Fate of an Empire (Talurian Empire Trilogy Book 1)

by Pasquariello, Jonathan

  After the quick internal assessment, he pulled down the retractable ladder to the roof and climbed up. The height of the tower brought a kind of serenity to his mood. The fortress below looked smaller, while the invading Talurian army looked like an endless sea of darkness. The stronghold was starting to burn and, from his position, he fell away from it all.

  To his left, the Kilgarian banner fluttered in the wind. He would be the victor today, not the army. He would be champion. With a spin, he sliced the wooden pole at the base, and the material floated off the edge of the overlook.

  “Rurik!” His name echoed from below.

  Klaric!

  He peered over the wall.

  Klaric and Aamin were holding their ground, but two ladders now rested against the raised walkway behind them. More warriors were mounting the wall. The main body of Talurians were moving in a calculated way across the ground level of the fortress but missed a column of palisades against the western perimeter. A last ditch effort from a conquered people. From his vantage point, he could see the hiding, Kilgarian reserves, prepared to sacrifice themselves for a few more kills.

  He disappeared back through the trap door and hurried down the flights of stairs. Upon exiting the tower, a misfired trebuchet’s stone crashed into the pathway ahead. The hit threw him to the ground, crumbling the section of wall between Klaric and Aamin, and himself. The bombardment temporarily took Rurik’s hearing.

  He tried to compose himself, keeping an eye on his mission.

  Get up! Focus.

  The attackers were circling tighter around his friend and brother. Rurik regained his feet, wobbling at his full stance and looked at the opening left by the strike. Shaking off the lingering effects, he retreated along the wall and then shot toward the fissure at a sprint. He tightened his grip on his sword as he reached the break and pushed all his energy out through his legs.

  Son of a…

  His leap came up short.

  His chin crashed into the stone walkway. Small bones in his face audibly snapping from the impact. Blood filled his mouth. His hands grasped for anything to hold, nearly losing his weapon, feet dangling below.

  Through blurred vision, he watched Klaric and Aamin fight. Back to back, they moved in circles, fending off attacker after attacker. Rurik gritted his teeth and pushed his arms against the stone—one elbow, then the next. He swung his leg up over the ledge and rolled his body onto the wall.

  Almost there.

  He got to his feet and ran toward the men. A ring of death laid at their feet, all the while, the number of attackers increased. Rurik dared a glimpse down into the courtyard. Hundreds, possibly thousands of bodies littered the ground, mostly Kilgarian tribesmen, but also a good number of his Talurian comrades. They were going to win this battle, but now he was fighting for a different goal.

  Then it came. A horn sounded across the battlefield.

  The Kilgarian army was retreating, a scattered madness of men without direction. Rurik reached the ladders, and as few turned to descend, he met them with a zealous hand, striking down man after man.

  Finally, the group around Klaric and Aamin started to thin.

  The reinforcements ceased to come, save for a pair of Kilgarian warriors, who pushed through their retreating allies, pointing their weapons and hollering at the Talurians. Klaric and Aamin took down the last few tribesmen around them before turning to face their new challengers.

  Rurik battled closer and closer. He fought the current of withdrawal. He kept focusing on his friend and brother all along. He watched as the two engaged the pair of Kilgarians. They were formidable and a hard match for Klaric and Aamin.

  One of the Kilgarians dove between the two, separating their tight defense. Out of the three of them, Aamin was the lesser when it came to blade skills. He had only been around real fighting since the beginning of this campaign, not even three weeks. Other than that, he had just been in sparring sessions and technique training back at camp.

  Come on, my brother.

  Rurik dispatched the last defender in his path, sinking the native to the floor, and continued running to his brother’s aid. Aamin was losing space on the wall with each hit. Klaric struggled with his own opponent, leaving him no chance to help. The warrior lashed out with three consecutive, downward strikes. A toothless grin gained in intensity as the Kilgarian approached victory.

  Aamin struggled to maintain control of his sword as he blocked. With each clang, came a loss of ground for the young soldier. He slid his foot back, bracing for the next hit, but his heel bumped up against the siding of the walkway. He lost his balance—for only a moment…

  “No!”

  My brother!

  Rurik watched as the merciless Kilgarian rammed the butt of his sword into Aamin’s chest and then followed with a quick upward slice, cutting Aamin from waist to throat. The force of the hit lifted Aamin into the air, tipping his body over the edge of the wall. A stream of blood trailed after the failing body, tinting the smoke-filled air.

  Rurik slowed.

  He fell his hands to his side.

  Klaric screamed out. He lost his footing and collapsed to the floor. Loss welled up in his eyes. The pair of Kilgarians suddenly stopped and looked at the two men, before breaking into vulgar, malicious laughter.

  No... no no no!

  Rurik gripped his sword. His nose flared. With his offhand, he reached up and wiped away a hot tear, smearing blood and dirt across his face.

  One of the men raised their finger, taunting him to attack.

  Rurik bolted forward, letting out an unnerving roar, his weapon held cocked to the side.

  Sword be damned. I will strike with fury.

  Both Kilgarians readied for him. His mind focused on their weak spots—the unbalanced stance of one, the overextension of the other.

  As he approached, they whirled their blades at his body.

  He dropped to a slide, separating one at the ankle, and with a quick jump, landed a hit on the second, across his leather-covered torso, splitting his chest open. Both attacks were incapacitating, but neither instantly fatal. They landed with a thud and writhed about on the floor, cradling their wounds.

  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.

  Chapter 2: The General

  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 onl
y 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.

  Chapter 3: Forest Meeting

  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.