Fate of an Empire (Talurian Empire Trilogy Book 1)

by Pasquariello, Jonathan

  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.

  Chapter 4: War Plans

  “We Talurians are not cowards! Why don’t we march now and cut through the rest of Kilgar?” said one of the men, anger accentuating the scar below his eye, “We can kill the remaining forces and make our way to Targa’s border!”

  “Are you serious? You want to keep going?” started another, “If we don’t do this carefully we will lose the war. We have significant intelligence that suggests the entire island taking up arms against us. They’ll slip behind our lines and cut out our heart.”

  The tent was filled with men waving their fists, shouting, and cursing at each other. The officers had caught word of the possible diplomatic meetings amongst the other tribes.

  “He is right. Thandril should be back shortly and will no doubt confirm the accuracy of the rumors. My house will not march,” said a different man, moving toward his comrade’s side to show support.

  Five tables were set up inside the tent, all facing inward. This mimicked the way the central section of the capital city was structured—the trueblood houses. General Saris sat at the back of the tent, slightly away from the circle, between his two, regular standing Captains, Arteus and Barolas.

  Saris slammed his fist on the heavy wooden table, silencing the men. “Commanders, you must control yourselves! I barely consider you men, at best adolescent boys. Though from what I’ve seen this week, you’re acting as if fresh off your mother’s teat. How can we get anything decided with all this childish bickering?”

  Mouths dropped, shocked at the manner in which Saris had addressed them. Some of the men had to be pleaded with by their entourage to not lash out at their leader. Everyone knew they would pay for it later if something was said in contradiction.

  These were the eldest sons from each of the five great Houses of Taluria. During times of war, they would be given the title of Honor Guard Commander, to represent their House on the battlefield.

  All graciously accepted the title, except for Drakken of House Bloodborne; the young man had sent a senior House member to occupy his position. Saris thought him a coward, in any case, so when the replacement showed up at training camp, he did not waste another thought on him.

  The General cleared his throat, “I have fought alongside each of your fathers when they were your age—when they were the Honor Guard Commanders of your houses.” He pointed around the room. “This display you make in my tent this morning would bring shame to them, and houses’ legacies.”

  The room was silent.

  “We are going to wait for Thandril before we take even a single step from this spot. Ready your troops. If I see any of you start to move
north, I will personally deliver your head back to your father in a beautiful box, maybe with a ribbon of your House’s color—to give it a unique touch.”

  They all nodded their understanding. Few could talk to these men in this direct fashion, but Saris was one of them.

  The rank Saris held was outside the political sphere of the Houses. He came from High Council, a long-lived family, and one of the original to form Taluria. Since named General, he was not considered a member of High Council—one of few offices held by someone, not within their own house. The only others were Chancellor, Overseer, and the Emperor himself. These four positions made up the Inner Circle. They were the final word on matters of the empire.

  Before they could start arguing again, a rider ducked in through the tent flap and whispered to the Harmite slave at the door, who, in turn, raised his hand to get Saris’ attention.

  Saris sighed and rolled his hand in the air, permitting the rider to approach.

  “Sir!” He saluted the General and then the other officers around the circle. “I have word from Hillsford that your wife has gone into labor. The physician said if you ride out immediately, you should be able to make it in time for the birth.”

  The small town of Hillsford was located right inside the border of the Talurian Empire and had been an important staging area used in the attack on the Kilgarian fortress. The General’s pregnant wife had stayed there due to being near the end of her third trimester.

  “Alright…” Saris slowly stood from his seat and motioned for the messenger to leave. He turned to his horsemaster. “Is my mount ready?”

  “Yes, sir. I sent a runner to the stables the second I saw the messenger coming, in case there was a need,” the man bowed and left the tent to check on its arrival.

  Saris leaned down on the table in front of him. “Well, gentlemen, we will determine our next move when I return.”

  He started walking toward the tent’s opening. His private guards quickly moved from the surrounding walls and fell into place around him. He suddenly stopped and turned to his Captains. “When Thandril shows up, tell him to meet me in Hillsford.”

  Nodding to himself, he left the room.

  “Where is my horse?” He yelled as he exited the tent, spitting his words at the horsemaster.

  It was time to meet his baby.

  Chapter 5: A Grieving Brother

  Smoke rose from the funeral pyre.

  Rurik Kaster stood over his brother’s wrapped body. His soul—his spark of life—was gone. He had urged Aamin to stay home. He was too young, still more a boy than a man, but Aamin wanted to be a warrior, always wanting to be like his big brother.

  The fire bit at the perfumed corpse. The herbs used to keep the body fresh filled the air with the sweet scent of lavender. The boy never smelt that good when he was alive. Tears streaked down Rurik’s cheeks.

  Is this my fault? Could I have done something differently to save you?

  “My brother,” Rurik knelt down before the fire, “Rest easy. Wherever you are now is surely better than this cursed island—with its warring tribes and stubborn emperor. Maybe you are finally enjoying the company of a beautiful woman.” Rurik laughed to himself, barely a chuckle, one that was full of sadness.

  “It was just you and me for the last couple of years, but you had grown so much in character and strength in that time. Mother and father would have been proud of the man you became—I am proud of the man you became. I love you, little brother.” Rurik took his knife from his belt and slashed his palm open. He dropped nineteen drops of blood into the fire—one drop for each year of life.

  He stood up and took a couple steps back. He didn’t bother to wrap his hand; he wanted the physical pain to linger as long as possible. He would surely never lose the pain in his heart.

  Before being done with his thoughts, Sergeant Linket came walking over. “Gather the soldiers. We’re escorting the General to Hillsford.”

  The pompous fool sauntered off without even mentioning Rurik’s brother, whose body burned ten feet in front of him.

  “Ass,” Rurik mumbled under his breath.

  He took a necklace out from under his tunic and kissed the newest pendant on the chain. It was a flattened disc of gold with the Kaster family crest on it. A design his father had made, and a tradition he wanted to continue when he had children of his own. The necklace carried his own charm, his father’s and mother’s, and now his brother’s. He reverently tucked it away and turned to gather his other brothers—his brothers of the sword—the men he fought alongside, day in and day out.

  This was just the start of the war. What loss will I feel by the end?

  Chapter 6: A Son Is Born

  The sun was setting; deep purples and vibrant oranges streamed across the sky.

  Thandril flew high above the ground, nearing the army’s campsite. He had learned of the Merkadians’ plan to conquer the other tribes of the island. They were using the fear of the Talurian army to convince the other tribes to fall under Merkadian law. They were now the largest army under one banner, and the campaign would become increasingly difficult for the Talurians.

  He saw the flickering orange glow of campfires preparing to cook the evening’s meal. He flew toward the command tent and dove to the earth below. A bright green flash lit up the darkening sky, briefly bathing the camp in blinding light. The bird was gone. In its stead, kneeling, was the hunched form of Thandril, returned to his human shape. He stood to his feet and walked in the direction of the pavilion.

  Upon entering the room, he turned his eyes to the General’s empty chair and then to the Harmite at the door. “Where is he? I have urgent news.”

  The slave lost his words. Thandril stood over seven feet tall and was the width of two soldiers from shoulder to shoulder. When he opened his mouth and that deep voice asked a pointed question, most feared to answer wrongly.

  “He went back to the southern camp. His wife is having the baby. He said to tell you to go and meet him there,” said Captain Arteus, slapping Thandril on the shoulder. “You’re going to give that damned boy a heart attack.”

  Barolas walked up on his other side. “No one quite knows you like we do—a big teddy bear.”

  Thandril grinned and then pushed both backward, landing them on their asses. “Thanks for the information.”

  “Bastard!” Arteus yelled out, laughing

  Barolas slapped his hand on the ground. “I haven’t been knocked around this much since that crazy night in Romla’Tal with your mother!”

  Thandril shook his head as he made for the door. “You two have a good evening. I’ll be enjoying a deluxe suite in Hillsford.”

  * * *

  “Get this thing out of me!”

  The nurses ran back and forth grabbing fresh rags and warm water for the doctor.

  “Only a little more time m'lady,” he reassured.

  A nurse walked over to the foot of the bed and stood with the physician, looking at the woman.

  “Is she supposed to be bleeding that much?” she whispered in his ear.

  He motioned for the nurse to walk from the bed with him.

  “Is Saris here yet?”

  “I don’t know.” She kept looking back at the bed. “Kuran, she doesn’t look so good.”

  “Hush! We will do everything we can for her.” He put his hand on her arm. “You need to calm down or you won’t be any help to me. Now, go out into the hallway and see if Saris has arrived.”

  The nurse composed herself and moved to the door. Kuran walked back over to the bed and looked down at the woman again. She was bleeding profusely and growing weaker by the moment.

  He looked into her eyes and smiled. “You’re doing great.”

  Saris had chosen his wife more for political reasons than romantic ones. Within the House politics, it is a great honor to a family when a member of the Inner Circle chooses a mate from their House. The last three Emperors have all been from her House, White Mantle—the other founding house, along with
Saris’, High Council.

  Saris lost his House ties by carrying the title of General, but any offspring is traditionally placed in the wife’s House. He thought of this when choosing a woman, in hopes of one day having a son to take full advantage of such influential ties.

  The nurse opened the door to the hallway and was greeted by a crowd of men coming toward the room. Saris was at the head of the group.

  “What is going on?” he yelled at the young woman. “Has the baby been delivered? Can I see them?”

  A loud, shrieking cry of pain came from inside the room.

  He sighed, “Do you think it is going to take much longer?”

  “I can’t say, sir. I do need to warn you, there may be a problem with your wife. She is bleeding more than usual for a birthing, but the doctor is doing everything he can to help her.”

  “What?” He reached down and grabbed the nurse by her collar. “Will it affect my child?”

  He pulled her completely off the ground. Her body trembled in his grasp.

  “No, sir, but your wife might die.”

  His wife let out a howl of a scream, gaining in volume and then quickly stopped. Moments later, the faint sound of a baby crying filled the hallway.

  His expression relaxed and he put the woman down, “She is a good woman—a strong woman. Our son will be great someday, and she knows at some point in our lives we will both have to make sacrifices to that end.” He looked through the doorway at the woman who just gave birth to his son, the color fading from her skin. “This might be her time.”

  The doctor backed away from the bed with the small baby wrapped up in a blanket. The mother laid there motionless, her eyes staring off at nothing.

  Kuran handed the baby to Saris, “It is a boy, healthy and strong. His breathing is good and body free of imperfection.”

  Saris held the baby close to his face, “Hello, my son. I have waited for you for so many years. You are going to be great among our people. I will teach you everything I know and train you to be strong.”