Gathering (Chronicles of Empire 1)

by Brian G Turner

  Brian G Turner spent over 20 years developing the Chronicles of Empire series, before the first novel was published.

  During that time, he also researched medieval living history, visited historic sites and re-enactments, and learned many of the skills his characters use — not least horse-riding, archery, and sword-fighting — to provide for a more realistic character experience.

  He currently lives in the Highlands of Scotland with his family.

  Copyright © 2016 Brian G Turner

  The right of Brian G. Turner to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Condition of sale

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  US edition

  Version 1.0

  Cover design by Julie F. Turner

  Published by Brite

  www.brite.co.uk

  CHRONICLES OF EMPIRE

  GATHERING

  Brian G Turner

  Dedication

  To mum, for always believing in me.

  Acknowledgements

  Firstly, many thanks to everyone at the chronicles forums for providing critical feedback at every stage of the writing process.

  Secondly, special thanks also to my development editor, Teresa Edgerton, who worked through two drafts with incredible forbearance.

  My thanks also for additional professional editing by Juliet Mushens (Tor UK), Kim Graff (Wild Things Press), and Paula Munier (Talcott Notch Literary Agency).

  Special thanks to Gary Wake for the original inspiration, and also Debra and Darren Allan, Damaris Brown, Jennifer L Carson, Anna Dickinson, Elaine Frei, and J Scott Marryat for their insights and suggestions.

  Last but not least, loving thanks to my wife for more than I have room to mention.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Contents

  The Fate of the World

  PART 1: DANGEROUS PEOPLE

  A Walking Dead Man

  Small Blessings

  Serving the Goddess

  The Sun Flower

  City of Legends

  The Traitor

  Familiar Dangers

  An Audience with Councilor Amberlin

  Dreams and Fortune

  A Conspiracy Revealed

  Blind Faith

  Setting a Trap

  Sword of Power

  First Kill

  PART 2: FIRE AND LOATHING

  Cold Morning

  An Agent of Subterfuge

  The Sun Flower Arrives

  To the Workhouses

  Man Out of Time

  Dreaming the Future

  Works of Faith

  Dead Ends

  Demons

  An Opportunity

  The Ophidian Dock

  Over Deep Water

  A Strange White Spark

  A Woman Alone

  Watching the Docks Burn

  Memory of Fire

  PART 3: FEAR AND FURY

  Pieter Returns

  The Sweet Taste of Vengeance

  A Moment of Peace

  A Time for Partings

  The Scroll Delivered

  The Armories

  Give the Kill Order

  A New Plan

  A Prisoner of the Emperor’s Guard

  The Presentation

  A Message Revealed

  A Crust of Bread

  A Little Green Bracelet

  Something to Believe in

  Unwelcome Visitors

  Someone has been Murdered

  Fields and Rhythms

  The Election

  The Penitent Man

  A Moment of Calm

  A Little Temptation

  Shadow of Death

  The Assassin Returns

  An Unlikely Weapon

  Fear of Failure

  The Rage of Flames

  Leaving the Lion Inn

  Among Treasured Guests

  PART 4: EXECUTION OF DUTY

  A Wet Spring Dawn

  Without Mercy

  A Miserable Memory

  Open as the Sky

  We Have to Find Him

  Pure Heart

  Preparing to Dance

  Craft

  Prepare to Arms

  Metal and Blood

  City of Sin

  A Prayer to Fortune

  Revelations

  Prisoners

  No Hope of Escape

  The Vision

  Imprisoned

  Colors of Spring

  A Petty Revenge

  Before the Storm

  A Fool’s Anxiety

  A Decision is Made

  Flight of the Assassin

  Way of Fire

  When the World Roars

  On the Wings of a Storm

  Make it Stop

  The Sound of History

  Refuge

  Now We Leave

  Free Will

  Being

  The Spider’s Web

  EPILOGUE: Journey’s End

  Coming Next

  The Fate of the World

  Rodrigan

  Rodrigan galloped along the hunting track — after four days of hard riding, he was almost safe.

  Branches whipped his traveling robes as he wound his way uphill. Twilight came fast. Winter’s shadows grew deeper and the threat of ambush increased. Though his bay mare was lathered with sweat, he spurred her on.

  The trees fell away and castle walls loomed, bathed in Saturnyne’s silver moonlight. Smaller Pheiros added a suitably bloody hue to the banners that fluttered from the battlements.

  Rodrigan exhaled with relief, but there was no time for complacency — with a hand over the sword at his hip, he circled the curtain wall. He dared slow his mount only when her hooves drummed up to the postern gate.

  A shout went up. Ropes creaked, chains clanked, and metal screeched as a portcullis was raised. He ducked under it as he rode into a torch-lit bailey. Men-at-arms stirred to their feet. A pair of grooms came running.

  Rodrigan dismounted and stamped his feet to force them to life. He crossed the courtyard with a glance up at the keep, praying to Omicron, Pollos, and the Light that the others had waited for him.

  The main doors groaned open. He marched into a passageway, dragged his robes over his head and discarded them. He smoothed down his red tunic, then brushed the dust from his burnished breastplate. A sentry opened a door for Rodrigan to enter the great hall.

  Heat slammed into him. Bright orange flames roared in a huge fireplace. A myriad of candles glowed under a vaulted ceiling, like captured stars. The air was filled with the aromas of roasted meat and spices. A half-eaten calf’s head was upon an oak dining table, its brains scrambled with egg around it on a bed of rice and greens. Rodrigan’s belly growled at the sight of hot food, but he pushed it from his thoughts. He strode at the figure seated there.

  Councilor Molric rose to his feet. Glossy black hair fell across broad shoulders robed in imperial blue. “Lord Rodrigan, it is good to see you at last.”

  Rodrigan planted his fists on the table. He fought to keep his voice steady. “It might have been longer if I’d been waylaid. I’ve risked much and sinned greatly for you.”


  “For the good of the empire. And for the return of your father. He is the past that unlocks our present. I have not forgotten. Please, do join me.”

  That promise had brought Rodrigan here — but Molric needed to offer more. Rodrigan tore his gaze away, and seated himself with as much dignity as his weary legs could manage.

  “How did it fare with King Servitos?”

  “He would not support you.” Rodrigan made the councilor wait before he forced a smile. “Then he broke his neck, while taking a bath. Alas, I saw him fall.” Rodrigan had surprised the old king — grabbing, then twisting, his head. The body had dropped into the water, splashing Rodrigan’s black boots with red rose petals.

  Molric tutted. “Did you convey my condolences to the heir?”

  “He accepts your terms.”

  Molric’s smile reached his eyes. “Good.”

  Rodrigan poured a spiced wine and slaked his thirst. Frustration balled in his gut at the silence. “And? I’ve done my part. Now play yours.”

  “I have already summoned the others. I tracked your biometric signature over the past few miles. They are coming.”

  A heavy door opened. Bishop Serannos slipped nervously into the hall, the spindly man wearing his white and gold vestments of office. Duke Normon, stomped in after, his face drunkard red — his soldiers were only days from the capital, but that would not be enough to ensure the safety of Rodrigan’s father.

  The duke rang a bell. Servants entered and cleared the previous course. They refilled each goblet, then brought in desserts of fruit tarts and pastries drizzled in honey, before leaving again.

  Two women trailed into the hall, their faces powdered and their golden hair curled, dressed in fine gowns of white gossamer with stoles of silver fur across their shoulders. The Pannarion twins. Not even thirty years old and they controlled the richest trading fleet in the empire. Their reputations were as big as their purses — Daria and Eira, avarice and vice.

  Rodrigan drummed his fingers impatiently, wanting something to hang his hopes for his father onto. Here sat six conspirators who could decide the fate of the world.

  Molric finally took the floor. “The Corianth Empire risks fragmenting again if we do not act. The Emperor is old and frail and has no successor, and the Order of Omicron has no Holy Father to anoint a new one.”

  “Not yet,” Rodrigan interrupted. His father was not simply the last surviving cardinal, but the Cardinal Pontifex. He alone had the authority to rebuild the Order, if it were made safe for him to return. That would require something extraordinary.

  “Allow me to detail my plan.” Molric pulled back a sleeve, and tiny lights pulsed to life along a metal bracer. The air above the table shimmered and formed into a stunning image.

  Rodrigan was startled to his feet, his hand reaching for the hilt of his sword. Then stared upon the kingdoms of the Corianth Empire, as if seen by some soaring eagle. Tentatively, he reached forward, as if to touch the fields and towns represented. Colors fell across his hand. He felt nothing, but drew back immediately.

  The others also stood, their voices raised. They demanded to know what they looked at, how, and why.

  Molric ignored their questions, and acted as if this was all ordinary. “The Monument Trade Route is secured. Now we can arm our allied kingdoms.” As he described the situation and advantage of each, its place on the map glowed.

  Rodrigan narrowed his eyes, seeking some revelation. Molric finished speaking without providing one. “Is that it? Your grand plan is to ship weapons?”

  Daria shared a derisive snort with her sister. “Turning gold into steel is a poor deal for anyone. We should have spoken with Father Dinemetis instead.”

  Rodrigan flashed with anger. Exhausted and weary, he’d not become a king-killer to hear that man spoken for. He stood to snarl his objection.

  Molric cut him off. “I agree. Arms alone are not enough to secure our position. Let me show you what will.” He walked over to a wall, and unbolted two tall window shutters. A frigid wind blew in as he opened them, and caused the candle flames to dance. He indicated to the darkness outside. “Look, and doubt me no more.”

  Rodrigan hauled himself over, and stared into the night. The others joined him.

  Molric waved his arms. A muster field beyond the castle walls lit up, as if day had fallen only upon that area. Stone outbuildings lay illuminated, a cluster of barrels between them. A man came into view, holding a burning torch. Molric signaled — the figure touched his flame to a barrel and a bright, white spark came to life.

  Rodrigan sought any sign of mirrors that might point to the source of this trickery. He found none. Clearly Molric was wondrously clever when it came to light, but that alone could not —

  A flash like lightning. The buildings erupted into a cloud of smoke and dust. The air seemed to shatter. Rodrigan gripped the window to steady himself. Hot grit pricked his face. He could only stare, his heart hammering, as the smoke drifted away in that unnatural light.

  The echo rumbled from nearby hills. A dark hole stood among the buildings, now ruined to their foundations. Rubble lay strewn across the field. From the bailey below came the whinnies of frightened horses, and the shouts of startled men.

  Molric turned, his posture commanding. “I come from the future. I bring new technology ... knowledge of explosives. That is the true cargo for the Monument Trade Route.”

  Rodrigan could only gape at the destruction before his eyes, trying to make sense of it. The figure had gone — dead, or disappeared?

  Daria turned, a drop of blood on her cheek. She touched it with a finger, looked, then tasted it. “I do believe I have the honor of being first bloodied.”

  Bishop Serannos staggered back from the window with fright in his eyes. “What witchcraft is this?”

  “None at all,” Molric replied above the clamor from outside. “It is alchemical. A black powder of saltpeter, brimstone ... and other substances. Kept safe for transport as a dried cake in barrels.”

  Duke Normon had paled. “You could bring down a castle’s walls with a gesture.”

  “That is the intention,” Molric said.

  Rodrigan gazed dumbly outside, his chest still thumping with shock. Such a tremendous weapon could allow his father to escape years of hiding. The Cardinal Pontifex might finally return in glory. Rodrigan turned to Molric, and smiled.

  Molric nodded. “In my own time I saw this planet burn, and every soul turned to ash. From this moment on we change its fate to prevent that. We have an empire to rebuild, and all of humanity to save.”

  PART 1: DANGEROUS PEOPLE

  A Walking Dead Man

  Sirath

  Sirath stumbled along the dirt track — if they caught him, they’d hang him.

  Sleet lashed him, stung his face, and left his ragged clothes clinging icily to his skin. Taking the seven mules had been his drunken revenge, and should have compensated for what he’d been cheated from at cards. But now he realized it’d all been a stupid idea.

  He looked behind for signs of pursuit. Only the wind came at him, howling down the valley to drive the cold through his bones. Gray cloud smothered bleak hills. Thunder rumbled. The storm was growing worse.

  His legs cramped and he was becoming dizzy. He'd fled through the night and needed somewhere to stop, hide. Rest a little. At least to recover his breath. But he didn’t know where he was, and he’d seen no sign of shelter since morning broke. He might have to abandon the animals to move faster. Then he’d have risked everything for nothing.

  A dark line crossed the foot of a hill ahead. It could be an overhang. Sirath picked up his pace. As he drew nearer his heart rose in hope — that was a split in the rock, and might just be deep enough to bring the animals in.

  He scrambled up a boggy incline toward it, willing the mules to move faster. The lead animal tossed its head — Sirath slipped from his feet and fell on his back. Fearing to be trampled, he rolled aside. Only the stink of the mule’s coat assaulted him. “Bollocks
!” He stood and wiped off black mud that now smeared his clothing. He grabbed the rope. “Come on you stupid bloody animals!”

  He continued up. His eyes watered from the sleet and frustration. His boots dragged through mud, slid on gravel. Then the ground leveled and he staggered into the cool, still air of a cavern. He blinked and exhaled with relief. Then breathed in the smell of wood smoke.

  Faint with panic, barely daring to move, he turned.

  A bear of a man, clad in black wool and furs, sat ahead by a small fire. A broken bow lay in his lap. A leather sack and a sword sheathed in sheepskin were near his feet.

  Sirath’s guts sank. He couldn’t stand against someone like this at the best of times, let alone when exhausted. But the big, white northerner looked up with friendly eyes, and smiled.

  There was no turning back now without creating suspicion. Sirath faced him with what felt more like a grimace than a smile. “You don’t mind ... if I shelter in your cave, do you?”

  “Aye, share my fire if you will.” The voice was deep, the accent rustic. “I’m Ulric. Blessed be you.”

  “Er, blessings, too. I’m Sirath.” He cursed under his breath for giving out his name without thinking. Gutter Jack might not follow this far out from Canalecht, but with the merchant likely somewhere behind, it was a careless mistake. Still, Sirath dared to challenge his fear. This might just be some harmless traveler, happened upon the only cover for miles. With shaking knees, Sirath risked guiding the mules to the back of the cave. He remained with them, pretending to check the rope that tied them together. All the while he stole furtive glances at Ulric, keeping every sense open for the first strike of movement. And readied to run with whatever breath he had left.

  But Ulric didn’t stare or fidget, or glance at his sword. He seemed more concerned about unstringing his broken bow. And his blade was out of easy reach. If Ulric was tracking for a bounty he was either very clever, or very stupid. He was also dry — he couldn’t possibly know about what had happened at the inn.