Veiled Empire (28 page)

If there was a single word that could define him, it would be “survivor.” Every action he had taken, even his choices during the War of Rising Night, had been rooted in self-preservation.

And it was the fear of death that drove him. Not just fear, either, but gut-wrenching terror. He had never met his god, never felt the supposed comfort of his presence, never had his prayers answered. Never had faith. The paradise that was promised by Elos to the valynkar was, to Voren, a sham. Elos could not even penetrate the Shroud, a construct of this world’s mere dwellers.

Voren knew he was on his own.

He closed his eyes, pooling just enough power to pull him into communion. He made note of the relative position of Gilshamed’s star and dropped back into the waking world once more. He made a mark on the small, rolled-out map on the table next to him, then resumed staring out over the city.

“That’s not right,” a voice barked at Voren’s shoulder.

He looked up into Grezkul’s face. “What do you mean?”

The supreme arcanod was peering down at the map. He pointed to the mark that Voren had just made. “Is this his latest position?”

“Yes. Why?”

“It can’t be. My scouts are keeping contact with their main force, here.”

Voren glanced down to see a finger far to the east of his mark. He stood. “I just checked. The position is accurate.”

“You calling my best men liars? Or just idiots?”

The room became quiet. Voren ignored the stares. “What I’m saying is that Gilshamed must no longer be with that group of rebel soldiers.”

Grezkul appeared perplexed. “Why would he do that?”

“Either he is running,” Rekaj said, coming up behind them, “or he is linking up with another, previously unknown force. Wouldn’t you say so, Voren?”

Voren’s eyes widened.
Is he actually valuing my opinion? Or merely appearing to?
“Yes,” he said before the pause in his response would be noticed. “We already know they have split their forces. The loss of your division along the Shenog Ravine is proof enough of that. I suppose it’s possible Gilshamed could have any number of small units that he could bounce back and forth between.”

“I suppose . . .” Grezkul said.

“Either way,” Voren said quickly, “we should box him in. Restrict his movement. I assume you want a quick end to this rebellion?”

“Of course,” said Rekaj.

“Then, if he is trying to escape, it is imperative that we not allow him to do so. He has the patience of a mountain. If he sees this endeavor failing, I believe he will simply start over again.”

Rekaj thought a moment, then waved the marshal adjudicator over. “Grezkul, you will push your troops into the towns, and along all major trade routes. Jezrid, instruct your people to watch the hidden paths, the roads less traveled.”

They both nodded.

“Voren will tell you how to dispatch your men.”

At this, both mierothi shot gazes of pure hatred his way. Once, and not too long ago at that, Voren would have wilted under such scrutiny. Instead, he stood tall, raising his chin slightly. “As you command, emperor.”

Hearing this, both men’s belligerence floundered. They muttered the same words though far more begrudgingly.

Rekaj walked away, leaving them to their arrangements. Voren acknowledged Grezkul and Jezrid with a grin. “Let’s get to work then, shall we?” He gathered energy and returned again to the black void of communion.

Come to me, Gilshamed. Let us finish this. One way or another, let it be done.

Chapter 14

S
U
NLIGHT
GLINTED
OFF
the ice fields far below. The jagged formations of crystalline cold swept as far south as the eye could see. To the west, the Shelf cut the land away like a cleaver. Wind whistled overhead, but they were sheltered from the worst of it by the cliff’s edge rising on their left as they traversed the narrow mountain path.

Icy footing made the trek hazardous. A single slip, and a fall of several hundred paces awaited them, but this impromptu trail was the only approach in which they could remain unseen.

Draevenus had been inside once, centuries ago, then again a few decades past. He knew the layout. Knew how many guards there were, where they patrolled, when shifts changed. He’d shared this knowledge with his new allies. They hadn’t balked when he’d told them what they faced. Instead, they had hunkered down and pounded out a plan.

Shadow, the only ex-ranger among them, led the way. As they rounded a bend of the path, he stopped. Draevenus looked past him and saw it.

Verge.

Crafted by sorcery and carved right out of the cliff side, it protruded into empty space, held up by nothing that could be seen. Squarish and blocky, and glistening beneath layers of ice and snow, not a mar could be seen. No gaps, no holes in the construction.

No way in.

There were only two entrances, east and north. Both hidden, both leading to underground tunnels, and both well guarded. Draevenus didn’t plan to use either of them.

Shadow lifted a far-sight to his eye. After a moment’s perusal, he turned to Draevenus. “I see the breach point. You got the trinkets?”

Draevenus lifted the band from around his neck and held it out to Shadow. “This will allow you past their wards without alerting them, but remember, you must move slowly.”

“Aye,” Shadow said, fitting the leather cord over his head. “And the package?”

Draevenus presented his back. Shadow reached into his ruck and withdrew a long, cylindrical object wrapped in linen. Once extracted, Draevenus turned and pointed at the end marked red. “Point this side towards the wall, then pull the string. You’ll have five beats to get clear.”

Shadow nodded. Without another word, he began his approach, staying low and slow. The package had taken him most of two days to create. This close to Verge, he couldn’t risk using his full power, and so had only drawn a sliver of energy over and over again. Two hundred spells were stacked upon each other inside the device.

There was no explosion. No noise at all that could be heard. Draevenus smelled it though. Melting stone had a peculiar scent.

It took a mark to eat through the wall. Draevenus waited one more until he felt the wards wink out of existence. Shadow had taken out their handlers, and still no alarm raised. He smiled. All according to plan so far. He ran forward, Chant and the other twelve right on his heels.

They flowed smoothly into a circular hole—half a man’s height in diameter—and into sudden darkness.

Shadow waited with blood on his hands and two dead daeloth at his feet. “Breach successful.”

“Where to now?” Chant asked.

Draevenus took a moment, getting his bearings. The hallway was plain stone lit by lightglobes. He began down the left path. “Follow me.” He didn’t need to add “quietly.”

He pulled two throwing daggers as he stalked towards his destination. He paused before each hallway intersection, thrust a blade out, and looked at the reflection on the mirrored surface to ensure it was clear.

They came to the last one. He peered towards the double doors leading into the barracks and saw two daeloth standing guard outside. He drew back, took a breath, then lunged out. His daggers flew. The two daeloth fell limp to the ground, hilts sticking out of their bloody temples. Draevenus cringed at the noise their bodies made upon contact with the ground.

The Elite took up positions on both ends of the corridor. Draevenus softly opened the doors.

Beds lined the walls, twenty to each side. Wall lockers separated them. In each, a sleeping daeloth. It was exactly in the middle of their sleep cycle, the time least likely for any to be up and about.

Draevenus energized. Here, in the heart of Verge, no one would suspect a little casting. His spell took effect, smothering the room in silence. His own breathing and heartbeat became as loud as explosions in his ears as all other noise ceased.

He turned and waved the Elite in. They began their grisly task. Daggers through the heart. No mess, no noise. Quick, efficient work. Draevenus dashed to the end of the room, drew his own blades, and began working back towards the center. It didn’t take long.

“Halfway done,” he whispered when they had all gathered at the exit. “With the easy part, at least.”

They pushed out, still in silence, still undiscovered, but they would have to move quickly now. Routine check-ins would begin any moment. When the guards Shadow had killed didn’t report in, the alarm would sound.

They split into five groups of three. Four groups headed to the perimeter to scour the rest of the on-duty guards. They would have to ignore those at the two entrances, but they were distant still, and—if all went to plan—would not know anything was amiss until it was too late. Draevenus, with Chant and Shadow in tow, had another destination.

It was only one passage farther on from the barracks. They waited, giving the other groups time to complete their cleansing. Draevenus stared at another set of double doors. He paused and caught his breath.
So close. No mistakes now.

Unable to wait any longer, Draevenus dashed towards the doors, flinging them open with a kick. He, Shadow, and Chant flowed into the room, weapons bared.

A half dozen daeloth, though caught off guard, quickly spun to engage. Draevenus shadow-dashed forward, gouging two as he passed but otherwise leaving their fate to his companions. He had more important targets.

Three mierothi females stood, eyes wide, as he approached. A glass wall slanted up from their feet towards the ceiling farther on, which looked upon a wide chamber below them. Draevenus didn’t slow. He slammed the hilts of his daggers into the jaws of the outer two. Their unconscious forms sprawled backwards, knocking over the swivel chairs they had just vacated.

He lunged upward, driving a knee into the middle mierothi’s sternum. She crumpled beneath the blow and fell. Draevenus landed atop her, both of them coming to a rest on the slanting glass.

Draevenus forced himself not to look at what lay beyond.

He brought the tip of one dagger to the woman’s eye. “Hello, Samaranth.”

“Draevenus,” she hissed. “What the abyss do you think you’re doing?”

“What I should have done a long time ago.”

Footsteps approached from behind. Draevenus turned to see Harridan and Shadow, both covered in blood. Chant held a hand over a wound on his forearm, and the ex-ranger was limping, but there was no other movement in the room. He spied what he was looking for on a nearby table.

“Go fetch that pitcher for me, please,” he said, nodding towards it. Shadow hobbled to retrieve it. He filled a cup and knelt next to Draevenus. “Fancy a drink, Samaranth?”

Her eyes bulged. “What? No! You can’t! Don’t you know what that stuff does?”

“Of course I do. It didn’t stop you from pouring it down the throats of your ‘patients’ for all these years.” He moved his dagger to her throat. “You drink, or my blade will.”

She gulped. Nodded. Shadow dropped the cup to her open lips and poured in its contents, the smell of sage and cinnamon suffusing Draevenus’s nose. A tear leaked out from Samaranth’s eyes as she swallowed.

After half a mark, Draevenus stood, lifting her into a standing position. He had Chant and Shadow bind the other two women. Samaranth’s head lolled, and her eyes took on a glazed look though she remained fully conscious. He supported most of her weight as they walked out of the room.

They descended a set of stairs, then waited. The rest of the Elite began returning. Two of the groups were missing a man, and a third had only one return. No one was free of bloodstains or injuries. Draevenus could do little for their wounds.

“It’s all right,” Chant said. “At our age, we’re just looking for a good way to go. They couldn’t have asked for a better death than this.”

Draevenus nodded soberly. He gestured, and the remaining Elite moved to take hold of the “treatment room.”

The doors opened. Draevenus stared down row after row of beds. Maroon curtains separated each one, and dozens of human women moved about the chamber. Nurses. They stopped and gaped as their sacred grounds were invaded.

Two Elite darted to the far end, securing the doorway. The others rounded up the nurses and pushed them to a corner and out of the way.

Draevenus put his mouth next to Samaranth’s ear. “Take me to her.”

She waved, the motion seeming to take enormous effort, and Draevenus moved in the indicated direction.

That same sage-and-cinnamon smell permeated the entire chamber. A pitcher of the liquid occupied every bedside table. Each patient he passed looked up at him with the same glossy eyes and slack faces, the same disinterest in the world. Three hundred in all.

Mierothi women.

“How could you, Sam?” Draevenus asked. “All this time, how could you do this and still live with yourself?”

She muttered incoherently. He’d only given her half a dose, but apparently even that much was enough to disable intelligible speech. He was glad, though. He didn’t want to hear her excuses. Didn’t want her to say she did what she did for the good of the empire. That she had to choose between becoming a phyzari or finding herself among those now interned in this place.

Mierothi could not have children; nor could they mate with either human or valynkar. A flaw of Ruul’s design? Or, perhaps, it was intended. Draevenus didn’t know. Not yet, anyway. But here, after endless experimentation, and countless sacrifices, the phyzari had discovered a way around mierothi limitations.

Men, just like the ones he had rescued, were brought and sent in, one by one, to lie with the mierothi women. And at the moment of release, one of the overseeing phyzari would cast a complex spell that would kill the man and bind his soul, his ineffable spark of life, to his seed.

And thus would daeloth be conceived.

All for the glory and might of the mierothi empire.
Right. As if any of these women volunteered.

They came at last to their destination. Draevenus stopped and helped Samaranth down to the floor, far more gently than she deserved. He stood straight and approached the bedside.

The woman’s eyes were like all the rest. But . . . perhaps there was the faintest glimmer of recognition. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.

He stooped over and placed his hands on either side of her head, softly stroking her temples. He energized. Draevenus had never been very good at healing. Despite the centuries, it had never come naturally to him, digging around inside a person’s body with sorcery. But this one spell he had practiced. And practiced.

Practiced until he could get it right blindfolded, drunk, and mostly asleep.

The sage-and-cinnamon drink had saturated their systems. It would take months, possibly even years to become fully cleansed. He did not have that much time.

His spell worked its way through her, slowly purging fifteen hundred years of poison. That was the easy part. The damage to her mind was far worse, entire sections atrophied from lack of use, others shut down to protect her from the horror of her own existence. Draevenus sweated with concentration, willing the harm to be undone.

After over a toll, straining all the while, he finished and pulled back.

Her eyes closed tightly, then popped open. She looked at him. Sat up quickly and sprang out of the bed.

Draevenus fell to his knees, suppressing all but a single tear from flowing out his eyes. “Angla,” he said breathlessly.

She looked down and slapped him across the face.

Rage boiled behind her eyes. “What took you so long!” she screamed, voice cracking from disuse.

Draevenus barely felt the sting and heat from her hand. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” He closed his eyes, not bothering to fight the tears anymore.

After a moment of tense silence, her arms wrapped around his neck. “Draevenus,” she whispered. “My boy. My sweet, sweet boy.”

He hugged her back. “It’s all right, mother. I’m here now. The nightmare is over. You’re free.”

S
ITTING
ATOP
Q
UAKE
, Yandumar brought the far-sight to his eye. The broad cave mouth carved into the hill two klicks away sprang forth into his vision.

A sorcerous shield held over the opening, pummeled by endless waves of destructive spells from hundreds of daeloth at the base of the hill. Behind it, the clustered remains of Gilshamed’s army.

As he watched, half a dozen formations surged up the hill, pushing forward from the mass of over forty thousand Imperial soldiers. The ground was already slick with blood from previous attempts, and their charge was slower than it needed to be. As they neared his entrenched allies, arrows arched up and fell on their heads. Only the front rows held shields, and those behind them suffered grievously. Closer, the revolutionary soldiers pounded the Imperials with rocks, crossbows, and thrown javelins.

Much reduced, and winded from the uphill sprint, the Imperial lines crashed into the pickets. The close-in, heavy fighting lasted all of a mark before the last of the Imperials were cut down. None retreated. He’d seen some try earlier, but they were executed by the daeloth before making it ten paces.

He could tell by their sluggish movements—how slowly they re-formed their barricades and lines—that his trapped allies were on their last leg, though. One, maybe two more Imperial assaults before they capitulated from sheer exhaustion.

He swept his far-sight down among the daeloth. Two-thirds of them were either sitting or lying down, and those that were actively casting moved as if underwater. A three-day siege had burned their energy reserves down to embers.