Fate of an Empire (Talurian Empire Trilogy Book 1)

by Pasquariello, Jonathan

  The arrows broke free, screeching to the earth.

  A strong hand pulled Kaillum around and pushed him to the ground.

  It was Arclite, his eyes ablaze. He whirled his reclaimed swords through the air, sending the arrows crashing down to all sides of them. Kaillum’s face was pressed to the ground, unable to act as sharp tips stabbed into the dirt. Then it stopped. Arclite pulled Kaillum to his feet and pushed him back toward the city.

  The entire army had marched from the foothills and now spread out along the front line of Hillsford’s buildings. Not a single one of Kaillum’s soldiers had been lost in the aerial strike. As the Merkadian Prince and mighty Tearanei reached the safety of the structures, a cheer broke out among the men.

  “Today was ours,” Arclite said to Kaillum, scanning the triumphant look of his allies. “I was not going to let your death spoil their victory.”

  Kaillum looked up at the tall Tearanei, his sleek helmet hiding all expression, yet his eyes showed emotion, pride. But, Kaillum was not so easily inspired by the day. “Yes, today was ours…but what of tonight?”

  Part Three

  “The Fallen One continues his quest for the boundaries of their reality, even after all of the warnings and cautionary tales from his brothers and sisters. His mind becomes consumed. The realm in which The Twelve exist cannot be the extent of the creator’s universe, and The Fallen One strives for release from this eternal prison.

  Though, on this day, the maddened brother has found his elusive answer. With all his power, with all his essence, The Fallen One broke through the lines of division. He now roams the fields of chaos and pestilence. He roams the landscapes of death and rage. He found, what the future would call, Hell. I know, for I have seen it come to pass. He is King of demons. Walker of fire and darkness. Alone in a world, so unlike that of Ethindriil…with no apparent way back…there now were Eleven to rule the world.”

  The Historian, Volume XV, Journal V, Pg.287 (Year 997)

  Chapter 36: Then Came the Night

  General Saris spun from his position on the wall and descended the stairs to the courtyard, his guards a step behind, leaving Balar to himself.

  Thandril walked beside him. “Sir, there was a druid out there, like me—much older, but still a wielder of my same powers.” He rubbed his freshly healed arm. “For so long I have thought that I was the last of my kind. That is what you said when you found my village, right? I was the only survivor?”

  “Correct. You were all that was left,” Saris nodded, not looking directly at him. “Maybe he left the village before the attack, or he is part of a similar tribe.”

  “Sir, would you be able to retell me what you saw when you were in the village? Maybe I can piece together what hap—”

  Saris turned and put his hand up.

  “Thandril, I promise you, when this whole thing is over, we will find answers, but until then, we need to stay focused on the problems at hand. I think it is time for us to act once again. We waited to watch Balar respond, and I am but disappointed a second time.”

  Thandril exhaled and pushed down his curiosity. “What do you propose, Master?”

  “Find Arteus. Tell him to ready the trebuchets. We will attack at nightfall.”

  The Druid turned from the General’s side. Saris wanted to rest and the Merkadians were not going to try anything else today.

  * * *

  A crack of lightning woke Saris, nearly jumping him out of his bed.

  “What the hell…” Saris moved to a nearby window.

  Night had come, and with it, a thick cloud cover, but it was no storm. There was no rain, no tingle of moisture in the air. The atmosphere felt statically charged, and the hairs on Saris’ arm floated gently from his skin.

  “What the hell is he doing!” Saris shouted.

  The yell caused two of his guards to enter the room, making sure everything was alright. Saris pushed through them, out into the hallway, grabbing his sword at the door. He had not undressed before his nap. With Saris’ appearance in the courtyard, Thandril took up at his side.

  “Captain Arteus has readied the trebuchets. I was on my way to wake you, when this started.” Thandril pointed to the sky. “Has to be Balar. He has no respect for you, Master.” He gritted his teeth. “He does as he feels.”

  Saris aimlessly reached out for Thandril’s shoulder, keeping his eyes on the wall where they had left Balar. “He is an uncontrollable weapon and, once he has outlived his usefulness, I am counting on you to dispose of him.” Saris felt Thandril’s muscles tighten at the words. “Do not fear, my friend, you are mighty, and he is distracted. He wants someone out there.” Saris motioned over the wall. “As long as that person exists, Balar is weakened by his own vengeance.”

  They mounted the steps and, at the top of the wall, found Balar on his knees, hands lifted over his head. Four of his undead Staffwielders encircled him, murmuring a low chant, and swaying their staves in the air above him. Saris realized, early on, that the Staffwielders were the higher ranking members of the undead, and they possessed some magic of their own. Around the circle of mages, stood a larger circle of regular undead soldiers, facing out, standing defensively.

  “I guess he doesn’t trust us very much,” Saris whispered to Thandril.

  Saris moved to the edge of the wall, looking out toward the Merkadian army, who were now encamped throughout the streets and buildings of Hillsford proper. Fires dotted the roads, and light filtered out through the windows of the more structurally sound buildings.

  Since the Keep was centered within the city, they were technically trapped, but Saris didn’t see it that way. In his mind, he would be able to get out of the city whenever he wished. Even with the massive size of the Melidarius’ army, they were spread too thinly around the city to effectively block any kind of escape that the Talurians could mount.

  The lightning that awoken Saris started to increase in frequency. Each bolt struck the ground at the same spot, fifty yards out from the palisades, in the direction of the Merkadian forces. The hard-packed dirt started to crackle and churn.

  “We will have to wait and see what he pulls out next,” Saris said.

  Thandril pointed across the battlefield, squinting in attempts to gain more detail. “What is that?”

  Four mild, yellow glows moved back and forth along the front line.

  “The magic users Balar had talked about. Has to be. One of them could be whom Balar is so ill-tempered about.”

  Abruptly, one of the Staffwielders dropped to his knees.

  Saris and Thandril refocused on the dark ritual. Another of the Wielders fell, then the next, and finally the last of the four. With a united cry of pain, their chests ripped open, and black, clotted blood floated from their bodies, blending into the clouds. As the last of the streams faded, the Staffwielders fell flat; four of the other undead soldiers approached and drug them away.

  Suddenly, the clouds shifted. They drew close together and darkened in appearance.

  Hovering over the spot of boiling earth, the clouds wept bleed—a sacrifice to feed the conjuring powers. After the last drop of blood seeped into the ground, the clouds dissipated, and the spot calmed. Everyone waited in expectance of something beyond their comprehension. Saris gripped Thandril’s forearm.

  Nothing happened.

  “Was this for naught?” Saris asked, irritated.

  A hoarse voice answered. “Time…”

  Balar had awoken from his trance. His body trembled and he held his robe around himself tightly, desperately. Thin trails of blood ran from his nose and eyes. His dead flesh seemed even paler than before.

  Saris hadn’t the courage to respond. He just watched. Time exaggerated from anticipation.

  “Prepare to fire your war machines,” Balar said, “We will hit them with everything at once. It is almost ready.”

  Saris nodded to Thandril, who in turn, ran off to give the command to Arteus.

  With an abrupt tremor from below the earth, the area
of Balar’s magic sunk. Red smoke rose from the pit. A multitude of screams echoed from within. A window to Hell, Saris thought. The width of the circle grew and, out from it, reached a massive arm and then another. The bulky limbs strained to pull its body from the ground.

  What can only be called a monster lifted itself through the demonic gateway. Cries could be heard from soldiers on both sides of the field. Talurian troops crouched behind their walls, not trusting the beast to honor its allegiance.

  The monster stood forty feet tall. His arms were doubly longer than his legs, causing him to hunch forward, placing the majority of his weight on his enormous hands. His flesh twisted and whined, consisting of contorted beings, similar to those of the shadow demons from the night before, but mixed in were tormented souls openly moaning to be set free. The beast’s face was set in a wide snarl, showing row after row of fangs as tall as a man. Drool dripped from his broken lips, singeing the ground. Eyes of obsidian stared blankly at its prey. Steam rose from his body as if the hell he came from fought against the moisture in the air.

  Balar roared into the darkness.

  A long tendril of energy extended from his staff, cutting through the night air. It curled and hissed as it flailed in the sky. With a flick of his arm, the whip lashed across the beast’s back, causing an earth-shattering howl to erupt from its jaws. The strike sent the monster loose upon the Merkadians, freeing it from its birthing stupor.

  “Now. Begin the assault!” Balar grinned at his accomplishment.

  Saris’ face was pale. His eyes transfixed on the wrongness that was before him. He made a weak hand motion, for that was all he could muster. It was enough of a signal to send hurling balls of fire overhead. The horrific being that rampaged through the first of the buildings dwarfed the trebuchets’ might.

  Even through the darkness, Saris could see bodies being hoisted into the sky. The hands of the monster grabbed men from the ground, his teeth ripping through their fragile flesh.

  The yellow auras of the Merkadians’ new found allies danced about the beast, striking at it with no effect. They were not prepared to fight such an injustice as this. Saris found that he almost felt sorry for them. Another barrage of shots flew overhead, mauling through the disoriented forces. They ran from the beast, to only be crushed by the trebuchets.

  They had no chance.

  With a piercing whistle from Balar, his undead soldiers crawled over the walls. They ran out across the battlefield, ordered to aid the summoned creature. Still, Saris’ soldiers had not yet been given a chance to fight the Merkadians, themselves.

  The yellow glows unexpectedly split-up, silencing their attacks on the demon. They veered around the oncoming army of undead, killing as they went. Each one of the lights reached a certain spot and held its ground, making holes in the undead army, giving an opportunity for the other tribes to attack and divide the soldiers.

  Balar leaned heavily on the wall, a look of concern on his face. He murmured a string of words. “What do you have in mind, brother?”

  “Brother?” Saris caught.

  The four men sent a burst of power out, throwing rings of undead to the ground. With new room to maneuver, the four started off at a run. Strands of light started to grow from each of their hands. They spun them in the night, like performers in a parade. The gold chains grew as they surrounded the beast. The monster was a mindless destroyer and tore at the closest thing to him, not realizing the mounting attack.

  The first of the men threw his chains, catching the beast by one of its wrists. The sudden constriction caused the demon to yank at the cord, pulling the mage into the air, but his hold remained on the chain.

  One by one, the men threw their leashes around the beast. The last, and brightest of the glows, circled around to the back of the demon. He jumped onto its back and ran along its jagged spine. When he reached its snapping head, the man coiled his chains around the monster’s throat, swinging back down to the ground.

  Balar lashed out with his whip again, trying to get the beast to break free. It roared out in anger, biting at the magical restraints. The men pulled down on their chains, first dropping the demon to its knees then, with a final pull, brought it crashing down to its chest. The one with the brightest glow neared the monster, handing off his chains to another.

  He stood looking down at its snarling face. He raised his hands into the air, and a beam of energy materialized overhead, lighting the battlefield.

  Saris could clearly see the man now. He was old, yet strong in his stance. Heavy green armor covered his body, and a flaming blade hung from his side. Short gray hair streaked his head. Bright green eyes shimmered in the light of his magic.

  With a show of surrender, the beast closed its eyes and ceased his resistance. The elderly man reached out and touched the monster’s head. A calming effect spread over him. The man closed his eyes and, with a motion of his hand, the beam of light speared downward, piercing through the massive skull. His flesh lit up with a brilliant sparkle. The twisted, tormented bodies that formed his torso stopped their cries. With a low chant, the man finished his ritual, and the beast blew into dust, glittering into the night sky.

  Balar screamed out in rage, “Taverous!”

  Saris ordered the trebuchets to cease fire. That was enough for one night.

  Balar gathered his robe and moved off the wall without another word. His undead must have received some unspoken order; they retreated back inside the walls, but not before taking heavy casualties. Their numbers were thinning. Saris’ was going to have to use his soldiers soon. He was concerned about the war, though. The powers at play were beyond his understanding, but he had to find a way to win. He decided to retire to his suite. The fighting was over for now.

  As he reached his suite, he could hear the cheers from the city. The Merkadians took heavy losses, yet they feel victorious. Saris’ head hurt. An ill-feeling hovered over the citadel. He tried to shake his worry, but it only angered him.

  Why do I feel as if the loser tonight?

  He needed sleep—that would set things straight. He lay on top of his covers, dread crawling up his body.

  “Calm down,” he said into the air.

  Things will be different tomorrow.

  He drifted off to sleep with the sounds of victory echoing from outside the walls of the Keep.

  Chapter 37: A Second Try

  The morning light filtered in through the window, dancing across Amira’s face. She yawned awake but was startled by a person in her room, hovering over the babies’ bed. Archaos and the baby they found outside were sharing a makeshift crib that Klaric had put together.

  “Rurik, you are awake.” Amira jumped to her feet.

  He turned and put his finger to his lips. The small boy, whom he had brought home, lay cradled in his arms. “His name is Aeronais.”

  Amira watched him. His eyes were dark, his cheeks hollow, yet in that diminished face, she saw happiness. “How do you know him?” She asked, gently.

  “He is my nephew.”

  “Your nephew?” She paused for a moment, thinking over her next words. “Where did you go last night, Rurik?”

  He stood in silence, not making an effort to answer the question.

  Amira could take a hint and felt she was pushing something that he wasn't well enough to talk about. She wrapped herself in a robe, covering her slip, and changed the subject, “How are you feeling?”

  He seemed to break from the trance brought on by the child. He lowered Aeronais back into the crib and turned to face her. “I’ve felt better. How long was I out?”

  “The break in was three nights ago. I had managed to keep your fever under control and fed you broth whenever you gained momentary consciousness. We didn’t want to risk moving you, so we stayed here, instead of pushing on to Saris’ home.”

  Rurik just nodded.

  “You need some real food,” said Amira, “I will go see what we have.” She started past him, but he reached out for her arm, turning her towar
d him. He stared at her with those sensitive brown eyes. Such a complex man, she thought—a warrior, but only by profession. She knew it wasn’t who he was.

  “Thank you,” he finally said, “I felt you there beside me. By the bed.”

  Amira put her hand on his forearm. “I was worried.” They stood looking at each other for a moment before she started back to the door. “You need something to eat.”

  He watched her walk away and then slowly lowered himself to a chair next to the babies. They were starting to wake and wiggled around in their blankets. The boys were close in age, Aeronais being older by a few weeks, but Archaos was the longer of the two. No one in Rurik’s family was very tall, but Nomik and his children were all taller than him, maybe their side of the family would give the boy a few inches.

  Rurik was lost in casual thought when Klaric barged in. “Rurik! You are awake! You had me scared. But only for a minute! I knew you would pull through.” He reached out to help Rurik to his feet.

  Unsteadily, He followed Klaric out into the living room. Gleb and Elop were both sitting out there; each welcomed him back to the world of the living. Amira was already assembling a platter of food on the table, boasting apples, pears, assorted berries, fresh yogurt she had bought off a local dairy farmer, several breakfast sausages, and various breads with butter and creamed honey. The sight made his stomach vocalize its lack of sustenance quite loudly, and everyone burst out laughing.

  They all set into the food, Rurik eating as if for three. Elop slipped away to grab some sweet wine he had bought at the market, and alcohol started to flow early. Rurik was well, so now they joked and laughed, trying to forget the horrible things that had taken place in that very room. Amira brought in the babies, and the friendly company lasted till late in the morning.