Veiled Empire (21 page)

Slick Ren frowned, then seemed to pick up on his stance. “Of course, dear. Just venting. I hate fights like this. At least,” she added, smiling, “when I’m on this end of the game.”

“Me too,” said Yandumar.

She stepped close to him. Her body pressed up against him, and she leaned her lips up towards his ear. “Have you thought anymore about my proposal?”

He didn’t have time to answer. Their moment was broken when Yandumar spotted three men pushing towards them through the crowd: Mevon’s captains.

“What is it?” Yandumar asked.

Idrus spoke first. “They’ve circled around. Their main force is to the west. They’re readying to assault en masse any moment now.”

Yandumar noted the blood staining Idrus’s sleeves and fresh cuts on his shoulder and thigh. “How close did you get?”

“Close.”

Yandumar dipped his head in respect. Slick Ren and Derthon did the same. And he remembered what Mevon had said about his ranger captain’s powers of observation.

“We’ll go out to meet them, then,” he said.

Arozir nodded. “Our Fist will form the center. We’ll stop them in their tracks and hold them. Protect the casters behind the strongest men you have left and have them flank to both sides.”

“Linked, they should be enough to carve holes in their lines,” Tolvar said.

Yandumar nodded. “And we’ll drive our skirmishers into the gaps.” He turned to Slick Ren and Derthon. “That’s you and your best men.”

She smiled deviously. “And here I thought you’d try to spare me the dangerous assignments, what with our . . . evolving relationship.”

“You?” Yandumar raised his eyebrows. “You’d never allow it. And I’d rather save our first argument for a less hectic time.”

He turned back to Mevon’s captains, ignoring their quizzical looks. “Let’s move!”

A
S
SOON
AS
Jasside’s spell hit—it had taken her only a fraction of the time to prepare since she had first used it against Mevon—both Naeveth and Mosnar turned their heads and stared. The shock on their faces was clearly visible even in the moonlight.

It was only the briefest of moments, but that was all Mevon needed. He dashed forward, flashing before her eyes in a blur of motion. She saw his hand shoot out. It connected with Mosnar’s throat with a crunch.

Naeveth recovered, drawing his
Andun
, as did Mevon. The two blades struck together, filling the glade with a queer sound, unlike anything she had ever heard before. It was shrill, like the scream of a mountain cat mixed with the wail of an out-of-tune fiddle, yet at the same time, it reverberated deeply, shaking her down to her bones.

Mosnar fell, and the two spun away into the darkness. Their movements too fast for her to follow, their bodies too similar for her to tell them apart.

She maintained her spell, not pouring all her power into it as she had the first time but keeping a steady flow. She could last marks at best. Though still better than a few score beats, she was not without limits.
Hurry, Mevon.

Ilyem had fallen with her head pointed towards Jasside. Though the rest of her body did not so much as budge, the woman’s eyes darted about, often locking with Jasside’s for long moments. What she saw there surprised her. Jasside could discern little fear, only alertness, confusion, and . . .
Could that be awe?

Jasside’s thoughts broke as Mosnar began stirring.

Impossible! Your throat was crushed in. No one can survive that.

But then she remembered the steps necessary to subdue Mevon and the blessing, which burned away his wounds as she watched, leaving only faint scars behind.

Mosnar lifted himself onto an elbow and sucked in a breath.

Jasside felt her own fear rise into panic. The spell she now held on Ilyem took the whole of her power and concentration. She had no weapons on her.

Naeveth and Mevon came into view, swinging at each other in what could only be described as a dance. Everything became a pale blur as they stepped into a shaft of moonlight.

Mevon, though, still managed to spare a glance her way. He must have seen the sweat pouring down her brow and her frantic gaze directed towards Mosnar. But he could do nothing, for Naeveth stood between him and the others.

Then, she saw him smile. He opened his mouth, and shouted, “Quake!”

Jasside had forgotten about the horse. He came tromping up behind her. The wind from his passing whipped her hair across her face. The enormous mount, without hesitation, tromped over to Mosnar and promptly began stamping down on him.

She watched in morbid fascination as the first blow from Quake’s hoof flattened the Hardohl to the ground. The horse immediately followed up with three rearing stomps directly on his victim’s head, the last of which splattered skull and brain matter on the ground like a melon caught under a falling rock.

From that, no one could recover. She was sure of it this time.

So it seems our numbers were equal after all.

Jasside turned her head, attempting to track the state of the battle by the twisting shadows and that eerie sound which had, if anything, intensified as their duel raged on. She needed Mevon to finish quickly. To win. And not just because her energy reserves were nearly spent.

Despite the hate she had held on to for her half brother’s death at his hands, Jasside realized that she wanted Mevon to live. He had become a different person in the months since they first met. A better person.

And the look in his eyes, just before their battle had begun . . . Jasside knew what it meant. And she could no longer deny that she cared for him. Perhaps, even, as more than just an ally.

She felt a tear swimming gently down her cheek.

Mevon . . . I forgive you.

Naeveth appeared, backing up towards her. Mevon followed soon after, battering down upon the other Hardohl’s defenses, which were visibly weakening. Naeveth had a gash across his temple and forearm, and each shook free more blood each time their weapons clashed.

Jasside felt the weariness begin to wash over her. She had a handful of beats left.

Mevon crushed down upon Naeveth. Once. Twice. Three times. On the fourth, Naeveth’s guard failed, and Mevon’s
Andun
slashed down, severing an arm at the shoulder.

Naeveth reeled back, crying out in pain. Mevon swept his blades down, slicing cleanly through both knees. Mevon fell atop the crumbling body. His face paused fingers away from that of his opponent.

“I’m sorry it had to be this way,” Mevon said, almost reverently.

Naeveth, gasping, said, “Abyss take you, Mevon.”

Mevon nodded. Then he rose up and chopped down. Naeveth’s head tumbled away in a spray of blood.

I am spent.
Jasside’s mouth was dry and every muscle had turned to jelly. Willpower alone kept her from collapsing, kept her spell from dissipating, but even that was on its last hair-span of strength.

“Mevon,” she croaked, barely above a whisper.

Mevon’s head shot up. In a beat he took in her condition, looked over to Ilyem, and lunged atop her.

Jasside released her spell, and with it, her ability to stand. She crumpled, more exhausted than she could ever remember being.
But I did it. I succeeded. We won.

She fought the urge to lie down and sleep. She knew this was only a small part of the battle at large. There was still work to do. She might still be needed.

She struggled up to a knee.

“Rest,” Mevon said.

She looked up at him. Somehow, he had already trussed Ilyem up in bindings more secure than she had ever seen, and mounted Quake, his prisoner splayed sideways in front of him.

“I can still help,” Jasside said.

Mevon looked down on her. “You’ve done more than enough already. You, Jasside, are the very best of us. There’s no need to prove yourself any further.”

Jasside managed a smile, feeling an enormous weight being lifted from her shoulders. “Thank you, Mevon.”

He offered her a salute, then whistled at Quake. The horse and both riders disappeared into the gloom of night.

G
ILSHAMED
FUMED
. The men he followed had not been heading for the main enemy force. They had been a diversion, intended to draw him out of position. Away from where he could protect his allies.

And they had tried setting a trap. Six rangers. They had almost succeeded. Gilshamed had burned them all to ashes.

He flew south now, back to the army. His army. His tool for retribution. The anger seared him. These Hardohl and their men had disrupted his plans. Set him back. Killed thousands he needed for other things. And now they sought to trick him into missing the battle.

I must be there, to be seen, to be the instrument of our victory. The people must maintain their faith in me if ever we are to scourge this land of my enemies, of all those that declared themselves against me.

Mierothi . . . or otherwise.

Gilshamed swept over a hilltop. The mass of humanity came into view, waged still in a tight, bloody encounter.

Yandumar had done it. The enemy forces were surrounded, cut off into a several small groups and fighting off attacks from all sides.

But even as he watched, the clustered formations of his adversary surged into motion, disengaging from the battle by simply trampling over any that got in their way. A surge of newly dead, on both sides, littered the battlefield in their flight.

Gilshamed flew over their heads. He landed several hundred paces ahead of the enemy’s line of retreat, resting briefly to gather his strength. He knew he had not the power stop them all, not even if he were fresh to battle, but perhaps there was one thing he
could
do.

He stretched his arms out to the sides. In a semicircle, welcoming in his fleeing foe, sprang up a wall of fire twenty paces high and as many thick. An illusion, of course, but they’d have to get dangerously close before they realized the flames gave off far too little heat. He cast an aura of light, centered on himself, which transformed the midnight forest into the brilliance of noon.

Gilshamed lifted his chin and, amplifying his voice with sorcery, shouted for all to hear. “Stop! All of you! This battle is finished!”

Everyone froze.

Gilshamed smiled.

Yes. This is the moment we needed. My moment. Now, to plant it firmly in their minds.

The Elite stared him down, murder in their squinting eyes. He had an appropriate fate in mind for them. He stretched out his arms . . .

But the wall of flames vanished.

Gilshamed jerked around, staggered by the voiding of his spell. “What the abyss . . . ?”

M
EVON
STRODE
TOW
ARDS
Gilshamed, carrying Ilyem in one arm and three
Andun
in the other. His skin tingled after having absorbed Gilshamed’s wall of fire. He whistled once, and Quake turned and galloped away, vanishing into the forest in mere beats. Mevon stepped past Gilshamed, giving him a nod.

He laid Ilyem down gently. He then took the weapons and, one by one, thrust them into the ground in a line.

“Mosnar and Naeveth are dead,” Mevon said to the gathered Elite. “And I have captured Ilyem.”

He watched the enemy soldiers, watched their rage flash hotly for a beat, watched fear and despair rise to take its place.

Mevon bent down to Ilyem and removed the cloth from her mouth. “If you wish to save any of them,” he said, “this is your only chance.”

Ilyem glanced once at Mevon. Then, she cast her eyes downward. After several beats, she nodded. Mevon helped her to her feet, and she faced the Elite.

“I claim no authority over the other Fists,” she said. “But as for mine, I order you to stand down. I urge the rest of you to do the same.”

Her soldiers immediately obeyed. A cluster near the center, some two hundred strong, began laying down their shields and weapon harnesses, and unstrapping pieces of armor.

The rest of them, seeing this, stood in shock for several long moments. Eventually, and with obvious reluctance, they, too, submitted. Mevon saw his own Elite move forward to begin removing the gear and apply bindings to what were now considered prisoners.

Mevon noticed a familiar figure winding his way towards him. “Father,” shouted Mevon. “It’s good to see your head still attached to your shoulders.”

“Ha!” Yandumar patted his neck. “This here is too stubborn to give way before any mere blade.”

They drew together and clasped forearms. Yandumar eyes flicked past him, and the old man’s brows scrunched together. “Something the matter, Gil?”

Mevon turned to see the valynkar, eyes locked on his back, shaking a glare loose from his face. Gilshamed waved a hand dismissively. “It is nothing.” He stalked away, saying no more.

Yandumar shrugged. “Probably mad he missed most of the last part of the fight. Had us all worried when he didn’t show up for so long.”

“I doubt you ever need worry about him,” Mevon said. “I’ve never met a man more capable of ensuring his own preservation.”

Yandumar nodded. “I don’t see Jasside anywhere. Please don’t tell me—”

“Look,” interrupted Mevon, pointing into the trees. Quake rode up. Atop his back was a weary-eyed Jasside, clutching to the horse’s mane as though her life depended on it.

“Well done, son.”

“You too, father.”

Mevon helped Jasside down just as Idrus and Arozir came up next to him. He turned to them, giving them the same greeting he had given his father. “What the status of the Fist?”

“More than half are recovering from wounds,” Idrus said. “But the casters made our men a priority, and no one died who could be saved.”

Mevon sighed. “How many?”

“Twenty-one,” Arozir said. “Including . . .” His voice nearly cracked. Mevon laid a hand on his shoulder. He now noticed what he should have recognized immediately: both men, Arozir especially, fighting to hold their emotions in check.

“Tolvar,” Mevon said.

His two remaining captains slowly nodded. Mevon clenched his hand into a fist.