Veiled Empire (25 page)

He eyed the emperor. A flush overcame his body as he realized that he feared the man less than he did one of his own kin. A thought struck him, a moment of insanity that stretched into eternity as he followed the line of thinking to its conclusion.

He began sweating as he realized where it led.

My only option now. How did it come to this?

Voren reached into his coat and pulled out the letter. He pressed it into Rekaj’s hands. “I believe this may shed some light on the situation.”

Chapter 12

D
RAEV
ENUS
CROUCHED
BY
the path, covered in a layer of branches and concealed beneath a blanket of fresh snow. This far from civilization, he deemed it an acceptable risk to warm himself with magic. It was the only thing that had been keeping him from freezing to death for the last day while he lay in ambush.

He had passed through six villages—the last merely a collection of hovels long abandoned by all save a single half-mad hunter—and had fled every one.

The fiddler was following him.

Now, nothing remained. Not even a hunting lodge or much of a road beyond an overgrown game trail. Here the man would not be missed. Finally, he could be rid of his tail for good.

He just wished the man would hurry up. Draevenus had more important things to be about.

He chewed a piece of dried meat, rinsing it down with a mouthful from his waterskin, all the while keeping an eye nailed to the small hole in his concealment that granted him a view of the trail to the north. The fiddler had not yet tried to hide his movements. Draevenus did not expect him to start now.

At the very least, this pursuit had kept him on his toes. Kept him alert. Honed his senses. He smiled, knowing that, because of the man with the fiddle, he was more ready to complete his tasks than he would have been otherwise. He would have to remember to thank the man before he killed him.

He heard his prey before he saw him. A high-pitched sound echoed through the cold, still forest: a tune being whistled. Draevenus recognized it. It was a song about a man who leaves everything he knows behind to pursue a dream, one that, in the end, leads to only bitterness and pain. It was called “The End of the Road.”

Draevenus thought it quite appropriate.

The man drew close, walking noisily along the trail. Draevenus focused on quieting his breathing. He succeeded. A smile spread on his lips.

Still whistling, the fiddler drew abreast of him and continued marching past. Oblivious.

Perfect.

Draevenus sprang forward, shoving aside snow and the thin branches that concealed him. He energized and cast an immobilizing web at his opponent. If his observations were correct, the man was, or had been, a formidable warrior. Draevenus was taking no chances.

His prey froze more solidly than a block of ice. As luck had it, both of his feet had been on the ground when Draevenus’s spell hit him. If not, the man likely would have fallen.

Eyes darting for hidden threats, Draevenus approached. He circled once, then drew a dagger and thrust it at the man, striking his abdomen with the flat of the blade. If the man had hidden allies nearby, they would have reacted to the move, hopefully revealing themselves in the process.

Only if they cared about his life, that is.

He had to be sure.

Draevenus stepped back and lowered the height of his spell, freeing the man’s head from its effect.

“You alone?” he asked.

Working his jaw loose, the man cracked a smile. “ ’Course not, Draevenus. I’m here with you, ain’t I?”

Draevenus did not react. He already suspected the man was aware of his identity. “Who do you report to? How many are coming after me?”

The fiddler raised an eyebrow. “To be honest? I don’t rightly know how to answer those questions.”

“Don’t play games.” Draevenus pitched the point of his dagger to within a finger of the man’s eyeball. “Cooperate, and I will make your death painless. Now, who is the adjudicator in charge of my pursuit?”

The man stared a moment with wide eyes. Then, he burst out laughing. It was a high, keening cackle, yet somehow quite melodious. Draevenus found it disturbing. Eventually, the man got himself under control, saying, “Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure they’re after you. But I’ve had a whole heap of trouble avoiding their like while staying on your backside.” He paused to laugh again. “I never did stop to ask their names.”

“Lies.”

Yet. . .

He studied the man’s eyes, working through all he knew about him. About his tactics, his behaviors. He did not seem like the typical listener or crony. Too transparent.

And his lack of stealth . . .

The man raised both eyebrows. The closest thing to a shrug as was possible in his current state. “She said you might be a little incredulous.”

She?
Draevenus frowned. “Who are you?”

“Chant’s the name. Harridan Chant. I’d shake your hand, but . . .” He laughed once more.

Chant. Why does that name sound familiar?
“Fine, Harridan Chant, give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you.”

“Because,” Chant said, smiling, “you’re gonna need some help if you wanna succeed in attacking Verge.”

Draevenus froze.
There’s no way he can know. Not unless . . .
“Who sent you?”

“No one
sent
me, as such.”

“What do you mean? Speak clearly!”

“I was
asked
to come.
Asked
to keep an eye on you.
Asked
to watch your back.”

“By whom?”

“Why, your sister, of course.”

R
AIN
PATTERED
DOWN
, soaking Yandumar as he sat atop Quake. Mevon had insisted on letting him ride his son’s favored steed. He considered himself a patient man but had to struggle to keep his irritation from showing. The knot of tension resting between his shoulder blades refused to dissipate.

“Here they come,” shouted Idrus, mounted a short distance away.

Yandumar saw and heard nothing, but his son’s instructions echoed in his mind, and he took the ranger captain at his word.

A week gone by, and already they were running into problems. Mevon’s entire Fist had accompanied him, along with three thousand more, all mounted. Speed was their priority. Unfortunately, so was stealth.

The split had been no one’s idea. Gilshamed had wanted to move as a single group. Mevon, as scores of small units. Both ideas had their merits. Yandumar wasn’t sure this compromise was the best course of action.

No, he
was
sure—sure it was the worst possible idea of the bunch.
Why didn’t I say something? Why didn’t I step in when I knew this plan was scorching idiotic?

They had argued throughout the night. His son and his best friend had nearly come to blows, and Yandumar had stood and watched.

And did nothing.

He had been tired. Exhausted. Not just from the late toll or the endless debate. His responsibilities weighed on him. His obligations. His vows. Letting someone else make the decision had been the most selfish thing he could have done at the time. Selfish and stupid.

He only hoped it would not cost them all in the end.

Now, he heard the riders approaching, a full mark after Idrus first gave him notice. He swelled a bit with pride as he thought about how well his son had chosen his men. A streak of nostalgia wracked him as he thought about his old Fist, wondering what they were up to these days. He hoped at least some of them were still alive and kicking.

Abyss—if they’re still alive, then they’re definitely still kicking.

His musing were cut short as the two rangers came round a copse of trees and approached. They drew rein next to Idrus, conferring briefly. The ranger captain nodded once, dismissing his subordinates with a gentle command, before guiding his horse over to Yandumar.

“They’ve moved on,” Idrus said. “South. Looked like they were in a hurry.”

“How many?” Yandumar asked.

“Division strength.”

Yandumar ran his fingers through his beard. Eight thousand heading south. Away from his destination, but towards his allies. Would Gilshamed receive the brunt of their attention? Or would Mevon? Yandumar couldn’t find a single piece of him that was glad that this group of Imperials had moved out of their way.

His force was a diversion. They had come west, skirting the border between the north and central territories. The plan was to hit a garrison at one of the district capitals as a means of drawing Imperial forces away from Mecrithos.

Yandumar thought it might even work.

He prayed that it was true. But in a place deep inside, a place he kept carefully concealed, he suspected it would be a wasted endeavor.

He muttered his thanks to the ranger, then turned to Ropes and Arozir. “Get everyone moving.”

“Aye,” they said in unison. They’d become better at that, he’d noticed.

At hand signals from the two men, his troops surged into motion, the clopping of hooves muffled by the soft shoes worn by every horse and the damp soil that was covered in a layer of dead underbrush.

He rode in silence for a time. After a while, he turned to Idrus, still at his side. “Tell me something,” he said.

“What?” replied Idrus.

“You ever follow an order that you knew was the wrong call?”

Idrus thought a moment. “Yes. But I adjusted my tactics to account for it.”

Yandumar nodded. It was answer he hoped for. “I need you to do me a favor . . .”

G
ILSHAMED
RODE
STANDING
on a flat wagon bed. He made sure to keep himself visible to his followers at all times. Especially now, with so many new faces, it was vital that he remain in their minds, a symbol of strength and hope. If the faces beaming up at him as he passed the marching formations were any indication, he was succeeding marvelously.

The word had been sent out. As they marched inexorably southwest—using the Chasm as a handrail on their left side—people had joined, pulled in from many of the disparate groups that had arisen at his calling. His forces, less than half their total strength, still numbered close to eighteen thousand now.

And yet, no sign of the Imperial military standing in their way. Not even a whisper of the Hardohl. If the reports about Ilyem and the other Hardohl were true, they would make it to the very gates of Mecrithos before seeing a drop of blood spilled.

Gilshamed, though, did not think they would be so fortunate. A part of him even hoped not.

I have outwitted you, Rekaj. You and all your kin, your filth. Send what you may. It is too late to stop us now.

The inevitable encounter was still weeks away, at the earliest. It had been too long since he had spilled the blood of his enemy, and, strangely, he felt himself longing for it. After so many centuries spent dreaming about his revenge, his patience, it seems, had at last run out.

“Scorch me!” Orbrahn said.

Gilshamed looked down to see the young sorcerer seated in one of the wagon’s seats, shaking his head to clear the fog of communion. “What is it?”

Orbrahn sighed. “Another darkwisp attack. Two of our scouts were found. Well, what’s left of them, anyway.”

Gilshamed sighed, looking towards the Chasm. The soil looked grey and barren, and a cloud of dark dust clung to the ground wherever his troops were marching. “We knew staying this close to the Chasm was dangerous. How many have we lost so far?”

“A few hundred, give or take.”

“That many?”

Orbrahn shrugged. “A small price to pay to avoid Imperial entanglement.”

Gilshamed knew it for truth. There were no settlements anywhere near the Chasm, which meant no garrisons, no signs of life at all. “Have they always been so . . . active?”

“What, darkwisps? Not always. Been getting worse, though, recently.”

“Hmm. I may have to do something about it, then. Once our current goals are completed, that is.”

Orbrahn laughed. “That your plan, then? Stick around and help us poor humans who don’t know how to take care of ourselves?”

Gilshamed frowned down at the young man. “Honestly? I have not yet decided.”

It was a lie, of course. During his long centuries of exile, the majority of which was spent combing the boundaries of the Shroud, he had thought of what he would do. In great detail. Endless solitude had granted him the time to think through every possibility, follow the train of logic from fruition to conclusion. In reality, there was only one possible choice for him to make.

And you, young caster, will never be privy to such knowledge.

“Right,” Orbrahn said, the sarcasm dripping. “Well, if I were you, I’d not worry too much about the darkwisps.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

Orbrahn smiled. “It will be dealt with in time, and by far more capable hands than yours.”

Gilshamed glared at him. “What the abyss do you mean by that?”

His tone was intended to intimidate, yet Orbrahn seemed unfazed. “This land is not the same one you left all those years ago. It has changed. Its people have changed. We don’t need some outside influence telling us how to fix our problems. Not anymore.”

Gilshamed’s mind recalled his conversation with Yandumar nearly half a year ago as they fled in the tunnels. His friend—the only one he had had for nearly half his life—had said much the same thing. Was he truly so obsolete?

No.

“Where, then, would this revolution be without me?” said Gilshamed. “What chance your hope for freedom?”

Orbrahn, like a man waking from long sleep, blinked rapidly and shook his head. “My apologies, Gilshamed. I meant no offense.”

It was not enough of an answer. Gilshamed looked around. Several others were within earshot, yet none had voiced their support of Orbrahn’s opinion. Neither, though, had they renounced his words.

Gilshamed had made of himself a symbol. His intention was to bind the hearts and minds of the common people, tear off the veil of oppression, and help them see their fate for what it truly was. And then, to offer them an alternative. A life full of meaning. Hope. So far, he had exceeded even beyond his generous expectations.

But what use was there for a symbol after the hope is achieved? What purpose? Gilshamed struggled to come up with a satisfying answer.

Gilshamed looked around again, but this time the bright visages that met his gaze did not bring him joy.

He felt, instead, a growing disdain for them all.

In silence, he glared down at the dark-haired caster who shared his wagon.