Empire of Dirt

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  The young woman hesitated with her answer, dwelling for a moment on the assorted company before her. “Most have gone to the palace. Emperor Faro is addressing the traitor.”

  “Traitor?” Salim asked first.

  Asher turned back to the young woman. “Why are you not there?”

  “Because I have heard what is coming. The House of Owls never lies. My family and I are leaving for Tregaran as soon as we have enough supplies. You should all turn around...” With that, the woman bundled her fabrics and goods and disappeared down an alley.

  “What was that?” Faylen asked, the language unknown to her ears.

  “Something about a traitor…” Asher was trying to put the puzzle together.

  “That was not all she said,” Salim stated, his body angled for the street that led to the heart of the city.

  “Salim,” the ranger warned. “We don’t have time. We need to get our supplies and move on; use this to our advantage.”

  It was already too late and Asher could see the fear in Salim’s eyes. The old honour guard knew of two traitors inside Karath’s walls and both were his sons. Asher had heard him talk of both Halion and Tauren many times over the years, often with pride in his tone. That’s why when Salim made a dash down the street, Asher wasn’t surprised.

  “What’s happening?” Reyna pulled her horse forward, leaving Nathaniel behind.

  Asher growled, thinking of his knees. “He’s getting all of us killed!”

  The ranger ran after Salim, pulling Hector along as he did, with the others closely behind, each as confused as the other. The streets became more crowded the further in they ventured, slowing their pursuit with the horses in tow. Asher pushed and shoved at the building crowd and turned down several alleys in hopes of catching up, but Salim knew the city like the back of his hand.

  The noise found the ranger’s ears first, then the smell, before the real crowd could be seen. It appeared that most of Karath had turned out to hear their boy-emperor and see the traitor. A gap appeared in the wall of bodies and Asher reluctantly took advantage of both his demeanour and Hector’s girth. The companions pushed through until they found Salim, who was standing still in front of the palace gates. Instinctively, Asher’s eyes were drawn to the guards beyond Salim and the gates. They didn’t appear all too bothered by the amassing crowds and the lack of security for their approaching emperor. In fact, most weren’t even watching the crowd, but instead looking up, at the palace itself.

  When he saw it. The spectacle that had drawn so many.

  Asher’s hold on Hector’s reins became slack and he sighed in despair for his friend. No father should ever live to see their son pass on before them, let alone be hung from the palace walls and streaked in blood. The ranger knew a tortured body when he saw one.

  “What’s this all abou’ then?” Doran huffed. “I can’t see a bloody thing!”

  “Asher,” Faylen said his name in a harsh tone over the noisy mob. “What’s happening? Who is that?”

  The other rangers had crowded round now, almost shutting out the mob as they surrounded Salim from behind. The old honour guard had yet to move, allowing strangers to jostle him in the fight to get a better look.

  “Asher?” Nathaniel prompted.

  Asher locked eyes with Glaide for just a second; both men aware of what was about to happen next. “It’s Halion Al-Anan... Salim’s son.”

  Reyna gasped and covered her mouth, but the others remained silent, the gravity of the situation slowly sinking in. Asher noticed the barbarian, Bale, puff out his chest and adjust the angle of his shoulders, so he could quickly reach for the axes that rested there. Glaide’s hand coiled around the slender hilt of his fine sword, while Doran son Dorain cracked his knuckles in anticipation. Hadavad was whispering in his apprentice’s ear, who quickly retrieved her staff from the side of her horse.

  There was a call above the din of the mob and a stilted cheer from the crowd. Emperor Faro was sat in the middle of what appeared to be an oversized throne, carried by four slaves and lined with honour guards. The precession led out from the palace through the gardens between the main entrance and the gates in front of the rangers.

  Something about the honour guards didn’t look right to Asher.

  “Start clearing a way out,” the ranger addressed Nathaniel and the elves with urgency. “Glaide…”

  The dark-skinned ranger nodded in agreement and rolled his shoulders in preparation. Pulling Salim out of the crowd without bloodshed wasn’t going to be easy.

  They were too late. The rage that spilled from Salim’s mouth was without definition or syllable. It was hate in its purest form, born of the deepest pit that lay dormant in every soul.

  Something inside Salim snapped and he shoved those in front of him aside and sprinted for the gates. The rangers yelled his name in protest, but there was no stopping him, not even elven speed could get in front of him now. With his cutlass drawn already, the old honour guard entered the palace grounds with the fury of a hurricane. The guards who had been too occupied with the sight of Halion were the first to fall, each taking a beating that dropped them hard and fast.

  The honour guards formed a wall in front of their emperor and the slaves carrying the boy immediately reversed direction. That was when Asher saw it, the subtleties that made these guards stand out. The way they moved, the way they carried themselves… they were Arakesh!

  “Salim!” The ranger’s cry fell on deaf ears.

  The southern ranger jumped with his cutlass aimed low, ready to skewer the first person to get in his way. The Arakesh were typically fast, however. Salim’s sword was deflected and his next three attacks either collided with steel or found naught but air. A solid push-kick had one of the assassins flying over the low hedge, reducing his opponents to five. That was at least two too many when it came to the Arakesh.

  With a battle cry of his own, Asher waded into the fray, hoping, if nothing else, to distract the remaining Arakesh. His double-handed broadsword cut the air horizontally and pushed through the defence of one assassin and opened his armour up. The blade had drawn blood, but it wasn’t enough to put the assassin out of the fight. A swift backhand however, had his spiked pommel knock the helmet and break the jaw of another Arakesh. Salim twirled and spun like a dancer, quickly finishing the man with a clean swipe across his throat.

  More cries of battle preceded the other rangers, who charged up the path with weapons drawn. Doran had left his stubby fat blade attached to his hog, instead opting for the spiked gauntlets that matched his armour. The dwarf darted between the clashing of steel and dived through the air until his momentum and tremendous girth took down an assassin. Without taking a breath, Doran pummelled the man until blood decorated his blond beard and the Arakesh became very still beneath him.

  Despite having already been sliced by the assassins blades in various places, Bale of the Oakbreaker clan moved through the group with his double-sided axes and a smile on his face. Glaide was forced more than once to duck under the barbarian’s swing, while simultaneously parrying the blade of an Arakesh. It was only a minute more before the six assassins were lying dead at the rangers’ feet. Salim remained crouched over his last victim with his dagger in hand. The ranger repeatedly stabbed the dead body with a rage-filled cry that would give any attacker pause.

  Asher pulled his own sword free of his opponent’s neck and looked about, assessing their environment through laboured breaths. Like ants hurrying from their nest, guards and Arakesh came from everywhere, running out of the palace and appearing throughout the gardens. A bell rang in the distance, telling Asher that more would be coming from across the city.

  “Withdraw!” Glaide shouted. “We need to withdraw!”

  Still Salim continued to stab the dead body.

  Asher knew they had only seconds to choose their fate. Stay and fight, killing as many as they could and avenging Halion’s death, or run back into the city and attempt escape. The ranger didn’t need to count the num
ber of enemies to calculate the outcome of a stance. They would certainly reduce the Karathan army by day’s end, but their own death would be inevitable. Then again, running away didn’t hold much hope either. Karath was a maze of alleyways and colourful bazaars, each blending into the next with disorientating effect.

  The amassing guards and assassins broke Salim’s concentration and he finally replaced his dagger for his cutlass. The look on his face told Asher everything he needed to know; the old honour guard would not be sated until he had killed every last one. Glaide was the first to act, sheathing his fine blade and diving on top of Salim. The men struggled furiously until Asher and Doran intervened, each hooking an arm around the southerner’s shoulders and tugging backwards.

  “We need to go, Salim!” Glaide shouted in his ear.

  Asher could see the nearest assassin bearing down on them. “Bale…”

  The big barbarian moved to intercept the Arakesh, but was too slow for the actions of an elf. Reyna unleashed an arrow from her powerful bow and launched the assassin back into a group of soldiers. The arrow continued its flight, piercing armour, flesh and bone with ease, until it buried itself in the palace walls and cracked the sandy stone. The elf’s barrage was accompanied by Nathaniel’s arrows and Faylen’s spells. Their combined attack was perfect, with Reyna taking down the assassins, who could evade Nathaniel’s arrows, while the knight fell Karathan guards. Faylen was far happier to create chaos with explosive spells.

  “Come on!” Asher strained against Salim’s pull.

  Doran pushed from the front as Glaide and Asher pulled at Salim’s arms, but blind rage gave the southerner the strength of ten men. Thankfully, any who survived the arrows, flying between their heads, were tackled by Bale, who was more than happy to add notches to his axes.

  “Salim! We need to go!” Glaide had one hand on the ranger’s wrist, keeping his sword at bay.

  More arrows whistled past their struggling bodies, each finding their mark and littering the palace grounds with bodies. Reyna’s arrows never failed to bring down more than one attacker at a time.

  “Bale!” Asher met the barbarian’s eyes and looked from him to Salim.

  The Oakbreaker knew exactly what to do.

  Bale’s fist connected with Salim’s face to devastating effects. The ranger’s nose broke instantly and his head snapped back, as his legs gave out beneath him. Asher and Glaide were suddenly holding his entire weight and Doran had both of his hands cupping the southerner’s face, searching for signs of life.

  “Did ye kill em’?” the dwarf asked.

  “He sleep…” the barbarian replied, before turning about to clothesline a rushing guard.

  Asher looked up from Salim and saw death walking out of the palace. Billowing white robes swept around the ancient elf, contrasting with his long, black hair which draped over his back like oil. The ranger’s eyes were immediately drawn to Alidyr’s short-sword, resting on his hip with a crystallized pommel. Its twin was sitting diagonally across Asher’s back, begging to be returned to its master.

  The old assassin had every intention of giving it back…

  The two locked eyes across the gardens, between the oncoming guards and Arakesh, each aware of their inevitable collision.

  “Bale, take Salim!” Asher and Glaide lifted the southerner into the barbarian’s hands, who threw him over his shoulder as if he were an empty sack.

  “Asher?” Glaide was following the ranger’s gaze.

  “Don’t Asher!” Reyna cried. “We need to go! Now!”

  The ranger wasn’t sure when it happened, but both of his hands were now holding a sword each. In his right hand was the silvyr short-sword, crafted in a dwarven forge and decorated in the oldest of runes, while in his left he held a blade gifted to Alidyr by Valanis himself. The pommel housed a crystal imbued with the power of Naius, the god of magic. Asher was yet to be convinced of the gods and their power, but he more than believed in his power to shove the jeweled pommel down the elf’s throat.

  For Elaith…

  Asher ignored the warnings and went to work. He didn’t care what Alidyr was doing in Karath or what part the Arakesh had to play in everything. They had killed Halion, the son of a friend and a good man, but the elf had taken a life that actually mattered to Asher, a young woman who should have been left to grow old and discover the wonders of the world.

  The first Arakesh to get in his way was dead by the ranger’s second strike, both blades opening up arteries. A Karathan guard came next, if somewhat hesitant, and found the pommel of Asher’s silvyr sword lodged in his throat, stealing any breath. A swift push-kick launched the man into three more guards, staggering their advance, while the ranger deflected and parried more assassins. One particular Arakesh struck from above with more force than the other; his blade shattered against the elven short-sword. Asher simply dropped to one knee and thrust his silvyr blade into the man’s chest.

  It had been a while since the ranger had been in the thick of a fight, but the art of killing always returned like an old friend. He was no longer aware of everyone else, the rangers or the elves, but focused instead on carving out a path to Alidyr. Guards and assassins alike dropped around him, as each of his fine blades cut through their armour and defences with the ease of a knife through butter. His green cloak flowed around him, whipped about by the dance of battle, his swords singing the oldest of tunes.

  Without warning, small pellets exploded across the gardens and filled the space with thick, grey smoke. Where the ranger had only seen red was now concealed with rising fog. As Alidyr’s image disappeared, Asher’s rage deflated and a reasonable mind took back control.

  “Asher!” Nathaniel’s voice carried over the chaos.

  The ranger turned around and saw Hadavad enter through the gates with Atharia and four men in what appeared to be white owl masks. The men in masks were all wearing light armour and hoods, but they were all throwing pellets.

  “I believe these young men intend to help us…” Hadavad called casually.

  “This way!” one of the owls beckoned.

  Asher could see Bale charging out of the grounds with Salim slung over his shoulder. Glaide and Doran were close behind, but they kept a wary eye on Asher. The ranger knew that if he decided to stay and fight, they would fight with him. Faylen was tugging at Reyna’s arm, who continued to fire arrows into the wall of smoke with Nathaniel.

  The old assassin had a lasting look into the smoke and knew it would only be moments until Alidyr emerged, and with him a small army of assassins and soldiers. Asher would be condemning them all to death if he stayed, just as Salim had done in his blind rage.

  Seconds later, his decision made, they were all out of the gates and mounting their horses once again. The crowd had already dispersed, but those left behind dove for cover to avoid the charging steeds. Asher looked over his shoulder, before they turned a corner, and saw Alidyr stride out of the smokey courtyard with his short-sword in hand.

  The companions followed the directions of the men in owl masks, each astride one of the ranger’s mounts, until they came across the south gate. Three Karathan guards stood duty with spears in hand; the perfect weapon for dismounting a rider. Asher reached for his broadsword, still feeling the rush of the fight coursing through his veins. Oddly, the guards simply nodded at the owls and stepped aside, allowing them all to leave the city unhindered. The ranger inspected their faces as he rode by and saw Halion Al-Anan in all of them.

  Soon, the companions were riding out into the desert with a dust cloud steadily rising behind them. The horses were pushed hard and Asher wondered if they would be followed across the flat terrain. Their destination was obvious to any who might be observing from Karath’s high walls.

  Faylen rode up beside the ranger and shouted over the deafening hooves, “That was Alidyr Yalathanil! Why is he here?”

  Asher had no answer for her, but for a simple grimace and a glance at the crystal pommel poking over his shoulder. Indeed, the elf’s
presence was curious if not maddening.

  Syla’s Gate stood defiantly before them, wedged between the Undying Mountains as an immovable sentinel. Asher had seen it before, but never had he approached the ancient gate and taken in its true size. It took several minutes on horseback to reach the base and discover the details.

  Asher pulled on Hector’s reins and had to crane his neck to see it all. The colour was closer to bronze by the ranger’s eyes and entirely covered in runes. There wasn’t an inch of the gate that didn’t have ancient glyphs engraved into the metal. There was a clear divide up the middle, but the whole gate was concave in shape and apparently devoid of any hinges. There were no bolts across the threshold, but the gate was clearly locked in place with magic. On either side stood a complex framework of walkways, stairs and ladders constructed from wood. They reached to the very top and connected with the gate, where Karathans had once kept watch over the southern passage.

  “Who are these men?” Faylen came up on his right and looked at the owls who had jumped down from the horses.

  “Syla’s Gate…” Reyna left no room for answers, coming up on the ranger’s left. “I have longed to see this, ever since I was a girl.”

  “Asher?” Faylen pressed, ever cautious.

  The ranger took immediate note of the men and women appearing from behind some of the larger rocks and the wooden framework.

  “I think we’re about to find out…”

  The four owls walked up to the amassing group and addressed the young man in the lead. Asher instinctively took the measure of the man. Adorned with a flowing, if ragged, black cloak and covered from head-to-toe in worn, brown leather, the warrior was olive-skinned, like his kinsmen, and carried himself with confidence. Despite his solid appearance, Asher could see the cracks. This was a man who had seen the end of a beating and had felt the sting of a blade more than once. Blades of all sizes were sheathed on his person, with a particularly elegant dagger strapped across his chest.

  There was only one person this could be.

  “I am Tauren son-of-none,” the young man announced with authority. His confidence faltered when his scrutinising gaze found Salim’s limp body over Bale’s saddle. The son-of-none made to inspect Salim but found his path suddenly blocked.