Veiled Empire (17 page)

“Tell me, then,” began Tursek. “You said there’s to be a war. Which side are you on?”

“The side of sanity,” said Draevenus. “And . . . hopefully, someday . . .”

He felt the energy gathering in Tursek’s palm. Without opening his eyes, he stomped down on the daeloth’s wrist. Bones crunched under his heel. He swung out his hand and tore out the man’s throat with his claws.

“ . . . peace.”

S
NEAKING
INTO
THE
city had been the hardest part. Though, even that difficulty had been assuaged by the reduced garrison.

Mevon thought it all too easy.

And, like he did with such things, he remained wary for the turning of the trap.

“They approach, Hardohl.”

Mevon glanced up at the speaker. She was dressed in the armor of a daeloth, the markings of a lieutenant upon the shoulders. The former owner of the steel suit lay in a pool of her own blood. The remainder of her squad rested around her. Bound and gagged, half of them unconscious, the Imperial soldiers seemed a pitiful lot. Wide eyes stared, disbelieving, at the sword points aimed for their noses.

“Good,” Mevon said. “Let me know when the last carriage passes under the archway.”

His ally in the daeloth armor nodded down at him.

Besides the dozen men standing alert in the borrowed garb of Imperial soldiers, a hundred other men sat crouching on the parapets. Ahead lay the western quadrant of Thorull, which was slowly being illuminated by the rising sun. The park lay behind.

Mevon didn’t like being separated from his Fist, nor reliant upon so many others. In this situation, though, he could think of no better way to achieve victory. Gilshamed’s plan, however well thought out, was not without risk. The valynkar seemed more focused on sending a message than minimizing casualties. Yet, in the end, Mevon had swallowed it. He’d offered scant advice, fearing little of his input would be accepted. He had been right.

His own part, significant as it was, seemed, somehow, less than it could be. Less than it
should
be.

Perhaps it is not too late for one little change.

“What’s your name again, sergeant?” Mevon asked.

“Bellanis,” she said.

“Bit young for a sergeant.”

She shrugged.

“Also rare, isn’t it, for a woman to become a career soldier? Then to betray that life for one of rebellion?”

Bellanis turned to him, lifting the visor of her helm to reveal a face both youthful and hard. “What do you want, Hardohl?”

Mevon grunted in amusement. “A . . . modification to your orders.”

She stared, seeming to consider a moment. “Well?”

“When it starts, keep everyone on the wall.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What for?”

“I’m used to fighting alone. It will be better this way. For all of us.”

She closed the visor and turned back to the east. The sound of booted feet, marching in unison, could now be heard. “Aye,” Bellanis said. “We’ve got enough bows for it. Just don’t go getting yourself killed.”

Silently, he thanked her.

He felt better. Somehow. What he was about to do was something he needed a clear head for, and looking out for the safety of allies would only hinder that.

Time for the mierothi to start paying for their crimes.

Perhaps not Rekaj himself, but all of them were agents of his regime just the same. All were guilty. The mierothi community was too small for any to be truly ignorant of the multitude of violations their race committed.

Once he’d learned the plan, Mevon had spent much of the last ten days sparring with his Elite, practicing with Jasside, and simply thinking. To
say
one was going to fight against everything he had ever believed had been, in retrospect, as easy as cracking eggs with a mallet. To actually
do
so was something else entirely.

Mevon had to make sure he was ready. Ready to shed the blood of his former masters. Ready to stand up against a tyranny so pervasive as to be invisible, obscured beneath a veil of contempt, fear, and control.

Mevon clenched his fists—his wielders of justice—before his face.

Ready?

He thought of his mother, bleeding to death on the very birthing bed that had brought him into this world. The brother and sister drowned in the nearby lake of their hometown. His father, forced to flee the continent, yet never forsaking a vow to return and set things right.

He thought of the mierothi who had caused it all to happen.

Ready.

Mevon inhaled deeply as the first of the darkwatch marched through the gate beneath him.

J
ASSIDE
FELT
HER
mouth go dry as the first carriage rolled into view. As she looked south and west, the vehicle rumbled towards her position from the right, four daeloth walking at its corners and fifty armored men marching both fore and aft.

A brief gap, then the second such group began.

Six mierothi and their darkwatch guard. Are we insane to even try?

Her stomach fluttered. What beauty the park might have held on any other day was invisible to her eyes. With the top half of her head poking above the parapets on the north side of the enclosure, she focused on tracking the movements of their enemy through the nearly bare branches of the park’s trees. She tried, and failed, to keep her breath even as she glanced back at those gathered behind her, giving them a silent gesture to let them know to be ready.

Many of the middle-aged casters had balked at Gilshamed’s choices. Not the older ones, though. They knew who was best for the job and, as they put it, there was no use getting your breeches in a bunch if you didn’t agree.

Forty-one casters huddled in a mob behind her. She made forty-two. It seemed a good number though she couldn’t say why. She’d harmonized often enough before, though never with so many at once, and never with such stakes.

She glanced to her right. About half a klick away, another such group lay in wait. One member short of her assembly, they were led by Orbrahn.

Orbrahn turned to her. Over the distance, they made eye contact. He flashed a confident, charming smile. She returned the gesture, sure her own lip twitch had been far from reassuring. Still, the exchange gifted her with a dollop of confidence.

Whatever else, she would do her part and prove to them all how indispensable she truly was.
Oh mother . . . if you could see me now . . . you would be so proud.

Jasside breathed deep and waited. The third carriage lumbered into view.

Y
ANDUMAR
STARED
AT
Slick Ren. “That some kinda joke?”

“I don’t jest about these sorts of things, dear,” she said. “You have an answer for me or not?”

Rake in hand, he examined the pile of leaves at his feet. A piece of metal poked out of one side. He quickly covered it up with a fresh batch.

“This ain’t the time or place, Ren.” He tilted his head toward the sound of the marching hundreds. “In case you didn’t notice.”

She laughed. He couldn’t help but smile at the sound, like the twitter of birds in the morning. The way her lips curled, showing just a hint of teeth. “Oh, Yanny, this is precisely the time for it. When better than just before facing almost certain death?”

Yandumar looked past her to Derthon, the only other soul in the vicinity. All three of them were wrapped in long cloaks made bulky by what they wore underneath. The man glanced up from his own rake. Yandumar flashed him the hand-talk for “help.”

Derthon signed back “on your own.”

Yandumar grunted.

He peered south. One of the doors to the fortifications was ajar, an overeager face poking out of it. Yandumar frowned towards him. The man started, then withdrew.

“Keep raking, dear,” Slick Ren said. “We can’t be giving our position away too early.”

Yandumar grumbled under his breath and resumed the mindless movements. “If I said yes, what would that make me?”

She brushed her hair out of her eyes, a gesture he knew meant that she was thinking. “Not . . . not king. My brother already has that post, and he does not wish to give it up.”

“So . . . what? Emperor then?”

“Yes! And I would be Empress. How marvelous.”

“Ha! I’d think a thousand or so mierothi might not take kindly to our use of those titles.”

“Well then, we’ll just have to kill them all, now won’t we?”

“I love it when you talk dirty to me . . .”

T
HE
WARMTH
OF
the rising sun on his back filled Gilshamed with joy. Today, finally, the blood of his true enemy would be shed. And this was just the beginning. So much more did he have prepared. The mierothi would crumble before the combined efforts of his will, his might, and his cunning.

Nothing will stop me.

He ignored the hundred soldiers crouched on the wall around him, focusing instead on listening. The sound of marching steps drew nearer. Now, though, a sudden diminishing in volume. The signal from the watchers was almost unnecessary. Gilshamed knew the foremost group had halted.

Gilshamed energized. In three beats, he was bursting to capacity, filled with the holy fire of Elos. He rose as the first carriage loomed into view, black like the horses that pulled it. He extended his hands forward, focusing his power, gathering all he had.

He aimed for the center of the carriage, and just as the door opened, he released his spell.

Like a flare from the sun, light and fire burst forth in a wide beam. The carriage, the mierothi inside, the daeloth at the corners—these all simply melted. The horses and a score of the closest men burst into flames.

Gilshamed slumped on the parapets, sick yet somehow satisfied by the smell of roasting flesh. As his nearby allies jumped up and began loosing their bows and crossbows, he gathered his strength.

“N
OW
,”
SAID
B
ELLANIS
.

Mevon unleashed the storm.

He gathered his legs up beneath him and launched himself off the wall. He took hold of his
Andun
as the ground rose to meet him. Two daeloth marched at the rear of the carriage. His feet kicked towards their heads, crushing skulls with a crunch. Still descending, he swung Justice sideways at the vehicle.

The wood shattered. Mevon kept pushing the swing through until, with great pleasure, he felt the blade pass through flesh. The scent of blood hit his nose, and he smiled.

I may reject the reason I was made a killer, but I don’t think I’ll ever lose my passion for it.

He hit the ground and immediately sprang forward again. He thrust to the right, impaling the third daeloth. He drew a dagger with his left hand and sliced across the throat of the fourth, the cut deep enough the leave the head dangling by a thread.

Bolts and arrows from his friends on the wall flashed down. Darkwatch fell by the dozens.

Mevon raced forward, casually cutting down any that drew too close. More came anyway, and he chopped them down, too. Finally, through the press, he came to the next carriage.

He couldn’t see any of the four daeloth, nor the mierothi. Strange. He took two steps and leapt onto the vehicle’s roof. He lifted his
Andun
and thrust down.

The carriage exploded.

Shards of wood and metal shredded into him from below, and he fell. Shrapnel careened at his face, slicing across his cheek and nose. Blood sprayed into his eyes. Blind, he swung, hoping to make contact with whoever had been in the carriage.

His torn feet hit the ground, and he staggered, nearly falling to a knee. He pushed the pain into the back of his mind as he wiped the blood from his eyes. He stood.

A powerful spell was cast. Close. Mevon turned to see a dark, robed figure standing less than two paces away.

Hezraas.

Mevon growled. He slashed at the mierothi.

The prefect sprang forward.

Mevon had never been punched so hard in his life. He skidded backwards, falling to hands and knees. His lungs felt like they were being squeezed in a vise. He could feel at least three broken ribs, and his heart yammered in panic.

His vision darkened.

J
ASS
IDE
SWALLOWED
HARD
. She turned to the others, tried to speak, but found she could not. Instead, she energized, pulling in just a whisper of energy. Holding out her hand, she clenched her power, feeling it squeeze out like mud between her fingers.

Over several beats, her sorcery took on a sort of rhythm, a thrumming, like a pulse only faster than the beat of a hummingbird’s wings. The other forty-one casters mimicked her actions. First, they each gathered a small pool of energy. Then, set it to pulsing. Like hers.

With agonizing slowness, the others matched the cadence of their sorcery to hers. She felt the first one snap into harmony.

Forty more to go.

Y
ANDUMAR
THREW
DOWN
his rake and ripped off the cloak, revealing the armor beneath. His usual assortment of weapons surrounded his bulk. He reached down into the leaf pile and drew forth a bulwark shield and one of his favored bastard swords.

He glanced over at Slick Ren and Derthon, as they made similar preparations, then past them, to where half a thousand of his allies were pouring out of doors set in the stone foundations of the park’s southern wall. Former Imperial soldiers led the way, a long, thin line of shields and armor. Behind them came a mass of bandits, shepherds, and other warriors of the revolution, wielding axes, spears, dueling staves, and countless varieties of blunt and thrown weapons.

Yandumar smiled at Slick Ren. “Ready to do some killing?”

Her return smile, and the glint of sunlight off her bared daggers, was all the response he needed.

The three of them turned to the enemy line as their allies came abreast of them. Together, they charged forward.

Yandumar peered up and down the spread line of the darkwatch. Front and back, each three hundred paces distant, were already a mess of destruction. The middle milled in confusion. As they closed the gap, a hissing sound grew louder in his ears.