Veiled Empire (19 page)

It is well. More will come. What we have lost today in manpower we have gained back in reputation tenfold.

Already, as casters moved around the field of broken bodies, administering healing to those who could be saved, curious civilians had flocked to the scene. His men had orders to keep them out but not to prevent them from seeing. Or from witnessing that which was mounted on stakes at both of the park’s gates.

Mierothi heads.

The crowds would talk. The word would spread. The revolution had killed six mierothi, and all of their guards, in broad daylight, in the middle of the prefecture capital. A flying, golden man had weathered the worst the mierothi could conjure, and men of every station—from lowly peasant to unstoppable Hardohl—had joined in the battle.

Yes. Let news spread. Let the emperor shake in fear of what we have done. Let him know that this is just the beginning and that this empire is veiled no more. Its people now know their oppressors are not invincible. Someone has stood up to them and prevailed. Spectacularly.

Gilshamed, arms crossed, allowed himself a smile.

A man rushed through the eastern gate, wearing a haggard look. He looked around frantically for a moment before his eyes fell across Yandumar and he bolted in that direction. Gilshamed moved closer as the man gave a report.

Gilshamed came to Yandumar just as the man saluted and rushed away. “What is that about?” he asked.

Yandumar turned to him. His shoulders slumped as he said, “Scout from the eastern city gate. There’s an army approaching.”

“How many?”

“He said that the hills were buried beneath them,” Yandumar said.

“Masri,” Mevon said. “And her host. It has to be.”

Gilshamed’s spine went cold.
Forty thousand . . . we’re not ready to face that. Not yet.
“Give the order. Full retreat. Out the western gate.”

“On it,” said Yandumar. “Let’s move!”

V
OREN
SWEAT
ED
BENEATH
his grey furs. The crowd below huddled together, bundled in coats and hats and gloves to stave off the chill of late autumn, red noses visible on those closest. The masses blurred all the way to the palace gates, a swaying sea of brown and orange and yellow. Close to fifty thousand souls by Voren’s estimation.

They came because they were told to. Because the emperor had commanded that the compound be full, so that as many ears as possible could hear what he had to say. Voren wondered, with no small amount of trepidation, if this had something to do with the revolution. When the voltensus had been destroyed, the palace had been full of angry mierothi. But now . . .

Now, it was not anger on their faces, on their lips, in their behaviors and stances. It was fear. Cold, mortal fear.

Voren bent his head next to Kael. “What do you think happened?”

Kael, ever dour, had on the blankest expression Voren had ever seen on the man. The very lack spoke volumes about the Hardohl’s effort to conceal his true feelings.
Ah, but what is it, exactly, that you are trying to hide?

Kael slowly turned his head and eyes up to Voren. “Don’t know. It’s serious, though. Rekaj don’t hardly ever make public speeches.”

Voren nodded absently, scanning across the balcony to where the council stood. No one spoke, the mood too dour for even the most basic of civilities. Only Truln held something on his face other than shock. The Imperial chronicler seemed to be taking mental notes. Voren stepped over to him.

“Good to see you, Truln. You reckon this is a day for the Chronicles?”

Truln blinked rapidly. “Uh, hello, Voren. Yes. Yes I do.”

“Why is that?”

Truln opened his mouth, then shut it quickly. A long moment passed before he was able to re-form words. “Just wait for the emperor’s announcement. It should answer . . .” he paused, frowning. “You’ll understand soon enough.”

“Of course,” Voren said. “I suspect his speech will prove most enlightening.”

Truln stared at Voren, wide-eyed. He pressed his lips together, shook his head, and said no more.

Voren peered at the rest of the council but dared not approach any of them. Few looked on him as anything other than a leashed pet, and the tether connecting him to Kael did not help the image. No, now was not the time to speak to them. But he could watch.

Kitavijj, the mother phyzari. Head of the group of mierothi women who monitored every birth in the empire, keeping careful tabs on the number of casters born, as well as finding every last void. Finding, and ensuring no questions remained. No loose ends. No witnesses. Her jaw hung open, and her glazed eyes gazed unflinchingly onto the ledge.

Lekrigar, the high regnosist. His order was devoted to the furthering of knowledge both magical and mundane, conducting experiments of every kind. Horrific, gut-wrenching experiments. He sat, arms crossed, legs twitching up and down in a staccato beat.

Jezrid, the marshal adjudicator. His network of listeners and hidden daggers had been running ragged chasing rumors of dissent, only to find themselves blindsided by the very real revolution popping up in the one place they hadn’t bothered to look. He stood rigid, jerking his head and body around at every sound, as if expecting assassins to jump out at any moment.

Grezkul, the supreme arcanod. Over a million men under his command. Yet even he could not control the look of despair that plagued his features.

They each collectively inhaled as the emperor strode onto the balcony.

Rekaj stepped up on the podium. He swept his robes around as his eyes glared over those assembled behind him. Voren felt a lump forming in his throat as that piercing gaze passed his position.

The emperor sneered, then turned to face the crowd.

“Listen, you mewling masses. Listen and heed this warning. Today, the blood of my kin has been shed. Eighteen of my brothers and sisters breathed their last upon the mortal plane. Murdered by insurgents. By people just like you.

“What have I to say in response? Just this. Anyone involved in this rebellion will be hunted down and exterminated. Anyone helping them will by flayed alive. Anyone whispering of their deeds with smiles on their lips will instead find smiles on their throats. Anyone so much as thinking of aiding them in the smallest way will be burned alive.”

Rekaj paused. The words sank into the crowd, and a hush fell over them, making a graveyard seem a boisterous place. Voren felt his pulse racing, his breath become shallow and strained.
Well done, Rekaj. If I am any indication, you have put the fear of the gods back into them.

The emperor, however, was not finished.

“My agents tell me that there are sympathizers among us, even now. Right here in this crowd. Never let it be said that I am not a man of my word.”

With that, he raised his hand, forming a fist, then let it fall.

It began with the bowmen. Stationed atop the outer walls as well as the roofs of the buildings in the causeway, they released a barrage aimlessly into the crowd.

Guardsmen poured out of every gate leading to the square, formed lines, and began advancing. They cut down all in their path, and as packed as the area was, no one had any chance to run.

I take it back. You are a fool, Rekaj. The biggest fool this world has ever seen.

The council, as one, stepped up to the edge of the balcony. Voren sensed them energizing.
By Elos, no!

The emperor leading them, the six mierothi cast their spells into the screaming, desperate crowd.

Tornadoes of dark energy, swirling with destruction, churned through the seething mass of flesh, ripping bodies and spraying skin and blood and bone and pulpy chunks of human meat into the air. This excrement fell upon others, claiming even more victims.

Voren turned away, his stomach wrenching. He fought to keep its contents down. He closed his eyes and tried to will away the sounds of death and panic below him.

His efforts to block out the world only served to plunge him into nightmares of memory.

Voren’s mind conjured the scene. A familiar one. The one he strove to run from every time his mind’s eye was opened.

The day of the Cataclysm.

He saw himself, bound, as were twoscore of his kin. His brothers in arms who had all fallen into the mierothi trap. Lashriel tied up at his side. She was praying.

Vashodia, Rekaj, and Gandul—the second emperor—arguing. The entire nation of the mierothi gathered around them. Finally, Gandul sighing and nodding. Vashodia scowling. Rekaj twisting his mouth in suppressed glee.

They took their places. Emperor Gandul initiated, and the thousand surviving mierothi harmonized with him. It took almost a toll to finish.

When they had linked, all eyes turned to the ten thousand captured soldiers, bound together in a massive mound of wood and hay. The stench of oil. A hundred torches touching within beats of each other. Blazing. As grand a funeral bier as ever there was. The sickly-sweet smell of roasting human flesh. The choking smoke.

Blood sacrifice. To empower the casting.

And oh how it had.

Voren’s memory blanked out, and when it returned . . . the world had changed.

Gandul was dead. The land was shaking. The enemies of the mierothi had been swallowed up, the Chasm now their grave. The sky became an electrified web as the Shroud first fell into place.

And Voren’s shackles were removed.

He had shaken his head to the accusing stares of his kin.
I do this to save you. How can you not see that?

Lashriel had said nothing. A single tear had fallen, carving a ragged river down her dust-strewn cheek. Then she turned away.

Maybe one day, you will thank me. Maybe one day, you and he may find it in your hearts to forgive me.

Voren blinked. Save for him and Kael, the balcony was empty. The slaughter of the crowd had diminished, and the square was a scattered mess of broken bodies, bone and flesh and bloody swaths of shredded clothes. The stillness of death hung over like a miasma. Anything living had long since fled.

But my day of redemption has not yet come.

Perhaps it never will.

Chapter 10

S
NOW
FELL
,
AND
Draevenus set fire to the last wagon. Ten gathered around him to bask in the warmth of the blaze.

He would not call them good men. Those volunteering for their particular brand of service were rarely men of high moral standards. Greedy, lustful, scum of the world—these were the words that usually came to mind. Most did not belie this conception.

These ten, though . . . Draevenus would not entrust them with much. But after spending a week among those he had freed, they were the best he had to work with. Men, he hoped, who would at least keep their word.

At least so long as he paid well.

Draevenus threw down the last of the coin sacks that had belonged to the daeloth. “This should keep you for a while. Spend it well.”

They dug in, greedily, dividing the contents among themselves. Perfectly evenly, he was sure.

Once the gold had all disappeared into each man’s preferred hiding place, one of them had the courage to ask a question. “You ready to tell us what the abyss this is all about, honored one?”

Draevenus sighed. When he had first taken over the convoy, he had told them that he had saved them from a fate worse than death and that their only hope of survival was to do exactly as he said.

Fear, greed, curiosity, and deeply ingrained obedience had all served to keep them in line. Now, however, he owed them the truth. Most of it, anyway.

“When you were chosen for this,” Draevenus said, “what were you told it was for?”

They all chuckled. “Them daeloth said some horny mierothi women needed fresh studs to keep them entertained for the winter,” said one of the men.

“Said we’d have every luxury imaginable, so long as we kept them satisfied,” said another.

“And once they grew bored with us, a fat purse o’ gold for our service.” This drew another round of laughter.

Draevenus gritted his teeth.
So close to the truth, yet still so deceiving.
“A hard bargain to reject. But this was, of course, a lie.”

Grumbles of “thought as much” and “I knew it!” and “told ya’ so” were murmured among his listeners. “What
was
waiting for us, then?” the first one asked.

“A dark fate. One that may well be worse than death. But this I cannot say for certain, for I have never experienced either, myself.”

The mutterings took on a bleaker, quieter tone.

Finally, one man, the youngest of the bunch, asked, “Why did you save us?”

Draevenus sighed. How much to tell them? “I can’t reveal too much, you understand. When you do not arrive, people may come looking. They likely have already been sent. If I tell you my plans . . .” he raised his arms, a gesture of helplessness.

A chorus of nods answered, urging him to continue.

“Still,” he continued. “I didn’t want to leave you unaware of the danger. Nor without means of surviving the winter.

“You see . . . I,” Draevenus paused. “I need your help.”

Confused, they looked at each other. “What for?”

“I’ve spread three hundred men among the towns and villages of this region. Ten different locations. They have enough money to last a week. You ten have the rest of it. Long-distance travel is suicide this far south with winter already in its fury.”

Though not men of brilliance, realization was slowly dawning on their faces.

One of them piped up. “You want us to stay here and keep the rest in place. We get it. Still don’t answer why, though.”

Draevenus closed his eyes. “If all goes well, I may need you to fulfill part of your original service arrangement. Though not in the way you might expect.”

Silence fell as befuddlement struck their faces. He could almost see their imaginations running rampant with possibilities of both the tempting and spine-chilling varieties.

“And if you do as I ask, you will find yourself with the deep, personal gratitude of a mierothi . . .”

Lean them over a precipice. . .

“ . . . and, of course, a fat purse of gold for your . . . service.”

. . .
and push them off the edge.

Draevenus lined them up and shook each of their hands, gathering their solemn oaths in the process. When the last had passed, he said to them, “You’ve each given your promise, and you have mine in return. So long as I draw breath, and so long as you keep your end, I will fulfill this bargain.”

He reached down and took up his travel pack and took two steps away from the fire. “Oh, and if any man chooses not to keep his word, and decides to take the money I have already given you and run? I will hunt you down and kill you. And when it comes to the business of death, there is no better, in all this world, than I.”

Smiling, Draevenus left them, heading deeper into the woods. Farther south. Farther towards danger. Farther towards the hope his people so desperately needed.

A
ROUND
THE
FIRE
were gathered his fellow victors, all basking in the glow of each other’s company. Yandumar couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt anything like it. The joy, camaraderie, the gratefulness to be alive—he’d missed it all.

There was too little of it these days, and not just among the soldiers of the revolution. It was as if the whole continent held its breath, waiting for the bad times to pass, forgetting what it was to celebrate—to live.

Now the ripples of their victory were spreading out. Hopes and dreams were newly awakened from their long sleep, manifesting into conscious thoughts of freedom.

And so, they came.

They’d left Thorull with less than nine hundred, and by the time all the groups had rendezvoused, they numbered greater than four thousand. The four other raids had succeeded, numerically, far greater than the main group. Mevon had lost only six of his Elite, and less than a hundred other soldiers paid the final price. For that, twelve mierothi, forty-eight daeloth, and six hundred darkwatch met their end. A good exchange by any measure.

But their losses were dwarfed by the number of new recruits. They now stood at fifteen thousand, just in the main army, with almost three thousand more operating as listeners, recruiters, spies and scouts, and supply runners. Gilshamed had also dispatched a few hundred special messengers, sending instructions to the sleeper cells prepositioned in every corner of the empire.

And even with all that, this surge of fresh troops was only the beginning.

Yandumar smiled as he thought about what came next. About what would happen at the end.

“Thinking about your lady friend again, father?”

Yandumar started. Mevon had crept up on him though he had no idea how a man of his size managed that. His son sat on the fallen log next to him, holding a plate brimming with steaming meat. The savor of the aroma drove his belly to grumbling.

“Ha! I don’t think she’d take too kindly to you calling her ‘lady,’ son. And no, it wasn’t her I was thinking about.”

“What then?” Mevon took a mouthful, which consisted of nearly half a leg of turkey.

Yandumar sighed. “Been thinking ’bout the end of all this. When we done what needs doing, and all my promises have been fulfilled.”

“Promises? You mean the ones you made to Gilshamed?”

Yandumar tensed up. “Yes. Of course.”

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

Abyss take your perceptiveness.
“Nothing. It’s . . .”

He stopped, as a woman had walked up and halted before them. Yandumar was thankful for the interruption. “Bellanis?” he said. “What can I do for ya’?”

She blinked over at him. “Oh! Yandumar. Hello.” Though it was hard to tell in the firelight, Yandumar thought she was blushing. “I just came to, um, congratulate Mevon.” She turned back, locking eyes with his son.

“Yes . . . Bellanis,” Mevon said, as if trying out her name. “Thank you again for heeding my instructions at Thorull.”

“Of course.” She cleared her throat. “I watched you the entire battle. The way you fought . . . it was spectacular.”

Mevon smiled. “Thank you.”

Her eyes flashed over to Yandumar.
I know how to take a hint, darling.
He stood. “Well, I think it’s about time I got some food myself. You two enjoy yourselves.” He stepped away, and Bellanis immediately took the seat he had just vacated.

Watch yourself, son. This one has claws.

He laughed as he realized that was probably exactly how Mevon preferred them. Not that he blamed him. Yandumar liked his women the same way. Kaiera had had a temper to make the emperor cringe and a right hook to back it up. And Slick Ren . . .

Kaiera, dear. I’ll never stop loving you. Though you may curse me for a sentimental fool, I think I’m ready to let you go. Now, maybe, I could love someone else without tarnishing the memory of our time together.

He spotted Slick Ren at the next fire over, smiled, and began heading her way.

He was almost there when Jasside stepped in his way. She opened her mouth to speak but before she could utter a single word, Yandumar noticed her eyes flit past him to where Mevon was sitting. Mevon and Bellanis.

A look of outrage flared. It was quickly replaced by one of confusion. Then wonder. Then anger. Then sorrow.

Scorch me, the mind of a woman is a terrible thing.
Yandumar cleared his throat. “You need something, Jasside?”

She almost jumped out of her skin, as if she had forgotten Yandumar was even there. “Yes. Sorry. I just wanted to give you the western-perimeter report.”

“Shouldn’t you be giving that to Gilshamed?” Yandumar pointed to the valynkar, who was standing with one hand on Orbrahn’s shoulder, gesticulating broadly with the other as he relived the events in the city. “He’s usually the one who handles you casters.”

“He’s”—she pressed her lips together—“occupied, at the moment.”

Yandumar sighed. “All right, I’ll take it then. What’s the status.”

“All pickets report clear. There’s been some trouble integrating the new recruits into rotations, but that should be worked out with time.”

“Sounds like you got your hands full. Just how many new casters do we have?”

“One hundred and ninety-seven.”

Yandumar let loose a low whistle.

Jasside shrugged. “What did you expect? With the mierothi dead, there’s no one to issue Sanctions. And without the ability to cast freely, they’re all without means of income. It was either us or go rogue.”

“Or both,” Yandumar said, eliciting a chirp of laughter from her. He stepped past her, patting her on the shoulder. “God bless ya’, Jasside Anglasco.”

Slowly, she said, “And God bless you too, Yandumar Daere.”

Yandumar turned back to her and they shared a smile.

Her eyes turned black. She stopped breathing, and her spine went rigid.

Yandumar stepped to her, grasping her by the upper arms. “Jasside? What is it?” Commune reports usually came by brush message. Forcing something through like this was only done in an emergency.

Not good.

A sudden hush fell. Yandumar looked over to Gilshamed’s fire, and saw Orbrahn in the same state as Jasside.

She came to, blinking and gasping. “Trouble,” she said.

Mevon appeared at their side. “What kind?”

Jasside took a deep breath and stood upright, shrugging off Yandumar’s grip. “One of our casters reported a disturbance. Their wards . . . vanished.”

Yandumar felt a chill that had nothing to do with the nearly freezing temperature. “Voided?”

She gulped. “Has to be.”

“Where?” Mevon asked.

“Straight west of here, two klicks out.”

“And him?” Mevon pointed to Orbrahn, who was now coming around as well. “What section was he monitoring?”

“He had the eastern perimeter.”

Mevon marched over towards the other fire, waving them after him. Yandumar followed, Jasside at his heels.

Mevon rushed into the circle of firelight. “Gilshamed, we’re under attack. Focus your defenses to the east.”

“What?” said Gilshamed. “How did you know? Orbrahn is just now saying . . .”

Mevon hushed them all with a sharp gesture. Just audible over the crackling flames was the sound of distant screaming, and the unmistakable clamor of battle.

“By Elos . . .” said Gilshamed softly.

Yandumar stepped up. “Go, Gilshamed. You can make the difference while we organize.”

Gilshamed ground his jaw a moment, but at last he nodded. He unfurled his wings and blasted into the sky, heading east.

Mevon stepped up to Jasside. He brushed her upper arm with a tenderness that shocked Yandumar. “Jasside,” said his son. “I need you now.”

She looked back at Mevon with wide eyes and shivered. “Of course.”

Yandumar grasped Mevon by the forearm. “Be careful, son.”

Mevon leaned in close. “Try not to engage them fully. I may be able to . . . persuade them. Somehow. I just need time.”

“If you can, then do it. And quickly.”

Mevon nodded to Jasside, and the two rushed off.

Yandumar turned to Orbrahn. “Time to save our asses. Again.”

Orbrahn smiled wryly. “Not to worry. She’s still pleased with our progress.”

“Shut your scorching mouth! Now let’s go!”

J
ASSIDE
CLUNG
TO
Mevon’s back, which felt like stone beneath her grip. Quake’s hooves churned the soil, propelling them at breakneck speeds through a forest dappled by moonlight. Her pulse raced along with them.

Sooner than she had expected, they came to the picket. Jasside searched for the casters on duty, spotting one she recognized and three she did not. “Calla?” Jasside said. “You sent the report?”

“Yes, sorry about punching the message through. I thought it was urgent.” Calla fixed her eyes on Mevon. “Seems I was right.”

Jasside nodded. “You did well. Where did it happen?”

Calla pointed west. “Keep going that way. We spread out more wards, and they kept vanishing at the same spot. Looks like they aren’t moving.”

“Of course they’re not moving,” Mevon said. “They’re waiting for me.” He reached to pat Quake on the neck.

“Wait,” Calla said, stopping his hand. “Just the two of you?”