Fate of an Empire (Talurian Empire Trilogy Book 1) (16 page)

Knock.
Knock.
Rurik jumped out of bed, blades ready.

Someone was at
the front door.

When he
finally went to lie down, he hadn’t bothered to change, or even take off his
boots, not after someone had already been sneaking around in the house. He
exited the bedroom and found Elop and Gleb looking at him when he reached the
front room. Both men glanced from Rurik to the door, getting to their feet in
case of emergency. Who knocks on your door in the middle of the night? It had
only been two knocks, nothing more.

Rurik undid
the lock and slowly opened it, with Elop and Gleb standing right behind, poised
to lend assistance if needed. No one was there, but a small piece of folded
paper lay at the foot of the door. Rurik checked either side of the walkway
before reaching down for the note.

“What is it?”
Gleb asked.

“Someone wants
me to meet them at the Brown Recluse, right now.”

“Brown
Recluse?” Elop repeated the name.

“It is a bar
in the old part of town. I went there with Aamin, quite regularly” Rurik said,
still holding the piece of paper to his eyes. “Whoever wrote this can barely
write, or spell.”

Gleb stepped
forward and motioned for Rurik to let him see it. “That’s slave writing. Someone
who hasn’t been properly schooled.”

Rurik went
back to his room without another word and returned wearing a full coat, with a
hood to hide his face.

“You are
going? It could be a trap,” said Elop.

“He’s right.
We should come with you,” Gleb added.

“No. I am
going alone. I don’t have any enemies in this city, at least that I know of.
I’ll be fine.” Rurik pulled the dark hood over his face and exited through the
door.

He moved
quickly through the streets, following the same path that he and his brother had
traveled many times a week. When he reached the Brown Recluse, it was exactly
as he remembered—a big, windowless, square building, with rotted wood siding, a
single door, and men being thrown out for drinking too much.

He silently
watched for a time, waiting to see anything out of the ordinary before going
inside. Nothing seemed out of place, till he noticed a slave woman peering from
around the side of the bar, obviously looking for something or someone. Then
she would disappear into the darkness, only to return a few minutes later to do
the same thing.

Rurik circled
around, doubling back a few streets and crossing over, putting him in the same
alley as the woman, but from the backside. He stepped quietly, but her
breathing was so heavy that he doubted she could even hear her own thoughts
over it. He grabbed her from behind, clasping his hands over her mouth. She
tried to struggle free.

“It’s okay. I
won’t hurt you. Did you leave me the note?” He asked, not giving away any
information about himself if this was indeed not the right person.

She instantly
relaxed. That was a good sign.

“Rurik?” Her
voice was shaky but laced with relief.

Thinking he
didn’t have much to worry about, he slowly undid his grip on her, and once she
was free enough, she spun around and flung her arms around him. Her hug was so tight
that he thought she was going to break one of his ribs. She suddenly backed
away. He noticed she was crying, thin streaks of silver in the moonlight.

“What is the
matter?” He asked, softly.

She wiped her face
with the arm of her shirt. “I’m sorry. You don’t even know who I am, but I know
who you are, Rurik Kaster, brother of Aamin Kaster.” She regained her
composure. “I need you to come with me.”

She did not
wait for an acknowledgment. She grabbed his hand and pulled him back down the
alley in which he had come. They snaked through a number of streets before
reaching the limits of Harmite slave-housing.

“What are we
doing here?” Rurik asked.

“I’ll explain
everything, but we need to first get inside.” She led him to one of the first
buildings on the street and knocked a strange rhythm on the door—had to be a
signal of some kind. It opened into a dark room, with only one candle lit in
the far corner.

“Nirah, has he
come back?” A man asked, sitting by the candle. His voice was old and tired.

“No, father.
It is not, Aamin. It is his brother, Rurik.” The woman responded.

The younger
man who had opened the door spoke. “Do you think we can trust him? He may not
be like his brother.”

What had
Aamin been doing? How was he mixed up with these Harmites?

“Jaeyl, we’ve
no one else to turn to,” Nirah said, pleading with the tone of her voice.

“What is going
on? How do you know me, or my brother?” Rurik asked.

“Soldier, I
have love and respect for you and your family. I knew your mother and father
very well and miss them dearly, and I am regretful that I have not had the
pleasure of getting to know you over the years like I have your brother.” The
old man stood to his feet and extended his hand.

Rurik
reluctantly clasped his forearm and shook it, feeling completely confused.

“My name is,
Nomik. We are in some trouble and we have been keeping watch for your brother.
Can you tell us where he is?” He stared desperately at Rurik.

Rurik’s eyes
became saddened and swelled with tears. This was the first time, since Aamin’s
death, that he had been around a group of people who knew his brother, and it
overwhelmed him.

“My boy,”
Nomik said, with worry growing on his face. “What has happened?”

The two others
stepped closer.

“He is gone.
Killed in battle only but a few weeks ago.” Rurik’s voice cracked as he said
it.

Nirah broke
into tears, and Jaeyl had to support his father, the words had struck the man like
a hammer. The four stood in the dark room, Rurik a stranger among them,
mourning his fallen brother.

Nomik collected
himself and offered Rurik a chair, “Come. Sit.”

Jaeyl and Nirah
moved to stand by the door.

“Boy,” Nomik
started. Rurik hadn’t been addressed as a boy for over a decade. “Without your
mother and father, and now, without your brother, we need you more than ever.
What I am about to tell you will seem impossible, but believe me, if it was
anyone else, other than your family, then the endeavor
would
have been
impossible. When I was a young man, I was recruited into an underground
society, by a man named, Harik Kaster, your father—a Harmite by birth, who had
avoided the brandings of a slave, at the sacrifice of his mother and father’s
lives.”

Rurik’s eyes
widened, “What? A Harmite by birth? I don’t believe you!”

Nomik
chuckled, “I know, but there is so much more to disbelieve. The underground
movement was set up to smuggle out Harmite babies from birthing centers before
they could be branded, thus freeing them to live as Talurians. My children were
already born when we set up the society and that is why we operate, here, in
the Harmite district. Harik and his wife Sirene, your parents, lived among the
Talurians, watching things from that side.”

“How have I
never heard of this?” Rurik asked, anger showing on his face for being made the
fool.

“Neither you,
nor Aamin, where supposed to be involved, that was your father’s wishes, but
before their deaths, your brother stumbled upon them smuggling out a young
girl, his same age. Aamin was eleven at the time. Some officials had been
investigating her back story, and things were starting to heat up. She needed
to be relocated. He wanted to help, and, Rurik, he wanted to tell you, but your
father prohibited it. Harik wanted, at least, one of his children to live without
the feelings and responsibilities he felt every day of his life.”

“Well, then
why now? Why did you bring me here?” Rurik asked, his body shaking from the
revelations.

“Your brother
was elected as one of the leaders when he turned seventeen; he had already
shown the knowledge, courage, and strength of your father. I am sorry if this
next part pains you, but, your brother was also secretly married. He wanted so
badly for you to know, and be there, but again, your father wouldn’t allow it.
His wife was that same young girl that he helped your parents smuggle out years
ago, who was also my youngest daughter.” Nomik choked back forming tears. “The
Empire has started to catch on with what we are doing and have been hunting us
down. Shortly after you two left for war—he had to play along to keep up his
façade—Layna, my daughter, and Aamin’s wife, gave birth to your nephew.”

At that
moment, Nirah walked over, carrying a tiny bundle in her arms. She lowered it
to Rurik and placed it on his lap. Inside the blankets was a tiny baby boy,
sleeping away.

“His name is
Aeronais Kaster—a continued line of your family.” Nomik leaned forward and
placed a hand on Rurik’s shoulder. “Nirah was with Layna, the night the
soldiers came.”

Rurik’s attention
abruptly shifted back to what the man was saying.

“Nirah escaped
with Aeronais, but Layna was captured and executed the next day, for conspiring
against the Empire. Thankfully any ties to your brother were hidden before he
left to war so they won’t be coming to you for anything, and that is why we need
you. All of our informants throughout the Empire have been keeping their eyes
out for you or your brother. That is how we knew you were back in town. You
need to take and protect him. He is a repeat of your father’s story, an orphan
whose parents died to protect his freedom. We cannot let him down now.”

Rurik,
realizing what they were asking of him, shook his head, pushing the baby back
to Nirah. “No. No. I’ve no idea what to do with a baby. He would be worse off
with me.”

Nomik looked
deep into Rurik’s eyes, talking very slowly to stress the matter, “Rurik, we
need you to take your nephew. He will not be safe with us. We are not asking
you to join with us, or even help beyond the child, but we are being hunted,
and I will not see this new spark of life, in both of our family lines, be
flushed out before it has time to grow. I will
not
let that happen.”

Rurik
unwillingly nodded.

“Good,” Nomik
said, “You need this.”

He handed
Rurik a sealed letter marked, “My Son.”

“That is a
letter written by Aamin, to his unborn son. Do not open it. It is Aeronais’ to
open. You will know the right time to give it to him.”

“How?”

“Probably
explained in this letter.” Nomik pulled out another envelope. This one was
labeled, “My Brother.”

“He wrote
these to both of you, in case he didn’t make it back from the war, and I regret
having to deliver them.”

Nomik rose to
his feet. “You need to leave now before anyone discovers us here. If for any
reason you need to contact us, deliver a message to the Brown Recluse, under
the name Timothy Grant.”

“A strange
name…” Rurik said.

“It is the
name of an explorer your father met once when he was young. Another long
story,” Nomik smiled, “But it stands out enough to be recognized and not easily
guessed.”

Without
another word, Rurik was rushed out of the building, Aeronais in a carry pack on
his back. He made his way to the apartment, lost in thought from the new
information, trying to assimilate all of it. He looked to the moon, still hours
before the sun would rise.

Saris stood,
looking out at the battlefield. Balar had put some sort of shield around
himself and fell into a trance. It had been half an hour, and the General was
tired of waiting to see what Balar was up to.

He turned to
Thandril, who had been at his side during the spectacle along the Merkadian
front lines. “Thandril, gather a small group of soldiers, ones that you think
would be useful for a quick strike and run situation and prepare them to march.
I want you to probe them for a weak spot on their left side and bleed them out
a little.”

Thandril
nodded and left without a word.

Saris noted a
disruption along the Merkadian line. “Arteus, hand me the monoscope.”

He peered
through it. “Something has happened since the attack, and it seems to be
spreading some panic.”

Saris set the
scope down and smiled. “Let’s kick them while they are down. Go tell Thandril
to hurry, but to be stealthy. You should go with him. Make sure you two make it
back if things start to go bad.”

“Yes, sir.”
Arteus saluted and rushed to catch Thandril.

“I don’t think
you want to take the fight to them.” Suddenly Balar had woken from his trance.

“And why is
that?” Saris asked, “My strategies have gained me a reputation, and certainly
not for failing.”

Balar turned
his eyes to him, “They have a man with them like me.”

“Then do
something about him,” Saris said, challenge echoed in his voice.

“I already
did,” Balar sneered, “Who do you think caused all the panic along their lines?
But, they have a few others magic users, that are lesser, but still to be
feared, and I need rest before I deal with them.”

“Oh… the
mighty Balar has his limits, I understand,” Saris said, mocking him.

Saris turned
back forward, straightened his uniform, and watched the last of Thandril’s
group slip through the main gate.

Balar glared
at the General. Arrogant man, he thought. He cracked his corpse wrists, more
for habit than effect. Some things carry over after death.

*
* *

Thandril
snaked his soldiers out the front gate and through the burnt out city. They
moved fast, soldiers picked for speed and strength. Also, Thandril had used
some of his nature magic to lighten their feet against the hard dirt.

Arteus took up
the rear, making sure no one was left behind.

The Captain
had been a symbol of the proper soldier before Barolas’ death, usually in dress
uniform, even on the battlefield, and hardly ever carried anything besides his
officer’s shortsword. One of rank rarely had the pleasure to use the damn thing.

Now, he was
the picture of a savage battle-fiend. He retained his uniform pants, but his
torso was wrapped with leather straps, riddled with throwing knives, daggers,
and short-range, fist weapons. He put his shortsword away in exchange for a
jagged longsword, mimicking the Merkadian design, but made with better Talurian
artisanship. A longbow over his shoulder and a quiver filled with expensive
metal tipped arrows finished off his arsenal.

The group
headed west out of the city, making for the hills that ran north.  They needed
just the right position to launch a surprise attack on the Merkadians. Thandril
directed them with hand signals, forming the singular group into three smaller
teams. He did not enjoy leading men, but Saris expected it from time to time,
and he was getting better. He would much rather work on his own, even if the
danger became steep.

They reached
an adequate spot to launch their attack, with the Merkadian army’s side
exposed. Thandril laid low to the ground and watched the troop patrols closely,
looking for the right time to thread his soldiers into the camp. They needed to
be swift and quiet. Get in and out, taking as many lives as possible.

He observed
the side they picked was heavily bolstered with Targan warriors, recognizing
their tribe markings. The camp was calm, not expecting any more trouble the
same night as the invisible demons. Thandril noticed a few of the hacked
monsters had been tried over the cooking fire. Something you would expect from
the primitive tribes. No standards.

The Merkadians
marched only men against the Talurians, but the other tribes brought along
women, and some older children, to help with daily needs. As Thandril tried to
take in as much information as possible to report to Saris, he heard rustling
from a circle of trees not too far from where they were hiding.

Low voices
could be heard, a man and a woman, but the volume made them impossible to hear.
Thandril gave Arteus a quick hand motion, and the Captain crawled from his
spot, making for the circle of trees. Before he reached the trees, the woman
started moaning, and the rustling became louder.

Arteus stopped
and looked back at Thandril, raising his eyebrow and then smiled. One of the
tribe’s warriors was working off some stress with a willing helper. Arteus sped
up; his movement covered by the woman’s very vocal expression of enjoyment. He
disappeared into the trees, and a moment later, all was quiet and still.

Some of the
other warriors overheard the exhibition and after the noise had stopped, they
stood and cheered for their fellow warrior’s conquest. The attitude of men,
mixed with the bravado one gains within a group gathered, translates to any
culture.

Thandril tried
to think. He needed a next move.

The trees
shifted again, and a man walked out, wearing tribesman garb. The blackness of
the night hid any distinguishing features. He raised his hands in victory to
satisfy his friends and followed with a variety of obscene gestures and crude
pantomimes before moving back into the trees.

After the
scene had calmed, Thandril spotted, who could only be Arteus, crawling back
toward the squad. He got to Thandril’s side and winked. Arteus’ plan had
worked, but now they needed to finish their mission. Morning light was only
three hours away. They needed to act quickly.

Thandril threw
hand signals down the line, informing each of the three groups what they were
to do—kill them quickly and get out before they could reciprocate.

They crawled
over the hillside like invisible ants looking for food. Pairs of soldiers would
slip into the small tents, and a quick slash of the blade would signal another
couple Targans dead. They glided through the camp, acting as the angel of
death, choosing who would die.

Thandril
watched, hiding among the shadows of the fire sites. He would need to spot
anything that was amiss before it escalated. A small voice reached his ears,
and he followed it down, to find a boy shaking underneath a pile of
deconstructed tents. He spoke Targan, and Thandril had no idea what he was
saying, but he could understand the feelings.

The soft,
trembling voice stabbed at him. His eyes were lakes of water, with calm streams
flowing down his cheeks. The boy’s words were a plea for safety, an expression
of fear in an alien language, but he had to voice it in any case.

Thandril
contemplated killing the youngling. He was quiet, but how long would that last?

The boy could
alarm the rest of the camp with a single scream. Nevertheless, Thandril could
not do it—a critical difference between him and Saris. The General would have snapped
that young boy’s neck, out of spite. He wouldn’t give him the respect of death
by the sword. Saris would not want to dirty his blade on some child’s blood.

He leaned down
and urged the boy further into his hiding spot, tugging at the tent material to
conceal him completely.

A man suddenly
appeared next to him, pointing a sword, yelling foreign words. Before Thandril
could react, the shouting reached other ears, and noise spread through the camp.
He snarled at the tribesman and whipped around, grabbing the sword from his
hand. The Targan charged Thandril but was caught by the throat after half a
step. Thandril crushed his windpipe with a mere twitch of his wrist.

He didn’t have
his moral conundrums with killing adults. Thandril ran off to find his men,
leaving the twitching body behind.

The site was
on full alert within minutes. Soldiers charged through camp looking for intruders.
Thandril ran across some more soldiers, before reaching a small pocket of his
own forces; Arteus was one of them. He danced through the endless string of
enemies. His longsword a silver streamer in the night—the firelight, a dramatic
backdrop for an artist.

“Hey!” Arteus
shouted, taking Thandril out of the poetic moment. “We need to get out of here.
Saris will have our heads if we get killed.”

Thandril
scanned for any more of the Talurian troops but spotted none. It was time to
go. Every man for himself. He waved over Arteus and the few soldiers who were
with him. They made for the hills, forming a deadly spear as they ran through
the camp.

Less and less
fighting could be heard. They were quickly becoming the last of their company.
They broke through the perimeter of the camp, spreading out into the hillside.
A few other soldiers had made it out and were waiting for them, trusting that
Thandril and their Captain would survive.

Thandril
turned around and stretched out his arms.

With a short
murmur of words from the druid, the ground shook, and a mighty wall of dirt and
stone burst forth, blocking the following army. The men felt only a moment of
relief, before a circle of the wall started to glow. They readied themselves.

A fist punched
through the wall, followed by another. One of the Talurians charged the hand,
his sword poised for blood. The hand stopped moving and with its palm extended,
blasted the soldier with a bolt of energy. The fist retreated back through the
wall, but seconds later, a fury of punches riddled the wall with holes. A kick
through the weakened layer of dirt finished the job, and a man wearing a long
robe ducked through the wall. His head bald and eyes glowing yellow. The
Talurians charged him but were met with a rhythm of punches and kicks as the
man eased through a well-practiced set of motions.

Thandril and
Arteus hurried off into the darkness. This battle was over. Screams of their
remaining comrades echoed in the night sky.

As they closed
in on the city, their path was halted by a roar. A giant scarred bear lumbered
out from behind a patch of trees. Thandril used his magic to tell the animal to
flee, but it did not respond to his spell. The bear stood on its hind legs,
reaching nearly ten feet tall. A bear of this size was not known inside the
borders of Taluria.

“Arteus, go. I
will deal with this.” Thandril said, slipping his shield from his back.

“I can help,”
Arteus argued.

“No. This here
is magic. Go back to the Keep.”

“Fine, but you
be careful,” Arteus growled.

Thandril
charged the bear, his warhammer held high.

The beast
lunged forward and met the strike with vigor, deflecting the attack and
following with his own mighty blow. Thandril spun and landed hard in the dirt.

He stood to
his feet, spat a mouthful of blood on the ground, and charged again.

This time,
Thandril dodged the swipe and landed a critical strike on the underside of the
bear. The creature dropped to its legs, no longer able to stand on two, and
grabbed Thandril’s arm in its mouth.

Thandril released
his hammer and shield, pulling at the beast’s jaw with his free hand. His
fingers slipped around the bear’s mouth, soaked with his own blood. It roared
in pain, finally releasing the limb, but the damage was already done. The
druid’s arm hung limply at his side.

Both panted—a
battle of titans, a monstrous creature versus a towering, seven-foot-tall, bull
of a man. Surely, a painting for the hall of legends inside the Emperor’s
palace.

They charged together,
this time, meeting with a thud, and rolling into a wrestle of strength and
will. Each taking their lumps, but eventually, the bear started to tire. It
used the last bit of strength to break free from Thandril’s grasp, but not
before Thandril unleashed a blast of power transferred through a devastating
punch.

Thandril
watched as the bear shook and twitched on the ground. He wiped the blood from
his face and started cataloging his injuries.

The bear began
to glow and change shape.

Now, a man knelt
before Thandril—an old man, in worse shape than he.

The strange
magic user stood to his feet, clearing long, gray hair from his face. He looked
Thandril hard in the eye, standing equal in stature. A grin grew on his face.
He twisted his finger in the air, and a breeze started to pick up.

Realizing the
growing threat, Thandril sprinted forward. The wind whipped his feet out from
under him, lifting him into the air. He twisted and fought against the magic,
casting off grounding spells, one after another, trying to get his footing.

Thandril
reached out, causing vines to grow around the attacker’s feet. The diversion
caused him to lose focus, and the miniature tornado faltered, releasing its hold.
Thandril slid the short distance to his hammer and took the opportunity to
strike at his, momentarily distracted, opponent. The man pulled away the last
of the vines to be met with a fatal blow from Thandril’s warhammer.

He instantly
dropped.

Thandril
stood, breathing heavily. The challenging battle had drained him. A crack
sounded off in the direction of the Merkadian campsite. He saw a line of men
running toward his position, led by the robed magician who had beaten through
his defensive wall.

It was time to
go. He struggled into his wolf form and made for the city, limping off his
wounded limb.

*
* *

The Tearanei
priest reached the fallen warrior, as the Talurian’s druid hobbled closer and
closer to the far off gates of Hillsford. Prioritizing, Mathis declined in
chasing the injured prey and knelt down next to his comrade. With a few focused
shocks of energy, the man’s chest started to rise and fall again. Mathis and
another soldier helped him to his feet.