Veiled Empire (42 page)

Yandumar sighed. “It’s over.”

“No,” the mierothi woman said. “It has only just begun.”

The storm cloud re-formed. This time it banked toward the milling Imperial army.

Yandumar peered down at her, noticing for the first time her features. He was surprised to find they were familiar to those of another mierothi he knew. “Is that really necessary?”

“They stood with Rekaj. As he has died, so will they.”

Yandumar jumped off Quake and tromped towards her. “But it’s
over
. Don’t you see? If Rekaj is truly dead, then there’s no need for any more killing. It time to start thinking about mending bridges, not burning them.”

Yandumar could see she wasn’t listening. The Imperial army shivered in panic as the storm cloud neared their lines.

He peered over the crowd. None of the other women were so much as budging.
Their power must be linked. And this one woman is the conduit.

His speech rang hollow as he stepped forward, drawing his lone bastard sword.

Harridan moved between them, his own sword held at the ready. “Not another step, Yan.”

Yandumar froze. “This isn’t the way, and you know it.”

“Maybe. But I took a vow to defend Angla. You, of all people, should respect that.”

Angla? Sweet bloody abyss
. . . Yandumar was, of course, familiar with daeloth naming patterns, and knew exactly what this woman’s half-breed children would be named. And, by extension, her grandchildren.

He advanced another step. He knew he could not reason with Chant. Even if he convinced him, a vow taken by any son of Ragremos was not something that could be broken. Ever. But Angla . . . she stood in position to destroy all that
he
had fought for, the fulfillment of
his
vows.

Yandumar’s soul twisted in agony as he realized that either he or his old friend could survive this day, but not both.

Idrus dashed up to his side, twin shortswords in hand. “I stand with the Lord-General, uncle,” he called to Harridan. “We all do.” The shuffling of feet announced the arrival of the surviving Elite.

More relics out of memory joined Chant: Shadow, and five others from his old Fist. And behind them, three hundred armed men stalked forward. Yandumar closed his eyes.

God, please, not like this. Forgive me for my sins, and find for us a way out of this scorching mess.

As he opened them once more, he felt Idrus shift his gaze to the right. Yandumar followed, seeing what the ranger had a moment later.

A tiny figure dashing through the grasses. Coming in from behind the mierothi.

He looked again towards Chant. “I said I wished for no more bloodshed. Now, I’ll lead by example.” He thrust the tip of his sword back into its sheath on his back.

The rest of Mevon’s Fist did the same. Chant breathed out heavily. He and the others with him visibly relaxed.

The figure in the grasses sprang forward. A smooth, hairless head revealed itself. Familiar armor and weapons . . . and face.

Ilyem Bahkere reached out, laying a hand on Angla’s shoulder

The thrumming sorcery dissipated, and with it, the battle.

Thank God.

“It’s over,” the Hardohl said firmly. Then, turning to Yandumar, she added. “I’m sorry I did not arrive sooner. Your son showed me the way days ago, but I took too long to act on it.”

My son . . .
Yandumar nodded to her respectfully. “You’ll never know how much your arrival means to me. Thank you.”

Yandumar turned, trotting back to Quake and mounting quickly. His obligations here complete, he felt himself being pulled south towards Mecrithos.

Towards Mevon.

He feared, however, that he was already too late.

G
ILSHAMED
BRUSHED
THE
tangled hair back from Voren’s face as he knelt beside the body. The man had aged since he had last seen him. No longer young. In memory, both recent and ancient, Voren’s visage had always been full of strain and frustration, as if he had something to prove to the world but possessed not the cleverness to pull it off.

Looking upon him now, Gilshamed at last saw a measure of serenity. That only death could grant him such drove an ache of compassion through Gilshamed.

A muffled sob brought his head up. Close enough to touch sat Draevenus.

Names such as Vashodia and Rekaj had been shouted as curses by men and women alike from his armies of old. But the name Draevenus had only been murmured in hushed tones, accompanied by a wary glance around and a shiver up the spine. To see the source of grown men’s nightmares reduced to anguished weeping renewed his own sorrow, his own rage.

He bent down and kissed Voren on the forehead. “May Elos shelter your soul and guide you into paradise.” Even as he said the words, though, he could feel the hollowness of the catechism. Elos had abandoned Voren. Him, and all the rest.

A patter of steps approached from behind him. Gilshamed stood, turning to face her. “Where are my kin?” he demanded.

“So,” Vashodia said, “you’ve surmised that much on your own. Perhaps you’re not as hopeless as I assumed.”

Gilshamed set his jaw and repeated his question.

Vashodia giggled. “Why so demanding? You cannot honestly believe you’re in any position to bargain.”

“They are my blood, my responsibility. You have no right to them.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You speak of responsibility, yet you abandoned the revolution at the first hints of failure.” She sighed. “Not at all how I planned. What a disappointment you turned out to be.”

“How
you
planned?” Gilshamed closed his eyes, his mind flying through the implications. “Yandumar. You sent him for me.”

“Of course I did. And you were supposed to lead the revolution right up to these palace gates, announcing your victory for the valynkar people. At which point, your own followers would have tried to kill you.” She giggled again. “And if they failed, only then would I have stepped in.”

Gilshamed felt a twinge of guilt, for that had, at one point, been exactly his plan. He shook his head. “This land does not need me. And it certainly does not need
you
. Now, will you lead me to my kin? Or will I be forced to scour the land for years in search of them?”

“As if I’d allow that.” Vashodia’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t deserve a happy ending.”

“I know,” said Gilshamed. “But they have suffered enough.”

“Perhaps they have. But you . . .” She energized. “ . . . have not.”

Gilshamed pulled in his own power. She had embarrassed him the last time they had fought, but he had learned a thing or two since then. With her darkwisps spent, he would not prove such easy prey.

“Enough!”

Gilshamed turned at the shout. Draevenus stood behind him, eyes full of sorrow and rage.

“Enough,” Draevenus repeated, softer this time. “Sister . . . please . . . no more.”

“We cannot trust him,” Vashodia said.

“That doesn’t matter anymore. He is a member of the Valynkar High Council. If we kill him, they will know. And once the final stage of your plan is complete . . . ?”

She tapped her claws across her chin, contemplating. After several beats, she discharged her power. “Very well.”

Gilshamed, reluctantly, did the same. He peered at Draevenus, nodding with respect. “Thank you, but I do not understand why you show me such kindness.”

“The corruption at the heart of our people has been excised. I look now to the future. To draw the enmity of the valynkar is the last thing I would wish for—enough valynkar blood has been spilled,” he said quietly, looking down at Voren. Straightening, he said, “If the mierothi are to survive, we must make peace.”

Peace? I hardly know the meaning. It will be good, I think, to discover it.
Gilshamed exhaled. “Will you show me to them?”

Draevenus glanced past him towards his sister. “Can I borrow one of your bodyguards?”

Vashodia waved, looking bored. “Fine.” The male Hardohl stepped forward.

“Come, Gilshamed,” Draevenus said. “I will lead you to your kin.”

J
ASSIDE
STOOD
B
EFORE
the doors, which were forced open by debris, and stared around in confusion.

She’d sent pulses of energy outward. Hundreds in all directions. Such would have been impossible just a toll ago, but now she could perform the cast without even straining. Wherever they winked out of existence, she knew she would find voids there. She ignored the two that were with Vashodia. Instead, she had followed the trail here.

The pulses sent this way, however, had been . . . strange. Rather than disappear like a popping bubble, they had dissolved like mist before the rising sun. Now, she knew why. It appeared as though a volcano had erupted in this chamber. Nothing here could possibly be alive.

Mevon wasn’t here. But her probing had revealed no other sources in the palace. “Where are you?”

She turned to leave. A spot of sunlight streaming through the collapsed roof glinted off something near her feet. She stopped, bending to inspect it.

Sharp steel. Triangular in shape. Sticking out of the rubble and half-covered in a crust of recently molten stone. There was lettering on it. Her heart skipped a beat.

Shaking, Jasside wiped her hand across the flat of the blade.

Y
ANDUMAR
THUNDE
RED
THROUGH
the city gates. A cheer arose at his arrival. His bodyguards, now mounted themselves, fell in around him, offering escort up the main avenue of the city.

Crowds grew thick around them. Cries of joy and adulation sounded. Shouts of “Lord-General” and “savior.” Some, foolishly, even began chanting “emperor.” Yandumar ignored them all. There was only one title he wished to hear right now.

“
Father.
”

Nearer the palace, the crowds thinned, and he was able to pick up speed once more. Quake soon outpaced the horses of his guards, and Yandumar rode through the palace gates alone. The gutted husk that once housed the heart of mierothi power stood before him. He vaulted off of his mount, entering without a moment’s hesitation.

His feet sprinted forward of their own accord, pulled by an instinct he dared not ignore. The last time he had felt it had been at the battle of Thorull. There, he had been just in time to save his son, the child of his blood.

As he cut round a corner, he knew this time would be different.

Jasside knelt before an open doorway, scrambling frantically in a pile of debris. Grey soot covered her from foot to head, clinging to the tears that carved rivers down her cheeks. It took him a moment to realize what she was doing.

She was digging.

Yandumar stumbled forward. He stopped over her prostrate form, watching as she paused between each lifted stone, overcome with heaving sobs. He knelt next to her, reaching tenderly for her shoulders.

“What is it, child? What’s wrong?” Even as the words left his lips, he knew he didn’t want to find out.

But also knew he had to.

She shook her head, peering with red-rimmed eyes into his face. She pointed down. Yandumar’s gaze dropped to follow.

There, sticking out from the wreckage, lay the exposed blade of an
Andun
. Etched into the steel was a single word.

“Justice.”

Yandumar slumped into her. They embraced. His own tears flowed now, joining hers, and between them flooded an ocean of grief.

Chapter 18

V
ASHO
DIA
HAD
MADE
the announcement herself. It had been a simple matter to broadcast to the entire city. Less simple—but far more important—to repeat the message within communion to every carrier in the empire. It had been this:

Rekaj’s regime has been purged. The conflict is over. The people have won. All surviving mierothi and daeloth are hereby ordered to extricate themselves from the continent. We meet, in two months’ time, at the Taditali estate in Namerrun to stage our departure.

A flood of questions, from a thousand sources, had crashed upon her not moments from the message’s end. She’d been forced to mask her signal entirely. The most pervasive query had been in the form of a single word:
How?
Few, of course, knew of the tunnels leading to the lands beyond this continent.

Vashodia, however, did not plan on using them.

“Ready, mother?” she said.

Angla cut a sharp glance her way, saying nothing. She did not need to. Vashodia could tell exactly what she was thinking.
You can feel as well as I that our harmonization is still in progress, so hold your tongue and let me finish in peace, you impatient little tart.

Vashodia smiled to herself. Her life had been dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge. In all her research, she’d found the study of people to be the most vital. Dissections had revealed to her the pathways within the mind, and the little grey cells that controlled thought and memory, emotion and motivation, impulse and instinct. Fascinating. As such, she could, through careful analysis, narrow down the likely choices a person would make. It was as close to seeing the future as any would get.

She sighed, looking out over the crowd that had gathered. The tar pit in the center of the Ropes had been dismantled—one of Yandumar’s first decrees—and Vashodia sat cross-legged on the sand that now covered the arena floor. Three hundred of her kin stood nearby—females freed by her brother. The seats were nearly filled. Some had come out of curiosity. Others out of fear. Most, however, had come simply to witness.

The frequencies synced together at last. The crowd felt it, taking in a communal breath as the disparate vibrations became one. Vashodia energized. The five spheres in a circle around her popped open, and thousands of darkwisps sprang into the sky.

The symbiotic organisms, which clung to the identity strands in her blood, shifted into action, drawing upon the energy that bound the universe together. They touched their disembodied brethren, pulling more and more.

Vashodia directed them with her will. The darkwisps formed a funnel, its wide mouth facing down. On top, this conduit broke into smaller channels pointing out in all directions.

“Now, mother,” she said. “All I need from you is raw power. Do not bother forming it. Just send everything through the opening, and I will do the rest.”

“Are you sure we can make this work?” Angla asked.

Vashodia nodded.

Her mother frowned, softly adding, “Are you sure we
should
?”

“It has been long enough. This veiled empire can hide no more.”

With a sigh, Angla pushed her ocean of gathered energy through the funnel.

Power poured through the large conduit and into the tight channels, shooting out their ends like water from a fountain. The sky came alive at the intrusion. Vashodia hummed to herself as the dark energy strands traversed hundreds of leagues to their destinations.

Over the last few decades, she had placed her machines around the edges of the continent. Five hundred of them. Within each were housed thousands of darkwisps, the gathering of which had taken centuries. She had programmed them all with a single imperative. Now, as the power formed by Angla and directed by herself came crashing home . . . they awoke.

The lingering symbionts of the last two millennia pulsed as one. Their purpose was unified. Up and out, they spent themselves against the accident of ages past.

The sundered world shook to its very core.

The Shroud . . . shattered.

Like pressing a boot upon a saturated sponge, the darkwisps squeezed outward in all directions, finally free from their artificial constraints. The pressure had built up to its breaking point—much longer, and they would have begun devouring towns, and soon, cities. Then . . . everything. And even her own efforts to stymie them would prove insufficient.

Fly away my pets.

But now they were free to float across the oceans and seek out their cousins of the light. Free to find and annihilate each other. As they were meant to. From the information she had recovered from Ruul, their behavior of seeking living flesh was completely aberrant. The original makers had not designed such functionality.

Then again, a little degeneration is to be expected after fifteen thousand years.

Her mother, picking herself up off the ground, released her power, breaking the sync. “All the world will have felt that,” she said with awe.

“This world, yes,” said Vashodia. “And so much more.”

Angla gazed at her with bewilderment. “What?”

Vashodia giggled.

G
ILSHAMED
POURED
H
IS
will into the construct, sweating with effort. He had not slept in a week, and only ate when his body screamed at him for sustenance. This project had become the whole of his being, for it was the only thing in his life over which he had control. The only thing that made any sense.

His arms dropped as his current pool of energy was consumed. He reached for his canteen and squeezed the last few drops into his mouth, then tossed the empty skin away. He energized once more.

The design was one he had learned from the Panisahldrians. Gilshamed had scoffed when he first saw it—what valynkar would ever use such a thing?—but now, he wished he had paid closer attention. His seemed crude in comparison; a child’s attempt to mimic the adults. But, for his purposes, it would be enough.

And now, finally, it was finished. Gilshamed turned away.

The hill fort was only two klicks from the cave, and the lone squad left behind as stewards had—after some persuasion by Draevenus—brought wagons to help transport his kin. Gilshamed eyed the barracks door through which they now rested. His labors completed, he had nothing else to do but wait.

He blinked. The door opened. The sun, though hidden behind grey clouds, had shifted noticeably in the sky. Draevenus stepped out from the doorway. The mierothi looked towards him and slowly shook his head.

Gilshamed felt a hammer strike his soul.

He should have been prepared. Draevenus had told him he was not much of a healer. Had said not to hold out hope. But he could not help himself. Could not stop from dreaming dreams he had not dared to entertain in centuries. And the pain of fresh wounds, slashed across the festering of old, nearly drove him to his knees.

“I’m sorry,” Draevenus said. “I did all I could. Your people will undoubtedly have greater skill than I.”

Gilshamed nodded, grateful that this man whom he once called enemy would seek to comfort him. The sincerity of the gesture brought tears to his eyes.

“Remember this,” said Draevenus. “When you are back among the valynkar, tell them that not all of our kind are without mercy or compassion. Tell them that those responsible for the crimes of our ancient war have been punished. As my people go now to find a new place among the nations of the world, please remember that we wish only for peace.”

“I will.”

They stood facing each other for a long moment. The silence that stretched between them could not be called companionable, but still, a measure of respect persisted. Despite the despair he felt, Gilshamed had a glimmer of hope for the future.

Draevenus glanced past him. “Is it ready?”

“Yes. Please bring them out.”

The mierothi disappeared through the doorway. A mark later, carried on cushioned pallets by pairs of local soldiers, came his kin.

Gilshamed stepped into his construct, a rectangular, wagon-like vehicle, and guided the pallets into place as they came. Most of his kin slept. Some few, though, looked about lazily. He did not know what their minds perceived as their glazed eyes roamed, but it was certainly not reality. Whatever nightmare they had been trapped in all this time had taken everything from them. Not a one had any response beyond what could be expected from an infant.

He counted them as they were mounted into place. At thirty-nine, his heart began racing.

Two final pallets were lifted into his carriage. In one, the body of Voren. His pale form, so peaceful now, had been preserved within a sorcerous ward.

I take you back to our people now. You will buried on the hill of Elos’s Gaze, an honor only gifted to the greatest of the valynkar. An honor you have earned with your sacrifice.

Gilshamed guided Voren’s pallet into position, then turned to the last.

Lashriel lay atop it. Her arms rested on her stomach. Her eyes were closed. Her feet canted slightly to either side. Violet hair spread in a tangle beneath her head.

My love. . .

Gingerly, he moved his hand to her brow.

. . .
I started a war to avenge you. . .

His fingers began combing through her hair.

. . .
but now, I would tear down the heavens just to release you from this prison. . .

A sigh escaped her lips.

. . .
and sacrifice anything, just for the chance to take your place.

His fingers snagged on a tangle, jerking her head slightly. Her eyes popped open. They stared directly into his.

Gilshamed sank into his ancient memories. All the times she would look at him. The love that poured forth. The joy he felt in her presence. The peace when they embraced.

He saw none of that now. Her eyes held no recognition. Soulless. Blank.

Gilshamed extracted his fingers. Lashriel’s head lolled, facing away from him, and her eyes—blessedly—closed.

He placed her pallet closest to the front, then began strapping himself into the harness.

“Will you not rest first?” Draevenus asked.

Gilshamed shook his head. “This land and I need to be separated, and yesterday is not soon enough.” He unfurled his wings. “I cannot rest until we are gone.”

He energized, then pushed a hair of power into the control mechanism of the wagon. It lifted into the air, becoming weightless. He rose with it.

Gilshamed surged forward, slowly accelerating as he pulled the mass behind him. Soon, the land beneath him was passing by in a blur. He aimed eastward.

With his kin in tow and the wind in his face, Gilshamed flew for home.

J
ASSIDE
SHUFFLED
ALONG
quietly, just another mourner waiting for her turn to pay respects. The line stretched back behind her, all the way to the city gates, and before her just a few more steps to the raised platform overlooking the newest addition to the landscape.

A mound rose like the back of a slumbering giant, marking the mass grave that held all the fallen from the battle. The dead, from both sides, were honored here for their sacrifice.

Many women in line wore the full accoutrements of widows in mourning: lacy black fabric covering every bit of skin, and a veil hanging over the eyes. Jasside had considered donning the same but discarded the idea as being presumptuous. She’d settled instead for a plain black dress.

Her hands were held together at her waist, carefully cupping a small object as she stepped closer to the platform. It was almost her turn. The man who now stood upon its edge tossed a coin onto the mound, lingered a moment, then turned to make way for the woman behind him.

A pile glittered in the dirt. Not just coins either, but also trinkets and baubles, statues and knives, anything people had that held significance to them. All given away freely. Thousands of pieces already, with thousands more to come. A squad of soldiers stood guard to prevent their theft.

Jasside had thought long about her own show of respect. And with the power she now possessed,
show
indeed it could be. She’d pondered any number of grand gestures, from erecting a statue to summoning a permanent rain cloud above the barrow. But she’d dismissed them all. Such an act would only draw attention to herself, not the dead, and accomplish the opposite of her purpose in coming.

With a start, she realized no one else stood between her and the platform. She took a deep breath and walked up the wooden steps. Capping her emotions under a tight lid, she peered down upon the barrow.

Over two hundred thousand bodies lay interred beneath the soil. But the pain lancing across her soul was only for one.

They’d found only charred flesh beneath the crust. Not a single body from the chamber could be identified, and even the bones had been scattered. Only by the presence of each
Andun
, which had all escaped unmarred, were they able to know for certain who had perished there. Still, they’d scraped together what they could, placing the remains at rest alongside these fellow fallen.

Mevon. . .

Tears came to her eyes. Unbidden, but not unwelcome.

You gave to me, for a short while, a gift that I will cherish forever. A gift that I did not deserve. A gift that I had long since given up on ever finding. For that, my heart will always belong to you.

Jasside opened her hands, revealing the smelling-box trinket. It was the first device she’d ever made, beautiful for its simplicity and its purpose.

She tossed it forward.

Jasside turned and walked down the steps, and another took her place. A single thought ran through her mind, repeating itself over and over:

I have nothing left.

Her mother was dead. Her brother, too. And the man she would have loved lay in pieces beneath the dirt.

But the thought cut both ways.

Justice had been done to those responsible for her mother’s death. Her brother’s sacrifice had been justified by the victory of the revolution. Mevon, though gone, had awakened within her the ability to connect, to care for another, to love.