Fate of an Empire (Talurian Empire Trilogy Book 1) (18 page)

Arclite moved
to the center of the circle and started adding his own weave to his companions’
spell. Kaillum was trying to watch their progress, but the magic was subtle to
the untrained eye.

An undead shot
up and clawed at the soldier positioned next to him, tearing at his throat.
Blood sprayed across Kaillum’s armor. Much to his enemy’s surprise, Kaillum
pulled him closer, shoving his blade into the abomination’s chest, piercing his
heart. He withered in Kaillum’s grasp, feeling the last of its life slip away.

Kaillum threw
the limp body to the ground. “See!” He shouted to the soldiers around him,
“They can die!”

A battle cheer
went up, and the soldiers pushed back the enemy with a renewed strength. The
uproar was met by the riders circling the city, but their outburst was for
another reason. The Tearanei had started to tear holes in the wall. The
progress of the mages started to gain attention from the surrounding undead
warriors.

A
high-pitched, soundwave rippled over the city. The undead suddenly stopped their
attacking and started running for the inner palisades.

At that
moment, the wall, separating Vyker and his riders, crumbled from the combined
might of the Tearaneis’ magic. Kaillum, fueled by anger, ordered a charge. He leapt
over the small barricade they were using as cover and chased after the
retreating enemy. A trail of soldiers followed after him.

The undead were
not very fast on their feet and some, who had been hacked to pieces multiple
times during the battle, never regained their correct shape. Kaillum tore
through the fleeing mass of malformed flesh, dropping body after body. His
soldiers finished each one, in turn. The buildings started to thin, and the
inner palisades grew closer with each invigorating kill.

Kaillum was
driven with pure bloodlust, craving each victim.

He drew closer
and closer to the gateway in which the undead entered the wooden walls. The
first of the undead had reached the enclosure. Kaillum was close enough to make
out a familiar face along the Keep’s walls.

There stood
Saris. Thandril towering behind him, ominously crossing his arms across his
thick chest—always unwavering and protective of his Master. Saris’ guards
flanked each side of him, covered in black platemail. Another man stood beside
the General, a pale figure, wrapped in a black robe. His stance was unsettling,
and a faded, red aurora resonated out around him.
That must be Balar.

General Saris
raised his arm, and with the fall of his hand, a rain of arrows shot into the
sky. The sight sobered Kaillum. His forces had gotten too close. The hunger
that drove him had betrayed him. They killed maybe twenty undead during the
chase, but now close to two hundred of his tribesmen lay open for slaughter.
That was the idea. The Talurians probably hoped for more, but Kaillum’s meager
force would suffice for their efforts.

“Retreat back
to the buildings!” He shouted, shaking off his clouded state.

Time had
seemed to slow. The arrows should have reached their mark by now.

His soldiers
ran, not looking back, but Kaillum checked every few yards, making sure no man
was left behind. With one of his checks, the sight of the arrows froze him.
They had stopped in the air, hanging like splinters in the sky. Later, he found
out that this was the work of Lasal. As he stared, transfixed, they started to
tremble, like bats preparing to flee from their dark cave.

The arrows
broke free, screeching to the earth.

A strong hand
pulled Kaillum around and pushed him to the ground.

It was
Arclite, his eyes ablaze. He whirled his reclaimed swords through the air,
sending the arrows crashing down to all sides of them. Kaillum’s face was pressed
to the ground, unable to act as sharp tips stabbed into the dirt. Then it
stopped. Arclite pulled Kaillum to his feet and pushed him back toward the
city.

The entire
army had marched from the foothills and now spread out along the front line of
Hillsford’s buildings. Not a single one of Kaillum’s soldiers had been lost in
the aerial strike. As the Merkadian Prince and mighty Tearanei reached the
safety of the structures, a cheer broke out among the men.

“Today was
ours,” Arclite said to Kaillum, scanning the triumphant look of his allies. “I
was not going to let your death spoil their victory.”

Kaillum looked
up at the tall Tearanei, his sleek helmet hiding all expression, yet his eyes
showed emotion, pride. But, Kaillum was not so easily inspired by the day.
“Yes, today was ours…but what of tonight?”

“The Fallen
One continues his quest for the boundaries of their reality, even after all of
the warnings and cautionary tales from his brothers and sisters. His mind
becomes consumed. The realm in which The Twelve exist cannot be the extent of
the creator’s universe, and The Fallen One strives for release from this
eternal prison. 

Though, on
this day, the maddened brother has found his elusive answer. With all his
power, with all his essence, The Fallen One broke through the lines of
division. He now roams the fields of chaos and pestilence. He roams the
landscapes of death and rage. He found, what the future would call, Hell. I know,
for I have seen it come to pass. He is King of demons. Walker of fire and
darkness. Alone in a world, so unlike that of Ethindriil…with no apparent way
back…there now were Eleven to rule the world.”

The Historian,
Volume XV,
Journal V, Pg.287
(Year 997)

General Saris
spun from his position on the wall and descended the stairs to the courtyard,
his guards a step behind, leaving Balar to himself.

Thandril
walked beside him. “Sir, there was a druid out there, like me—much older, but
still a wielder of my same powers.” He rubbed his freshly healed arm. “For so
long I have thought that I was the last of my kind. That
is
what you
said when you found my village, right? I was the only survivor?”

“Correct. You
were all that was left,” Saris nodded, not looking directly at him. “Maybe he
left the village before the attack, or he is part of a similar tribe.”

“Sir, would
you be able to retell me what you saw when you were in the village? Maybe I can
piece together what hap—”

Saris turned
and put his hand up.

“Thandril, I
promise you, when this whole thing is over, we will find answers, but until
then, we need to stay focused on the problems at hand. I think it is time for
us to act once again. We waited to watch Balar respond, and I am but
disappointed a second time.”

Thandril
exhaled and pushed down his curiosity. “What do you propose, Master?”

“Find Arteus.
Tell him to ready the trebuchets. We will attack at nightfall.”

The Druid
turned from the General’s side. Saris wanted to rest and the Merkadians were
not going to try anything else today.

*
* *

A crack of
lightning woke Saris, nearly jumping him out of his bed.

“What the
hell…” Saris moved to a nearby window.

Night had
come, and with it, a thick cloud cover, but it was no storm. There was no rain,
no tingle of moisture in the air. The atmosphere felt statically charged, and
the hairs on Saris’ arm floated gently from his skin.

“What the hell
is he doing!” Saris shouted.

The yell
caused two of his guards to enter the room, making sure everything was alright.
Saris pushed through them, out into the hallway, grabbing his sword at the
door. He had not undressed before his nap. With Saris’ appearance in the
courtyard, Thandril took up at his side.

“Captain
Arteus has readied the trebuchets. I was on my way to wake you, when
this
started.” Thandril pointed to the sky. “Has to be Balar. He has no respect for
you, Master.” He gritted his teeth. “He does as he feels.”

Saris
aimlessly reached out for Thandril’s shoulder, keeping his eyes on the wall
where they had left Balar. “He is an uncontrollable weapon and, once he has
outlived his usefulness, I am counting on you to dispose of him.” Saris felt
Thandril’s muscles tighten at the words. “Do not fear, my friend, you are
mighty, and he is distracted. He wants someone out there.” Saris motioned over
the wall. “As long as that person exists, Balar is weakened by his own
vengeance.”

They mounted
the steps and, at the top of the wall, found Balar on his knees, hands lifted
over his head. Four of his undead Staffwielders encircled him, murmuring a low
chant, and swaying their staves in the air above him. Saris realized, early on,
that the Staffwielders were the higher ranking members of the undead, and they
possessed some magic of their own. Around the circle of mages, stood a larger
circle of regular undead soldiers, facing out, standing defensively.

“I guess he
doesn’t trust us very much,” Saris whispered to Thandril.

Saris moved to
the edge of the wall, looking out toward the Merkadian army, who were now
encamped throughout the streets and buildings of Hillsford proper. Fires dotted
the roads, and light filtered out through the windows of the more structurally
sound buildings.

Since the Keep
was centered within the city, they were technically trapped, but Saris didn’t
see it that way. In his mind, he would be able to get out of the city whenever
he wished. Even with the massive size of the Melidarius’ army, they were spread
too thinly around the city to effectively block any kind of escape that the
Talurians could mount.

The lightning
that awoken Saris started to increase in frequency. Each bolt struck the ground
at the same spot, fifty yards out from the palisades, in the direction of the
Merkadian forces. The hard-packed dirt started to crackle and churn.

“We will have
to wait and see what he pulls out next,” Saris said.

Thandril
pointed across the battlefield, squinting in attempts to gain more detail.
“What is that?”

Four mild,
yellow glows moved back and forth along the front line.

“The magic
users Balar had talked about. Has to be. One of them could be whom Balar is so
ill-tempered about.”

Abruptly, one
of the Staffwielders dropped to his knees.

Saris and
Thandril refocused on the dark ritual. Another of the Wielders fell, then the
next, and finally the last of the four. With a united cry of pain, their chests
ripped open, and black, clotted blood floated from their bodies, blending into
the clouds. As the last of the streams faded, the Staffwielders fell flat; four
of the other undead soldiers approached and drug them away.

Suddenly, the
clouds shifted. They drew close together and darkened in appearance.

Hovering over
the spot of boiling earth, the clouds wept bleed—a sacrifice to feed the
conjuring powers. After the last drop of blood seeped into the ground, the
clouds dissipated, and the spot calmed. Everyone waited in expectance of
something beyond their comprehension. Saris gripped Thandril’s forearm.

Nothing
happened.

“Was this for
naught?” Saris asked, irritated.

A hoarse voice
answered. “Time…”

Balar had
awoken from his trance. His body trembled and he held his robe around himself
tightly, desperately. Thin trails of blood ran from his nose and eyes. His dead
flesh seemed even paler than before.

Saris hadn’t
the courage to respond. He just watched. Time exaggerated from anticipation.

“Prepare to
fire your war machines,” Balar said, “We will hit them with everything at once.
It is almost ready.”

Saris nodded
to Thandril, who in turn, ran off to give the command to Arteus.

With an abrupt
tremor from below the earth, the area of Balar’s magic sunk. Red smoke rose
from the pit. A multitude of screams echoed from within. A window to Hell,
Saris thought. The width of the circle grew and, out from it, reached a massive
arm and then another. The bulky limbs strained to pull its body from the
ground.

What can only
be called a monster lifted itself through the demonic gateway. Cries could be
heard from soldiers on both sides of the field. Talurian troops crouched behind
their walls, not trusting the beast to honor its allegiance.

The monster
stood forty feet tall. His arms were doubly longer than his legs, causing him
to hunch forward, placing the majority of his weight on his enormous hands. His
flesh twisted and whined, consisting of contorted beings, similar to those of
the shadow demons from the night before, but mixed in were tormented souls
openly moaning to be set free. The beast’s face was set in a wide snarl,
showing row after row of fangs as tall as a man. Drool dripped from his broken
lips, singeing the ground. Eyes of obsidian stared blankly at its prey. Steam
rose from his body as if the hell he came from fought against the moisture in
the air.

Balar roared
into the darkness.

A long tendril
of energy extended from his staff, cutting through the night air. It curled and
hissed as it flailed in the sky. With a flick of his arm, the whip lashed
across the beast’s back, causing an earth-shattering howl to erupt from its
jaws. The strike sent the monster loose upon the Merkadians, freeing it from its
birthing stupor.

“Now. Begin
the assault!” Balar grinned at his accomplishment.

Saris’ face
was pale. His eyes transfixed on the wrongness that was before him. He made a
weak hand motion, for that was all he could muster. It was enough of a signal
to send hurling balls of fire overhead. The horrific being that rampaged
through the first of the buildings dwarfed the trebuchets’ might.

Even through
the darkness, Saris could see bodies being hoisted into the sky. The hands of
the monster grabbed men from the ground, his teeth ripping through their
fragile flesh.

The yellow
auras of the Merkadians’ new found allies danced about the beast, striking at
it with no effect. They were not prepared to fight such an injustice as this.
Saris found that he almost felt sorry for them. Another barrage of shots flew
overhead, mauling through the disoriented forces. They ran from the beast, to
only be crushed by the trebuchets.

They had no
chance.

With a
piercing whistle from Balar, his undead soldiers crawled over the walls. They
ran out across the battlefield, ordered to aid the summoned creature. Still,
Saris’ soldiers had not yet been given a chance to fight the Merkadians,
themselves.

 The yellow
glows unexpectedly split-up, silencing their attacks on the demon. They veered
around the oncoming army of undead, killing as they went. Each one of the
lights reached a certain spot and held its ground, making holes in the undead
army, giving an opportunity for the other tribes to attack and divide the soldiers.

Balar leaned
heavily on the wall, a look of concern on his face. He murmured a string of
words. “What do you have in mind, brother?”

“
Brother
?”
Saris caught.

The four men
sent a burst of power out, throwing rings of undead to the ground. With new room
to maneuver, the four started off at a run. Strands of light started to grow
from each of their hands. They spun them in the night, like performers in a
parade. The gold chains grew as they surrounded the beast. The monster was a
mindless destroyer and tore at the closest thing to him, not realizing the
mounting attack.

The first of
the men threw his chains, catching the beast by one of its wrists. The sudden
constriction caused the demon to yank at the cord, pulling the mage into the
air, but his hold remained on the chain.

One by one,
the men threw their leashes around the beast. The last, and brightest of the
glows, circled around to the back of the demon. He jumped onto its back and ran
along its jagged spine. When he reached its snapping head, the man coiled his
chains around the monster’s throat, swinging back down to the ground.

Balar lashed
out with his whip again, trying to get the beast to break free. It roared out
in anger, biting at the magical restraints. The men pulled down on their
chains, first dropping the demon to its knees then, with a final pull, brought
it crashing down to its chest. The one with the brightest glow neared the
monster, handing off his chains to another.

He stood
looking down at its snarling face. He raised his hands into the air, and a beam
of energy materialized overhead, lighting the battlefield.

Saris could
clearly see the man now. He was old, yet strong in his stance. Heavy green
armor covered his body, and a flaming blade hung from his side. Short gray hair
streaked his head. Bright green eyes shimmered in the light of his magic.

With a show of
surrender, the beast closed its eyes and ceased his resistance. The elderly man
reached out and touched the monster’s head. A calming effect spread over him.
The man closed his eyes and, with a motion of his hand, the beam of light
speared downward, piercing through the massive skull. His flesh lit up with a
brilliant sparkle. The twisted, tormented bodies that formed his torso stopped
their cries. With a low chant, the man finished his ritual, and the beast blew
into dust, glittering into the night sky.

Balar screamed
out in rage, “Taverous!”

Saris ordered
the trebuchets to cease fire. That was enough for one night.

Balar gathered
his robe and moved off the wall without another word. His undead must have
received some unspoken order; they retreated back inside the walls, but not
before taking heavy casualties. Their numbers were thinning. Saris’ was going
to have to use his soldiers soon. He was concerned about the war, though. The
powers at play were beyond his understanding, but he had to find a way to win.
He decided to retire to his suite. The fighting was over for now.

As he reached
his suite, he could hear the cheers from the city. The Merkadians took heavy
losses, yet they feel victorious. Saris’ head hurt. An ill-feeling hovered over
the citadel. He tried to shake his worry, but it only angered him.

Why do I
feel as if the loser tonight?

He needed
sleep—that would set things straight. He lay on top of his covers, dread crawling
up his body.

“Calm down,”
he said into the air.

Things will
be different tomorrow.

He drifted off
to sleep with the sounds of victory echoing from outside the walls of the Keep.