Veiled Empire (16 page)

He slammed a fist into the table.

“Darkwisps,” he said to himself, “consuming entire villages. What else could I have missed?”

And the girl had been hiding something. He could tell. What she saw in the vision had terrified her, but she had not revealed all of what it was.

“Just one more thing of which I am ignorant.”

Gilshamed punched the table again.

He had ample time to plan for every eventuality of this revolution during his exile, and pulling souls to a cause—
his
cause—had always come naturally to him. The oppressed outnumbered the oppressors ten thousand to one, and countless men and women would rise up at his calling. He had hoped that alone would have carried them to victory.

Yet every step forward showed him how little he actually controlled things.

Something was out there, lurking in the darkness. Not the mierothi, not the darkwisps, not the enemy he had chosen or the possibility of death. It was a broken memory, a collage of shattered images whose meaning is lost in the chaos of itself. The shadow on the horizon of perception.

Uncertainty.

He pounded the table once more, jarring the metal figurines, as if he could obliterate his own doubt with brute force.

As much as he embodied the ideals of his people, a perfect portrait of a true valynkar, there was one trait he possessed that was considered aberrant.

The will to act.

“If only we had not squabbled among ourselves. If only we had united as a people and stood together against them . . . nothing could have stopped us.

“How differently things would have turned out. For everyone.”

“Thought you said bad things happened to anyone messing with time. Yet here you are, wishing to change the past.”

Gilshamed turned. Yandumar stood just inside the outer flap.

“How long have you been there, Yan?”

Yandumar shrugged. “Long enough. Listen, you can’t beat yourself up about the past, especially when the mistakes weren’t really your fault.”

“I know.” Gilshamed sighed. “It is just—”

“No more, ya’ hear? We gotta look forward now. We all need you, and being distracted ain’t helping things none.”

Gilshamed bowed his head, gritting his teeth yet feeling a smile overcome him all the same. “Again, you remind me why I keep you around.”

“Ha! And don’t you forget it.”

No need to worry about that, friend. Forgetting is something I can never do.

“They’re all waiting, Gil. Can I let ’em in?”

“By all means.”

Yandumar lifted up the flap and whistled. Figures began filing in. Gilshamed waited patiently, righting all the figurines knocked over by his outbursts.

“Welcome,” he said after the last had entered, “to this, the first official war council of the revolution.”

“About time,” Mevon said. His captains grunted agreement. “Any reason you waited so long?”

Because I do not answer to anyone, no matter how potent an ally they may be.

But Gilshamed just smiled. “Forgive me. I am a patient man and sometime forget what it is like to be—”

“Human?” said Mevon.

“Just so.”

Mevon did not seem pleased by that response.

“Also,” continued Gilshamed, “we were not before in a position to enact any plans. Now, we are. Now . . . we
will
.”

He turned his attention on the bandit queen. “Slick Ren, I asked you sometime ago to do a favor for me. Please inform the others what it entailed.”

A wry grin slowly spread on her face.
Clever girl.

“You asked me to send men to watch the mierothi. All of them in this prefecture. Study their movements, their schedules. Learn their routines and”—she snorted laughter—“their weaknesses.”

“And they have succeeded at this task?”

“Yes. Quite thoroughly, I might add.”

“Excellent. Then we move forward as planned.”

He scanned the faces in the room, witnessing the fear and excitement and determination sprouting in various degrees upon each. They knew what he was about to say. It almost did not need to be uttered.

“We are going to eradicate the mierothi in this prefect. All of them at once.”

Silence hung as his audience absorbed the news.

“How?” Mevon asked.

“In ten days, there will be a meeting in each of the five cities. It occurs on the same day every month. Three mierothi in the district capitals, and twice that in Thorull. We will divide our forces and hit them all simultaneously.”

Mevon clenched his jaw, staring dangerously at Gilshamed. “You’re mad.”

Gilshamed was prepared for such a divisive response, but its vehemence still sent a shudder up his spine. “Think about it, Mevon. They think we are still on the run, cowering in fear before the empire’s supposed might. The mierothi think themselves safe. What better time to strike than now?”

“I . . .” Mevon shook his head. “I don’t like the idea of splitting ourselves. Any attack on the mierothi has a much better chance of succeeding if I am there.”

“You will be. In Thorull. But news of our first blow will spread quickly, and the others will become alerted, defensive. It
must
be this way.”

Mevon glanced around, looking like he was measuring the others’ sympathy. He must not have found the support he hoped for. He turned his head back to Gilshamed and gave a reluctant nod. “Fine. How are we going to divide our forces? And who will lead them?”

Gilshamed breathed heavily. “Now, Mevon, you will see why we thought it important to recruit not just you, but also your men.

“You see, when it comes to planning and executing raids and ambushes, particularly against casters, there are none better in this world than the Elite. And your Fist has proven to be peerless in this regard.”

Mevon turned to his captains, eying them each in turn. One after another, and without hesitation, they each gave him a nod. He turned back. “Very well. But I only have three captains, and there are four locations.”

“Is there not some among your Fist who are prepared to lead should your captains fall? Some being groomed for the task?”

“Ivengar,” Tolvar said.

“Aye,” Arozir said. “And Ropes.”

Idrus nodded. “Those two together can do as good a job as any of us.”

Mevon rubbed his chin. “All right, but how should we man each expedition? Each mierothi will have no less than fifty men guarding him at any time, four of which are daeloth. This will be no easy task.”

“One squad plus three rangers to each,” said Tolvar.

“And three casters for communication and distraction,” said Arozir. He arched an eyebrow at Gilshamed.

Gilshamed faced Jasside and Orbrahn. “I trust you two can choose suitable candidates?”

“Yes, Gilshamed,” Jasside said. Orbrahn nodded with a shrug.

Idrus turned to Slick Ren. “How many of your men are at each site?”

“Twenty, for now.”

“They have crossbows?”

She nodded. “And deadly with them at fifty paces or less.”

“Good.” Idrus faced his fellow captains. “Think another two hundred will do?”

“Aye,” Tolvar said. “Veterans, if possible. Can’t have anyone freezing up.”

“All right,” Mevon said. “Get Ivengar and Ropes and flesh out the rest of the details tonight.” He swung back to Gilshamed. “That about covers the other locations. What’s the plan for Thorull?”

Gilshamed smiled. “In Thorull, we will show the mierothi the true depth of our resolve.” He raised a clenched fist in front of him. “And tear off the veil that has long hidden this land.”

Chapter 9

D
RAE
VENUS
STOOD
IN
the middle of the rut-worn road, smelling mud as he leaned on a gnarled shepherd’s crook. His ragged cloak flapped madly in a wind that chilled his bones as it whistled through the evergreen forest behind him and turned the field of knee-high grasses into a sea during storm. The sun was but marks from reaching full noon.

He’d chosen this spot carefully. After finally catching up to those he sought, he’d dashed ahead—their route was no secret—and spent the night preparing the grounds, memorizing every tree trunk and blade of grass and boulder. Sharpening his blades and his senses.

Let my arrangements be all in vain.

He feared, however, that such hopes were the hopes of fools.

The stench of unwashed bodies drifted on the breeze to his nose, just beats before the mud-muffled sound of hooves reached his ears. Half a mark later, the first horse came into view from the shadows of the trees three hundred paces to his front.

Draevenus coiled every muscle but did not budge a finger.

A two-horse team pulled every wagon, a daeloth for a driver, and a score of bedraggled bodies in the beds. All men. None seemed particularly unhappy, making Draevenus wonder what lies had been told them. The train reached its end, fifteen wagons all told, just as the lead driver seemed to acknowledge the existence of someone in his way. He didn’t make to slow down. Thirty paces separated Draevenus from them.

Draevenus slammed the staff into the ground. The spells he had stored there released, shaking the ground for half a klick in all directions.

Horses reared, shrieking. Some bolted, while others froze in terror. The cries of startled men rose in cacophony, drowning out the efforts of the daeloth who were attempting to bring their animals under control.

It took half a mark, but at last the drivers had the horses settled. The general rumble of voices died down. Dozens of stares beamed at him, alternatively frightened and angry. Most of the angry ones were from the daeloth.

Draevenus cleared his throat, then called out across the narrow field. “I would speak to your leaders. Now, if you please.”

The command had the desired effect. Thirty daeloth, two from each wagon, emerged and stepped to the sides of the road. They approached with caution. Hands were on weapons, but none had yet drawn. A cluster made their way to the front.

One stepped forward, skin like chocolate bark and hair a fop of coal-turned-ash. He looked to be about four hundred, well past retirement age for a daeloth. All but a few, the trio closest, were on the opposite end of the spectrum, looking like they’d been out of training a handful of years only.

Draevenus, his head still concealed beneath his hood, addressed the foremost daeloth. “You speak for these?”

“I do.”

“What’s your name? Rank?”

“Tursek Grenalsco. None here have any rank though I was once a general. Who the bloody abyss are you?”

“Who I am does not matter. I am here to make you an offer.”

Tursek arched an eyebrow. “Oh, really?” He stepped closer. “That was a neat trick you pulled with the groundquake. It might have impressed some of the younger ones, but I’ve been around awhile. I could probably replicate the effects myself with enough time. So, tell me, why should I stand here and listen to you one beat longer?”

Tursek drew his sword and began energizing. Twenty-nine others followed suit.

Draevenus sighed. “War is coming—”

“Doesn’t concern us.”

“Oh, but it does. Some have already turned their attention to your little outfit. Some who want to put a stop to what goes on in Verge.”

Tursek froze midstep, eyes widening. “How—?”

“
I
know. Will you hear my terms?”

The daeloth leader sagged, looking back at the other veterans. One shrugged, another shook his head, and the last simply stared.

Tursek turned back. “What is your . . . offer?”

At least they are willing to listen. Better, so far, than I had anticipated.
“Leave now. All of you. Leave these men in my care. Do not return to Verge or attempt to communicate with any of the phyzari there. Early retirement.”

“In exchange for what?”

“Your lives.”

Tursek scoffed. “You are one against thirty. Who are you to threaten us?” He shook his head, signaling with his hands
~six~flank~
on either side. “I think we will follow orders instead. I don’t care how good you thi—”

His words cut off as Draevenus flung off his cloak. Tursek’s expression widened as he appraised Draevenus. The blackened chain mail, dark bands of leather holding twoscore throwing knives and no less than six long-bladed daggers, a body coiled like a serpent, a face of serenity, the visage of a legend—these things, Draevenus knew, all took their toll on the aging daeloth in the span of a heartbeat.

Tursek stopped in his tracks.

“Last chance,” Draevenus said.

Tursek sagged farther than before. Eyes full of resignation stared. Blinked.

Maybe this won’t come to bloodshed after all?

The next moment gave lie to the hope.

Having received no further orders, the flanking daeloth each casted: a prebattle self-blessing. Standard procedure. It drained their reserves. They all began recharging as they surged forward at a speed greater than that normally achievable by mortals.

Not fast enough.

Draevenus grabbed a throwing knife in each hand and hurled them out, one each at the groups to the sides. They were bunched close as they approached. The center daeloth reached up a sword to deflect the spinning steel.

At impact, the spells stored within the small hunks of metal discharged. Swaths of hungry, dark power raked out in a deadly sphere. The air thrummed with virulence. A dozen throats cried out as the energy scored their bodies, consuming. Then . . .

Silence.

Tursek and the three veterans casted direct spells at Draevenus. He energized and motioned backwards, shadow-dashing two hundred paces into the folds of the forest behind him. Their spells churned grass and soil and stripped bark from trees, crackling with hatred. The rest of his opponents began moving forward.

Raw sorcerous capacity had never been his strength. Such gifts fell to the likes of Vashodia and Rekaj, as well as others now in positions of affluence. But what he lacked in power, he made up for in speed and efficiency.

Energizing to full in under a beat, he blessed himself, feeling a surge of strength, speed, and awareness bolster his body. Though weak among the mierothi, he was still far more powerful than any daeloth, and the blessings he gave himself reflected the disparity.

Of course, the act gave his position away. Nearly a score of spells careened towards him. Dark lightning, blue-purple spheres or jets of flame, flattened discs of razor-sharp air—all standard castings, learned within the first two years after emergence. His opponents had no imagination.

Draevenus energized again as he dodged the spells. He crept forward. Tree to tree. Staying in shadow. He reached the edge of the tree line and peered out at the daeloth. They had spread out and were moving cautiously towards the forest.

Draevenus picked up a stone to which a thin, invisible wire had been attached. He aimed behind him and pushed with sorcery. The stone flew. The wire pulled, releasing a dozen catches to a dozen traps stacked against the tree line. Small objects, glinting in sunlight, flew towards his adversaries.

Eight daeloth flung themselves onto the ground. One was too slow. He raised a blade to deflect the projectile. Draevenus saw him wince as it made contact.

The object bounced off sword and chest and fell harmlessly to the ground.

Tursek shouted, “It’s a diversion! Up fools!”

Draevenus flung two more knives toward the veterans. As they sailed, he drew a pair of long daggers and shadow-dashed forward.

His blade sank into the heart of the slowest one. He gestured at the ground, casting. A wall of flame and smoke rose up, obscuring him and the scrambling daeloth. He sprinted, his speed enough to impress even Hardohl. A foot of thick steel—enchanted to never dull or break—swung with the strength of a bull and with perfect accuracy was more than sufficient to decapitate his next opponent.

Five paces beyond, another met the same fate, this one having risen as far as his knees before losing his head.

The sound of his thrown knives exploding behind him announced at least two new victims. Screams rising, just as quickly extinguished.

The next daeloth in line managed to lift a sword in defense. Draevenus swung out his right hand, batting it away, and drove his left dagger up through the jaw and into the brain. The blade caught on the skull, so Draevenus left it behind and drew another.

Three more.

These last had recovered. The middle one readied his sword, while the outer pair thrust a hand forward, discharging a beam of pure, destructive energy. He leapt, and the beams scythed beneath him.

The middle daeloth thrust his sword to impale him, and simultaneously cast a web of crackling sorcery. Draevenus had no way to alter course, so he plunged straight into it.

One of his charms activated. The sensation of icy burning grabbed hold of his chest, where the device lay pressed against his skin. Draevenus could feel the power of his enemy’s spell diminish as he passed through. Pain lanced across his whole body but not enough to damage or disable.

Draevenus kicked aside the sword with an armored boot, then landed on the daeloth, his momentum crashing them both to the ground.

Twin swords swung down on both sides. Draevenus turned the one on the right, leaning that way to avoid the other. Not far enough. The tip scraped across his ribs. He heard the metallic clinking as the links of his chain mail parted, and a gash two fingers deep spurted the first of his blood.

He pressed his right hand down, cutting across thigh and groin. His left foot kicked up and shattered the wrist of the one who had cut him.

He rose, spinning. Slightly off-balance, he aimed both daggers for throats. He didn’t miss.

Coming out of his spin, Draevenus drove both blades down into the skull of the daeloth he had landed on.

Draevenus sensed the castings and felt the familiar sensation of sucking air. He cartwheeled to the side as the first pair shadow-dashed through his wall of smoke. Their blades passed bare hands away from where his head had been.

He sheathed his daggers and righted himself as the next two came through. Hands thrust out, he intercepted them midair with twin arcs of dark lightning. Their bodies writhed and jolted, slamming into the ground mere paces away. He kept casting another beat to ensure they did not stand again.

A body crashed into him from the side.

They flew, skidding along the ground and colliding with the first pair. They all tangled together in a mess of limbs and torsos and armor and weapons. He pressed against the ground, righting himself.

Two more shadow-dashed out of the forest. He sidestepped the first, scoring a dagger against the daeloth’s abdomen. The second slammed into his back, forcing him, once more, to the ground.

Two more arrived in a swirl of darkness.

The next few moments were a frantic scrabble. They had him surrounded. Six against one. Draevenus spun and dodged, kicked and parried, ducked and slashed.

And prayed.

He took a wound across his right cheek and left ear, barely brushed aside a swing that would have severed his thigh, and felt steel penetrate skin on his left side shoulder and ribs, as well as both calves.

In desperation, Draevenus gathered power into his fist and slammed it into the ground. The shock wave lifted his attackers, pushing them back several paces. He aimed for a dark spot in the forest and shadow-dashed into it.

He pulled his hood forward and squatted behind a thick trunk, willing himself to silence, stillness. The trees were tall, thick, and the shadows deep. He had only to wait for them to enter.

He felt them approach. They stopped at the tree line, sending aimless spells crisscrossing through the woods. Trying to flush him out. Draevenus did not move a muscle. Not even when a jet of flame passed less than a pace away.

Slowly, their feet began scraping against the underbrush.

Draevenus smiled.

They thought to hunt him, but it was he that did the hunting. He stalked to within paces, undetected, not a breath of sorcery to aid him. In under a mark, he had effected four silent kills.

Two left. They discovered, too late, their missing companions and came together, standing back-to-back in a small, sunlit clearing.

The need for subtlety past, Draevenus energized fully and cast a volley of arrow-like projectiles at the pair.

The first . . . shredded. His body was replaced in an instant by a cloud of blood and bone and splintered armor. The second managed a hasty shield. This absorbed the energy of the spells. For a few beats, at least. The daeloth was outmatched, however, and the shield soon failed, its owner succumbing as had the first.

Draevenus marched towards the wagons. Halfway there, he stopped. He’d heard a scraping sound in the grass. He went over to inspect.

Tursek was there, dragging himself along a trail of blood that leaked from his rib cage.

“I’m sorry it had to be this way,” Draevenus said. “If I could have accomplished my goals without bloodshed . . . I would have.”

Tursek spat blood towards Draevenus. “You’ll not find Verge so easy to penetrate.”

I like that he thinks thirty-to-one odds is considered easy for me.

Draevenus looked down at himself, at the wounds and blood, far too much of which were his own. “I’ll admit I’m a bit . . . rusty. Unfortunate as this encounter was, it served well as a reminder of what I once was. What I need to become again if I’m to succeed.”

“So glad our deaths could help . . .” Tursek coughed, winced, sucked in a rasping breath, “ . . . prepare you.”

Draevenus closed his eyes, taking several calming breaths.