
head. A low, humming glow pulsated from his palms. Suddenly, Barolas’ body
violently pulled a deep breath of night air into its lungs.

Whatever was
inside the body that made it Barolas was no more. Barolas’ spirit had long
departed. It was a shell, waiting for a new tenant.

The form laid
there, breathing heavily. Each breath a labor on the broken body—an undead
abomination had been created. The ghostly man who had resurrected the crippled
being, melted down into a pool of black liquid, crawling onto the warrior. It
collected on his face and then funneled into the mouth, nostrils, and ears of
the waiting body, shaking him furiously.

Once the body
acclimated to its new owner, He stood to his feet.

The man
twisted and popped the tight joints in his neck and back. He flexed his hands
and arms, kicking his legs out, one at a time. He jumped a couple of times to
get his body going and then sprinted up a nearby embankment. His inhuman body
responded with equally inhuman speed and agility.

During the
little test of his new vessel, the body had been slowly regenerating, now his
throat and vocal cords were fully restored. He let out a blood chilling howl,
before settling down into a crouched position—there lurked a bold figure of
death magic. A grin crossed the cold, pasty face. He outstretched his arm, palm
open. A staff of stone and dirt grew from the ground, dotted with bones from
the fallen men of the field. His fingers closed around the shaft, and he lifted
it over his head.

“From the
death of men, comes the life of the dead!” He shouted.

His head
reared back and a beam of red light blasted into the sky, growing an ominous
black cloud, blotting out the moon. An unholy darkness covered the killing
field. The man rattled off a string of words in some unknown, singsong
language, and flashes of energy lit up the area, striking at the mangled
corpses on the ground.

The bodies
curled into the fetal position. Their mouths, the ones who still had their
heads attached, dropped open for a scream, which their decomposed bodies could
not produce. A chorus of gurgles and chokes echoed through the air.

“Rise, my
army!”

They twitched
and trembled to their feet.

The man blew a
glittering dust out across his risen warriors. As they breathed it in, postures
straightened, seizures stopped, and their bodies righted themselves. They now
stood ready, looking toward their master. Hungry for commands.

“Man is young.
They barely understand how to survive among the harshness of this world. The
Twelve do not interfere—much. They play the role of Gods. They laugh at the
peoples’ cries, and ignore their pleas for help. The Wild One has her moments
of fun and slaughters the weak like wheat to the harvester’s scythe. The Kind
One and the Thinker try to temper the mischief of their brothers and sisters,
but so much power grows boring over time.

The Youngest
stays to himself, molding pets and toys for his amusement. The Dark One, in
turn, destroys his brother’s creations with delight. The Head watches all of
them, deciding which direction he will go, which path he will dedicate, which
role he will play in their family. He sneers in contempt and disgust over both
the good and the evil, for he sees through both.”

The Historian,
Volume XIII, Journal XVIII, Pg.79
(Year 782)

The powerful
force seared through Taverous’ veins once again.

He fell to his
knees.

The
floorboards of his solitary cabin shuddered from the sudden impact. His vision
tunneled. He pulled at every ounce of strength to stay conscious.
Breathe
through it. I can feel it starting to die down. Patience…

The mental assault
warranted investigation.

Taverous
needed
to search out its source. He crossed his legs under him, trying to rest his
palms comfortably at his sides. His breathing fell into a slow rhythm. He
started to chant a short incantation over and over until his eyes shut and he
drifted off into a dreamlike state.

A blank canvas
blossomed inside Taverous’ mind.

A glowing orb,
representing his subconscious, took shape in the center of the frame. Colors
whirled around him. Vibrant blues spilled across the picture, forming into the
oceans. The sphere vibrated with pent up energy and then exploded with
momentum, leading the vision to the answers that Taverous sought. Waves crashed
against rising landmasses. Mountain ranges rose and fell underneath him. As the
image progressed, streaks of green highlighted the jungles of the Jeweled Isles
and the Vale of Shadows, followed by the forested Kingdom of Kal’Mordain.

His journey
ended as the transforming, twisting worldscape centered in on a large continent
in the northern hemisphere of Ethindriil.

He hung, high
in the sky, looking for anything that could produce the unsettling power. The
surge erupted again, and his gaze narrowed in on the epicenter. Now with a
target, the orb shot toward the ground but stopped short due to a suddenly
visible, dark cloud.

The orb
circled the darkness, discovering it covered a large part of the land and
extended out into the ocean for miles. It would be invisible to the naked eye—
he
had nearly wandered in by accident. Only one attuned to powerful magic would be
able to shift their sight to bring it into view.

He cautiously
entered the cloud.

The moment the
sphere touched, thoughts of death, fear, sadness, and callused hatred beat
against the defenses of Taverous’ mind. The wave flooded him with images of
murder and perverse evil.

The vision
fell away, and Taverous’ eyes shot open. Sweat dotted his brow.

This is not
good.

He reactively
wiped his ear, smearing a newly hosted stream of blood running down onto his
cheek. Pushing himself to his feet, his stomach rebelled and summoned forth a
wave of bile across the floor of his hovel.

Not good at
all.

The room was
dim, with only a few candles scattered around the floor. He felt cold, weak,
and violated by the darkness that had just invaded his mind. The stench of his
stomach contents only added to the ominous emotions.

He stumbled to
the desk and grabbed his robe off the back of a chair. He wrapped his arms
around himself, as an alien tingle crawled up his spine. Shaky hands fumbled to
open the shutters on the windows, letting light rush in from outside.

A series of
weak exhales turned the candles into dancing smoke trails and, with staff in
hand, Taverous was out the door. He paused on the steps of the small cabin,
drawing in a deep breath, then another.

He nodded to
himself.

Better.

With a mere
thought, he vanished into the air, echoing a ripple of energy off the valley
walls that hid his refuge.

Taverous
appeared in a long, downward-sloping hallway. Wall-mounted torches ignited as
he rushed past them. Their flames flickered off the ornate carvings on the ceiling.
He reached a door inlaid with magical glyphs and symbols. A wave of his hand
undid the latch and a current of energy discharged from beneath the door.

As he stepped
through, a man in a hooded robe moved from the shadows.

“Welcome,
Ancient One.” The guard bowed and motioned for him to continue. “The Council
knows of your arrival.”

It has been
a while.

Taverous gave
a quick nod and walked down a second, shorter passageway before entering the
banquet hall. Heavy, metal doors closed behind him and sealed shut. There was
no other way in or out of the room.

Diamond
chandeliers hung from the ceiling, displaying ornaments marked with spider webs
and the musk of time. Across the walls, faded purple and gold linens hung
dejected from their metal rods. A massive, wooden table sat in the middle of
the room, stretching from one side to the other. People lined up on each side
and, at the head, sat stairs, leading to three, raised thrones, but they sat
empty.

One of the
three revered spots belonged to him. A position that he once thought he would
never abandon.

The figures at
the table all wore the same hooded robes as the guard from the door, making the
gender of the group unknown. When he entered the room, no one said a word—their
heads unmoving, facing forward. A chilling stillness filled the air. Taverous
moved around the table, taking his place at the center throne.

Upon sitting,
the whole room changed.

The shadowy
illusion dropped away. Bright greens, yellows, and blues spirited across the
ceiling. The table became filled with sweet smelling fruits, robust creamy
cheeses, and succulent meats. The seats held men gorging on food while servers
hurried about refilling goblets or removing them from certain, overly drunk
men. An instrumentalist sat in the corner, strumming away on his lute,
mimicking their jovial mood in the form of a lively tune.

A true
picture of lacking discipline and restraint. A people void of purpose. A people
in need of responsibility.

Before,
Taverous appeared to be of middle age and of modest means, but now there sat a
man of great age and might. His short brown hair faded to a snowy gray color
and his bright green eyes glimmered in the brilliant light of the chandeliers.

His tattered
robe swirled into a masterfully crafted suit of armor made from the dark green
scales of a Crylon—a beast long dead since the Blood War. At his side, hung a
sword of ice, with tongues of flame dancing along the blade’s edge.

He took to his
feet, standing tall and powerful.

A man entered
the room and ran toward the throne. He bowed and, with a giant smile, greeted the
old man, showing his infamous dimples. “Taverous! It is good to see you! I have
gathered the Council.” He cocked his head to the side. “To what do we owe the
pleasure of this visit?”

Taverous sighed,
“No, sorry to say, there is no pleasure in this visit, my old friend.” He
placed his hand on the fellow’s shoulder. “I trusted that you would be able to
foresee my arrival. Quickly, take me to the Council. There is much we need to
discuss.” Without a question, the man led him away. Taverous shook his head as
he scanned the room one last time.
Oh, how time changes everything.

*
* *

Master Orin
inhaled sharply as the projection dome shattered around them.

“What is the
matter? Are you okay?” Valen reached for his teacher’s shoulder.

“I am sorry
for the abrupt halt in our journey, but you must understand a few things before
we go any further.” He patted a newly selected pile of tightly rolled scrolls
next to him. There is much you will bear witness to before this is over.”

Valen
shrugged. “So far everything has been explained at some point. I expected the
same with this Taverous figure.”

Orin smiled.
“You are a smart boy. No wonder your fate is heroic.”

Valen threw
him a questioning glance. “Heroic?”

“Yes, one day,
soon enough. You will show everyone what you are truly capable of.”

“Alright, no
pressure, then…”

Orin unfurled
one of his pieces of parchment, dropping the line of conversation before it
could get any further. “Taverous was one of three powerful ancients. Three brothers
born thousands of years ago. Each possessing their own distinct energy
characteristics and abilities. Well, the three that were still alive at the
point this document was written. I’ll tell you more of the Twelve some other
time.”

The elder seemed
to fall into an old memory, his gaze looking past the young man, yet focusing
on nothing.

Valen cleared
his throat.

“Yes, sorry.
No time. People referred to Taverous as
The Great Protector
. Though,
that was before he retreated from society, following his youngest brother’s
death.”

“Did he practice
the type of magic you so masterfully display today?”

Orin laughed.
“I am but a conduit for my powers. He
is
power, along with his brothers
and sisters.” He stretched out another map and pointed to a small island in the
deepest parts of the ocean. “This is the place that Taverous teleported to
after his vision. A place called Lumindoril. The island had grown up around a
volcano that was constantly surrounded by furious ice storms and snowfalls.”

The boy’s eyes
narrowed and a slight upturn of his lips suggested his suspicion of an
exaggeration. “That seems a little embellished, possibly an adaptation for a
storyteller’s fantasy?” His eyes twinkled in the enjoyment of his badgering
comment.

Big words
for a cocky boy warrior.

“No, no, my
boy. These acts of nature were part of what Taverous had done to keep the
outside world away. It was the home of the Tearanei, a humanoid race of
long-lived people; Taverous’ people. They were the brothers’ greatest feat—the
creation of a people group. This miracle was a one-time thing. It has never
been done since and was only achieved with the combined powers of all three
brothers. It was vital to keep them protected.

“They were
slightly different in appearance from humans.” He drew a line down his brow
with his finger. “They had a narrow ridge here, which ran down the middle of
the forehead to their nose. They didn’t grow hair and their eyes were a soft
golden color, which intensified when weaving their magic.”

Valen
scratched his chin. “This is all
very
interesting, but why the sudden
change in characters? What was it that Taverous sensed in his cabin? Was it the
raising of the dead?”

Orin snapped
his fingers. “Yes, my boy! You are right and very perceptive. All will make
sense in time, including why you are the one I have chosen to share this with.”

Valen nodded
in response, having seen too much not to trust the man had some sort of
exceptional knowledge.

“Now, before I
recall our portal, a brief history of the brothers and their people, so you can
get a sense of what we are dealing with. Taverous brought the Tearanei to
Lumindoril after a catastrophic war destroyed their homeland. The eldest of the
three, Balar, betrayed him and his younger brother, Rykin. He grew twisted with
evil and slowly gained followers called the Searanei. They emerged as a fallen
sect of the Tearanei race.

“The dark
magic that Balar taught among them warped their minds and bodies. A brutal and
savage army formed and, soon, civil war broke out among the created—Taverous,
Rykin, and the Tearanei on one side, and Balar with his Searanei on the other.
Balar’s newfound powers were strong and, in the end, it took Rykin sacrificing
himself to destroy their brother.

“Taverous grew
reserved and became less and less accessible to his people. He stayed among
them just long enough to lead the hunt for the last members of the Searanei,
before isolating himself as a hermit. After the war, the surviving group of
Tearanei numbered close to seventy. However, with no living females, it was
only a matter of centuries until their people’s extinction. Taverous would not
stand around and watch the slow death of his people and, without the combined
power of his brothers, he was helpless at breathing life back into them. At
this point in our story, he had been gone for over a century.”

“Now that I
have probably thoroughly confused you let’s jump back into where we left off,
with Taverous and the Tearanei Council.” Orin cracked his neck. “This will be
our last temporal shift of the night. We will need our rest for tomorrow.”

Valen
stretched and resettled on the floor. “Understood.”

Orin dropped
his head and, once more, his forearms charged the stones before them. The light
in the room disappeared, and the magic bubble expanded.

They now found
themselves amongst the Council of Tearanei.

*
* *

 “Do you know
what, or who this evil is?” questioned Taniden, the man who had greeted
Taverous in the banquet hall.

“No, but I
need to find out. I haven’t felt this kind of power in a very long time,”
Taverous’ brow pinched with tension. “I am going to the island I saw in my
vision and I came here to see if the Council would assist me. With Rykin dead,
I need individuals that can battle any dark magic that I may encounter. I can
protect myself, but I fear there will be a need for action that I am ill-equipped
to provide. I was never the fighter among my brothers.”

He met with
the Council in a narrow, dimly lit room—a private assembly area of the island
that, in these days, was rarely visited.

The five
positions that made up the Council were the Elder, Warrior, Priest, Seer, and
Lorekeeper, each sitting in their appropriate spot around a stone table. To
Taverous’ right sat Vorem, the Elder, a position given to the oldest male. The
Tearanei looked to him for advice and guidance from his life experiences. To
Taverous’ left sat Ritak, he was the Warrior. Only the best fighter, the most
skilled military leader, who devoted oneself entirely to the defense of the
Tearanei people, could gain that title.

Across the
table sat Piamer, the Priest on the council. The position granted to the man
who showed the most natural ability in the ancient Tearanei priesthood of
Dar’jaal, the great healer. Dar’jaal had been the first of the brothers’
creations, essentially the father of the Tearanei race. Priests weaken in their
powers, as they grow older, thus, the position falls to a younger follower of
Dar’jaal every decade. Since there has not been a newborn Tearanei in well over
a century, there would never be another, younger priest to take Paimer’s spot.
That fact has left him to hold the title longer than any other man in their
people’s history.