Fate of an Empire (Talurian Empire Trilogy Book 1)

by Pasquariello, Jonathan

  Chapter 32: The Family Line

  Knock. Knock. Rurik jumped out of bed, blades ready.

  Someone was at the front door.

  When he finally went to lie down, he hadn’t bothered to change, or even take off his boots, not after someone had already been sneaking around in the house. He exited the bedroom and found Elop and Gleb looking at him when he reached the front room. Both men glanced from Rurik to the door, getting to their feet in case of emergency. Who knocks on your door in the middle of the night? It had only been two knocks, nothing more.

  Rurik undid the lock and slowly opened it, with Elop and Gleb standing right behind, poised to lend assistance if needed. No one was there, but a small piece of folded paper lay at the foot of the door. Rurik checked either side of the walkway before reaching down for the note.

  “What is it?” Gleb asked.

  “Someone wants me to meet them at the Brown Recluse, right now.”

  “Brown Recluse?” Elop repeated the name.

  “It is a bar in the old part of town. I went there with Aamin, quite regularly” Rurik said, still holding the piece of paper to his eyes. “Whoever wrote this can barely write, or spell.”

  Gleb stepped forward and motioned for Rurik to let him see it. “That’s slave writing. Someone who hasn’t been properly schooled.”

  Rurik went back to his room without another word and returned wearing a full coat, with a hood to hide his face.

  “You are going? It could be a trap,” said Elop.

  “He’s right. We should come with you,” Gleb added.

  “No. I am going alone. I don’t have any enemies in this city, at least that I know of. I’ll be fine.” Rurik pulled the dark hood over his face and exited through the door.

  He moved quickly through the streets, following the same path that he and his brother had traveled many times a week. When he reached the Brown Recluse, it was exactly as he remembered—a big, windowless, square building, with rotted wood siding, a single door, and men being thrown out for drinking too much.

  He silently watched for a time, waiting to see anything out of the ordinary before going inside. Nothing seemed out of place, till he noticed a slave woman peering from around the side of the bar, obviously looking for something or someone. Then she would disappear into the darkness, only to return a few minutes later to do the same thing.

  Rurik circled around, doubling back a few streets and crossing over, putting him in the same alley as the woman, but from the backside. He stepped quietly, but her breathing was so heavy that he doubted she could even hear her own thoughts over it. He grabbed her from behind, clasping his hands over her mouth. She tried to struggle free.

  “It’s okay. I won’t hurt you. Did you leave me the note?” He asked, not giving away any information about himself if this was indeed not the right person.

  She instantly relaxed. That was a good sign.

  “Rurik?” Her voice was shaky but laced with relief.

  Thinking he didn’t have much to worry about, he slowly undid his grip on her, and once she was free enough, she spun around and flung her arms around him. Her hug was so tight that he thought she was going to break one of his ribs. She suddenly backed away. He noticed she was crying, thin streaks of silver in the moonlight.

  “What is the matter?” He asked, softly.

  She wiped her face with the arm of her shirt. “I’m sorry. You don’t even know who I am, but I know who you are, Rurik Kaster, brother of Aamin Kaster.” She regained her composure. “I need you to come with me.”

  She did not wait for an acknowledgment. She grabbed his hand and pulled him back down the alley in which he had come. They snaked through a number of streets before reaching the limits of Harmite slave-housing.

  “What are we doing here?” Rurik asked.

  “I’ll explain everything, but we need to first get inside.” She led him to one of the first buildings on the street and knocked a strange rhythm on the door—had to be a signal of some kind. It opened into a dark room, with only one candle lit in the far corner.

  “Nirah, has he come back?” A man asked, sitting by the candle. His voice was old and tired.

  “No, father. It is not, Aamin. It is his brother, Rurik.” The woman responded.

  The younger man who had opened the door spoke. “Do you think we can trust him? He may not be like his brother.”

  What had Aamin been doing? How was he mixed up with these Harmites?

  “Jaeyl, we’ve no one else to turn to,” Nirah said, pleading with the tone of her voice.

  “What is going on? How do you know me, or my brother?” Rurik asked.

  “Soldier, I have love and respect for you and your family. I knew your mother and father very well and miss them dearly, and I am regretful that I have not had the pleasure of getting to know you over the years like I have your brother.” The old man stood to his feet and extended his hand.

  Rurik reluctantly clasped his forearm and shook it, feeling completely confused.

  “My name is, Nomik. We are in some trouble and we have been keeping watch for your brother. Can you tell us where he is?” He stared desperately at Rurik.

  Rurik’s eyes became saddened and swelled with tears. This was the first time, since Aamin’s death, that he had been around a group of people who knew his brother, and it overwhelmed him.

  “My boy,” Nomik said, with worry growing on his face. “What has happened?”

  The two others stepped closer.

  “He is gone. Killed in battle only but a few weeks ago.” Rurik’s voice cracked as he said it.

  Nirah broke into tears, and Jaeyl had to support his father, the words had struck the man like a hammer. The four stood in the dark room, Rurik a stranger among them, mourning his fallen brother.

  Nomik collected himself and offered Rurik a chair, “Come. Sit.”

  Jaeyl and Nirah moved to stand by the door.

  “Boy,” Nomik started. Rurik hadn’t been addressed as a boy for over a decade. “Without your mother and father, and now, without your brother, we need you more than ever. What I am about to tell you will seem impossible, but believe me, if it was anyone else, other than your family, then the endeavor would have been impossible. When I was a young man, I was recruited into an underground society, by a man named, Harik Kaster, your father—a Harmite by birth, who had avoided the brandings of a slave, at the sacrifice of his mother and father’s lives.”

  Rurik’s eyes widened, “What? A Harmite by birth? I don’t believe you!”

  Nomik chuckled, “I know, but there is so much more to disbelieve. The underground movement was set up to smuggle out Harmite babies from birthing centers before they could be branded, thus freeing them to live as Talurians. My children were already born when we set up the society and that is why we operate, here, in the Harmite district. Harik and his wife Sirene, your parents, lived among the Talurians, watching things from that side.”

  “How have I never heard of this?” Rurik asked, anger showing on his face for being made the fool.

  “Neither you, nor Aamin, where supposed to be involved, that was your father’s wishes, but before their deaths, your brother stumbled upon them smuggling out a young girl, his same age. Aamin was eleven at the time. Some officials had been investigating her back story, and things were starting to heat up. She needed to be relocated. He wanted to help, and, Rurik, he wanted to tell you, but your father prohibited it. Harik wanted, at least, one of his children to live without the feelings and responsibilities he felt every day of his life.”

  “Well, then why now? Why did you bring me here?” Rurik asked, his body shaking from the revelations.

  “Your brother was elected as one of the leaders when he turned seventeen; he had already shown the knowledge, courage, and strength of your father. I am sorry if this next part pains you, but, your brother was also secretly married. He wanted so badly for you to know, and be there, but again, your father wouldn’t allow it. His wife was that same young girl t
hat he helped your parents smuggle out years ago, who was also my youngest daughter.” Nomik choked back forming tears. “The Empire has started to catch on with what we are doing and have been hunting us down. Shortly after you two left for war—he had to play along to keep up his façade—Layna, my daughter, and Aamin’s wife, gave birth to your nephew.”

  At that moment, Nirah walked over, carrying a tiny bundle in her arms. She lowered it to Rurik and placed it on his lap. Inside the blankets was a tiny baby boy, sleeping away.

  “His name is Aeronais Kaster—a continued line of your family.” Nomik leaned forward and placed a hand on Rurik’s shoulder. “Nirah was with Layna, the night the soldiers came.”

  Rurik’s attention abruptly shifted back to what the man was saying.

  “Nirah escaped with Aeronais, but Layna was captured and executed the next day, for conspiring against the Empire. Thankfully any ties to your brother were hidden before he left to war so they won’t be coming to you for anything, and that is why we need you. All of our informants throughout the Empire have been keeping their eyes out for you or your brother. That is how we knew you were back in town. You need to take and protect him. He is a repeat of your father’s story, an orphan whose parents died to protect his freedom. We cannot let him down now.”

  Rurik, realizing what they were asking of him, shook his head, pushing the baby back to Nirah. “No. No. I’ve no idea what to do with a baby. He would be worse off with me.”

  Nomik looked deep into Rurik’s eyes, talking very slowly to stress the matter, “Rurik, we need you to take your nephew. He will not be safe with us. We are not asking you to join with us, or even help beyond the child, but we are being hunted, and I will not see this new spark of life, in both of our family lines, be flushed out before it has time to grow. I will not let that happen.”

  Rurik unwillingly nodded.

  “Good,” Nomik said, “You need this.”

  He handed Rurik a sealed letter marked, “My Son.”

  “That is a letter written by Aamin, to his unborn son. Do not open it. It is Aeronais’ to open. You will know the right time to give it to him.”

  “How?”

  “Probably explained in this letter.” Nomik pulled out another envelope. This one was labeled, “My Brother.”

  “He wrote these to both of you, in case he didn’t make it back from the war, and I regret having to deliver them.”

  Nomik rose to his feet. “You need to leave now before anyone discovers us here. If for any reason you need to contact us, deliver a message to the Brown Recluse, under the name Timothy Grant.”

  “A strange name…” Rurik said.

  “It is the name of an explorer your father met once when he was young. Another long story,” Nomik smiled, “But it stands out enough to be recognized and not easily guessed.”

  Without another word, Rurik was rushed out of the building, Aeronais in a carry pack on his back. He made his way to the apartment, lost in thought from the new information, trying to assimilate all of it. He looked to the moon, still hours before the sun would rise.

  Chapter 33: Night Strike

  Saris stood, looking out at the battlefield. Balar had put some sort of shield around himself and fell into a trance. It had been half an hour, and the General was tired of waiting to see what Balar was up to.

  He turned to Thandril, who had been at his side during the spectacle along the Merkadian front lines. “Thandril, gather a small group of soldiers, ones that you think would be useful for a quick strike and run situation and prepare them to march. I want you to probe them for a weak spot on their left side and bleed them out a little.”

  Thandril nodded and left without a word.

  Saris noted a disruption along the Merkadian line. “Arteus, hand me the monoscope.”

  He peered through it. “Something has happened since the attack, and it seems to be spreading some panic.”

  Saris set the scope down and smiled. “Let’s kick them while they are down. Go tell Thandril to hurry, but to be stealthy. You should go with him. Make sure you two make it back if things start to go bad.”

  “Yes, sir.” Arteus saluted and rushed to catch Thandril.

  “I don’t think you want to take the fight to them.” Suddenly Balar had woken from his trance.

  “And why is that?” Saris asked, “My strategies have gained me a reputation, and certainly not for failing.”

  Balar turned his eyes to him, “They have a man with them like me.”

  “Then do something about him,” Saris said, challenge echoed in his voice.

  “I already did,” Balar sneered, “Who do you think caused all the panic along their lines? But, they have a few others magic users, that are lesser, but still to be feared, and I need rest before I deal with them.”

  “Oh… the mighty Balar has his limits, I understand,” Saris said, mocking him.

  Saris turned back forward, straightened his uniform, and watched the last of Thandril’s group slip through the main gate.

  Balar glared at the General. Arrogant man, he thought. He cracked his corpse wrists, more for habit than effect. Some things carry over after death.

  * * *

  Thandril snaked his soldiers out the front gate and through the burnt out city. They moved fast, soldiers picked for speed and strength. Also, Thandril had used some of his nature magic to lighten their feet against the hard dirt.

  Arteus took up the rear, making sure no one was left behind.

  The Captain had been a symbol of the proper soldier before Barolas’ death, usually in dress uniform, even on the battlefield, and hardly ever carried anything besides his officer’s shortsword. One of rank rarely had the pleasure to use the damn thing.

  Now, he was the picture of a savage battle-fiend. He retained his uniform pants, but his torso was wrapped with leather straps, riddled with throwing knives, daggers, and short-range, fist weapons. He put his shortsword away in exchange for a jagged longsword, mimicking the Merkadian design, but made with better Talurian artisanship. A longbow over his shoulder and a quiver filled with expensive metal tipped arrows finished off his arsenal.

  The group headed west out of the city, making for the hills that ran north. They needed just the right position to launch a surprise attack on the Merkadians. Thandril directed them with hand signals, forming the singular group into three smaller teams. He did not enjoy leading men, but Saris expected it from time to time, and he was getting better. He would much rather work on his own, even if the danger became steep.

  They reached an adequate spot to launch their attack, with the Merkadian army’s side exposed. Thandril laid low to the ground and watched the troop patrols closely, looking for the right time to thread his soldiers into the camp. They needed to be swift and quiet. Get in and out, taking as many lives as possible.

  He observed the side they picked was heavily bolstered with Targan warriors, recognizing their tribe markings. The camp was calm, not expecting any more trouble the same night as the invisible demons. Thandril noticed a few of the hacked monsters had been tried over the cooking fire. Something you would expect from the primitive tribes. No standards.

  The Merkadians marched only men against the Talurians, but the other tribes brought along women, and some older children, to help with daily needs. As Thandril tried to take in as much information as possible to report to Saris, he heard rustling from a circle of trees not too far from where they were hiding.

  Low voices could be heard, a man and a woman, but the volume made them impossible to hear. Thandril gave Arteus a quick hand motion, and the Captain crawled from his spot, making for the circle of trees. Before he reached the trees, the woman started moaning, and the rustling became louder.

  Arteus stopped and looked back at Thandril, raising his eyebrow and then smiled. One of the tribe’s warriors was working off some stress with a willing helper. Arteus sped up; his movement covered by the woman’s very vocal expression of enjoyment. He disappeared into the trees, and a m
oment later, all was quiet and still.

  Some of the other warriors overheard the exhibition and after the noise had stopped, they stood and cheered for their fellow warrior’s conquest. The attitude of men, mixed with the bravado one gains within a group gathered, translates to any culture.

  Thandril tried to think. He needed a next move.

  The trees shifted again, and a man walked out, wearing tribesman garb. The blackness of the night hid any distinguishing features. He raised his hands in victory to satisfy his friends and followed with a variety of obscene gestures and crude pantomimes before moving back into the trees.

  After the scene had calmed, Thandril spotted, who could only be Arteus, crawling back toward the squad. He got to Thandril’s side and winked. Arteus’ plan had worked, but now they needed to finish their mission. Morning light was only three hours away. They needed to act quickly.

  Thandril threw hand signals down the line, informing each of the three groups what they were to do—kill them quickly and get out before they could reciprocate.

  They crawled over the hillside like invisible ants looking for food. Pairs of soldiers would slip into the small tents, and a quick slash of the blade would signal another couple Targans dead. They glided through the camp, acting as the angel of death, choosing who would die.

  Thandril watched, hiding among the shadows of the fire sites. He would need to spot anything that was amiss before it escalated. A small voice reached his ears, and he followed it down, to find a boy shaking underneath a pile of deconstructed tents. He spoke Targan, and Thandril had no idea what he was saying, but he could understand the feelings.