Veiled Empire (26 page)

With or without this revolution, I will have my revenge.

The thought warmed him. The smile on his face, now, had nothing to do with maintaining his image for those who followed him.

M
EVON
KNEW
THAT
the trek would be dangerous. They were lucky, so far, to have avoided contact. His troops had walked along the southern edge of the Chasm for a while, but he grew increasingly uneasy near it, and, ultimately, had steered them away.

The proximity to the vast, gaping wound in the land was not the only thing that made him feel out of sorts. He had never been long without his captains, and despite the best efforts of all the sergeants now under his command, their efficiency and capability paled in comparison to even the least of the men in his Fist. Orders he expected to take effect within marks instead took tolls. When he needed perfection he got mediocrity. Laziness when he needed professionalism.

The business of leadership was not all he had expected it to be, and he now realized just how much of that burden his men—captains especially—lifted from his shoulders.

“You’re doing fine, you know.”

Mevon turned his head, smiling as orange light from the setting sun gleamed upon Jasside’s face. A breeze, carrying the scent of wild grass, had misplaced a strand of her hair. He reached to push it back behind her ear.

“Reading my mind again?” he asked.

“No need,” she said. “For as hard of a man as you are, you seem to wear your thoughts freely in your expressions.”

“Only around you.”

She looked away, blushing.

It was true, though. She brought out a side of him he had never known existed. He looked at her, and he . . . felt.

He used to think that the only time he would ever feel anything was during battle. Then, when he allowed the storm to rage—when blood filled his senses and life and death greeted him with every passing breath—he knew what it was to truly be alive. To truly feel. Around her—with her—the feeling was similar, yet so, so different.

Better?

Perhaps.

The notion gave him pause. He had always craved blood. Always hungered for his next kill. Yet, as he grew closer to Jasside, her presence, her faith in him, made him think that he could survive without it.

What would my life be without death?
He couldn’t imagine it. Had never wanted to. Never needed to. Even in joining this revolution, his main draw—beyond justice, beyond the claims of his father—had been the promise of a fight like no other. A fight to end them all.

But, even in victory, the thought of what would come after frightened him like nothing else could. The thought of . . . peace.

Not anymore.

He took her hand. The gesture brought a gasp of shock from her, as it always did. She had become better, though, at suppressing her reaction to the sudden loss of her power. Mevon had become better at not taking it personally.

“I . . .” he began, shaking his head.
I am no good at this sort of thing.
“Have you thought of what you will do after?”

“No,” she said, the firmness in her voice surprising him. “I take things one step at a time. Thinking that far ahead makes me lose focus on what’s right in front of me, on the here and now.” She smiled up at him. “And why would I want to do that?”

A feeling, both painful yet exquisite, began to rise within him at her words. He had been with women before, courtesans whose beauty made Jasside seem plain in comparison. Yet, the memory of their faces, their bodies, morphed into something so ugly compared to what he shared with Jasside. And knowing that their relationship had not progressed beyond what it was now—her hand resting within his—gave him hope for what it could become in time. What
he
could become.

“I am the same,” he said, and meaning it. “I just thought—”

“What? That this story has a happy ending?”

Mevon and Jasside both turned towards the voice.

“Paen,” Mevon said. “I don’t remember inviting you to be a part of our conversation.”

The boy licked his thumb and forefinger, then used them to slick down his mustache and pointed beard. “I don’t recall needing permission.”

Mevon gritted his teeth as Paen approached. He remembered that plausible reasons were cited in support of having the boy join Mevon’s group, but—being exhausted at the time—he could not say what they were. Something about the kid sent shivers of repulsion through him.

“Tell me then,” said Mevon, “why are you supporting us if you think the revolution won’t turn out well?”

Paen laughed. “As if happiness could determine profitability. You truly don’t know anything, do you?”

“I know how to kill. Does that count?”

“For our purposes,” Paen said, “absolutely.”

Mevon frowned. He started towards the boy but found himself stopped—not by force, but simply by Jasside’s hand placed gently upon his wrist. He looked down at her, receiving a silent look that said,
Not worth it
.

Mevon took a deep breath and continued marching at her side. “Let’s hope it will be enough.”

“It will be,” said Paen. “If anyone is going to nail the last plank on this scorching bridge, it will be you.”

Mevon nodded.

Even when it’s burning.

W
AR
ROOM
. V
OREN
had used the words before, but here, now, inside the place, he finally came to an appreciation for what it meant.

He sighed, scanning the barrels full of rolled-up maps and shelves of scrolls holding tallies of troops and supplies. Charts mounted on the walls listed out the command structure, including unit and location, right down to the lowest lieutenant. Supreme Arcanod Grezkul seemed right at home, even more so than Emperor Rekaj.

Voren had never felt more out of place.

He ran his hand along the table, noticing how slick the wood felt, how pungent the oils that kept it preserved. The piece was ancient, possibly older than anyone in the room. Voren did not recognize the tree that it came from. It was a relic from a forgotten time, heralding from the swamplands that the tribe of mierothi people used to call home. Lost now, like so many things.

Carved into the table was the empire. The sculpting was meticulous and thorough, yet bland. To Voren’s eye, practicality ruled, not beauty.

And does that not sum up the empire in its entirety?

Rekaj sat at the head of the table. He had a glass of wine, untouched, in front of him. Voren was waiting for him to explain why they were here.
Why
I’m
here
. He tried ignoring the stares and whispers and pointed fingers from the rest of the council members as he trod upon sacred mierothi ground, and thought about how Rekaj had instructed him to act.

Subservient, as always. But playing the demure, helpless figure that he had for so long would not do to support his cause, his new reason for existence. Instead, he must project an aura of confidence, competence, and present himself as an equal, someone with just as much at stake as the rest.

Voren still had no idea how he would accomplish this.

He tried to feel it. Tried to make himself one of them in his mind. Tried not to think of them as the enemy but instead as allies. Not that he had any choice. No, choice had been taken from him the day Gilshamed returned to the continent. If he wanted to survive—and Voren most certainly did—then he had to make this work.

Somehow.

Finally, Rekaj sat forward in his seat. “Done with your whispering?” he asked no one in particular. The room went silent. No one responded. “Good.” Rekaj nodded in Voren’s direction. “He is here because
I
asked to him to come. Asked, not ordered.” He took out the letter and passed it to Grezkul. “This is why.”

Grezkul read it silently, then, at Rekaj’s urging, pressed it into the next set of hands. The paper made its way around the room until all had read it. Each eyed Voren with curiosity after they had finished reading. Truln added pity to his gaze.

Rekaj lifted his hand, palm up. Voren stood and cleared his throat. “Gilshamed,” Voren began. “You all know his name. You know his face. You know what he is capable of. And you know that, had you not found a way to banish all of the valynkar the day of the Cataclysm, he would have defeated you long ago.”

No one spoke, but Voren could feel the room tense at his words. No one liked being reminded of failure, especially mierothi. Most especially
these
mierothi. He gathered his breath, knowing they would enjoy what he would say next even less.

“He is back. Gilshamed is the leader of the rebellion.”

Grezkul pounded the table. “I knew it!” He turned to Rekaj with venom in his eyes. “I told you, right after the voltensus was destroyed, but you didn’t listen.”

“Inquiries were made, but nothing substantial ever came of it,” replied Rekaj calmly.

“It makes sense,” said Marshal Adjudicator Jezrid. “Gilshamed always did know how to hit us where we were weakest.”

Mother Phyzari Kitavijj pointed at Lekrigar. “You let him in, didn’t you? I thought you’d at least be smart enough to guard the tunnel entrances, or did you leave that job to those creatures of yours?”

“It matters not how he got in,” he said, and Voren could tell that despite his indifferent demeanor, the high regnosist desperately hoped that was true. “What matters is what we’re going to do about it now.” He shot his contemptuous gaze at Voren. “And I assume that’s why you’re here, is it not?”

“It is,” Rekaj said. “Tell them, Voren.”

Voren swallowed hard.
No turning back now.
“We know two things for certain. First, that Gilshamed wants me dead. I don’t think I have to explain why.”

Amused chuckles answered.

“Second, that there are only two valynkar currently within the Shroud.”

When he said nothing further, Grezkul slapped the table again. “Enough with the dramatics. Whatever it is you came here to say, tell us!”

“Don’t you see?” Truln said. “Only two of them. Our biggest problem is not knowing where the rebellion is. Where their
leaders
are.”

The room became still.

“Of course,” Kitavijj said. “Communion.”

Voren nodded. “That is what I bring. What no one else can.”

He studied the looks that came his way, watched them morph from what they had always been to something different. Something other than contempt.

Respect will come. This will do for now.

“So what are you waiting for?” Jezrid said.

“Nothing.” Voren smiled, projecting confidence he did not yet feel and unity that make his stomach turn. He closed his eyes and energized briefly. When he opened them again, he stood in a sea of pure darkness.

And there, distant yet unmistakable, a single speck of light.

Chapter 13

D
RAEVENUS
AND
H
AR
RIDAN
Chant approached the entrance, a battered wooden door rimmed with frost and sealed by mud and stone. Chant began kicking his boots together in an attempt to dislodge the snow. Draevenus pulled to a stop as his escort put out an arm in front of him.

“Close your eyes and plug your ears,” Chant said.

“Excuse me?” Draevenus said.

“It’s a secret knock. I can’t have you figuring it out.”

Draevenus raised an eyebrow.

Harridan threw his hands up. “Oh, all right. Be that way. We’ll just have to kill ya’ then.”

Chant turned to the door and rapped three times with his knuckles.

Draevenus waited a beat. “Is that it?”

A smile, then two more taps.

Then one.

Chant brought both fists to the door and began pounding out a chaotic rhythm. If there was any way to discern the pattern, Draevenus did not even know where to begin.

“All right, all right,” a voice shouted from behind the door. He heard a squeal as the latch turned. The door jerked open, swinging inside and shaking loose white flakes from the frame.

“Shadow!” Chant said. “What took you so long?”

“ ’Bout to ask you the same thing.” Shadow’s eyes fell on Draevenus. “At least you didn’t come back empty-handed.”

Shadow, like Chant, was an old man. Old, yet his movements betrayed a strength that most young men would envy. And, also like Chant, Draevenus could swear the name was familiar somehow.

“Well, get in here,” Shadow said. “Can’t have you freezing to death before we even start this thing.” He stepped back and waved them both inside.

A fire burned, warming the cavern, and Draevenus immediately began peeling off the outer layers of his clothing. A dozen men sat around the blaze. They eyed Draevenus but kept about their tasks. Some sharpened swords, other fit straps to shields, and one man was scraping the rust from his armor. It was the last that caught his eye because, despite its age and wear, it was still quite distinguishable.

It was the armor of an Elite.

Draevenus looked to Chant and Shadow. The names, in conjunction with this new context, sparked a memory.

“Captain Chant,” Draevenus said. “Captain Shadow. And your third, Captain . . .”

“Daere,” Harridan finished. He swept his arms to indicate his brethren. “All of Kael’s old Fist. What’s left of us, anyway.” He set his fiddle case by the fire.

Further questions were set aside when someone mentioned a room with both privacy and a washbasin. Draevenus bolted towards it.

It been months since he’d had a proper washing, and a week since he’d even changed his clothes. The water had been warmed, and Draevenus found himself lingering, hands pressed to the bottom of the basin even after his body had been washed. Warmth. Cleanliness.
It’s funny how your appreciation for things grows immensely when you are denied them.
Draevenus smiled to himself as he re-dressed and joined the others by the fire.

A hot bowl of stew and a foaming mug of ale were waiting for him when he emerged. He inhaled them, asking for seconds of both.

Chant reached for his wooden fiddle case. “Think she’s about warmed up, now.”

And true to his name, the old Elite captain began to play a tune, singing along. Draevenus barely heard the words, but the voice . . .

He had expected a tavern singer. Someone capable but forgettable. Chant’s voice was, quite simply, the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. Perfect pitch, a range greater than the Andean Mountains, and every utterance dripping with authentic emotion. The notes scratched out from the beat-up fiddle, despite their rawness, matched the voice perfectly.

Draevenus lost track of time, listening to the songs, joining in occasionally, eating, drinking, swaying side to side along with the soldiers seated around him. Just for a while, he was able to forget about everything. He felt, for one fleeting moment, at peace.

Eventually, Chant put the fiddle away, and the soldiers, one by one, turned to Draevenus with expectant gazes.

He knew what they wanted.

“Thank you all for being here,” he said. “What I hope to do is dangerous, and the chance for victory improves drastically with all of you to help.”

“Of course,” Harridan said, patting him on the shoulder. “Ain’t none of us got any love for the empire. Not after what happened to Yandumar.”

“I take it you know what awaits us then?”

“Verge,” Shadow said. “I’ve been scouting. Can’t see inside, but we’ve been able to piece together what goes on there.”

Draevenus sighed. “Then you understand why I must stop it.”

Everyone seated around the fire nodded in unison.

He turned an incredulous gaze on Chant. “Are you sure it was my sister that sent you?” Vashodia knew what went on at Verge. Knew but, unlike him, did not seem to care. Despite her efforts to seem indifferent, it seemed she had found a part of her that cared after all. Enough, at least, to send him help.

“Like I told you before,” said Harridan. “She asked us. We agreed.”

Draevenus smiled. Knowing her, it had taken a great deal of humility to stoop to actually
asking
for help, even if it was not for herself.

And he was glad for it. More so than anyone could possibly realize. This was not merely extra soldiers to assault a fortified objective. Draevenus was confident he could have been successful on his own. But there likely would be collateral damage. Deaths he could not prevent.

Maybe now, he could.

And more importantly, he would not now be forced to return to the place he had been so many centuries ago. A place where he didn’t hesitate to act, to kill without mercy or pause, to throw all thought for the consequences aside and accomplish the mission, no matter the cost. A place where the very mention of his name brought his enemies to their knees with fear.

A place where he despised himself.

Even if you don’t care about Verge, you cared enough about me to save me from the self that I hate. For that, dear sister, I love you.

And on the heels of that thought, another.

Just as you save me, someday I will save you from yourself. From what you have become. Even if you don’t hate it now, fear it now, and even if you never thank me, I will see the darkness within you turned to light.

He turned again to Chant. “Now then, let us discuss how best to assault Verge and free those trapped within.”

Y
ANDUMA
R
LIFTED
HIS
head from his hands. He looked to the six men in front of him.

The fastest riders. He’d asked Idrus to send them, with spare mounts, to each of the nearest six cities. They had a simple objective. Now they had returned, and their reports were exactly as Yandumar had predicted.

Exactly as I feared.

“All the garrisons?” he asked again. “All empty?”

One by one, the scouts nodded. Again.

There was only one reason that the empire would leave the cities without even so much as a token guard left behind.

“They know,” Yandumar said. “Somehow, those scorching mierothi know where our main forces are.”

He looked south. Mevon was down there, somewhere, and so was Gilshamed. His son and his best friend. In danger.

Because of me.

“Mount up!” he ordered. The men around him jumped at the harshness of the command. Even the three captains. “Our allies are in need of our help.”

He boarded Quake, and they headed south. All thoughts of stealth were abandoned in favor of speed, even so far as to ride on the roads. They made excellent time.

But Yandumar knew that it wouldn’t be fast enough.

“What are we doing here, Gilshamed?”

Gilshamed glanced at Orbrahn. He’d grown tired of the boy’s insolence. “We are here to complete the objectives of the revolution. To liberate this land.”

Orbrahn looked from him to the city walls, just visible in the distance. “The plan was to make for Mecrithos. That’s where our allies are expecting us. This?” He waved a hand in disgust. “This is a distraction we can’t afford.”

“Mecrithos is still a week distant. We’ve been idle for too long. The people need to know that we still fight for them.”

“This is foolhardy, and you know it. Our position will be compromised.”

Gilshamed smiled. “Not entirely.”

“Is that why you had us steer west around that lake, rather than east, which made far more sense?”

Is that all you caught?
For the past week, whenever they came to a possible split in their path, Gilshamed had been guiding them west every time. “Even if they pinpoint us, they’ll have no idea where we are headed next.”

“But this is—”

“Enough!” Gilshamed looked down on the boy. His rage must have been showing, for Orbrahn gulped and backed up a few steps. He said no more.

Gilshamed turned to several Elite, those not part of Mevon’s Fist that had become troop leaders for his forces. “I will disable the forces at the gate myself. Once it is open, lead everyone through.”

They exchanged glances.
You made your choice already. Do not think to defy me now.
“Aye,” they said at last.

Gilshamed nodded. He unfurled his wings and ascended into the air alone.

He flew along the treetops, keeping the city’s main gate in the center of his vision. It felt good to once again be doing something. Taking from those that had taken everything from him. They deserved the fate he had in store for them, and Gilshamed deserved to be the one to deliver it.

The gatehouse passed beneath him. He turned around in midair, energizing, and came at it from inside the city. He sent a blast of power that knocked the gate from its hinges and collapsed the sides of the guardhouse in a shower of crumbling stone and mortar. As he reveled in the destruction, he noticed something strange.

He saw no bodies.

Where are the guards?

He looked around. The streets were abandoned. Not a soul was in sight.

Something is not right. . .

Nearly panicking, he hurled himself back towards his army. It was only then that the clamor of battle reached his ears.

“H
ERE
,” M
EVON
SAID
, his hand outstretched. “I picked these for you.”

Jasside smiled at him. She reached to grab the makeshift bouquet of wildflowers. “Thank you, Mevon.”

“They grow along the cliffs here,” he said, pointing to the deep ravine alongside which they traveled. “I’ve never seen them anywhere else in the empire.”

“That was very thou—”

The flowers slipped from her hands and fell, scattering back down the cliffs on a gust of wind. Mevon looked into her eyes.

They had gone black.

He waited.

A mark later, she came out of it, blinking and trembling. “What is it?” he asked.

“From the scouts,” she said, breathing heavily. “Imperial formation dead ahead. We ran right into them.”

Mevon closed his eyes.
If my rangers were here, this never would have happened.

But they weren’t. He was on his own. And he would have to make all the decisions.

“What else did they say? Enemy strength? Disposition?”

Jasside shook her head. “I don’t have any numbers, but it seems they were marching across our line of advance. They’re just as surprised as we are.”

Mevon nodded. He knew surprise. Knew how to use it. He turned to the sergeants acting as his commanders. “All forces advance forward. Strike hard and don’t let up. We’ll only get one shot at this.”

Fear showed on their faces. None moved.

“We either take them down here, or we face them again outside the walls of Mecrithos. Now move!”

They moved.

Mevon ran forward.
Time to do battle once more.

He smiled—glad to know that some things never changed—and unleashed the storm.

“S
TATUS
!” G
ILS
HAMED
SHOUTED
as he landed among his commanders.

“It’s a pitched fight but numbers seem even,” said one of the Elite. “Our casters are linked in trios and are keeping the daeloth at bay so far.”

“That’s the good news,” another said. “Their formations are more cohesive than ours. Our lines are slowly giving way before them.”

Gilshamed nodded. How had the Imperials found them? How had they approached unseen? These questions would have to wait. “Press the attack,” he ordered. “I’ll give you the push we need.” He looked to the sky and flew once more.

He advanced quickly forward, keeping low until he heard the clash of bodies, the ring of steel, the cries of pain, smelled the blood and sweat and fear. Balls of blue flame and arcs of purple lightning danced back and forth as the casters dueled, and hails of arrows fell down upon both sides. Death clung in the air.

He had reached the front lines.

He rose, casting a blaze of light forward. This blinded the enemy and announced his presence to his allies. In a moment, the slow advance of the Imperials reversed direction.

A dozen spells launched in his direction. Rather than form a shield and waste energy, he dove forward to avoid them, and cast his own spells—raging red fireballs the size of a wagon—back at each daeloth he could see. One by one they exploded, consuming each half-breed and any other nearby soldiers in flesh-melting heat.

He rose higher once more, gaining a clear view of the entire breadth of the battle. As he had when the Hardohl and their Elite had raided them at the start of winter, he dashed here and there, guarding his allies by sending his sorcery where the enemy was strongest. But this time, his opponents did not have magic-deadening armor, nor a lifetime of experience fighting casters to aid them. This time, Gilshamed rained fire down from above, and none withstood his fury.

Not since the War of Rising Night had he felt this alive. Not since then had his potential been fully realized. It was, quite simply, glorious.

With the daeloth decimated and the Imperial lines in shambles, Gilshamed smiled to himself and withdrew to gather his strength.