Veiled Empire (29 page)

Perfect.

Yandumar drew his bastard swords from their crossed sheaths and held them up high. Early-morning sunlight shone down on his back, glinting off the bared steel. Tolvar on his right, and Ropes and Idrus on his left, each on the top of their own hill, couldn’t mistake the signal. Without looking, Yandumar brought an arm behind him, then arced it forward. Nearly four thousand horses sprang into motion. The ground began to rumble.

He kept swords in hand as they closed the distance. Quake moved with perfection, needing no guidance from Yandumar. He could tell the horse was as eager for battle as he was. They crested a rise, and the full breadth of the Imperial camp surged into view. More than ten times their number. Yandumar smiled.

It is only in times of strife when the true measure of man can be found. No matter his intentions, his words, his morals even. When tested, what a man
does
is the only thing that counts.

And so, Yandumar led the charge.

The pounding hooves became a roar, like standing under a waterfall, as the gap closed from three hundred paces to two, to one. Some few soldiers turned, wide-eyed. Not enough. Panic spread among the loosely milling crowd.

From four directions at once, the revolution’s cavalry struck deep.

Yandumar slashed down, first on the right into a fleeing man’s skull, then on the left where shoulder met neck. Quake crushed one beneath his hooves and chomped another man’s face off with his teeth.

His horsemen plunged into the Imperial lines, barely slowing. Only four ranks deep, the charge used surprise and momentum to inflict maximum casualties. Yandumar continued forward, hacking at any who came within reach. His allies behind him would take care of any he couldn’t.

The cries of frantic, dying men rang out, and the scents of blood and sweat and fear filled his lungs. Yandumar’s vision tunneled. His next opponent and the tips of his blood-drenched blades became the whole of his existence.

A crossbow bolt zipped past his face, clipping his ear. Warm liquid spread down his neck, but he barely felt it. The press of Imperial soldiers suddenly thickened into a wall of shields. The charge stalled. Several men thrust swords up at Yandumar. He chopped at their wrists then turned Quake left.

His allies mimicked him. The straight charge became a swooping rake of claws across the Imperial face. Javelins lanced out, often finding gaps in the wall, but even one stuck into a shield weighed it down and rendered it near useless.

Yandumar spun away, taking stock of the battle. More than half the Imperials had been cut down by the charge, and his cavalry was still mostly intact. But now, the remaining enemy forces had reacted, turning and forming tight square formations to counter them. The daeloth, one and all, had stood and were facing his direction.

Facing away from the hill.

A cluster of boulders overgrown with thick brush lay seventy paces beyond the daeloth. The ground was too rough and uneven, and the area had been ignored by the Imperial advances up the hill. Last night, Mevon’s Fist had sneaked into it.

Now, as all eyes were turned towards Yandumar, ninety-two of the finest warriors in the land burst forth.

The rangers struck first with pinpoint strikes from their bows. Daeloth began dropping like stalks of grass before a charging boar. The Elite spread out and began hacking into the rest. Fast, efficient kills. It was over in beats.

They pulled back, leaving almost six hundred dead daeloth behind.

A battle cry rose from the hill—the remains of this part of the revolutionary army. Thousands rushed down, a flood of pent-up violence. Orbs of flame arced down towards the Imperials ahead of them. It was probably the last scoop of power many of the casters could summon, but it was enough. Fire and chaos erupted in the enemy lines, breaking the shield wall that held his horsemen at bay.

Quake drove forward once more, and the rest followed suit, crashing again into the Imperials from one side as the Elite led companies to scythe into the other.

The fighting became close, hot, desperate. The Imperials would not give. Though surrounded and now outnumbered, they fought on, clearly expecting no mercy. And just today, Yandumar was not prepared to grant any.

It was twenty-five marks before the last of their enemy fell.

Yandumar dismounted. He staggered towards the group he had rescued, letting his battle fury dissipate with each step. He wiped the spattered blood from his face and hands in an attempt to appear civilized.

“Yandumar!”

He turned towards the voice. Orbrahn. Just whom he was looking for. The boy’s pale face and unsteady gait told Yandumar how hard he’d been pushing himself to keep everyone from harm. Still, Orbrahn managed a smile.

“Boy are we glad to see you,” Orbrahn said. “Another day—abyss, another scorching
toll—
and we would have been done for.”

Yandumar narrowed his eyes. “Ruul’s light, how’d you even get in this mess? And where’s Gilshamed?”

“He’s . . . not here. I think that answers both your questions.”

Yandumar froze. “Dead?”

Orbrahn spat to the side. “Not yet. Once I get my hands on him though . . .” He shrugged, scowling.

Yandumar closed the distance in an eyeblink. He didn’t strike Orbrahn though he wanted to. He merely put his face so close that they breathed on each other. “Regardless of your personal feelings, or your . . . other loyalties . . . we wouldn’t have gotten this far without him. Scorch me, we wouldn’t even have started!”

Orbrahn appeared thoughtful for a moment. Finally, he looked down and nodded. “Fine. But what do you think will happen to morale once everyone realizes he’s not just on some extended recon? He started this, sure, but he also abandoned it!”

“This was never about him. As instrumental as he was so far, we’ll just have to carry on the best we can.”

“And you’ll lead us?”

Yandumar gritted his teeth. “It seems I must.”

Orbrahn considered this a moment, a look of acceptance slowly spreading across his face. “Think we have a chance?”

“That depends,” said Yandumar.

“On what?”

Yandumar looked over the army—what was left of it anyway. Between them and Mevon’s group—provided they could link up safely—they had barely thirty thousand troops. The outer-wall garrison of Mecrithos could muster almost that much by itself, and they had the benefit of the most fortified position in the empire.

“We’ll need to bolster our support. Slick Ren and Derthon will be back soon, but that alone won’t be enough. I’ll need you to contact whoever you can that may be swayed to join us. Anyone.
Everyone.
”

Orbrahn lifted an eyebrow. “I see. And what will you be doing?”

Yandumar smiled. “I’ve got some old vows to collect on.”

G
ILSHAMED
ADJUSTED
THE
shoulder straps of his pack as he shuffled through the town, hunched over to hide his height, hood forward to hide his face. It was middling as far as towns went, and he moved along with the light midday traffic, mostly people on foot. Everyone seemed in a hurry. Eyes darted about. He rounded a corner and found out why.

A group of soldiers had set up a barricade across the road leading out of town. They were checking every person who tried to pass, inspecting faces and comparing them to a sketch.

Abyss take me! Again?
Gilshamed knew exactly whose visage was displayed on that paper.

He faked coughing, slowed down, then ducked into an alley. He pressed himself against the wall of a butcher’s shop and suppressed the urge to punch something.

Seven towns and villages, and in each the story had been the same. The empire knew he was coming, knew he was trying to travel north, and they blocked him at each turn. He could have flown over, or fought his way through with ease, but doing so would have pinpointed his location, something they had not yet done.

The faint aroma of sausages and bread wafted from his pack, reminding him why he had come here in the first place. Though centuries of wandering the world had gifted him with ample survival skills, the land here was barren, picked clean of most forage and game by the armies marching every which way. He had gone without food for extended periods of time before, but doing so now would weaken his body and his senses, both things he needed to keep in prime condition to escape this trap.

And it
was
a trap. He was sure of it now. He had been forced farther and farther south with each passing day. It felt as if a noose were closing about his neck, and his only choice was to continue drifting away from his destination . . . right into the lap of his enemy. South, towards Mecrithos.

But how are they tracking me?
He had been careful. No casting, very little speaking beyond terse bartering for goods, nothing to draw attention to himself. Yet, at every step on his path, the empire had been waiting for him.

“Impossible,” he hissed.

He could understand if his army was eventually found out. Large groups of casters clustered outside of cities was nearly unheard of, and through communion . . .

His breath caught in his throat.

Shade of Elos. . .

Gilshamed closed his eyes, his mind racing through the evidence and arriving swiftly at the only possible conclusion. He was being tracked, funneled back to the capital. And there was only one person on the continent that could do it.

Voren.

I always knew you for a coward. But a traitor? Actually siding with the mierothi against your own kin? I never knew anyone to stoop so low.

Voren was trying to draw him into an ambush. To force a confrontation. He could see that now. But the best thing to do when one becomes aware of a trap is not to avoid it, no . . .

The best thing to do is to turn it on its head.

Gilshamed smiled. He stepped back into the avenue, heading the opposite direction, no longer worried about the soldiers and daeloth that sought to ensnare him. Vengeance would come. Soon, if a little different than he had originally planned. But that was the thing about strategy: Flexibility was the key to any successful plan.

Gilshamed hefted his pack on his shoulders and assumed his hunched, shuffling gait as he walked out the southern road of the town.

“D
ID
YOU
EVEN
hear me, Mevon?”

Mevon looked up into Paen’s smooth face. His mind had wandered, recalling Jasside’s final look. Within the clarity of the storm, he had witnessed her surprise turn to terror as her body flung into open space. Terror, then, into acceptance. Acceptance into determination.

Even as inevitable death approached, still you retained your courage.
Her final look humbled him, even as it filled him with despair. With her, a part of him felt whole, a part he had never even known to be empty. Now she was gone, and he felt the emptiness, like a gaping wound in his soul, and he feared it would never be whole again. Just now, he didn’t want it to.

“Sorry,” Mevon said, not meaning it. He flipped his hand towards Paen to tell him to go on.

“As I was saying, my family’s distribution warehouse in Mecrithos has dropped supplies for us three days’ south of here. We will meet up with our other armies at the location. And from there, we will be positioned to assault the city itself.”

Mevon nodded. Jasside had always wanted to see Mecrithos.

“I’ve also taken the liberty to arrange for, shall we say, covert infiltration?” Paen leaned forward and handed Mevon a sheet of paper. It showed the five gates of Mecrithos, with circles around the outermost entrances. Names of contacts and pass codes were written beneath. “I assume we’ll want to get people inside the walls before we try to take them.”

“Yes,” Mevon said absently. “Good work.”

Calla Rymerhin cleared her throat. She had taken over as leader of his casters after the battle. After Jasside had fallen. “I’ve made contact with three different groups from the eastern territory. They are headed this way.”

“How many?” asked Mevon.

“Six thousand in all, many defectors from their local military units.”

More defectors. Without their daeloth masters driving them, many Imperials had switched over, bolstering the revolution.
They will be needed.

Bellanis stepped forward. “The weapons and armor we recovered from our last battle will be sufficient to outfit these new recruits. There was some concern about using Imperial gear for our troops, though. Some said it would get confusing in the thick of fighting, and wanted to make sure we knew how to tell friend from foe.” She smiled, bringing her helmet from around her back. “We think we’ve come up with a satisfying resolution.”

The entire helmet gleamed, shining in the evening sunlight.

“Gold paint?” Mevon asked.

Bellanis nodded. “We were going to use tied golden cloth at first, but thought it might slip off or get sheared during a battle. This, however, will remain unmistakable. Once all helms are complete, we’ll start working on pauldrons and gauntlets, too, if we have enough paint left over.”

“Good thinking,” said Mevon.

In truth, they had all been maintaining the army without him since Jasside became . . . lost. And they’d done a fine job of it. Better than he could have. Much better. The truth, as he saw it, was that they didn’t need him at all. It made what he had to do next that much easier.

Mevon sighed. Loudly. “Anything else to report?” His tone made it clear that if they had anything to say, it had better be important.

Calla shook her head, already turning to depart. Paen leaned in close and whispered in his ear, “You need to take your mind off things. Find a woman.
Any
woman. Get it out of your system.” He winked and shuffled off.

Bellanis lingered. She so pointedly ignored Paen as he left that Mevon knew the boy had something to do with what would come next.

She smiled at him, a look full of pity, yet laced with an unspoken promise.
Going to comfort me in my grief are you?
Mevon felt anger rising. At her, at Paen, at the mierothi. He was done with all of it. Still, the army needed her, and he could not afford to drive her away.