The Chimaera Regiment

by Nathaniel Turner

  The Chimaera Regiment

  Nathaniel Turner

  Copyright © 2014 Nathaniel Turner

  All rights reserved.

  Dedication

  To SB, for supporting all of my efforts.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  There are always more people to thank than there is space on acknowledgments pages. With that in mind, I shall endeavor to be succinct. I thank my wife, who has had the patience and wherewithal to endure my idiosyncrasies, my self-deprecation, and my incessant desire to write. I thank my folks, who always encouraged me to write, and to improve my writing. I thank my friends, for promising to read whatever I wrote, no matter how many times I told them it wasn’t worth it. I thank my college professors in the Baylor Classics Department, who taught me everything I know about Greek myth and culture (but I take full responsibility for any apparent shortcomings in my representations thereof). Finally, and not least of all, I thank God, by Whose inspiration and endowment I am even capable of putting pen to paper, and without Whom I would be so much hot air and empty space.

  Dramatis Personae

  The Alkimites

  Hector, youth

  Bronwyn, youth

  Caradoc, youth

  Duncan, warrior

  Einar, warrior

  Cyrus, Lord of the Alkimites

  Gregory, warrior

  Rhoda, Hector’s mother

  The Chimaera Regiment

  Derek, Lord of the Leonites

  Fero, Lord of the Ferites

  Martin, Leonite captain

  Lochan, Leonite warrior

  Cassus, Leonite captain

  Sharian, Leonite warrior

  Bregdan, Leonite warrior

  The Tribes of the Forest

  Eitromal, Lord of the Keldans

  Veither, Keldan warrior

  Folguen, Keldan warrior

  Tiernach, Lord of the Termessians

  Harratha, Queen of the Emmetchae

  Reina, Princess of the Emmetchae

  The Guardians

  Alastair, of the Grayan tribe

  Aneirin, of the Alkimite tribe

  Bayl, of the Drengari tribe

  Drystan, of the Leonite tribe

  Liam, of the Liffan tribe

  Selron, of the Dallen tribe

  Tate, of the Viterral tribe

  Others

  Brynjar, Drengari warrior

  Fornein, hermit

  Fintan, Sundan warrior

  Azos, Sundan warrior

  Wellyem, Lord of the Wellites

  Novamic, Lord of the Sidians

  The Divines

  Kyros, King of the gods & god of fate

  Carys, Queen of the gods & goddess of love

  Aeron, god of death

  Anthea, goddess of providence

  Ariane, goddess of clarity

  Astor, god of war and strength

  Aulus, god of protection

  Prologue

  As the strong winds pressed against him, the boy flung open the door to the log cabin. Standing alone on a hill outside the Imperial City, the wood structure was a monument to the story its aging inhabitant had prepared. A brick chimney rose from the west end of the house and smoke billowed from its top. The domicile’s rustic style was reminiscent of ancient times.

  As the boy entered, he was greeted by the warmth and smell of a fiery hearth. A man with graying hair and ragged beard sat in one of the two massive armchairs next to the fire. Without turning, he called out, “Come on in, child, and sit down. Close that door, too, or we’ll both catch our deaths of cold!” His voice was strong and clear, the way a good Storyteller’s voice should be.

  The boy tugged on the door, but midwinter’s snowy gusts still forced their way in. When at last the door latched and the wind’s whistle dulled, the spry boy leapt to the comfortable armchair across from the Storyteller. “Do you have a grand story tonight, sir?” he asked expectantly.

  Even in the dim light of the flames, the boy could see a smile spreading across the Storyteller’s beleaguered face. “Yes, young one, I’ve got perhaps the grandest story this land has ever known. And it’s true, too!” The man turned and looked through a frosty pane at the blizzard that blanketed the lands with snow. “Besides,” he added, “not much else to do on a night like this, ‘cept tell grand old stories.”

  The boy beamed, drawing a laugh from the Storyteller. Leaning toward the fire, he began, “In the time of your forefathers, all the men of the world lived in small towns and tribes in the wilderness. There were seven very special people among them, heirs of an empire from a bygone age. These Seven Heirs were protected by the Seven Guardians, who were formed by the priests of Aulus; they were relics of the last empire, technological constructions of old.

  “The Heirs lived as peasants, unaware of their heritage. The Guardians alone knew their true identities. But the machines had sworn not to reveal anything until the proper time.

  “But not all of the Guardians were faithful stewards! There came an especially cold winter, and an icy wind covered the land, pushing the birds south in autumn; ‘twas an augury of the onslaught of the Traitor and his charge.

  “The Traitor’s name was Drystan; as all the Guardians were, he too was called a lord, although he submitted himself to the one he was set to defend: Derek the Leonite. Drystan acted as advisor and general to this foul man, always a soldier, never a guide. The cruel pair, Derek and Drystan, sought conquest. Ambition and greed drove them as they rallied their tribe. After Derek won leadership of the tribe by rites of combat, he commanded all tribesmen who were of age to join his army and to pursue domination of the world.

  “That army was one of disgrace. To be a warrior is an honor only when it is a choice; and for folk to be enjoined without regard for ability is to denigrate the whole lot. The boys, too, were pledged to be enjoined no sooner than they were of age. Derek led this army and sought war on nearby tribes; through the Duel of Lords, he quickly gathered a powerful force.”

  The Storyteller paused to eye the boy inquisitively. “Do you know how he accomplished that?” he asked, testing the young one. The boy nodded vigorously. The Storyteller raised an eyebrow at him; “Tell me,” he ordered.

  The boy explained in a loud voice, as though reciting his studies in the classroom, “The Duel is described in the second section of the Code of Lords. It says: ‘When two tribes are set against each other in rites of war, a Duel of Lords may be called. If the Duel should be accepted, equal preparations must be made between combatants. The Duel of Lords is a test of skill, not of wealth. The loser’s tribe must thereafter submit to the victor’s.’”

  “Exactly!” the Storyteller replied. He was satisfied with the boy’s understanding, and he was about to continue with the tale when the boy interrupted him.

  “How do they get people to follow the Code?” he asked, furrowing his thin brow, “Couldn’t they just cheat? And what of the tribes that don’t know the Code? Would they be subject to it, too?”

  The Storyteller frowned. “The Code is known to all men. It is the
written form of the laws connate for us. To deny the Code is to provoke the wrath of the Divines. The ferryman waits at the River Neth for a man who acts such.”

  The boy was not satisfied: “What about those who don’t follow the Divines? Aren’t there stories of men across the Sea who reject the Seven?”

  Shaking his head, the Storyteller answered, “All that matters is that a man obeys the gods; if he disclaims the Divines and their powers and even their existence, and yet he follows the Code, then he is blameless. But the men across the Sea go against the gods, and they suffer the results of their actions.”

  The boy slowly nodded his understanding. When the Storyteller was satisfied that he would not interrupt again, he resumed his narrative: “After a year of victories, Derek’s forces became three thousand strong. This occasioned that Drystan lead Derek to a rival heir for the first time. The poor boy was young and unaware of his heritage. When the Leonites attacked, no Duel of Lords was offered. Derek led his army into the midst of those nomads and left none alive; they would not risk the survival of any heir. Selron, the boy’s Guardian, attempted to rescue him, but Drystan fought and slew him.

  “This rampage of Derek the Great continued for another two years; through it, he procured a total of seven thousand men in his army and five dead heirs. Another Guardian was destroyed; the other three could not be found. Drystan and Derek began their journey north to attack the Alkimites, the tribe of Hector, last righteous heir of the Empire, who was protected by Aneirin, the most powerful of the Seven Guardians.

  “On his way, Derek came to the Ferites, a tribe of great warriors. Derek challenged Lord Fero to a Duel of Lords, but he was defeated. Yet Fero was lenient. He pledged a union of their tribes on a single condition: that Fero and Derek rule the joint tribe in council. Fero praised cleverness above strength, and so, because he desired to make a name for himself and to be honored among men, he was willing to abandon the Code of Lords. Derek agreed to that conciliation, unwilling as yet to die. Since they would follow Derek’s plans, he became the head, and the Ferites were the army’s girth, and the Traitor its bite. Together, they selected a new title for the army: the Chimaera Regiment.

  “The Valley of Kyros, home of the Alkimites, was fifty days’ march away. Eleven thousand men, under the banner of Derek the Leonite, marched onward…”

  Chapter One

  The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

  The third of the month of Anthemen

  Early in the fifth hour

  The Guardian Lord Aneirin lived more like a hermit than a warrior. He dwelt in a cave in the cliffs along the west end of a wide rift valley. Aneirin stood at the mouth of that cave, on the edge of a precipice, looking over the entire dale. It was the largest valley on the western shore of the Sea, stretching seventy miles across. The sun kept it warm throughout the year; the weather turned cold only in the harshest winters. Surrounded by mountains on three sides and by cliffs to the west, its only easy entrance was a pass on its southern edge, only two hundred feet wide. Along its inner edge, a plateau separated the fertile land from the mountains; this plateau was covered by a thick forest.

  A man would have been shivering at the mouth of that cave, in spite of the warm fire inside. Aneirin, however, showed no signs of discomfort. Autumn had not yet begun, but it was already so brumal that the short mountains around the valley were snow-capped. The early chill had forced flocks south before their usual time. It was a bad omen, and Aneirin’s three guests had confirmed his fears. He slowly shook his head, its abnormal shape reflecting sunlight into the cave. He had the face of a man, but his cranium arched back so that his head looked like the horn of a bull. His skin was a silver matte without any wrinkles or deformities.

  His brothers had narrowly escaped destruction at Derek’s hands. Tate, Alastair, and Liam each traveled north to relay the tale. “Drystan has betrayed us,” Aneirin said softly; his lipless mouth worked fluidly, lacking the tremulous movements of organic jaws. The musical tones of his speech were free, too, of the harshness of human voice as he repeated Liam’s earlier words.

  Tate’s golden eyes narrowed as he looked at the rock beneath his feet. “Selron and Bayl never stood a chance,” he said. If he had been able to weep, he would have. The loss of his brothers weighed heavily on him.

  “Hector,” Aneirin said, speaking of his own charge, “will need to be told of his heritage. He will need to travel to the obelisk and get directions to the Library. Only when he has the blades can this evil be stopped.”

  “Are you sure?” Alastair asked of him. His green eyes glinted in the morning sun. “Perhaps Derek will challenge the Alkimites to a Duel of Lords. Even if Cyrus loses, Hector can fight back from within.”

  Aneirin shook his head again, more forcefully now. “Derek and Drystan completely destroyed each of your tribes. He will not do differently, especially when he is so close to the throne,” he explained.

  “Perhaps,” Liam interjected as his blue eyes twinkled with hope, “Derek will believe that the direct heir of the Empire would be the leader of his tribe. Then he might change his tactics.”

  “No,” Aneirin replied, “We can’t take that chance. Besides, Drystan knows better. And let us not forget the dishonor due anyone who violates the Code in rebellion. Such a man could never be Emperor. Hector must reach the blades.”

  Tate nodded his agreement. “Aneirin is right,” he told Liam and Alastair, “This is the only way.” Turning to Aneirin, he said, “You should go to Hector and give him his mission. We shall remain here and rest until your return. Then we will gather an army for the Alkimites to use against the Leonites.”

  Aneirin nodded in turn. He departed immediately. He had need for neither provisions nor protection, and so required no preparation. In the space of a moment, he was quickly making his way down the treacherous cliffs to the valley below.

  Meanwhile, the Alkimites were unaware of the misfortune that harried Aneirin and his kind. As Lord Aneirin was leaving his home, Hector was fast asleep. In a normal year, he would be in the fields at that time of day, harvesting the wheat he had planted in the month of Ariamen. Instead, the unseasonable frost had killed most of the spring crop. Hector made the onerous journey to the southern fields on the twentieth of Carymen, as he had every year since his father’s death, only to return empty-handed. Now, instead of toiling in the lea, he was wandering in a dream.

  He could see that he was not in the Valley of Kyros, but he did not recognize his environment. He was surrounded by massive structures that stretched from the earth up to scrape the sky with their apices. They seemed to be formed from a mishmash paste of stones. Turning, he walked down the path, which was made from a similar lithic paste. The world was unworldly, and the boy did not know what to make of it.

  Then his setting changed. It twisted. Images seemed to shatter. The structures still surrounded him, but they had shifted. They were dark and brooding. He was not alone anymore. A man had come into that place. He was stout and terrible. His darkness chilled Hector's spine. He carried a formidable blade and he was steeled for battle. “You must be ready,” a feminine voice declared to Hector. The voice was awesome and frightful, yet friendly and intimate. Even so, Hector could not tell whose it was.

  He looked at his foe. The man charged with his blade held high. Terrified, Hector tried to flee, but his limbs were limp. The man swung the sword in a long, falling arc as his battle cry ripped through the still air.

  Hector awoke with a start. He was drenched in sweat and panting for breath. He cast about for signs of his somnial enemy. By chance, he glanced out the window of his room to see that the sun had already risen nearly to its zenith.

  Forgetting the dream as a contrivance of a young mind, he berated himself for sleeping late. He had promised to help Caradoc to sell vegetables that day. He dressed hurriedly and departed his home, calling a goodbye to his mother as he went.

  The boy's dark hair tousled in the wind, and he thanked Anthea for it. He had not brushed his h
air after waking, and it had been wild and unruly. A few gusts and a brush of his hand set it as straight as it ever was. He walked briskly through the village, greeting those already at work: the smith, the farmers, the tailor, the leather-workers, and the baker. But he ducked away from his fellow youth, hiding his face as he passed. Usually, he was able to dodge their lazy watch, but today, he was not so fortunate. Three striplings saw him as he passed by the barracks; they were eager to tease their favorite victim.

  “Hey-y,” one called, “Lookie who it is! Hoy, Hector, hold back a pace and talk with us!”

  “Ay, he’s a right fine friend of ours, isn’t he?” a second one pretended, giving a rumbling laugh that jiggled his considerable girth.

  “Leave me alone, Affet,” Hector rejoindered the first boy, “I’m heading to the marketplace and I’d rather not be later than I already am.”

  Their veneer of civility faded as quickly as it had arisen. “What for?” Affet demanded, “It’s not like it’ll do you any good. You couldn’t sell a rabbit a wagonload of carrots.”

  “Much less grow half that many,” the third added, snickering.

  Hector sighed. He stopped and turned to face his tormentors. “Fine,” he said calmly, “I get it. I wasn’t allowed into any of the guilds. Can’t fight, can’t farm, can’t forge. The best I can do is scrounge enough food from the fields to live on. Now leave me alone.”

  “Ho, ho!” laughed the second boy, named Lippus, clutching his gut as it shook with mirth. “It sounds like Hector don’t appreciate our friendship!”