Veiled Empire (20 page)

Mevon arched an eyebrow. Jasside could feel the confidence rolling off him in waves.
Don’t put too much faith in me, Mevon. Or in yourself.
She glanced back at Calla. “Go into commune and keep watch on me. If you feel . . .” She paused, taking a deep breath. “If you feel me die, pull everyone back. You won’t be able to face what will come for you.”

Calla gulped, then nodded.

They shot away, but more slowly than before. Mevon seemed to be exercising caution. “Jasside?” he said.

“Yes?”

“Thank you for being here with me.”

Stunned, she couldn’t speak. She started to nod, then, realizing he couldn’t see her, patted his shoulder instead.

“This will be hard enough, as it is,” he said. “Having you at my side . . . I don’t know. It’s . . . comforting I guess.”

You sure do know how to sweet-talk a girl.
Jasside coughed to clear her throat and to make sure her voice still worked. “I’m the most qualified. Still, if you wanted to, we could have brought more to help us.”

“No. I don’t think that would do,” he said. “Besides, that’s not the kind of difficulty I mean.”

Jasside furrowed her brow, unsure what he meant by that. He sounded . . . hesitant?
Don’t you dare. You didn’t falter when you threw that blade into Brefand’s heart. Now is not the time to start second-guessing.

“I will do what I can,” said Jasside. “All that I am able.”

Mevon turned his head. She saw his jaw bunch and grind, but further conversation was cut short.

Quake stopped. On the other side of a narrow glade bisected by a low, babbling brook, three figures stood, illuminated by the light of the moon. Across each of their backs was strapped an
Andun
.

Jasside quivered.

G
ILSHAM
ED
SWOOPED
LOW
, shooting flame out in front of him. The enemy squad jerked backwards. His spell scorched the ground in front of them, doing no harm, but it bought a group of his troops the moment they needed to withdraw.

He longed to gather his strength and melt their flesh from their bones, but he had not the time. He flew on, soon coming to another group of his allies, leaving a wake of their own dead behind as they retreated. He spotted the line of Elite and sprayed a hail of sorcerous arrows at them.

They bunched up, ducking behind those enormous bulwark shields. Gilshamed’s attack spattered into them but did not penetrate.

Abyss take that armor!
The enchantments imbued into every piece took the bite out of his spells. And they were sturdy enough to withstand what made it through.

Gilshamed shook his head as he battered at another group of the enemy.
What did you expect? We used sorcery to kill mierothi, so they send those best suited to the killing of casters. Why did you not plan for this kind of attack?

His anger at himself abated slightly when he saw one of the Elite fall before his onslaught. He cast another spell at the downed man, engulfing his body in flames.

His satisfaction was short-lived. Arrows streaked by, one cutting across his cheek. He had been too busy to keep his shield active.

Gilshamed resumed it now, casting a broad web of light out into the forest and scanning for the bowmen. Nothing. Even in the midst of battle, those rangers could avoid being seen if they wished.

He ascended, seeking more allies to aid. He spotted a large group of the enemy charging down a hill at his troops. A beat later he saw a second cluster of his soldiers about to be overrun. His spine chilled as he realized he could not help them both in time.

Save whom you can. Show them their faith in you is not misplaced.
Gilshamed set his jaw and flew towards the first group.

He aimed his spells not for the Elite themselves, but both below and above them. The ground before their feet he churned into thick mud a few hands deep. Their charge stalled as they struggled through the muck. His second spell pulled at a gathering of boulders, sending them tumbling down the hill. The stones crushed half of the enemy squad. The rest retreated.

Gilshamed looked towards the second group, still two hundred paces distant, just as the Elite began cutting into them.

He saw movement. Men running, not in retreat, but straight into the enemy.

Yandumar, leading some of Mevon’s Elite.

They crashed into the enemy, knocking several to the ground. Blades thrust out. Shield struck upon shield, an impact that Gilshamed could feel even from this distance.

The clash lasted but a few beats. Gilshamed counted six enemy Elite retreating at full speed, leaving more than twice that many of their dead behind. The squad lead by Yandumar seemed intact.

Gilshamed landed near them, dismissing his wings. “Mevon picks his men well, I see,” he said loud enough for them all to hear.

“That he does,” Yandumar said. He turned to the Elite and pointed into the distance. “You got me to him safe. Now go. You have your orders.”

Mevon’s Elite raced off without another word.

Yandumar turned on Gilshamed. “I’ve had conflicting reports. Some say there are thousands of them out there. You’ve had a better view than any of us.”

“Not thousands,” said Gilshamed. “They are less than a thousand for sure, likely closer to five or six hundred.”

Yandumar nodded. “We’re pulling everybody back. Clustering at a strong center. Casters are next to useless individually, so I had Orbrahn and the others all do that linking thing.”

Gilshamed raised his eyebrows. “Excellent thinking.” He turned to survey the field. “It looks like the first wave of attacks are finished.”

“They’ll be back. Soon. And with tactics adjusted to our defenses.”

Gilshamed sighed. “Get back to the center, then. They need a strong commander right now.” He unfurled once more and craned his neck skyward.

“What will you be doing?” Yandumar asked.

“What I can.”

Once more, Gilshamed launched himself into the air.

M
EVON
HALTED
TEN
paces from the three Hardohl. The distance between them seemed so small, yet felt like a chasm nonetheless. No one moved—not so much as a muscle twitch—but Mevon knew that each of them stood upon the cusp of violence.

The storm rumbled within him. For once, he was not glad of its company.

He studied his brethren.
No. Not my brethren. Not anymore.
The thought drove up inside him a swell of . . . something. It was an unfamiliar feeling. Like a piece of him had just been murdered.

Killing mierothi had seemed difficult at the time, a leap off a cliff into unknown waters. But this? This made it seem easy in retrospect. This was falling into an eternal abyss, knowing the end would come without warning, and without mercy, and that by the time it came, he would welcome it gladly.

And their silence only widened the void.

Mevon eyed them, these three among many whom he had declared enemy by his change of allegiance. He did not regret the decision. Not until now, at least. Now, he didn’t know what to think, what to feel. Now, as only once before, he hesitated.

“Mevon,” whispered Jasside. “We must hurry. Our friends depend on us.”

Friends?

Yes. I suppose I
do
have those now.

He turned, peering down upon her. For the first time, lit by pale moonlight, he took in the heart shape of her face, the deep chocolate of her ever-so-slanted eyes, the way her hair tumbled over one shoulder. Now, when he felt vulnerable like he never had before, he saw her beauty. And he saw the courage she possessed to overcome her fear and stand at his side at a moment such as this.

Courage of a kind he’d never had.

He smiled. Not his usual smile, the one only spawned by memories of blood, but a different kind of gesture altogether. He saw the shock on her face as she realized what he was doing.

Mevon squeezed Jasside’s hand gently, somehow invigorated by the exchange, then turned to face the other Hardohl once more.

He cleared his throat. “It seems that you wished my presence.” He spread his arms. “Here I am.”

The one on the right, of similar build to himself only smaller, leaned forward. “Yes. Here you are.”

“What do you want with me, Naeveth?”

Naeveth smirked. “Me? Nothing. These two wanted to see you for themselves. Hear you try to defend yourself. I already knew you were a traitor.”

“I am not a traitor.”

“You killed two mierothi. How is that not treason?”

“Because our loyalty was bought with blood and lies. Such actions permit—no—
demand
retribution. Demand justice.”

Naeveth frowned. “What madness are you spouting now?”

“Think, Naeveth. We grew up together in the academy. How many of our fellow students had identical stories to our own? How many supposed orphans?”

Naeveth narrowed his eyes but said nothing. Mevon knew what he was thinking: all of them.

“And how many voids have you met who were not counted among our order?”

Again, silence. But again, Mevon could practically see the word dancing across Naeveth’s mind: none.

Mevon took a deep breath. “We were brothers, once. If you could open your eyes to the truth, perhaps we could be again.”

Naeveth sneered. “You always did think you were special. Kael’s favored student. Always receiving extra lessons that the rest of us could only wish for. Always a little better at everything and thinking you were some kind of Ruul-given gift to the world.” He spat towards Mevon’s feet. “You, Mevon, are a fool.”

The one in the middle—a bear of a man—placed a hand on Naeveth’s arm. “That’s enough,” he said.

Mevon met his eyes. “Have you nothing to say, Mosnar?”

“What’s to say?” Mosnar said. “You’ve only confirmed our suspicions.”

“And what about the truth of our heritage?”

Mosnar shrugged. “The only truth I know is that we have orders. I intend to follow them.”

Mevon shook his head.
A lost cause, these two.
He turned to the third figure. She had yet to speak. Though her form was hidden in shadow, Mevon could tell she was short—barely taller than Jasside—with a freshly shaven head. Her face did not look familiar.

“I don’t know you,” he said. “But I may have heard of you. What is your name?”

She did not move. Nor blink. Mevon could not even discern the rise and fall of her chest. At last, she replied. “I am Ilyem.”

Mevon had indeed heard of her. Ilyem Bakhere was known by a peculiar moniker: Ilyem the Uncut. It was said she not taken a single wound in battle, and not for lack of participation. Mevon leaned down to Jasside. “When the time comes, the lady is all yours,” he whispered.

She furrowed her brow. “Are you certain?”

He stared at her. Whatever she saw in his face seemed to be enough confirmation, for she nodded.

“And who is this?” Naeveth asked. “This was supposed to be a private . . . discussion.”

“She is . . .” Mevon paused, making eye contact with Jasside. “ . . . a friend.”

An avalanche of emotions rolled across her face, none of which Mevon could make sense of.

“Why is she here, then?” asked Naeveth.

“She is here to even the odds.”

Mevon nodded, once, firmly, to Jasside. Then, he stepped away from her.

She took a deep, slow breath, and Mevon felt the familiar tingling of a caster beginning to energize.

Naeveth burst out laughing, and even Mosnar let out a chuckle. Ilyem only responded by shifting her eyes, briefly, to Jasside.

“You,” Naeveth said, still fighting to control his mirth, “have truly gone mad.”

Mevon stepped to the right. “My only madness is in thinking that this revolution might actually succeed. And that, perhaps, I could convince some of you to join us.”

From the corner of his eye, he witnessed Jasside’s hands begin their dance.
And now, we’ll see if all our practice has paid off.

It took her only three beats. Her hands shot out towards Ilyem.

The female Hardohl dropped like a sack of grain.

Y
ANDUMAR
RAISED
HIS
shield just in time. The arrow bit deep, hitting right in front of his face, and sent a ripple up his arm. This was the third time those scorching rangers had gotten close enough to take a shot at him. Seems like they knew who was in charge.

He’d ordered everyone to the center of the camp. Now they sat, huddled together behind double-thick lines of shield bearers. They waited. Rough estimates told him that less than thirteen thousand remained.

They’ve cut us deep. So few of them, yet the best the empire can send at us.
It could have been worse, though. Had their Hardohl joined in, he doubted he would have been able to drive away the first wave of assaults.

Yandumar looked west. Mevon was out there, facing them. Nearly alone.
No, not alone. And I’ve seen what that girl can do.
Knowing Jasside was with him brought a small measure of comfort. Not so much as to calm him completely, but enough.

He scanned his forces. Fear ran rampant among them. As far as introductions go for these new troops, he could think of few worse disasters. Some would desert. It was inevitable unless they could salvage not only victory but a spectacular one. And for that they needed a grand gesture. A single defining act that would plant itself firmly in everyone’s mind. Anchor them to the cause. Give them hope.

Trouble was, Yandumar had no idea how to achieve this.

Slick Ren and Derthon slid up next to him. They were covered in blood, but little looked to be their own.

“Any news?” Yandumar asked.

Slick Ren shook her head. “Except for those rangers taking shots from out of the darkness, we can’t see them anywhere.”

“Any sighting of Gilshamed?”

She threw up her hands. “Flying about someplace to the north. Man thinks he can win this all by himself. Idiot.”

Yandumar sighed. He shared her sentiment but did not dare voice the thought aloud. The soldiers needed to have faith in Gilshamed, not doubt. Especially right now. “I assure you,” he said, adding volume to his voice. “Gilshamed is doing everything in his power to keep us all safe.” He peered at Slick Ren, tilting his head slightly, and wished he felt as confident as he sounded.