The Imperium Chronicles:
The Rift
Introduction:
1840 A.D.
High in the Carpathian vastness the Austrian Empire’s grip, uneasy and like iron stretched as far as Transylvania, a hauntingly dystopian winter settling with a sky the colour of old lead, the skeletal spruce forests lay burdened beneath a blanket of snow, creating a sublime and desolate beauty.
Within this natural severity though was nothing compared to the chill emanating from a scene unfolding in a snow-choked valley there was an amber-glow, a plume of darkening smoke that wafted freely.
At the mouth of a ruined stone crypt, a maw carved into a hillside – the white snow was stained crimson, screams long since died, the bodies – corpses of the locals of a village little more than refuse.
Austrian soldiers in heavy green greatcoats stood with haunting expressions as a silent figure stood ahead of them, a chilling figure of Austrian authority; Markus – he was an Austrian aristocrat clad in immaculate black wool, his face narrow and severe, his gaze was drifting over the chaotic scene he had just arrived too.
He looked at the dead littering the street of the small village with a clinical repulsion; he was an instrument of the secretive Imperium; a shadowy organisation of various Cultist groups stretching back since Ancient times – and while he knew the necessity of measures he did not often agree with, he would follow through; but the scene in front of him, the utter barbaric butchery went far beyond something he could stand, it left him unsettled.
His gaze drifted, landing on a shadow detaching itself from the gloom.
Elias Smythe.
He was a man barely in his 27th year; he approached with a deliberate, unhurried ease, a man who commanded fear and respect in equal measure, pausing only briefly to brush off a scattering of dust and fine black gore from his clothes – he was a rather physically imposing figure, broad and powerful, hair reaching down to the base of his neck, purposely tied back, pulling and revealing the sharp angles of a detached face, his eyes, cold and icy-blue seemed to absorb the twilight, a heavy sabre hung comfortably at his hip.
“Markus” Elias greeted, a voice that was low, but sharp, it cut through the silence of the valley
Markus inclined his head stiffly, adjusting the cuff links on his wrists “Elias; your efficiency is noted as always, but I must question the necessity of such brutality” he paused for a moment, eyes again scanning the burning village “These people were not all ‘Hunters’ some were innocents”
Elias offered a faint, dismissive shrug; his gaze sweeping the dead with indifference “It is a necessity Markus; our enemies must be purged in their entirety; their filth must be pulled from the root, not pruned; those that harbour them, should face the same fate, these ‘Hunters’ are a hinderance that never stops, and the Imperium’s ‘Great’ council regularly overlooks them, allows the infestation to continue”
Chapter 1:
With soldiers maintained at the entrance of the crypt – the main reason behind the mission to the Carpathian valley; Elias and Markus proceeded inside, an immediate shift within the atmosphere that was visceral, impossible to miss as they stepped from the freezing winds and into a deep, pervasive dampness.
A narrow passage that quickly dissolved the external light and plunging them deep into a darkness that was broken only by the flickering lanterns they carried.
The passage twisted deeper, the air grew heavy and increasingly more claustrophobic, they moved past alcoves filled with skeletal remains; ancient bones stacked and scattered , too brittle to hold defined shape – this was no simple tomb, this was a forgotten ossuary it spoke of things that spoke of times before European Empire’s.
Markus shivered, not from merely from the cold – he attempted to break the oppressive silence, a strained jocularity “Remarkable failure of the ‘Hunters’ or perhaps, a failure of the ancient ‘Guardians’, maintenance policy, wouldn’t you agree; it is rather dusty down here” he offered a light, nervous chuckle
Elias offered no response; he simply walked with military precision, his focus absolute, taking no interest in Markus’ force attempt at humour; for Elias, every shadow was a potential threat, every breath a calculation – their pursuit was an Artefact meant to hold power of the ‘Divine’ of ‘Celestial’ origin, that the Imperium had designs for in the search of the primary goal of the Imperium’s existence; tracking the prison that holds their Ancient, Celestial master.
The pursuit of the artefact and the elimination of the final line of defence preventing their Master from returning; the ‘Hunters’ had become Elias most sacred task, a personal mission that had come from his acquisition of power over the British Cultist group; the Cult of the Minotaur, for Elias, it was not a matter of light commentary.
They finally reached a vast, subterranean chamber dominated by a large, featureless stone door, it was seamlessly smooth carved from dark basalt and without seam, handle or hinge visible to the eye – an oppressive scale of stone that suggested immense weight and power sealing something profound behind it.
Markus raised his lantern, running it over the rockface “Well Elias, tell me; how exactly are we going to gain entry?, I see no mechanisms”
Stepping closer, Elias’ icy-blue eyes began to scrutinize the surface, gently gliding his hand along the cold stone for a moment, fingers traced the subtle glyphs and symbols, question the relevance and how they might potential offer a means to gain entrance – the door was simply an impenetrable mystery.
Stepping back, irritation; a rare and potent emotion for him briefly crossed his face “It yields nothing for now” he stated, his voice flat, drawing a small leather-bound notebook and a charcoal stick from his coat pocket, making a hasty sketch of the surroundings “It needs to be marked down as a potential point of interest for further investigation, perhaps it may offer something beyond the artefact we seek; perhaps this is the prison”
In the end though; it was simply an admission of failure, it hung in the air between them – Elias had cleansed the village, the two of them had followed the esoteric markings, but the very object of their search remained locked away, irritated and empty-handed, the two would vacate the very crypt in an arduous retreat ascending back to the weak wintery light
Three months later; Elias had returned back to Britain, arriving to a fog-laced expanse along the River Thames.
His journey had been restless across Europe, culminating at his Families Estate – a Dystopian, yet opulent monument; the grounds were vast, filled with a skeletal forest of oak and ash trees whose branches formed dark, tangled netting against a perpetual grey sky.
Fog, thick and oily cling to the riverbanks of the Thames, infiltrating the trees and giving the landscape a sense of perpetual, suffocating dread.
At the very centre of this gloom stood the Smythe Manor; a colossal structure of weathered, black stone and an unsettling sense of dread.
Spires, intricate carvings and monstrous gargoyles perched on ledges, watching the landscape with silent menace.
As Elias reached the heavy oak doors, a manservant emerged, gliding with unnatural silence, a man whose pale and severe features often left those feeling uneasy; he offered no verbal greeting, merely bowing deeply and gesturing into the buildings echoing interior, Elias acknowledged him with a swift nod, the dust of his travelling still clinging to his clothes.
Chapter 2:
The sounds of the manor were always subtle – the distant scrape of a quill, muffled passage of servants on thick carpets, the tick of a clock that seemed louder than it actually was within the oppressive quietness.
Elias, he sat behind the heavy, mahogany desk within his large study, he sat leaning in his chair, elbows propped on the desk, his gazing at a massive, unfurled map of southern Europe, markings criss-crossing the map with purposeful indicators charting a pattern of discovered locations he had taken interest, not all of them being declared to the Imperium.
While he sat focused, his concentration was broken by the entrance of his brother; Horace.
Horace Smythe, a year-younger than Elias, possessing the same imposing physique, yet lacked that over, icy cruelty; a rugged face framed by short, dark hair and eyes of a softer blue, clad in his travelling clothes, suggesting he too had recently returned.
As his gaze met with Elias’, Horace leaned against the doorframe “Was your journey…., productive?”
The moment of hesitation did not go unnoticed by Elias; though, leaning back in his chair, he just offered a dismissive wave before gesturing at the map “The attempts to find the Artefact in Transylvania was a failure, the crypt was sealed without any means to open it, a waste of time and effort; though it did bear fruit in regards to the eradication of a Hunter safe-haven, yet another victory against our enemy”
There was a pause, Elias’ gaze drifting down to the map again for a brief moment before returning and focusing on Horace “And what of you” he queried, his eyes seemingly narrowing, scrutinising his sibling carefully “How was you assignment to Scotland; did you find any Ancient crypts, or at the very least, eliminate a Hunter coven”
Horace slowly shook his head “No…” he paused for a moment “No solid leads I am afraid, I didn’t discover anything worthwhile, though, I did have more luck recruiting new support; the Minotaur’s reach has spread wider, influencing local religious clerics in the northern shires”
Horace moved into the room, his tone growing more reflective “I do want to know though, this end goal you seek; is it truly possible to discover immortality”
Elias watched Horace carefully; returning his elbows onto the desk, clasping his hands together as he thinks, before gesturing subtly with a simple head movement towards the chair – Horace knew the instruction and simply sat down, Elias noting reluctance in his movement “Immortality Horace has already been achieved”
The words hung in the air – Elias’ voice shifting to become more authoritative “I do not seek some childish fantasy of eternal, organic life Horace; true permanence is found in influence and structure, the Cult of the Minotaur, it’s future; that ensures permanence after all Horace, Alfred Smythe maybe long dead, but his legacy remains strong even now, Alfred understood the power of creation when he took the reigns of power in the Seventeenth Century”
There was then a shift, as Elias moved his left hand, pushing something across the table – a small notebook “I will need you to accompany me to London this week; we shall begin the first phase of my plan; we shall begin with gathering the information to locate the main operating centres of the Hunter’s here in Britain, identify their leadership and with shall begin a purge” the shift in authority to raw hatred was evident in his tone “We shall do what Imperium seems so reluctant to do, and, we can correct the humiliation our father caused for this family”
Horace gave a slow measured nod of acknowledgement “Of course” he paused, his gaze drifting away, looking back towards the doorway, then, with a subtle shadow clouding his expression, he broached another subject, his tone trying to be measured, controlled – an attempt to sounds almost detached, yet missing the mark “What of…, the…prisoner; is she to be kept down in that dark prison in chains?”
Elias picked up on the attempt to control his voice, there was a subtle tilting of his head; he merely shrugged though, a sadistic amusement within his eyes “She shall be kept in isolation; she stays down there in the dark, kneeling until she breaks”
“Elias…, she has endured a year chained by her neck in dark isolation” Horace struggled with his voice, as his concern was barely compressed “Her original imprisonment 3-Years before that should have been enough, this year it has moved progressively more cruel”
Elias leaned in, his voice dripping to a firm, chilling whisper “She will break; I will not tolerate a ‘Hunter’ especially one that knows where we may potentially find the Langdon family; she may have resisted breaking so far, but she will break, and only then will she be granted peace; but I desire ‘The Box’ and she is going to tell me where the keepers of that box is”
Horace fell silent – Elias though, saw something in his brothers eyes, the look of worry that seemed to be forming over their enemy, he decided to remain quiet, sensing something about his brothers concern, there was something more to it; Horace didn’t say another word, ask another question, he simply got up, and left the room.
As twilight deepened into the hush of the later evening; Elias would find himself present at the dining table with his mother; Charlott Smythe, a woman whose very presence commanded a certain gravity of respect, she was a vision of meticulously maintained elegance.
her attire perfect and impeccably chosen, a flawless presentation that spoke volumes of a life steeped in luxury and opulence, a testament of inherited wealth and the undeniable power it conferred.
In the Smythe household, it was a domain not all that easy to navigate and for those unaccustomed to the typical norms of society would be met with a jarring change of power balance; in the Smythe Family, it was not her absent husband that wielded the authority; but Charlotte.
Her gaze, a piercing icy-blue that mirrored her son’s own drifted across the polished table towards him “Where is Horace” her voice cut through the quiet, sharp in its clarity, like a honed blade
There wasn’t a hint of maternal affection within her tone; only the icy, imperious demand for the whereabouts of Horace, Elias; here simply leaned back against his chair, absently waving his hand as his gaze fixed on her “I am not sure” a subtle flicker of amusement within his eyes, he recognised the cold indifference Charlotte held for them, though, due to Horace unusual softer nature, he had bore the brunt of much of the iciness within the Smythe Family “But…” he grinned “He seems to have grown some kind of concern for that rat down below” the implication was laced purposely, a it drew Charlotte’s narrowed gaze within an instant as she locked Elias’ gaze
“Concern” she repeated “Does that boy require the same treatment, because to show concern for that filth is to betray the family, to betray the Cult; it is the enemy”
Elias merely maintained his grin, he offered nothing else beyond a simple shrug – this would prove to isolate and alienate Horace from the family further, it would make him a target, and Elias relished in the prospect of a purging, even his own kin to Elias were fair-game
Chapter 3:
As the night settled, casting the dystopian manor into an even deeper, spectral shadow; Horace made his exit from his room, navigating his way through the immense, echoing corridors of the Smythe Manor, it had been a deliberate act, a painful slow wait for Elias to retire, now, he could move as he so often did once opportunity presented itself.
Though his movements became hesitant, as if he sensed a building dread – shaking it off, he simply progressed deeper, the air growing progressively denser, colder; the oppressive quiet giving way to the faint, pervasive stench of something rotting, an atmosphere of neglect and despair.
As he ventured to the lower levels, an oil lamp became a necessary tool to see where he was going, the flickering light casting a grotesque shadow, though, it paled in comparison to the bodies that were just barely visible, unmoving figures, not hint of life visible, no reactions to the light, simply men and women that were held up precariously by a strained chain around their neck, a horrifying clarification of Elias’ purposeful cruelty, and uncaring regard to life he views as beneath him, it sent a shiver up Horace’s spine, but he moved purposely towards the back chamber – there, hunched in the darkness was a figure of a woman.
The thud of Horace’s boots drew attention – the woman, weakened by the years of isolation, brutality and cruelty could barely raise her head, her body growing ever more tired, unable to see who it was, the light not providing her a good enough look, and due to Horace’s long absence, she believed it to be Elias, panic flaring, she pushed herself backwards with her feet, her back thumping against the wall “Stay away!” a demand that tore from a dry, rough throat that sounded barely like a whisper
Horace ignored the demand and simply moved forwards, purposely stopping inches from her and then, with a slow, deliberate movement, lowered himself down to one knee, bringing the lantern upwards, it’s faint glow illuminating his face, letting her see who it was.
Kitty Hill, once a vibrant, stronger Anti-Imperium ‘Hunter’ who was now a wreck, her long dark hair matted around a once strong frame that had been reduced to a fragile skeleton wrapped in threadbare rags, her green eyes containing a fading desperate fire – once her gaze settled on him, she recognised him, her resistance immediately stopping “Horace” she whimpered
“Easy” he spoke softly, planting the lantern down and purposely reaching his hands forwards, stroking her face gently “Easy; I am sorry, I am sorry, I didn’t intend to be away for so long, but I had to prevent your family being discovered, it took me far to the north”
Kitty relaxed her posture at his touch; a touch that 3-years earlier had terrified her, caused her violent attempts to defy his attempts to bridge a gap, fearing him to be like his brother, it had taken 2-Long years to fully develop their bond, a bond far beyond what Horace had initially intended, if it hadn’t been for Horace, she knows she would have broken, potentially have already passed – if not for the food and water he provided.
Her body simply responded to his touch, leaning herself forwards, her eyes closing, wanting to savour every moment of his gentle caress.
Then came the shift in posture as her eyes opened once more, he raised the lantern; leaning forwards, he looked towards the chain that secured her in place, it was a loop of thick, ancient iron, bolted to the wall, terminating in a heavy collar around her neck, moving closer, she could finally make contact with him physically, and she didn’t hesitate to lean into him as he enveloped her with his arms, reach around to test the links in the chain for weaknesses, slowly tracing the heavy metal, she remained utterly quiet and still, she trusted him with her life.
After a moment of processing he tilted his head, talking softly into her ear “I’m going to try forcing it again” reaching his hand beneath his long coat, his fingers found the soft, leather pouch attached to his belt, drawing something out, a finely crafted length of hardened steel, a specialised tool, he positioned it carefully recognising the limiting space for his hand due to the risk of accidentally hitting her if he was to slip.
The focus now narrowed onto the already warped metal close to the link holding against the collar around her neck – the past signs of his previous efforts to bend and twist the chain; slowly, methodically, he began to rotate the strong tool, his focus unwavering against the stubborn metal.
With a subtle, decisive indicator of snapping metal – a sound that was barely audible over their strained breathing, Horace let out a relieved, soft sigh, gently, but forceful yanking the chain as he used one arm to keep her steady against him – the chain was finally pulled free.
Kitty was finally free of the wall’s tether and could at last move, gently, he once again moved his hands back from her towards the pouch, returning the tool, before taking a second tool free; his gaze now falling down her back towards her wrists that were positioned painfully with a tight, durable, yet thin rope – his eyes narrowed as he carefully used the sharper tool – a small blade, to carefully cut the cords.
Once she was free, she moved immediately, wrapping her arms around his neck tightly, pulling herself against him, pressing her face against his shoulder; a sharp, whimpering escaping her lips as Horace enveloped her – after a brief moment, she purposely moved her face from his shoulder, and deliberately, drifted closer, kissing him with urgency, a desperate longing – a kiss he responded with as much eagerness before finally easing back from her, his hands cupping her face “I am getting you out of here” he told her, his voice soft, yet firm “Your not staying here a moment longer Kitty”
Temporarily releasing her, he turned, manoeuvring her with the utmost care and letting her lean against his back, he felt her arms wrap around his neck as he raised upwards, the physical state of her body was shocking, she was feather light, she had barely any strength, forcing most of the effort of keeping her supported to Horace – he began to move, he cared little for the potential ‘burden’ he was hell-bent of protecting, with a desperate energy, he moved towards the same direction he had initially come from, but instead of ascending the stairway he came originally from, he went deeper, seeking a service staircase that would lead to the lesser-used wings of the manor.
Upon reaching the bottom of the old wooden steps, they found Elias standing patiently at the top, blocking their ascent, his hand resting on the hilt of his sabre, a dangerous glint in his eyes with a grin “Such a disappointing theatre Horace” he commented, his voice devoid of anger, imbued only with cold disappointment
Horace stopped dead, his posture hardening, the façade of the compliant brother shattering instantly, Kitty, she raised her head ever so slightly, as she clung to Horace’s back – upon her eyes landing onto Elias, her panic flared “No…, No, don’t let him near me” she whispered frantically “Please…Please I am begging, don’t let him near me again!”
Horace’s eyes narrowed, yet he tried to reassure Kitty , his arms gently squeezing while holding her against his back “It’s alright Kitty, I am not letting him get to you; just hold on as tight as you can”
Chapter 4:
Elias with a sinister, chilling expression, an expression that promised pain, began to move, slowly descending the steps, deliberately letting each placement of his feet land with a heavy thud as he drew the sabre free – Horace began to retreat backwards, his arms instinctively remaining locked behind him to keep supporting Kitty against his back – he knew he had to fight, but, the precarious physical state made a duel almost impossible.
The confrontation between the two brothers was about to erupt, with Elias unhindered and armed while Horace, was struggling to protect Kitty while knowing he needed to fight a man he knew was skilled with that sword he was holding.
Elias recognised Horace’s predicament and savoured it – with a sudden surge forwards, he swung the sabre in a sharp, brutal movement, Horace jerked back violently, barely evading the swing as he arched dangerously close to his head, the steel instead striking the banister, severing the thick beam with a sharp crack and spray of splinters.
With a quick, sudden twist of his wrist, Elias repositioned his heavy blade and thrust directly forwards towards Horace’s exposed chest, forcing Horace into a startled retreat, his foot landing on some broken boards and knocking his balance sending both Horace and Kitty tumbling, the landing for Horace was easy to recover, for Kitty, she struck the ground with such a thud, her weakened frame felt as though it was far worse, a scream erupting from her throat, Horace momentarily shifting his attention to her, but forced to return his attention to Elias just as another strike came down – Horace, reacted, he barely intercepted Elias’ wrist, holding the strike at bay leading to a struggle – Elias, grinning, would surge forwards, deliberately bringing his knee upwards against Horace’s chest knocking his brother backwards, heavily winded “Might as well surrender Horace; you know you can’t win this fight”
“I am not surrendering” Horace reached his hand beneath his jacket to pull a knife, turning it carefully into a reverse grip, and fought his brother, it was a deadly game, with Horace desperately needing to plan each of his movements, taking the size of the knife into consideration for his defence while Elias used both the length of his sword, and his love of the duel to either strike at a distance or get in close – Elias recognised the desperate, yet raw determination that refused to back down, beginning to grow tired of the duel, Elias swung the sword in a feint before quickly reacting to Horace error, his leg into a counter movement; so that Horace used his own momentum to throw himself directly into Elias’ kick, flooring Horace painfully
Poised above him, Elias raised his sword “You failed traitor” as the blade came down for the final, descending strike, a loud, sharp bang erupted – it echoed defiantly in the confined space, Elias reacted instantly, his sabre falling to the ground with a heavy clang and his hands flew up to his face, covering a face injury now leaving his face blood covered along the left side as a pained scream, profound from the searing pain erupted
Horace’s gaze found Kitty – he noticed she had seized his flintlock pistol somewhere during either their fall or his fight, he wasn’t sure; but, she had not only seized it, but used it.
A point blank range discharge that had found its mark, though, she remained on the ground, unable to get up, her eyes were wide with fear – seeing the opportunity, Horace seized it, as Elias was left in a blinging agony; Horace scrambled for Kitty, scooping her up into his arms and bolting in a desperate bid to flee the Smythe Estate; the escape from the suffocating Manor – Horace knew that Elias would been hunting for them once he recovered, but, he cared little about the familial ties, his bond had eclipsed his loyalty long ago.
Elias, he would find himself reliant on a ceremonial mask to hide the scar whenever he ventured beyond the estate – his intent to hunt his brother now as much a priority as his intent to purge the ‘Hunters’.
Written By: Westley H.
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