Veiled Empire (37 page)

He fixed a glare on Paen. “You couldn’t have told me about this
before
we began our assault?”

Paen shrugged. “I did not expect them to be ready so soon. But I gather they met significantly less resistance than we foresaw.”

Why is that, I wonder? Could the Imperials be preparing some kind of trap?

“We’re off to the palace,” Vashodia said, breaking his reverie. She stepped forward, still hooded. “Do be careful, though, Yandumar. You have such a bright future ahead of you.”

He glared at the back of her head as she passed, hoping she tripped and fell flat on her face. Just for once, he’d like proof that Vashodia was, in fact, fallible. But he doubted she had seen herself that way in a long time.

He grabbed Jasside’s arm as she came near. “Find him,” he said.

“I will.”

He released her and looked around. Mevon’s captains were gone, leading their men, as he should be doing. He dashed through the gate, sparing a glance for the group marching up the main avenue of Mecrithos, and entered the nearest door leading into the wall. He quickly found the stairs, taking them two at a time, and emerged onto the roof. He took stock of all he could see.

Signs of battle, but not fresh.
No wonder we met no resistance.
Thirty mierothi bodies lay on or near a line of sleeping pallets, their wounds caused by blades he had come to know well. He smiled. Mevon was still alive, still fighting for their cause. Despite her tendency towards blatant honesty, he could never quite bring himself to take Vashodia at her word. Proof he saw himself was much more comforting.

He viewed the battle. Soldiers of the revolution now swarmed over all parts of the wall that he could see. Resistance increased the farther out they went, as though what had taken place here at the center had reverberated outward, like ripples in a pond, and sapped the will to fight from the Imperial defenders.

It was not without cost, though. Flashes of sorcery spewed down from the wall in places. His caster cadre had less to contend with than Yandumar had feared, but still his allies fell. Answering spells silenced these attacks, however, and soon no one who did not belong to him moved in or on the wall.

The surviving Imperials scurried away from the wall like ants, seeking refuge in the city. They made it two blocks.

Hordes of civilians sprang out of every building in sight. They fell upon the fleeing soldiers, and—with cudgels, makeshift weapons, and even bare hands—began ripping them apart.

Yandumar recognized the gesture for what it was. Rekaj had held the city under a yoke of fear for far too long. This was its breaking.

It is a beautiful sight to see.

His guardsmen burst through onto the roof, escorting Orbrahn and Calla. They were out of breath, but Yandumar turned on them before they had a chance to catch it.

“Tell all units to push out,” he ordered. “We’ve got five klicks of wall to cover, and every last finger of it needs to be guarded twice.” He looked out at the field. On the horizon, as far east and west as the eye could see, ranks of men began marching into view.

Imperial reinforcements.

“
Taking
the wall,” he added, “was the easy part.”

G
ILSHAMED
SQU
INTED
AS
the sun peeked over the horizon. A new day dawning, and with it, the end of an age.

But will it also see the birth of the next?

He stepped up onto the railing of his balcony. In a blaze of light that drowned out even the sun, he unfurled his wings.

Time to find out.

He leapt.

Gilshamed fell free for four beats, letting the wind rush past his face as he plummeted. Letting gravity takes its natural course. Letting himself, for one last moment, let go of all sense of control.

Then he flexed his back, spreading his wings, and swooped up out of his dive. He banked east. With the sun warming his left side, he made a lazy loop around the palace grounds. He spotted the bubble-dome indicating his destination in exactly the spot the girl had indicated. He wondered, briefly, what Voren had done to her to earn her ire but banished the thought. He had more important things on his mind.

Like how he was going to make his entrance.

Directly south of the palace now, he turned sharply to the right. Jagged rocks poked up from beneath him. He energized. A razor wave of power sliced through the base of one boulder, its twisted form reminding him of two oxen mating. With his will, he picked it up, propelling it ahead of him as he flew in a line at the glass dome.

I am the right arm of Elos. The avenger. By my actions, his will is complete.

The boulder slammed into the glass, shattering it into a thousand thousand pieces, each glittering like diamonds in the sunlight. It continued through, striking the base of a sloping ledge and causing a platform to crash down upon the steps below it.

His power spent, Gilshamed released his sorcery and dove through the wreckage into the chambers. He touched down, dismissed his wings, and skidded along the marble floor towards a set of ancient wooden doors.

He drew his sword and turned.

Silence. He took a step, glancing about, and found his eyes drawn to his own face. The girl had been right. The statue was a strikingly accurate depiction of himself. The other three, less so, but he assumed the makers had had only Voren’s memories to draw from.

Gilshamed’s gaze flick upwards. He froze.
Wards on the roof . . . attuned to our kind. What have I walked into?
He felt a twinge of ice wriggle through his body.

A burst of bright blue light made him squint. Gilshamed watched as a figure flew up from below, touching down like a butterfly upon a blade of grass. The light and wings vanished. There, less than thirty paces away, stood the most vile of creatures ever to step foot upon the surface of the world.

Voren.

Gilshamed set his features firmly. No joy. No hatred. No rage. He was here simply to exterminate the vermin.

He brought his blade up and stalked forward. True to his word, he uttered not a single syllable.

Voren smiled sadly.

Armed men burst into view. From four side chambers, up both curving stairs, and from the main double doors behind him. Weapons and shields held at the ready. At least a dozen daeloth, energized with hands extended, just waiting for him to make a move.

Gilshamed glanced once more at the wards on the ceiling and knew he was doomed.

His sword clattered to the floor.

“The emperor,” Voren said, “has plans for you.”

Gilshamed felt too numb to answer. After all this time and planning, waiting and hoping, killing and praying . . . he had failed.

Voren reached into the folds of his robe, extracting a small object. He rolled it in his palm. “Shall I let him?”

Gilshamed worked saliva into his mouth. “What does it matter now? Neither of us has the power to stop him.”

“But his plans,” continued Voren, as if he had not heard him, “do not include me.” He fingers curled about the object into a fist.

Gilshamed hung his head, his eyelids drooping half shut.
Lashriel, my love . . . forgive me. At least now we can finally be together.
He bent over, reaching for his sword, finding a purpose for it after all. He gripped the handle and righted himself, with the tip of the blade pointed at his own heart.

Daeloth spells crackled at fingertips. The guards surged forward.

Voren, nearly forgotten, whispered, “No. I do not think I will let him.”

With his free hand, Voren swiftly drew a small dagger across his palm, then contracted his now-bleeding hand into a fist. Gilshamed heard the faint sound of breaking glass.

He felt Voren begin to energize.

What are you thinking, Voren?

The wards triggered, shooting their stored spells at the offender faster than thought. They had enough power to render him utterly disabled.

But they didn’t.

A wave of energy burst forth from Voren. The spells aimed for him melted. The wards shattered.

Impossible! It would take scores of full valynkar harmonized together to overpower such wards! How did he—?

He blinked, looking closer at Voren. Blood poured down from his hand. Far more than could possibly come from his small, self-inflicted wound.

Voren’s face had become empty. A stab of ice hit Gilshamed’s chest. Voren lifted his arms, releasing another wave of energy outward.

Straight through the clustered guardsmen.

Gilshamed’s robes began smoking as the fire burned through every other living thing in the room. In a beat, not even bones remained. Not even ash.

He stared at Voren. No—not Voren. Not anymore. The creature standing before him, wreathed in molten fury and unmatchable power, had transformed into the very avatar of vengeance.

Gilshamed turned and fled.

A
LL
TEN
OF
the Blade Cabal stood across the long room from him. Mevon had hoped that some would stay to guard the emperor. This would make matters more difficult.

“Strategy?” Mevon said.

“I have an idea,” Draevenus said. “But it will put you at great risk.”

“Let’s hear—”

The world cut out. Mevon felt a tingling such as he never had before. A casting, nearby. What he had felt on prior occasions, even in the midst of large battles, was as a trickle compared to the floodgates now pouring forth. For a moment he couldn’t even see, and his entire being thrummed.

Mevon, involuntarily, took a step towards it.

A single word came to him:
Abhorrent
. Whatever it was, he felt a compulsion to stop it, to void the sorcery into oblivion. All other considerations became secondary.

This . . . this is what we were made for. This is our purpose.

Mevon shook his head, blinking to clear the haze. As his vision returned, he saw that all the other Hardohl were as disoriented as he was.

“Who is doing that?” asked Mevon.

“I don’t know,” said Draevenus. “But it is no kin of mine.”

Movement returned Mevon’s attention to the line of his peers. And beyond them, springing through the open door, he witnessed the return of an old friend.

Kael, somehow unaffected by the casting, dashed into the room. A sword in either hand chopped through the necks of two of the Blade Cabal. Twin heads rolled across the floor, leaving blood trails as Kael, spry as ever, came to stand with Mevon.

Before even a word of greeting could be said, the remaining eight lunged forward.

Mevon retreated, parrying and dodging a hail of blows. He took a cut on his right shoulder and left calf.

He cartwheeled back, seeking to summon the storm.

A voice shouted. Draevenus. “Keep them off me! Watch for the fall!”

The word sank into Mevon’s mind somewhere. He was too busy fighting for his life against four other Hardohl. Two each had engaged Kael and Draevenus. It was clear who their priority was.

And still, the storm wouldn’t come.

His
Andun
twirled in his hands, fending off blows. He had no room to counterattack. He took another cut just below his left elbow. Another on his right hip. The Blade Cabal drove him and his two allies farther and farther apart.

Mevon grasped Justice at one end and swung, wide and wild. His assailants all bounced back a step.

In that gap, small as it was, he had time to summon the storm.

Rage and chaos swirled around him, pushed through his limbs and out to his weapon. In the center, calm and focus. Here, he was untouchable. And no storm before could compare to what he had now conjured.

Draevenus’s imperative sprang forth into his mind. Mevon reversed direction, spinning into his four attackers faster than he had ever moved before. Their blades bounced off his, and he landed his first blood, slashing across the upper chests of two men. He broke through their blockade.

He spared a glance for Kael. His old mentor was holding his own, twin swords flowing like water around the heavier
Andun
. Both his assailants were bleeding from several wounds.

Mevon sped towards Draevenus, leaving his own opponents in a wake of dust. The mierothi saw him coming and shadow-dashed across the room.

Mevon tossed Justice into the air, threw both his daggers at one of the Hardohl attacking Draevenus, and caught his weapon before it hit the ground.

The man paused in his pursuit of the mierothi, turning to deflect the flying steel.

Draevenus extended a hand towards him. A familiar pattern of sorcery engulfed the Hardohl.

The daggers flew over the figure as he crumpled. Mevon sprang over him, sweeping down with a blade and severing head from body.

The mierothi retracted the spell and pushed the same one into his other attacker as the man approached. Mevon lunged forward. His
Andun
split the prone Hardohl’s chest through the heart.

Mevon twisted, spinning his weapon out to deflect the blows he was sure would fall on him at any moment.

His weapon swung through empty air.

His four attackers were on the other side of the room. All six now surrounded Kael. Mevon couldn’t even see his old mentor behind the bodies of the remaining Blade Cabal. All he saw was the rise and fall of their weapons. And the figure between them go down.

Like the wind . . .
Mevon was across the long chamber in two beats.

Draevenus was faster. He shadow-dashed through the line of Blade Cabal. His heavy daggers slashed across two necks as he passed. The wounds weren’t quite fatal—not for a Hardohl—but they were distracting. Mevon’s attacks were, though, as he chopped sideways, finishing them off before they could recover.

All four of the remaining Blade Cabal turned, readying their weapons defensively. Mevon attacked with cold, precise strikes. His strength flowed down his arms into the steel of his weapon and broke through their defenses, again and again.

Draevenus distanced himself with another shadow-dash. His spell shot out. One of the Blade Cabal crumpled. Mevon altered the swing of his blade and cut the man in half from shoulder to opposite rib cage.