Veiled Empire (40 page)

He recovered his
Andun
and trudged out of the lifeless chamber.

D
RAEVENUS
DASHED
AWA
Y
as another arm of fire lanced across his path, obliterating the place he had just been standing. He turned, treading forward once more.

These were easy enough to avoid, at least. His senses were honed, able to predict their movements, and he himself was nimble enough to dance out of their way. Still, after several marks of trying, he could not get any closer to his target.

Draevenus was moving in from behind. For every two steps he took forward, his target moved away one, and he was pushed back another by a pulse of energy flowing outward like a wind.

What are you thinking, Gilshamed?

He didn’t know where the man had conjured such power. Likely some hidden valynkar weapon he’d kept hidden all this time, just waiting to be unleashed until he could get into the palace. A reminder that while the empire had remained stagnant in most things, the rest of the world had continued to advance. He should have seen something like this coming. And if not he, Vashodia.

Or, perhaps she did see it but chose to do nothing.

As much as he loved his sister, she was capable of anything so long as it furthered her own goals. More and more, he was coming to see just how little she shared with him.

Draevenus felt another arm cutting towards him. He shadow-dashed sideways into another hallway, letting it pass by. Gaping holes, edges charred, marked where Gilshamed had gone before. The palace was being gutted. He could see into places that should have taken half a toll to travel to by foot.

A group of figures crept into view. Crouching, they wended through a path of crumbling stones and scorched debris. He looked closer. Recognizing one of them, he drew his daggers and ran to intercept.

An arm of fire came towards them as well, chopping down from above like a cleaver. They didn’t see it. Hapless, they continued their too-slow movement through the wreckage.

A few of them, servants, managed a scream before the living lava fell into their midst. The one figure managed to form a shield just in time. But only for herself. The rest vanished into smoke in an instant.

Draevenus shadow-dashed over to the mierothi female as soon as the spell had passed. He stopped, standing over her crumpled form. He smelled roasted meat.

Her legs were gone from the knees down, ending in cauterized stumps. The flesh up to her waist was cooked. Draevenus felt a twinge in his stomach.

Mother Phyzari Kitavijj looked up at him through tormented eyes. “Mercy . . .” she squealed.

Draevenus stepped closer. “You don’t deserve any. Not after Verge.”

“I know,” she said. “Please . . .”

Draevenus sighed. Finally, he nodded. His dagger found her frantically beating heart. It stopped, and the mierothi woman slumped to the floor.

He turned from her, facing the maelstrom once more.

And prayed for a miracle.

“V
ASHODIA
,”
THE
MA
LE
Hardohl said. “Let us go. This is getting out of hand.”

He didn’t need to specify. Jasside could feel the raging fire of power whirling around inside the palace. She felt it before they’d even stepped foot inside and was surprised when Vashodia did not lead them straight to it.

The mierothi now waved absently toward the two Hardohl. “Oh, very well. Do what you must. I will be along shortly.” Without another word, they sprinted away, disappearing around a bend in the corridor in two beats.

Jasside stayed a few steps behind Vashodia as they walked. They made several turns. Everywhere she looked displayed signs of devastation. Death. She had been expecting resistance here, every step contested. The eerie silence unnerved her.

Vashodia rounded another corner then stopped, stepping back. Jasside halted before the turn, unable to see what lay beyond. The mierothi peaked her head around the corner, and Jasside heard heavy footsteps. After half a mark, the steps faded to obscurity, and Vashodia continued forward once more.

Down this hallway, they turned right into a double set of doors. Jasside’s eyes widened as she saw what awaited them.

“Ah,” Vashodia said. “Still fresh.”

Emperor Rekaj lay in the middle of the room. Dead. His feet were severed from his legs. A pool of blood surrounded his neck. Jasside realized she had stopped moving, and trotted ahead to catch up with Vashodia. Together, they came to stand over the body.

Vashodia motioned her backwards. “Not too close. We don’t want the samples mixing.”

“What?”

The mierothi ignored her, bending over double to inspect Rekaj. “The throat was it? Fitting, I suppose. Yes, the symmetry will be quite nice, and the scar will be a constant reminder. Would you not agree?”

Jasside’s head spun. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Why are we even here?”

Vashodia stepped closer, reaching up to pat Jasside on the cheek. Her claws pressed dimples into her skin. “Why, girl, this is your reward.”

Reward?

Vashodia’s hand moved across her face in a blur.

At first, Jasside felt nothing. Only confusion. Then, fire and pain bloomed in a line across the front of her neck. She heard the trickle of blood—
her
blood—as it dripped down onto her chest.

Jasside fell to her knees, hands grasping for her throat. Darkness closed in on her vision.

Y
ANDUMAR
YANKE
D
HIS
head back as the tip of a spear jabbed toward him. He swung upward with one of his bastard swords, pushing the spear away. His other sword thrust forward. The Imperial soldier, a man almost as large as himself, gritted his teeth as the blade plunged into his chest. His bloody hand reached up on towards the hilt, scratching at Yandumar’s fingers.

A sudden shift in the battlefield drove Quake forward. Yandumar could either hold on to the blade and risk losing his arm, or let go.

Reluctantly, his fingers uncurled. He pressed his knees together to keep upright atop the horse.

Scorch me, I loved that sword!

He’d had it since his days as an Elite, over thirty years ago. Harridan Chant had given the pair to him upon the announcement of Kaiera’s third pregnancy. He felt a twinge of pain at its loss.

He looked up and realized what had caused the shift. Imperial forces were retreating. The lines before him melted away to the northwest, and for the first time, he found himself looking upon his newest allies: the rebels of Agoritha.

A cheer arose, echoed on both sides. It warmed him, somewhat, to see that his efforts had not been in vain. Though the rebels had lost nearly half their number, the revolution had been there in time to save them from annihilation.

The archers had been able to fire from horseback, loosing a few dozen volleys as he maneuvered into position. They hadn’t been very accurate, but then they hadn’t needed to be. The Imperials were in pursuit of the rebels, and few even turned to thwart the revolution. And when only one man in four carried a shield, the tactic had proven quite effective at thinning their numbers.

He rode forward over the field of dead as the Imperials raised dust in their retreat. They still outnumbered them heavily, and the revolution support coming on foot was still at least a quarter toll out. They had no reason he could see to pull back now.

Something doesn’t feel right.

Eventually, the dust cleared. Yandumar, mounted far in front of his own forces, was the first to see them.

The Imperial army split around another group, this clustered in a mob with a dozen figures standing before it. Yandumar fished for his far-sight, then brought it to his eye. The dozen figures were mierothi, and the mob behind them was another army.

But this was not an army of men.

They were . . . creatures.

No—not creatures. Monsters.

Thirty thousand beastly forms stood stamping and growling on the field. Their bodies were twisted amalgamations—half-man, half-beast, all nightmare. He could see no pattern to their appearance. Some seemed formed from bears, others from bulls, still others from lions, with a dozen more varieties. The only thing they had in common was their grotesque nature. And their size. Each was easily thrice the mass of an oxen.

Yandumar’s chest tightened. Memories surfaced of his trips through the tunnel. Memories of tormented screams that emanated from side chambers, chilling him to the bone. Whispers of experiments performed there in the deep, in the dark. Unholy growls of things not made by any sane god.

Those same growls sounded now.

Yandumar wept.

The mierothi all gestured forward, and the mob surged into motion. Yandumar gasped as he took in how fast they were closing.

He turned, looking to the city wall. Turned back to the creatures. Closed his eyes.

We’re not gonna make it.

But it’s our only chance.

He wheeled Quake anyway, galloping toward his army. He pulled in as much breath as he could hold, then let it out in a shout.

“RETREAT!”

G
ILSHAM
ED
CASTED
,
BLASTING
another hole in the wall before them. He gestured at the figures behind him and dashed through.

There were two dozen now. He picked them up wherever he went. He found them—stewards, servants, bed slaves—all mostly huddling in groups, too frightened to even move. His charisma was enough to get their feet shuffling, but few were able to mutter anything coherent. He had to find his own way.

Voren’s power pushed out all thought, all reason, and all Gilshamed could do was revert to instinct. He was surprised to find that instinct meant to protect and to lead. Even now, as annihilation pressed down from every corner, he was glad to find a part of himself he had thought lost. A part of which he was not ashamed.

He glanced back at the figures following him blindly.

I just wish I knew where the abyss I was going.

But he had no choice. He could not turn back. He could only charge forward, praying that the old military mantra was true.

That any decision was better than no decision at all.

He entered a place that looked to have been barracks for the palace guardsmen as the writhing chaos closed in. The long chamber was full of beds and footlockers. He led his party to the far end. He energized and threw a spell at the wall.

Stone and mortar crumbled, filling the room with dust. Gilshamed looked through, expecting to see into the chamber beyond.

Instead, all he could see was bedrock.

His heart skipped a beat.

He realized, then, his mistake. At first, he had sought to go upwards, for he could fly to safety himself. But as soon as he’d taken responsibility for the scribes, he had unconsciously sought the ground floor. It appeared he had gone too far down.

A burst of power knocked against the wall opposite, like a harbinger of doom. Another, and the wall tumbled inwards.

Gilshamed cast his gaze over his sorry-looking followers as they huddled together against the wall. “I am sorry. I . . . I tried.”

The looks they returned were not as he expected. There was no hate, no anger, no accusation. Only thanks. And . . . pity.

I do not deserve such from you. I, who have led you to your deaths, deserve only scorn.

A ray of power snaked through the room. Gilshamed summoned all the power he could, casting a protective net over the group. He knew, though, that it would eventually fail.

Heat intensified on his back as death drew closer.

And now, my love, we can be together again. I am so sorry it took this long for me to join you.

He closed his eyes, welcoming the end . . .

The heat and light vanished. Gilshamed turned.

Two figures stood in the room. A man and a woman. By their weapons and armor, he recognized them for what they were.

Hardohl.

Gilshamed had never been so glad to see one.

As they stepped towards Voren, voiding another ray, Gilshamed saw the door on the side wall from which they had entered. Normally hidden, it was visible now only because the door had been left open.

He turned to his wards, pointing towards the opening. “Up! Move! Let’s go!”

It took them a moment to realize what was happening. That their deaths had been postponed. Gilshamed reached a hand to help the last few to their feet, then led them, scrambling, towards salvation.

He nearly tripped as he felt Voren’s power change. It contracted, falling in on itself. The rays shooting out in all directions vanished. Gilshamed looked towards his old friend and found himself frozen.

A tidal wave of catastrophe marked his path. Standing in the center, alone, looking so tiny, so pale, stood his kin. A man he had once called brother. Gilshamed realized that not an ounce of sorcery flowed from him. Voren was completely vulnerable.

Then, with a trembling hand, Voren reached into his robe. He extracted another vial of blood and crushed it into his palm. Gilshamed had missed the implications the first time. Now, however, he recognized exactly what was happening.

Blood scything! But that requires
living
souls to power. How the Abyss . . . ?

Then . . . he knew.

And everything changed.

Power flooded into Voren with renewed vehemence, but its flavor had changed. No longer was it chaotic, unfocused. It now growled with intent.

A hundred thousand infinitesimal strands latched onto stones and bricks, pieces of wood and broken furniture, bit of metal and glass. A cloud of debris lifted into the air.

Only two beats had passed. The Hardohl, quick as ever, had closed half the distance to Voren. But it did not matter. Objects began flying into the room at speeds to make the wind howl in jealousy. The two figures had no place to dodge. Projectiles were everywhere.

Gilshamed threw up another shield, this one kinetic. The Hardohl took the brunt of the attack, but hundreds of object still sailed towards Gilshamed and his wards. The shield held, each object bouncing off and clattering to the ground, but he strained with each passing beat to keep it in place. All thoughts of escape vanished as he poured everything he had into staying alive.