Fate of an Empire (Talurian Empire Trilogy Book 1)

by Pasquariello, Jonathan

The soft, trembling voice stabbed at him. His eyes were lakes of water, with calm streams flowing down his cheeks. The boy’s words were a plea for safety, an expression of fear in an alien language, but he had to voice it in any case.

  Thandril contemplated killing the youngling. He was quiet, but how long would that last?

  The boy could alarm the rest of the camp with a single scream. Nevertheless, Thandril could not do it—a critical difference between him and Saris. The General would have snapped that young boy’s neck, out of spite. He wouldn’t give him the respect of death by the sword. Saris would not want to dirty his blade on some child’s blood.

  He leaned down and urged the boy further into his hiding spot, tugging at the tent material to conceal him completely.

  A man suddenly appeared next to him, pointing a sword, yelling foreign words. Before Thandril could react, the shouting reached other ears, and noise spread through the camp. He snarled at the tribesman and whipped around, grabbing the sword from his hand. The Targan charged Thandril but was caught by the throat after half a step. Thandril crushed his windpipe with a mere twitch of his wrist.

  He didn’t have his moral conundrums with killing adults. Thandril ran off to find his men, leaving the twitching body behind.

  The site was on full alert within minutes. Soldiers charged through camp looking for intruders. Thandril ran across some more soldiers, before reaching a small pocket of his own forces; Arteus was one of them. He danced through the endless string of enemies. His longsword a silver streamer in the night—the firelight, a dramatic backdrop for an artist.

  “Hey!” Arteus shouted, taking Thandril out of the poetic moment. “We need to get out of here. Saris will have our heads if we get killed.”

  Thandril scanned for any more of the Talurian troops but spotted none. It was time to go. Every man for himself. He waved over Arteus and the few soldiers who were with him. They made for the hills, forming a deadly spear as they ran through the camp.

  Less and less fighting could be heard. They were quickly becoming the last of their company. They broke through the perimeter of the camp, spreading out into the hillside. A few other soldiers had made it out and were waiting for them, trusting that Thandril and their Captain would survive.

  Thandril turned around and stretched out his arms.

  With a short murmur of words from the druid, the ground shook, and a mighty wall of dirt and stone burst forth, blocking the following army. The men felt only a moment of relief, before a circle of the wall started to glow. They readied themselves.

  A fist punched through the wall, followed by another. One of the Talurians charged the hand, his sword poised for blood. The hand stopped moving and with its palm extended, blasted the soldier with a bolt of energy. The fist retreated back through the wall, but seconds later, a fury of punches riddled the wall with holes. A kick through the weakened layer of dirt finished the job, and a man wearing a long robe ducked through the wall. His head bald and eyes glowing yellow. The Talurians charged him but were met with a rhythm of punches and kicks as the man eased through a well-practiced set of motions.

  Thandril and Arteus hurried off into the darkness. This battle was over. Screams of their remaining comrades echoed in the night sky.

  As they closed in on the city, their path was halted by a roar. A giant scarred bear lumbered out from behind a patch of trees. Thandril used his magic to tell the animal to flee, but it did not respond to his spell. The bear stood on its hind legs, reaching nearly ten feet tall. A bear of this size was not known inside the borders of Taluria.

  “Arteus, go. I will deal with this.” Thandril said, slipping his shield from his back.

  “I can help,” Arteus argued.

  “No. This here is magic. Go back to the Keep.”

  “Fine, but you be careful,” Arteus growled.

  Thandril charged the bear, his warhammer held high.

  The beast lunged forward and met the strike with vigor, deflecting the attack and following with his own mighty blow. Thandril spun and landed hard in the dirt.

  He stood to his feet, spat a mouthful of blood on the ground, and charged again.

  This time, Thandril dodged the swipe and landed a critical strike on the underside of the bear. The creature dropped to its legs, no longer able to stand on two, and grabbed Thandril’s arm in its mouth.

  Thandril released his hammer and shield, pulling at the beast’s jaw with his free hand. His fingers slipped around the bear’s mouth, soaked with his own blood. It roared in pain, finally releasing the limb, but the damage was already done. The druid’s arm hung limply at his side.

  Both panted—a battle of titans, a monstrous creature versus a towering, seven-foot-tall, bull of a man. Surely, a painting for the hall of legends inside the Emperor’s palace.

  They charged together, this time, meeting with a thud, and rolling into a wrestle of strength and will. Each taking their lumps, but eventually, the bear started to tire. It used the last bit of strength to break free from Thandril’s grasp, but not before Thandril unleashed a blast of power transferred through a devastating punch.

  Thandril watched as the bear shook and twitched on the ground. He wiped the blood from his face and started cataloging his injuries.

  The bear began to glow and change shape.

  Now, a man knelt before Thandril—an old man, in worse shape than he.

  The strange magic user stood to his feet, clearing long, gray hair from his face. He looked Thandril hard in the eye, standing equal in stature. A grin grew on his face. He twisted his finger in the air, and a breeze started to pick up.

  Realizing the growing threat, Thandril sprinted forward. The wind whipped his feet out from under him, lifting him into the air. He twisted and fought against the magic, casting off grounding spells, one after another, trying to get his footing.

  Thandril reached out, causing vines to grow around the attacker’s feet. The diversion caused him to lose focus, and the miniature tornado faltered, releasing its hold. Thandril slid the short distance to his hammer and took the opportunity to strike at his, momentarily distracted, opponent. The man pulled away the last of the vines to be met with a fatal blow from Thandril’s warhammer.

  He instantly dropped.

  Thandril stood, breathing heavily. The challenging battle had drained him. A crack sounded off in the direction of the Merkadian campsite. He saw a line of men running toward his position, led by the robed magician who had beaten through his defensive wall.

  It was time to go. He struggled into his wolf form and made for the city, limping off his wounded limb.

  * * *

  The Tearanei priest reached the fallen warrior, as the Talurian’s druid hobbled closer and closer to the far off gates of Hillsford. Prioritizing, Mathis declined in chasing the injured prey and knelt down next to his comrade. With a few focused shocks of energy, the man’s chest started to rise and fall again. Mathis and another soldier helped him to his feet.

  “Thank you,” He said, nodding to his rescuers.

  Mathis bowed in response.

  “You’re welcome, Captain,” said the soldier.

  Captain Shaymesh was the oldest officer in service to the king. For long he had wanted to retire and move to the middle of nowhere, pass his final years in peace. But, he was, until the Tearanei appeared, the strongest magic user among the Merkadian ranks. He was needed and knew it. He couldn’t run from his duty.

  “I didn’t think I would need to witness that healing magic of yours so soon, friend,” Shaymesh grinned, touching over his injured body parts, even though the pain had faded. He started to take a step, braced by Mathis.

  “It takes a lot out of you,” said Mathis, “I’ll help.”

  The two men tediously made their way back to camp, escorted by the troops who had followed Mathis. It had been one hell of a night.

  Chapter 34: Betrayal

  Rurik walked back to the apartment in shock of what had happened. His whole life, an intricate front to an
underground rebellion, and now he was responsible for a baby whom he didn’t know existed before that night. He was lost in thought when he arrived at the front door but jolted back to reality when he reached for the door handle that was now a smashed in hole.

  The warrior in him took over.

  He laid the still sleeping baby next to the door and pulled a long dagger from his boot. The door creaked as he entered the house, creating more noise than he would have liked. The front room was destroyed, furniture upturned, bookshelves lying on their sides, and small patches of blood dotting the floor. Thinking the events here had happened some time ago, his stomach dropped, he was too late. Then he heard a shout from one of the back rooms.

  “You bitch! Open the door!”

  Rurik silently moved into the hallway. All the doors he passed were shut, but at the end of the hall, he found a tattered and bloody Galro, pounding on Amira’s door.

  “Hey! What is going on?” Rurik yelled. Galro spun around.

  His face, etched in a snarl, quickly changed to a look of worry. “Sir, there is someone in there with Amira. She needs help.”

  Rurik noticed Galro’s arm was nearly severed, hanging by a small piece of flesh at his elbow, blood pooling at his feet. Two of his fingers were also missing.

  Galro meet Rurik’s gaze. “Guess I can’t really play this off can I?”

  Galro charged, but Rurik easily dodged the wounded fighter, pushing him to the side and pulling his arm behind his back. Galro thrashed about, unable to break free from the hold.

  Suddenly, another man stepped up behind Rurik. “Well, look what happens when you try to do things yourself.” He walked around the two men, shaking his head as he looked at Galro. “You were supposed to give me the signal when everyone was settled in. You don’t have the finesse for this type of job, boy.”

  Rurik held his blade to Galro’s throat. “Who the hell are you?” He dug the tip further into his neck. “I’ll kill him!”

  The man shifted his black eye patch and then laughed. “People know me as Krul and I don’t give a shit about that man. Means nothing to me.”

  Rurik suddenly remembered seeing the man before, back in Dartholme, during their escape. “Wait! You were in Dartholme!”

  “Yes, that was me,” Krul said, coolly. “I was sent to kill the woman and child, and that worm in your arms is our spy.”

  “Our?” Rurik asked, “Who are you working with?”

  Galro unexpectedly twisted and landed a sharp elbow in Rurik’s side, freeing him from his grasp. Galro shot forward, relishing his freedom. Krul reached out with lightning fast speed and caught Galro by the collar of his tunic, slamming him onto the floor. Without a moment’s thought, he pulled a knife from his belt and pinned Galro to the ground by his throat. Galro died wearing a look of shock and confusion—killed by his own partner.

  Did he not know the evil of his company?

  “He is no longer important.” The man straightened, wiping blood on the sides of his pants.

  Rurik took a step back, raising his dagger point to the man. “You’re insane.”

  “Yes, actually I believe I am.” Krul grinned.

  The door behind Rurik opened, and out stepped a bloodied, but determined Gleb, and behind him, was Amira holding the baby, Elop unconscious at her feet.

  “Go back inside,” said Rurik.

  Gleb eyed Galro’s body, and then took a look at the black clad man. “I think I will stay.”

  “Hmm…the slave boy to the rescue. How touching.”

  Krul pulled a long, thin blade off his back and then cocked his head to the side. “Shall we get this over with?”

  Gleb charged first, but Rurik pushed him to the side and stepped forward to meet Krul’s attack. With a quick strike, Rurik made Krul jump back enough for him to take Gleb’s shortsword. Now with a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other, Rurik made his move. He parried and dodged, and with each swing, forced Krul further and further down the hallway, back to the front room.

  “Amira!” Rurik shouted over his shoulder.

  “Yes?” She answered, weakly.

  “Get Gleb back inside.” Rurik jumped to the side, avoiding a dangerously close, downward sweep. “Where is Klaric?”

  He saw her out of the corner of his eye, tugging Gleb back through the door. “We haven’t seen him since Galro attacked. He was in Galro’s room when we went to sleep. Want me to—”

  “No, I don’t” Rurik jumped over an upturned chair and swiped at Krul. “Go back inside the room and block the door. I’ll check on him.”

  “Would you shut up and fight me!” shouted Krul. He spun around and landed a cut on Rurik’s arm. The sharp pain caused him to lose his dagger.

  “Now. Pay attention.”

  Rurik glared at Krul.

  “Yes…there may be a little fight in there.” That grin never left his face.

  A crash came from down the hallway, coming from within Klaric’s room. A muffled voice shouted through the door. With a sudden jolt, the door stressed from a heavy blow—a second thud, and then a third. The door broke apart, and a tied up Klaric came flying out through the splintered wood. He lied on his stomach, cursing his face red.

  Krul laughed. “You people are a strange bunch.”

  Rurik ignored Klaric for the moment but used his diversion to an advantage. He lunged forward, swiping Krul’s sword point away, and landing his shoulder square in his chest. The hit pushed the air from Krul’s lungs, forcing his blade from his hand. He tumbled back ten feet to the wall.

  Rurik charged the crumbled body, lifting his sword into the air, ready to land a killing blow. As he reached Krul, there was a quick jerk and a flash of metal. Right before he brought the sword down on Krul’s head, blinding pain shot through his body, nearly making him miss his target. But the strike hit true, and the sword held suspended in the killer’s skull.

  A blood-splattered Rurik staggered backward, gripping his stomach.

  He released his hands, revealing a dagger protruding from his abdomen. The room started to fade away, and he dropped to the floor. Rurik tried to form words, but couldn’t. He heard Klaric shouting for the others, before the faint light of the room gave way to darkness.

  * * *

  “Rurik, can you hear me?” A delicate voice asked, almost pleaded.

  His temples pounded with each quiet word, like earthquakes rumbling out from the depths of his skull.

  He tried to move his lips. They were slimy and wet, but his mouth was unbearably dry. “Water…”

  A cup pressed against his lips, but the water wouldn’t stay in his mouth. Someone poured more water in, but, this time, tilted his head back and closed his mouth shut. The hand was cool on his fevered skin. He took one more gulp and then drifted unconscious again.

  * * *

  “What is wrong with him?” Klaric asked.

  Amira set the cup down. “The dagger must have been poisoned.” She grabbed a towel and dipped it into a bowl of water before placing it on Rurik’s brow. “The wound itself was not bad and avoided his major organs—there is no other answer for his declining health.”

  The two stood in Rurik’s room, looking down at his pale body.

  “Well, will he make it?” Klaric paced back and forth. “I should never have trusted Galro. That son of a bitch! I knew something was wrong with him. I had a feeling.” He slammed his fist into his other palm.

  “Just calm down,” Amira said, “He is strong. He will pull through.” She put her hand on Rurik’s cheek. “The fever may be breaking. Go check on Gleb.”

  Klaric left the room with a grunt.

  Amira pulled Rurik’s blanket back and checked the wrappings again. She did not have the right supplies to stitch and bandage him correctly, but she found suitable items around the house to get him through the rest of the night. She would look for the proper dressings tomorrow when the stores reopened.

  A little cry came from her room. She knelt down and kissed Rurik’s forehead, before leaving
him to sleep.

  She entered the hallway, quietly closing the door behind her. Gleb and Klaric had finished cleaning the front room. The two dead bodies laid in the center with sheets draped over them. Elop was calmly sitting in a chair. He had taken quite a smack to the head during all the events.

  The group had started piecing together what happened.

  Galro had stayed awake, waiting for his opportunity. His first victim was going to be Klaric since he was in the same room. But, he didn’t account for Klaric’s paranoid, light sleeping. A foot from the bed, Klaric shot up to find Galro with a knife in hand.

  They wrestled down to the floor, and sometime during that, Galro lost the knife but gained a heavy candle stand from the side table. Klaric slumped to the floor with the blow. Galro tied Klaric’s feet and hands and stuffed a cloth into his mouth.

  Gleb started pounding on the door. It had been locked. “What is going on in there? Open the door!”

  Galro opened it and took a step into the hall, quickly closing and locking it behind. “I ran into a bookshelf. Such a fool. Sorry if I woke you.”

  Gleb was a perceptive one and saw through Galro’s lie, even if he didn’t have the fighting marks to prove it. Galro lunged at Gleb, but the young slave was too quick. He dodged the attack and ran into the front room. Elop was waiting. Galro turned the corner as Elop blindly swung one of the soldier’s shortswords. The blade cut so deep into Galro’s arm that the limb spun around by the last piece of connecting skin, spraying blood across the wall.

  Galro fell to his knees, screaming out in pain.

  Down the hall, Amira yelled for the men. Gleb and Elop ran for the door. Galro collected himself, numbing his pain with anger. He spun to his feet, grabbed a small, yet heavy, stone figurine off of a nearby shelf and launched it down the hallway. The missile struck Elop at the base of his skull. He collapsed feet from Amira’s door.

  Galro charged forward. Amira and Gleb managed to pull Elop into the room.

  As the traitor neared the door, he stretched out his hand to force himself in. Amira slammed the door shut, catching Galro’s hand. A cry of agony roared through the door. Amira looked down to see two gnarled fingers lying on the flooring. Galro pounded on the door, cursing and releasing all sorts of obscenities into the air.