Veiled Empire (27 page)

As he turned back, his eyes fell upon the city once more. He watched, heart skipping a beat, as rank after rank of Imperial soldiers marched out of the city he had thought was empty.

L
IKE
A
CHARGING
bull, Mevon slammed into the Imperial platoon. Bones crunched beneath his shoulder, and three ranks collapsed outwards, their falling bodies rippling from the point of impact.

Mevon vaulted over them as his troops moved in, hacking and stabbing at the downed figures. Mevon moved on. He had more important targets.

He felt sorcery on all sides. As spells flew in every direction, the chaos of battle left him dizzy trying to sort out where his presence would be most influential. It didn’t help that both forces were in disarray. But even as he spun Justice to strike at any that came near, he was able to focus his concentration on a knot of casting in the distance.

Too far south. Can’t be ours.

He smiled and began pushing through the press of Imperial soldiers, few of whom had the courage to stand against him. Those who did, he cut down without slowing.

The tingling sensation intensified as he closed the distance, and he began to gauge where the castings were coming from. A low hill rested in front of him, a hundred paces away. He could see spells flying towards his troops from just on the other side.

All the daeloth clustered together? I don’t recall that being anywhere in the Imperial tactics book.

It didn’t matter, though. Mevon would make them pay for the mistake.

He crested the hill at a speed that would make a gazelle seem slow and took in the scene below him in an instant.

Threescore figures adorned in the armor of the daeloth stood facing north, to Mevon’s left. Their hands intermittently thrust forward, releasing some sorcery aimed for the lines of Mevon’s troops. He saw the counterspells from his own casters strike back. Often, two spells would meet in midair and annihilate each other in a concussive blast.

Without hesitation, Mevon spun into their midst. His
Andun
drank deep from a dozen souls before anyone could so much as react.

The farthest daeloth spun towards him and jumped back. Those nearest turned to face him.

Mevon saw now what he hadn’t on the hill. Their faces were pale. They wore the armor of the daeloth, but most of them were just as human as he.

Which is when bodies slammed into him from behind. Steel bit into him in what felt like a dozen different places. Pain blazed in his legs, shoulders, arms, and back.

With a scream of rage, he spun. Six daeloth lost their grips on daggers sticking out of Mevon and skidded along the ground, now slick with his blood. Their eyes widened as Mevon chopped at them savagely. None managed more than a single scrambling step of retreat before Mevon cut them down.

Must’ve followed me up the hill, shadow-dashed in as I became occupied with the decoys. How could I have been so careless?

But the decoys were still soldiers, and they were still a threat. At the commands from the few daeloth that were still hiding on the far side, they drew swords and converged.

Mevon arched his back, then bowed it quickly. All but one of the blades popped out of his body. The last was lodged deep, and he could feel it tearing at the lining of his lung. He coughed, spitting up more blood than air.

Mevon staggered backwards up the hill, fending off half a score sword thrusts in a matter of beats.
So thirsty.
The loss of blood had weakened him. His blessings burned as they began to reknit his damaged body, but not even they could restore everything.

He slashed sideways, cutting three men through the eyes. He punched left with Justice, impaling two men, even as he ducked, allowing several blades to pass overhead. He swung his legs out to knock down two more. They toppled, taking four more behind them to the ground, and Mevon danced across their forms with spinning blades.

The move exhausted him, though, and he had to retreat once more to catch his breath.

Even weary as he was, he still noticed the surviving daeloth moving into flanking positions. When they tried dashing in, this time he was ready for them.

They came in pairs. The first, jumping in from opposite sides, collided with each end of his blades. Their bodies were moving so fast that they met in the middle of his
Andun
and stuck there.

More came. Mevon abandoned Justice and met them with fists and elbows and feet, driving their dashing forms from the sky with a crunch of bones and a spray of blood.

He drew his own daggers from his belt and whirled among the remaining soldiers. He ignored the pain, the fatigue, the thirst, and let the storm finish the fight.

His last enemy fell. Mevon collapsed upon the hilltop. He reached behind and pried the dagger from his back, and, after half a mark, was able to take a breath without spraying blood.

He drained his waterskin. Then, he counted the bodies. What he found disturbed him.

Not enough. Not nearly enough.
He looked around the battlefield but could not see or feel any more daeloth.

Where are they?

A
NOTHER
WAVE
OF
dark sorcery, like a molten river, screamed up towards Gilshamed. He didn’t have the time to dodge. He threw all the power he had into his shield. The spell struck the barrier—popping it like a bubble—and bounced away. The force drove Gilshamed towards the ground.

Abyss take those daeloth!
They had been ready for him this time, harmonizing in groups of at least a dozen. They had less control of their soldiers that way, but their raw, combined power was too much for Gilshamed to overcome alone.

He crashed down, landing on the backs of his own soldiers. Hands reached to help him to his feet. He shouted some words of encouragement to everyone within earshot, then took off toward his commanders.

Before his ejection from the sky, he had been able to glean the enemy’s disposition. He would deliver his orders, catch his breath, and get back to the fighting. The enemy had surprised him by quickly reacting to a hopeless situation—namely, Gilshamed himself—but he knew of ways to punish them for their new arrangement of troops.

When he got to the command post, only Orbrahn was present. His eyes were closed. Gilshamed stepped up to him and shook his shoulders.

The boy gasped, opening his eyes. “What? What is it?”

“Where are the commanders? They are supposed to stay where I can easily find them!”

Orbrahn still appeared dazed. “They’re . . . off. Fighting. Half went south to lead the retreat . . .”

“Retreat? What are you talking about? The first Imperial force is nearly destroyed and pulling back. The second has adjusted tactics to my presence, but I have a few ideas—”

“A third army just hit our northern flanks. That’s where the other half went. To lead a volunteer force to hold them so we could get away.”

“A third army? How big?”

“The scout that reported in stopped counting when he got to twice our size.”

Gilshamed’s mouth went dry.
Trapped. Our only route of escape is towards more danger. How the abyss did they know where to find us?

His forces were moving. Fleeing. He marched in their midst. Just a few tolls ago they had been eager for battle, filled with ardor and zeal. Now, their faces held nothing but weariness and dejection.

This was, he realized, their first true defeat.
How easily is your enthusiasm blanched. How quickly your great purpose forgotten. Is this all it takes to break you?

Gilshamed looked behind, eyes trailing to the small force locked in battle against now-overwhelming odds. They were the truest soldiers of the revolution, the only ones he was not hesitant to call his. And today they would die for those less worthy.

He sighed.
Such has always been the way, the blood of the brave and strong spilled to allow the weak and cowardly a few more wasted moments upon this world.

Gilshamed glared at Orbrahn. The boy glanced his way every so often. Each time, Gilshamed could tell what he was thinking:
This is
your fault, Gilshamed.

Yes, my fault. My fault for believing the people of this continent were ready for freedom, were truly willing to sacrifice everything to achieve it. My fault for believing in any of you.

He laughed bitterly. “I’ll fly ahead to make sure we are not running into any more traps.”

Orbrahn glared but said nothing beyond a quick nod. Gilshamed unfurled his wings and took off, once more, to the skies.

He skimmed over the heads of his retreating formations. Soon, he came to the leading edge of his troops. He did not slow.

You said that you did not need me anymore, Orbrahn. Let us see how true that statement turns out to be.

Gilshamed rounded a hill and lost sight of all of his troops. He banked west, flying well out of the path that they would take, staying low. He continued another half a toll before landing.

Patience had always been one of his defining qualities. He had demonstrated it beyond any who had ever lived as he plotted how best to enact his revenge on the mierothi. This revolution was his first and greatest scheme.

But by no means his
only
one.

M
EVON
RAN
. H
IS
troops scrambled out of his way as he plunged through their lines. The Imperial formation had started with less than half of their own numbers, and with the daeloth out of the way, their command and control had crumbled. The casters of the revolution shredded gaping holes into the Imperials, and his troops stepped in to break them wide open. His enemy was reeling.

Yet Mevon’s stomach twisted in fear.

As he approached the rear of his own formations, where all the troop commanders and casters were positioned, his fear became realized. A new knot of sorcery bloomed in his senses, coming from the far side of his formations.

He had found the remaining daeloth at last.

Hundreds perished within a beat. Daeloth spells ripped through the unsuspecting, and unprotected rear. His sergeants and casters took the brunt of it, even now falling as the daeloth advanced.

Jasside!

He scanned as he sprinted, but he couldn’t find her. He began cutting down daeloth, barely pausing to register their deaths. But there were too many. The damage had already been done.

He propelled forward, searching, slashing about in a rage. His control began slipping.
If anything happens to her. . .

The daeloth reacted to his presence. Some drew blades and dashed at him. Some picked up rocks or trees with magic and flung them at him. Some, realizing their doom had come upon them, either froze or fled. Mevon cut them all down. The symphony of death sung by his blades had morphed into dissonance.

In the distance, Mevon spotted two daeloth burst into blue flames. A caster—one of his own—still alive, still fighting back. It had to be her. It
had
to be.

As he scythed his way towards what he hoped was the only woman he had ever dared to love, he saw several sorcerous arrows speed toward a group of daeloth. But the aim was off and they flew wide. The daeloth smiled and launched counterspells at the caster. The arrows, unseen by them, turned in the air and struck them all from behind. A series of pops announced the explosion of their heads.

Mevon came around a large boulder and finally spotted the caster.

Jasside!

Relief flooded through him as their eyes met. Sweat poured down her forehead, and her chest heaved with each breath, but she appeared unharmed, leaning against a waist-high stone on the edge of the ravine. They shared a smile as he walked towards her.

Mevon craned his neck to look behind him. Several hundred paces distant, the last daeloth were engaged with Mevon’s forces. Too far for him to be any use. With the surety of victory entrenched in his mind, Mevon turned back to Jasside and allowed himself to relax.

His eyes swept towards her face, passing three shadows on the way. Those three shadows moved, coalescing into men as they stepped out from beneath the low-hanging branches of a nearby cluster of trees.

Daeloth.

Mevon’s blood turned to ice. They were right next to Jasside. And judging by her eyes, still trained on him, she had no idea.

The shout of warning caught in his throat. Too late for even that. He dashed forward, moving faster than he ever had before.

The daeloth lifted their hands towards Jasside. Mevon felt a tingling as black fire flew from their fingertips. He flung himself the last five paces into the path of the sorcery. In midair, he dropped his
Andun
and—just as he had when he first encountered Jasside—threw his daggers at his enemy. The distance was near point-blank, and his two targets were stationary. This time, he hit exactly where he wanted to: dead-center forehead.

His body intercepted first one, then—with outstretched fingertips—the second of their spells, voiding them into nothingness. His eyes followed the third as it passed him on its trajectory. Agony gripped him as he realized it would strike true.

Mevon’s gaze found her. She stood with arm outstretched in his direction. A spell flew from her hand, but too late. Her sorcery met that of the daeloth less than three paces from her, each annihilating the other in an outward burst of air. Jasside flew backwards.

He watched panic grip her eyes as she disappeared over the side of the cliff.

V
OREN
,
NOW
A
regular of the war room, stood in silence and looked out over Mecrithos from the balcony, letting the reports wash over him in a muffled flood of sound. Reports of victory for the empire and defeat for the revolution.

My doing. All of it. Their deaths are on my head.

He took the full weight of the burden, neither shirking from it nor attempting to justify it. He had made a choice nineteen hundred years ago—a choice to live, and live free. As free as was possible, anyway. It had never been easy, especially when constantly reminded of what he had sacrificed, but not once had he ever wished he could change his mind.