Fate of an Empire (Talurian Empire Trilogy Book 1) (2 page)

Groans and
curses floated to his ears. He lunged forward, kicking their weapons aside.

Rurik looked
at the one who killed his brother. “You are going to be second.”

Klaric sat
nearby, his mouth agape, his hands shaking.

“Get up,”
Rurik said.

“I…I…”

“Get up!”

Klaric pushed
himself to his feet.

Rurik pointed
to the staircase, now populated by on-looking Talurian reinforcements. The
fortress was beaten. The remaining Kilgarians were on the run.

Why not a
minute sooner?

Rurik
approached the first man.

He knelt down,
pulled a dagger from his belt, and grabbed him by his hair, stretching his neck
out. “It will be difficult to laugh…” He slowly dug his blade into the man’s
throat, causing him to gargle on his own blood until his body went limp.

Rurik stood straight,
noting the action with a sigh of satisfaction.

“Now…” He
wiped the blood from his weapon and returned it to his sheath. “That was my
brother.” Crouching down, like with the last, he looked into the second
Kilgarian’s eyes. Blood pooled around his wounds, leaving his body shaking on
the stone floor.

“You have
pained me greatly.” He shot out his hand and smacked the Kilgarian in the face.
“
Greatly.”
He gripped him by his hair and slammed his head into the
wall, followed by a second time, and a final third, caving the man’s skull
inward.

Rurik wiped
his bloodied hands on his pants and scanned the assembled crowd—murmurs
whispered around them. He walked over to the side and turned his gaze to the
courtyard floor.

Aamin’s body
lay in a heap, stained stonework outlining the body. His disheveled hair matted
in blood, limbs fixed in unnatural positions.

After a moment
of stillness, Rurik moved away from the scene and descended the stairs. The
soldiers parted as he approached; only a few put their hands on his shoulder as
he passed. He had put an end to the battle, but, in turn, lost everything.

General Saris,
the leader of the Talurian army, burst into his tent, yelling at his Harmite
attendant to leave. He stumbled toward the cleaning basin setup underneath a
crude mirror. With each step, a piece of his armor dropped to the ground.

Their
three-week siege of the Kilgarian fortress was complete.

Saris reached
the sink and plunged his head into the water. He pulled out violently, splashing
water on everything around him. Fingers snaked over his brow and through his
wet, gray hair. Looking at his reflection, he studied his skin, leathery and
wrinkled, showing a man older than he was—forty-three summers. Saris’ face,
eyes, hair, his whole body, showed the toll of a warrior’s life.

Not looking
your best, old boy.

Another man
entered the tent and cleared his throat, crossing his trunk-like arms across
his chest.

Saris shifted
his attention to the giant warrior in the entranceway.

“Thandril…” Saris
closed the distance between them and grabbed the hulking man’s shoulder. “Today
calls for a celebration. Fetch us two goblets from that cabinet on your right.
I have a nicely aged bottle of wine somewhere around here...” He pushed a few
things around in a nearby trunk. “Boy! Come, now!”

As the slave
scurried back into the room, Saris found the bottle he was looking for. “Get
out of here!” He swatted his hand in the air. The slave tripped up on his own
feet and landed on the floor in front of Saris.

The General
picked the young man up and shoved him back the other way.

Animals.

Adjusting his
uniform shirt, Saris nonchalantly took a seat at the table opposite Thandril.

Thandril was
the General’s closest friend and loyal bodyguard—an adopted survivor from a
long-destroyed, druid enclave. Their meeting was the result of an event many
years ago while Saris was only a Private in the army. Thandril was a powerful
weapon at Saris’ disposal and an equal to no man when he stepped onto the
battlefield.

“I have fought
in three wars…” Saris started into one of his monologues, taking in the
majority of his alcohol in one, drawn out sip. “…and led two of those!
All
for the late Emperor Kidaris! Now his young, foolish brat is Emperor—” He
stopped and looked at Thandril, “you never heard me say that.”

Thandril just
grinned back at him. The friendly expression tamed his harsh, militaristic
appearance. “I only hear words of admiration for the youthful Emperor, master.”
He casually responded, pulling his warhammer over his shoulder and resting it
against one of the tent’s support beams. The wood creaked and cried out from
its new burden. The weapon’s weight would debilitate another man.

Saris blurted
out a laugh. “Now, he goes and decides that ruling the southern beaches and
grasslands of our ancestors isn’t enough, he wants more! However, he can’t lead
them, no! He needs the legendary General Saris!” He took to his feet with the
last sentence, pounding his fist against his chest.
Of course he does.

He let out a
sigh, “I am the one who
should
be ruling. The one who should be waging
war and, not just as the troop’s commander, but as the man behind the Empire.
It is too late for me to change the way things are set. Although, soon I will
have a son, and he will be a catalyst for change in this empire. I will make
sure of that!”

Saris flicked
a piece of debris off his uniform and refilled his cup. “I will give my rank to
him; he will do things that I never dreamt possible for myself. I am a warrior,
but it takes all my loyalty as a citizen of the Talurian Empire to fight for as
stupid of a reason as a vain Emperor’s adolescent ambitions of world power.”

Saris laughed
again and downed the second cup of wine in one gulp, “
Now!
If it were
for my
own
vain ambition, that would be a different story! Ha! Things
have just not gone as I planned so many years ago as a young soldier rising through
the ranks of glory.” He wobbled over to the edge of his cot, “Enough of this,
how is the war effort going? I saw some of our agents from the north come into
camp this morning. Have they been debriefed? We cannot stay content with this
minor victory.”

“Yes, a few
have returned and they all bear testimony to a treaty being formed. One learned
of a meeting between two tribal representatives happening in the Chargon
forests. He knows roughly where they will meet and that they will do so in one
week exactly.”

“Excellent. I
want you to fly north and try to uncover whatever you can. Stay safe.”
cautioned Saris. “Now, I am going to get some rest.”

Without a
word, the tall warrior nodded and left the General alone in his tent. Saris was
asleep within minutes.

*
* *

“Wait a
minute! Who does this person think he is? And what happened to that soldier?”

The projection
dome shattered.

Master Orin’s
head sunk. “Boy, this is not proper. We will discuss the visions after our
session is over. The power it takes to maintain the viewing is hard enough on
my old body, without having to restart it every few minutes.”

Valen noticed
the sweat beading on his teacher’s forehead and the darkened veins in his eyes.
“I’m sorry, master.”

“It will be
alright,” he said, trying to ease the young man’s quickening worry. “Rurik will
be back soon. What is it that you’re having trouble with?”

“Umm…everything?
Give me something to work with. You have dropped us into an entirely new
environment.”

“Right, you
have no education on any of this…” Orin tapped his chin. “Where to start…Our
vision led us to a massive island continent in the far north of the Artomas
Sea. Do you know this body of water?”

Valen rolled
his eyes. “We live on the Artomas coast.”

“Good! I am
glad some of my lessons have stuck.” Orin winked.

“It is home to
many people groups and varying cultures. Over the centuries, the inhabitants
congregated into five main tribes.”

Orin pulled a
map from his satchel and started to outline rough boundaries. “Starting from
the north and moving south, in a not-so-straight line, I might add, the tribes
were Merkadia, Chargon, Targa, Kilgar, and Taluria. A sixth principal tribe,
the Harmites, had existed along
this
river at one point. The Talurians
conquered them hundreds of years before the moment we are viewing now.

“They were
forced into slavery and, due to their similar appearance with the olive-skinned,
black-haired Talurians, were given a branding on their wrists and neck at
birth. This was to keep the people groups separate.”

Valen shook
his head. “That is horrible. We ‘war-about’ as much as the next nation, but I
haven’t come across any race that has enslaved an entire people group.”

“That is
because we are not the same. We are incapable of understanding such atrocities
outside our set of ethics and morals.” Master Orin clasped his hands in his lap
and watched his student’s face—confusion, sadness, and anger were plainly visible.

That is a
lesson for its own day.

He continued
on, attempting to change the mood.

“Now,
Tymedious, the newly ascended Emperor of the Talurian people, waged war on the
other tribes of the island. He was young and determined. Using General Saris
and his elite army of soldiers, he had started a war that would not soon be
over.”

“How could
they expect to defeat an entire island of people?”

“Ah!” Orin’s
eyes brightened. He pulled out a handful of drawings, displaying various
swords, shields, and mobile siege weapons. “The Talurian tribe had the
strongest army at the time. They took full advantage of their civilization’s
advanced blacksmithing and metallurgy techniques. Their swords and shields were
more reliable. Their platemail armor was thick and maneuverable, and their
engineers built armored wagons and war machines that could level cities.”

Sliding
another rendering forward, he pointed to a primitive looking shortsword. “This
is a Merkadian blade. They were the only other tribe to use metal in their
weaponry, but nowhere near the artisanship of the Talurians. The other, smaller
tribes were even less developed, still using sharpened stone and hardened wood.

“The battle
that we just observed through Rurik was the Talurian army moving north, to the
heart of the Kilgarian tribe. With the destruction of Kilgar’s longest-standing
border fortress, Saris achieved a pointed victory in the region. While managing
to kill a large part of the tribe’s warriors, he also crippled his enemy’s
influence in the area.”

Orin leaned
forward and lowered his voice. “Although…considering Thandril’s news, the
tyrant Emperor’s army could soon be outnumbered. However, a mixture of
arrogance and command of the fiercest, most well-equipped army that land had
ever seen emboldened Saris to believe he could still conquer the continent.”

Valen jumped
up. “You sound to be on their side! Do you hold value in their victory?”

Orin’s eyes
narrowed on the young man. “You hold your tongue, boy. I am only telling you
the historical steps of the struggle that we witness here today. The evilness
that grew from that time in Ethindriil’s history will plague our world for more
generations than either of us will see.”

The rebuke
dropped the boy back into his seat. “I am sorry, Master.”

A long silence
screamed between the two.

A far-off bell
sounded. Time for lunch at the food hall, but each of them knew they were not
done for the day.

Another moment
passed and, as the last bell rang, Orin straightened his posture and started
back into the channeling. “Do not speak again, unless spoken to.”

Valen nodded,
quietly conceding to his teacher.

A single wolf
sprinted through the cold northern woods, smooth white-grey fur flattened
against his body. Steam rose from his flared nostrils, and muscles flexed from
deliberate, agile movements. The horizon was marked with snowcapped mountains,
just visible through the thinning forest. The majestic view flashed across the
wolf’s eyes as it raced past trees and splashed through icy creeks.

The sudden,
faint whisper of life, anchored the beast in its tracks.

The sound
tempted him around a large rock formation. He looked to the left and saw a
clearing a few paces away. Slinking behind the thick undergrowth and using the
foliage as cover, the animal sniffed the air. The scent of humans tickled his
senses and, by following his nose, he turned his gaze to witness a rider enter
the clearing.

The man moved
around the opening, checking for tracks or evidence of recent activity. Satisfied
all was as it should be, he rode back into the tree line and emerged a moment
later with five other riders. One of them wore the Chieftain necklace of the
Chargon tribe—a cumbersome looking thing with multiple rows of brightly colored
feathers and random pieces of bone from past leaders. A shawl of woven greenery
framed his shaven head while sunlight filtered through the trees, highlighting
his bare chest and traditional tattoos of his forest tribe.

“Where are
they?” asked one of the men, breaking the silence.

The
disgruntled words reverberated off the iced mountains that circled the area.

The Chieftain
held up a finger to silence him. He slowly turned his head, scanning the trees,
his hand never moving far from a dangerous-looking stone hatchet hanging from
his waist.

“They were
supposed to be here when the sun was high overhead. We may have been tricked,”
said another.

The wolf crept
closer.

He slid his
body over the knotted forest floor to keep his head from being spotted. As he
neared the group, they turned their mounts to leave. A sudden low rumble
brought them to a halt.

A company of
horsemen fanned out into the opening. There were twenty soldiers, all carrying
swords and shields, with bows slung over their backs. Every one of them was
wrapped in thick, tattered fur coats—people from an endless winter. Their
unruly, blonde hair and pale skin contrasted against the tribesmen to an
extreme.

These were the
feared Merkadian warriors from the mountains of the north, all veteran
soldiers, with the scars to prove it.

The wolf
retreated to a more covered area at the sight of the soldiers.

A man, wearing
an enormous bearskin draped over his shoulders, jumped down from his mount and
moved toward the Chargon leader, giving a slight bow. The Chieftain dismounted
from his horse and returned the gesture.

The two
started to talk.

The wolf
strained his hearing, trying to make out any words, but was not able. He
started edging along to where they stood.

Suddenly the
tribesman shouted. “What? You bring me out here, to the middle of nowhere,” he
motioned around the clearing with his hands, “and expect me to do
that
?”
His outrage accentuated his Chargon accent as he spoke the words in the common
tongue.

The stocky,
mountain warrior placed a hand on the Chieftain’s shoulder. “Calm yourself, Amhar.
King Melidarius has already convinced both Kilgar and Targa to join us.
They
seem to understand what is at risk,” The warrior tilted his head, “Do you?”

“Don’t play me
the fool, Vyker! We know the trouble that is coming our way. We know that the
Kilgarians were hit hard and lost the majority of their warriors in one swift
blow. I came here to make an alliance, not surrender my people to a new ruler.”
Chieftain Amhar turned and walked a couple feet away, pausing for a moment.
“But, by already having the other tribes, you put me in an impossible position.
I now cannot look to them for allegiance.”

The Chieftain
started pacing back and forth and then gradually extended his hand. “Okay,
General Vyker, the Chargon tribe will accept the proposed agreement and join
this grand scheme. We will aid Merkadia.”

“Excellent.”
Vyker clasped the man’s forearm.

Amhar nodded
and mounted his horse. “The moment I return to my village; I will send runners
for the King’s orders.”

“Thank you. Your
immediate focus should be to gather your army and prepare to march. We already have
plans in motion to take care of their General.”

Amhar grinned,
“With Saris out of the picture, we may stand a chance. He is the only one among
them able to keep that monster of an army under control. His Captains are inept
without his guidance.”

Vyker returned
Amhar’s grin, “We see it the same way.”

“Maybe this
war won’t take too long after all.”

Amhar turned
his small group around and led the riders back into the dense tree line.

Vyker returned
to his horse and motioned for his company to move out. The wolf waited for the
sound of horses to fade, before venturing out from the underbrush. He took off
running across the open grass and leaped into the air. His body contorted as shimmering,
bright strands of light wrapped around him.

The wolf lost
its form and became a pliable ball of green energy. The sphere exploded and
collected again, forming into a falcon. He lifted himself out of the clearing
and soared up into the sky.

Thandril flew
in his bird form, high above the ground, darting in and out of the thick cloud
cover. The other tribes were joining against the Talurian Empire. It was time
to go back to Saris.

He flew over
vast, open fields, between jagged mountains, and up sheer rock faces. The land
raced by underneath, and the changing climates made evident how far he had
flown over the last few days. The landscape changed from the forests that
surrounded the ice-capped mountains of the Merkadian tribe to the jagged
grasslands of the southern coast he called home.