Veiled Empire (36 page)

Then it didn’t matter. She witnessed Vashodia unleash—as promised—the full measure of her strength.

Eight orbs shot out from their position. They each traveled towards the largest stars, clusters of five that, by their size, could only be other mierothi. Jasside peered closer at the spells. No—not spells. Manifestations of will, empowered by the body’s symbiotic energy manipulators. Their design was genius. The outer shell concealed the rest, and what was held within . . .

They struck. Energy exploded forth from the shells, but with extreme discrimination, honing in on forty mierothi bodies. In the blink of an eye, they were reduced to less than ash. None were able to defend against it, yet not a single nearby soldier was harmed in the slightest by the blast.

“So sorry, dear brother,” Vashodia said. “Looks like you won’t have the privilege of crossing Jezrid off your list yourself.”

Jasside ceased her bouncing and dissolved the conjured illusion. She felt the stone beneath them compressing, changing layer by layer, as they descended. In beats, they were back inside the tent. The roof returned to its original form, cutting out the sky just as dawn’s first rays flashed down upon them.

She took a breath, reveling in what she had just witnessed. “That was . . . spectacular.”

Vashodia smiled. “You’ll be capable of even greater, soon.”

“Me? You’re serious?”

“Of course, dear. And together, just think what we could accomplish, hmm?”

Jasside’s imagination began running rampant with possibilities. She had to force herself to rein it in, the needs of the moment not allowing her to indulge such fancies. “I’ll go tell Yandumar.”

She dashed into the central chamber. Smiling, she met Yandumar’s worried eyes. “It’s taken care of. You’re free to begin your assault.”

His jaw fell towards the floor. “What? Just like that?”

Jasside stared blankly at him.

“Right.” Yandumar looked to Orbrahn and Calla. “Give the order. Dawn’s come. Time to take those walls.”

D
RA
EVENUS
RACED
ALONG
the alleyways of Mecrithos, Mevon following close behind. The walls on either side were close enough to touch with both hands at once, slick with grease and soot and other things Draevenus did not want to think about. The main streets would have been faster, but less inconspicuous. Besides, they were empty—too empty—as though the entire populace had decided to sleep in today, and Draevenus did not trust things for which he had no explanation.

A scent hit his nose. It was pleasant, especially after so many marks among the refuse of the city, and Draevenus slowed to a halt.

“Wait here,” he told Mevon, then dashed through a nearby door. He emerged ten beats later with his prize.

Mevon showed confusion as Draevenus shoved a greasy sausage, a quarter wheel of cheese, a fresh-baked loaf of bread, and a skin of wine at him. “Eat up,” Draevenus said. “You’ll need it.”

“For what?”

“Energy.”

Mevon shrugged, but tore off a large section of the loaf and pushed it into his mouth. Draevenus resumed their run, sure that Mevon was following by the sound of his unsubtle footsteps.

“Don’t you want any?” Mevon called, his words filtered through a mouth full of half-masticated meat.

“You need it more,” said Draevenus over his shoulder. “Your body just had to repair itself from the brink of death. That takes a lot out of your kind.”

“And all this will replenish me?”

“Well enough for such short notice.”

Mevon fell silent for half a mark, the sounds of his thudding steps and loud chewing all that Draevenus could hear from him. Finally, he said, “You seem to know a lot about Hardohl.”

Draevenus shrugged. “My sister did a lot of research.”

“Research,” Mevon said. “Don’t you mean experiments?”

Draevenus cringed. He knew he couldn’t lie. Not about this. Mevon had said the last word more like a curse than a question. “Yes. Not that I approved, of course.”

“Did one of these experiments yield you the spell for disabling voids?”

“Yes.”

Mevon went silent again. Draevenus braced himself for the reaction. He feared that now, after all that had come to pass, it would all fall apart based on this.

“I suppose,” said Mevon, “that I should thank you.”

Draevenus stumbled as they ran. “What for?”

“A young caster learned the spell by watching your sister. She then used it on me. If she hadn’t, I never would have come to know my father, never questioned my place in the world, never done anything meaningful in my life. And . . . I never would have known Jasside.”

Jasside? Why does that name sound familiar?
He felt as if he had heard the name said, and recently. Someone Vashodia had mentioned maybe?

“I’m glad you see it that way,” Draevenus said. “Especially since it would be easy for you to blame us instead.”

“Been planning all this awhile, I take it?”

Draevenus turned his head and nodded.

Once decided upon this path, everything he had done had been for those he loved. His mother, his sister, his people. Whatever it took to get the freedom, the solace, and the redemption each so desperately needed. And Draevenus never dreamed that he would ever make it this far down his chosen road.

But there had been casualties along the way that still haunted him.

He glanced over his shoulder at the towering figure stomping effortlessly in his wake.

Mevon’s mother and two siblings had been killed, and his father exiled. He had never known his people. He’d grown up as nothing but a tool of Rekaj, used to perfect the will of a power-hungry and paranoid emperor.

Yandumar, at least, had been given a choice—even if he’d had few logical options left to him. Mevon? He’d been a pawn of every side in this conflict from before he was even born. Draevenus was just as guilty as the rest of them.

And even now, we continue to use you. Perhaps the historians are right. Perhaps all this bloodshed will be pointless in the end, no matter if we emerge victorious or not.

“I understand,” Mevon said, his words pulling Draevenus out of his reverie. “I think, from the beginning, I had a suspicion that Vashodia might be involved. Even if I never had a definite thought, the whole situation was plagued with coincidences, the kind that could easily be explained by her involvement.” He paused, collecting breath. “But, knowing what I know now, I think I still would have made the same choices.”

Draevenus wondered. After all they had been through, all the plots and schemes and coercions, could they have accomplished much the same simply by . . . asking? He shook his head, chuckling to himself.

“Something funny?” asked Mevon.

“No,” said Draevenus. “Just realizing how right you are.”
And you can be sure, Mevon Daere, that if anyone can claim to be free of the leash . . . it is you.

The alley bent suddenly, ending in a high wall of black stone. Beyond it, the palace grounds.

“I take it,” Mevon said, “we won’t be entering through the front gate?”

“A thousand darkwatch might not take kindly to such an intrusion.” Draevenus smiled. “Besides, I’ve always preferred of the road less traveled.”

He faced the wall, energizing. It had been no random alley path they’d been traversing. It was this spot exactly that he’d been aiming for. And though he wasn’t capable of the type of change-sorcery Vashodia employed, he did know a thing or two about covert infiltration.

Layer by aching layer, he scraped off the wall, using infinitesimal amounts of power. A caster would have to be right on the other side of it—and straining their senses—to feel anything. It would take time—time they didn’t necessarily have—but he was confident this intrusion would remain undetected, and at the moment, that was more important.

In ten marks, he’d made a hole just large enough for Mevon to duck through. Beyond, nothing could be seen but darkness. Draevenus beckoned to his companion and, in silence, slipped inside.

The air was close, stale, like it had been sitting unused for centuries. Which it had.

“What is this place?” Mevon asked. Draevenus followed his gaze to myriad stalls set apart by stone crumbling to dust, vacant of all signs of what they might have been used for.

“This,” Draevenus said, “was the Imperial dungeon.”

“Dungeon?”

“We used to send criminals in here to rot to death, slowly losing all sense of what it was to be human, to be alive.”
And far too many of them had been sent here by me.
“Once the Ropes were constructed, it was cleaned out and sealed off. Rekaj preferred playing to the crowd.

“I’m still not sure which would be worse . . . but I suppose that’s what we’re here to change.”

They ascended several flights of stairs before coming to an archway. Here, they could see the vague outlines of a doorway, and beyond that a wall of bricks far newer than the others. Draevenus drew to a halt.

“What’s on the other side?” said Mevon.

“The end,” said Draevenus, “of the need for subtlety.”

“Good.”

Draevenus energized fully, enhancing his body with temporary blessings. Then he flung a spell at the wall. It shattered, debris flying backwards from the blast as vaporized mortar filled the air. Mevon was through before he could blink. Draevenus followed.

They emerged into a chamber fifty paces by thirty with a high roof. Unlike most rooms in the palace, the walls, floors, and ceiling were of unadorned stone. Weapon racks lined one side, and padded mats another. Bloodstains marred the open center in a thousand different patterns.

Two men, shirtless and sweaty, had been sparring with metal staves on one of the mats. They stopped as he and Mevon entered. Stared. A beat later, they ran out the only door in the room.

“This what you had in mind?” Draevenus asked.

Mevon smiled as ten men flooded into the room but moments later. They bore identical armor and weapons to each other . . . and to Mevon.

The Blade Cabal.

“Yes.” Mevon reached for his
Andun
. “Exactly what I had in mind.”

T
WENTY
THOUS
AND
BOWS
snapped in near unison, their arrows arcing down upon the top of a half-klick stretch of the wall. Nothing answered. No shields formed by daeloth to protect the Imperial troops. No return fire from the ballistae.

Yandumar began to sweat. “Report,” he ordered.

Calla, marching at his side, was the first to speak. “Eastern flank advancing under moderate bow fire, but the mobile cover is keeping casualties low.”‘

“Same in the west,” Orbrahn said.

Yandumar strained his eyes, looking forward toward the center. Of the enemy, he could see nothing.

He took a breath.
This is not what we expected
.
I don’t like it.
He pulled Orbrahn in close. “Tell the casters to keep defenses ready. We don’t know what’s waiting for us.”

“Aye,” he said.

He turned to Jasside. “Any idea what’s going on?”

She smiled at him, holding up a finger. She closed her eyes as she walked. Matching pace fifty steps behind, were a man and a woman in peasant clothes, and between them, Vashodia, her features completely obscured by a hooded robe.

Half a mark later, Jasside blinked, meeting his gaze. “A good surprise, for once. We suggest you take advantage of it.”

It wasn’t the sort of answer he was looking for, but it was good enough. “All units full assault,” he commanded. “No hesitating. No disengaging. I want all ladders in place within the mark!”

Orbrahn and Calla bowed their heads, a mock prayer, to deliver the orders. Yandumar wondered how many he had just sent to their deaths.

The center hit first.
Let’s see what those Elite have cooked up.

Eight ladders began rising, the ends lifting into the sky on the side farthest from the wall. Pushed from below and pulled by long ropes, they rose faster than Yandumar believed possible. They were thick, too, the shafts and rungs twice as wide as he expected. And swinging on each outstretched tip, a wooden cage.

The cages crashed down upon the top level of the wall. From the wreckage emerged heavily armored Elite. Yandumar could only make out flashes of sunlight off their helmets and didn’t know what they saw, or whom, if anyone, they fought.

He was about to demand another status report when the gates split open.

His breath caught. A wall of armed figures stood on the other side.

Have we been deceived? Is this the trap that will kill us all?

“Got a message for you,” reported Orbrahn.

“Out with it.”

“Paen says: ‘You’re welcome.’ ”

“Huh?”

Orbrahn swung an arm towards the gate.

Yandumar watched as Elite converged on the opening. The figures opposite them did not move, and the Elite came to a halt before them. There appeared to be a conversation ensuing.

“Abyss with this,” Yandumar said. He was sick of being so far from the action. He broke into a run. The casters, each yelping in surprise, raced to catch up. The men who had taken to guarding him—a mix of Ragremons and some of the original shepherds—struggled to keep pace as he threaded his way through the middle ranks. In two marks, he had made it to the gate.

“What’s going on?” he shouted.

Ropes, Arozir, and Idrus turned at his question.

“ ’Bout to be a reunion,” Ropes said, adding a keening cackle for good measure. “Best not get in the way.” He gestured over Yandumar’s shoulder.

He turned as Vashodia and her twin guardians stomped up, Jasside and Paen close behind. The two Hardohl stripped off the bulky peasant clothes, revealing the hard, crimson leathers beneath. Simultaneously, they pulled and assembled their
Andun
with a twist.

Yandumar turned back. Those that had been on the inside also began removing their outer garments. Beneath, the camouflaged leathers of rangers, and the dull green armor of Elite. There were nearly half a thousand of them. Vashodia’s Hardohl stepped among them and began issuing orders. The Fists, as he now saw them, sprang into formations and began advancing up the main street.