Veiled Empire (33 page)

“Ha! You’ve no proof. And it would only raise questions as to how you knew. No, Voren, don’t bother threatening me. You’re a young man playing at an old man’s game.”

“Young? I am almost two millennia your senior!”

“And since when does age have anything to do with the number of years you’ve been alive?”

Voren jerked his head.

“Never mind,” Kael continued. “You know, the only reason I even told you about that was because I felt sorry for you, and I didn’t think it was right the way the mierothi treated you. If I’d known you’d become this, I would have just put you out of your misery.”

Voren felt a chill as he realized he was just steps away from a man against whom he had no defense and whose allegiance was, more or less, opposed to his. He backed up, raising his hands.

“Fine,” said Voren. “Fight for the losing side. Do not expect me to stand for you when the mierothi begin extracting their vengeance and are looking for people to blame.”

Kael grunted. “I’d say ‘abyss take you,’ Voren, but it looks like it already has.”

Voren watched in silence as his former keeper slammed the door shut on his way out.

He closed his eyes. Focused on his breathing.

This is not the end. Another solution will present itself. I am sure of it.
He did his best to convince himself that everything would turn out all right. That he would survive the conflagration that was to come. If he could just do that, then freedom itself would be within his grasp. And with freedom, all the things that he had been denied for so long. Wealth. Power.

Vengeance.

He swept his arm across his refreshment table, knocking over several glasses and an expensive Taditali red. Glass and wine sprayed across the floor.

“You did this to me!” he spat. “You, Rekaj. And you, Gilshamed. Your arrogance made me what I am today.”

“Is this a bad time?”

Voren whirled towards the voice. Someone stood in his doorway. He had not even heard it open.

“Chronicler Truln,” Voren said, mustering as much etiquette as possible. “I must apologize. You caught me unprepared for company.”

“I can see that.” Truln scratched the side of his face, pathetically trying to hide his open stare at the mess.

Voren cleared his throat. “Was there something you needed?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes. I was hoping you had a moment to talk. I’ve been updating the Chronicles and would like to get your perspective on events.”

“My . . . perspective?”

“Mm-hmm. I find that everyone has a slightly different spin on things. Helps me craft a more complete picture. You know, for posterity.”

“I see.”

“So,” Truln said, “what can you tell me that no one else knows?”

I do not have time for this, you rambling idiot!
Voren had to restrain himself from lunging for the mierothi’s throat.
Want to know my secrets, do you?

Voren stopped breathing. He
did
have secrets, secrets that would light a fire under the feet of the entire mierothi nation. But they were not his secrets.

They belonged to Rekaj.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself.
Can I trust you, Truln?
He shook his head. He had run out of options, and this was simply too good an opportunity to pass up. “I know some things, yes. Things that I believe you will find of great interest. Things that might very well change the course of history.”

With each word, he witnessed Truln’s eyes grow increasingly wide. The chronicler actually began bouncing back and forth on the balls of his feet in excitement. He pulled out a tome and laid it down on the table, preparing his inkwell and quill. Voren gathered from the expectant gaze, the rapid, shallow breathing, and the get-on-with-it gestures, that Truln wanted to hear every word
right now
!

“Patience,” Voren said. “There will be time later. I would not want to rush the words. And besides, I do not think I can tell it right now.”

“What? Why not?”

“I . . .” Voren hung his head, feigning shame. “I fear for my life. I believe Rekaj is trying to get me killed.”

“But . . . but . . . why would he do that? I thought you’ve become somewhat of a favorite of his lately.”

Voren shook his head. “Only so far as I can further his goals. Once I have done that, he has made it clear that my continued existence is . . . inconvenient to him. And it is the very knowledge I would share with you that has put me in such a predicament.”

Truln twisted his lips, gazing at the ceiling in thought. “How can I help?”

Voren sighed, pouring on the show of relief. “My . . . friend . . . I was hoping you would say that. Do you know of the chamber where my kin are held? It is not a long journey, but you’ll need some help from a void. I happen to know of a few retired Hardohl living right here in Mecrithos . . .”

PART IV

Chapter 16

W
ITH
THE
DISTANT
walls of Mecrithos on his right, just visible in the haze of twilight, Yandumar rode between his armies.

Behind him, the army of his people. It numbered twenty-five thousand and counting, with several of the more remote villages slow to respond. He knew they would come, though. He knew his people, and he knew that no one would want to be remembered as the one who sat out the greatest moment of their collective existence.

He crested a mound and caught sight of the second army—the army of the revolution—still moving south towards the capital. Still alive. It looked bigger than he remembered its being when he last left it. Much bigger. The two groups must have merged together sometime in the past week, and picked up new recruits besides.

He smiled, urging Quake into a trot.

Yandumar rode at the very tip of the loose formation. He had recalled the scouts a toll ago, not wanting there to be any mishaps between the two groups of armed men and women. As he came to the screen of the revolution’s sentries, he pulled to a halt. One of the men stepped forward. Yandumar recognized him.

“Good to see ya’, Ivengar,” Yandumar said.

The ranger inclined his head. “Glad to have you back. And to see all your friends.”

“My kin,” corrected Yandumar. He jerked his chin over Ivengar’s head. “I see our forces have reconciled. I need to get to our leaders as soon as possible.”

“I’ll escort you.”

“No need. I know the way.”

Yandumar turned as Abendrol rode up behind him. “Abe,” he said. “Coordinate with Ivengar here and begin integrating our people into the defenses.”

Torn smiled deviously. “As you command, Lord-General.”

Yandumar looked at him, dumbfounded. “Come again?”

“Ha! One more thing you didn’t know because you were never properly raised to Elder status. We all got together and voted last night. Some few gave a fit, but our bylaws never specifically state that the position
had
to be given to an Elder.”

“Uhh . . . all right. What does it even mean?”

“That we’ll follow you into the maw of the abyss without even blinking.”

“Oh. So, pretty much like it already is?”

“Yeah. But now, you have a title!”

Yandumar laughed. But his merriment turned sour as he saw another rider approaching. Sarian Thress. The man had not stopped hounding him for information since they had met. It was bad enough posing for the man’s portrait of him, but it seemed like his every waking toll was spent answering questions about the events that had led to their present circumstances.
If “annoying” and “persistent” are requirements for the profession of historian, then Sarian Thress might very well become the greatest who ever lived.

Yandumar prayed for the sanity of Thress’s future children as he urged Quake into a gallop and sped towards the center of the revolutionary forces . . . and away from the historian.

Soon, he came through the outer shell, a ring of battle-hardened warriors. Troops were digging in, preparing pickets for the night’s defense, setting up tents and horse lines, staging the wagons, prepping weapons, and starting fires to begin cooking dinner—the last many of these people would likely ever have.

By tomorrow night it will be decided. One way or another, history will be written, and the soul of this continent will be bought by the blood of the victors.

Yandumar came to the command tent, slipping off Quake. He could hear muffled voices coming from within. The guards saluted him, and he returned it, pausing only long enough to take one deep breath before stepping inside.

“Ya’ miss me?” he shouted.

The voices cut off abruptly. Then, several at once responded with, “Yandumar!”

He blinked, clearing his vision, and identified all those standing before him. Orbrahn, Arozir, Idrus, and Ropes were present representing the army that had once followed Gilshamed. Paen Taditali, the sorceress Calla, and the young commander Bellanis who must have been standing in for Mevon, wherever he might be. But Yandumar barely even saw them. Standing slightly apart from the others were a pair of familiar and much missed figures. Derthon, and . . .

“Slick Ren,” he said. He ran to her, picking her up by the waist, and twirled her around. Her gasp only made him smile and laugh all the harder. He pulled her close—not quite setting her down—and pressed his lips to hers, feeling her hot breath against his face as she returned the kiss with enthusiasm.

At last he set her down, a few moments too late to avoid the awkward coughs and shuffling of feet performed by the others in the room. Yandumar didn’t care. He held her by the waist, at last giving her room to breathe.

“Well,” Slick Ren said, “if that is any indication of the ways things are to go in our relationship, I might just have to keep you.”

Yandumar smiled. “Marry me?”

She wagged a finger at him. “Uh-uh. I asked first.”

He laughed, pulling her close again and wrapping him arms around her. “You win,” he said into her ear softly. “My answer is yes.”

Looking over her head, Yandumar spied Derthon, who flashed him the hand signal for approval. Then, another sign, this one commending his bravery.

“Ha!” Yandumar said.

Slick Ren pushed away gently, then jabbed him in the kidney. Yandumar lost his air, bending over nearly double from the blow. “That was for the interruption, my dear,” she said. “We were, after all, discussing important matters.”

“Right,” he gasped. He inhaled deeply and righted himself, waving his gaze across everyone else. “Where do we stand?”

Idrus cleared his throat. “We were just going over the numbers as you entered. Our combined base force, with recent recruits from the area, comes to thirty-five thousand.”

“And,” Slick Ren said, “if seeing me and Derthon didn’t make you happy enough, perhaps I can give you fifteen thousand more reasons to smile?”

“Fifteen?” Yandumar said. The number was half again their most optimistic estimate. “How’d you manage that?”

“The bandit lords of the north and west provided half of their men to our cause. They were resistant at first, but after I promised to dedicate my life to dismantling their operations—followed by a lengthy explanation of precisely how I would do it—they proved amenable enough. That, and a promise of complete amnesty were we to succeed.”

“What about the central territory?”

“Ah. The lords of this area did not take kindly to our quite reasonable proposal. Or should I say, the
former
lords.”

“Oh, bloody abyss . . . What did you do?”

“Nothing, my dear. We just staged a little coup. No harm done.”

He raised an eyebrow. “No harm?”

She smiled wickedly. “All right, maybe a
little
harm. I have new scar. When we’re alone, I’ll show it to you.”

Yandumar tried his best not to blush. He failed.

“Since you returned,” Arozir said, “I take that to mean your mission was a success?”

“Resoundingly,” he said, then told them all how many of his kin had joined the cause. The excitement in the room grew, hope blossoming as they all realized they might actually have a chance.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Yandumar said. “Despite the fact that we outnumber the city garrison by almost two to one, taking the wall will be no easy feat. You can bet the empire knows we’re coming and that every last soldier and daeloth within a hundred leagues is marching towards us as we speak.”

“And there are the mierothi themselves,” Orbrahn said. “If they stand the wall in force, our numbers will count for little.”

“We need an edge,” Ropes said.

“As to that,” said Paen, “I may have a solution.”

Yandumar gestured at him. “Spill it.”

“I’ve been in contact with associates of my family who reside in Mecrithos. They tell me that no guardsmen patrol the streets anymore, all of them standing the wall in preparation for our assault. This has allowed the seed of dissension to spread unhindered through the populace.”

Yandumar waited, like all the rest, as Paen looked about the tent, letting his words sink in. Yandumar soon grew impatient. “Cut the theatrics, Paen. What does this mean for our strategy?”

“It means that, when the time comes, the Imperials will find the wall under attack from both sides at once.”

Yandumar closed his eyes, picturing the lower district of Mecrithos as reconstructed from his memory of his time there. Picturing the wall. Thirty paces high and just as thick, full of narrow holes in the stone face for archers to fire out upon attackers, the top lined with ballistae and linked groups of daeloth.

“Feints will be no good,” he said, opening his eyes and locking gazes with Paen. “Can you get word to your contacts before tomorrow?”

Smiling, Paen nodded.

“The central gate. Dawn.”

“They’ll be ready.”

Yandumar turned to Orbrahn and Calla. “Organize the casters. I want one embedded with each commander and four with me. Let them know to send updates by commune every few marks and for every major development. The rest, get them practicing that linking thing you do. We’ll likely need all of their combined strength to hold off the daeloth and break through the gate.”

He turned to Mevon’s captains. “We’ll need your Fist to lead the central assault. Begin making preparations.”

“Aye,” they said together. Yandumar didn’t need to say any more to them. They knew their business.

“Bellanis,” he said, meeting her gaze. “Inform the other commanders of our plans and get the troops started making ladders and overhead cover that is light enough to be carried yet still protect against arrows.”

“Got it,” she said.

“Slick Ren, Derthon . . . where will your forces be?”

“Most bandits aren’t particularly suited to fighting on the front lines,” said Slick Ren. “But everyone that came with me carries a bow. We’ll do what we can to keep those on top of the wall occupied.”

“Good. Have them start fletching more arrows.”

“Until their fingers bleed, my dear.”

Yandumar looked around the room. Satisfied, for the moment, with their preparations. “Ready or not, we assault at first light. We won’t have time to meet like this again, so use your casters to send and receive messages. Let’s get working.”

They all voiced their assent and began shuffling out of the tent to their respective tasks. He closed his eyes once more.
God, please don’t let me be forgetting anything.
The sound of shuffling feet ceased, and Yandumar sighed, turning towards his side of the tent, intending to retrieve the detailed map of Mecrithos. Tonight, there would be no sleep.

He opened his eyes, stopping short. Orbrahn and Paen waited silently.

“We need to talk,” Orbrahn said.

Yandumar growled. “I don’t wanna hear it. Not now.”

“It’s about your son,” Paen said.

“Mevon? Where’s he got to? There are all kinds of people I want him to meet. Distant cousins and such.”

Paen and Orbrahn shared a look, and Yandumar felt a chill go up his spine.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

Orbrahn stepped forward. “Jasside is dead. Mevon had been getting close to her, and, well, he didn’t take her death very well.” He craned his neck towards Paen. “Show him.”

Paen pressed his hand forward, a letter held within. “Yandumar” was written on the front. There was no seal.

Paen must have noted his frown. “Yes, we read it. He
left
us, Yandumar, in the middle of the night with no notice. I had to find out why.”

Yandumar snatched up the paper and unfolded it. It read:

Father,

Know, first, that I will never regret the decision to join you. However, I now find myself at a crossroads, and am uncertain which path to take. I will continue to aid the revolution if I am able, and will contact you again once I have determined where my steps will lead.

Keep yourself safe. I am glad to have known you, and I am proud to be called your son.

—Mevon

Yandumar read it again, uncomprehending, then folded it up and tucked it away.

“Look,” Orbrahn said. “We need to—”

“Get out,” Yandumar said, low, firm.

“But sh—”

“OUT!”

Never having witnessed his temper unleashed before, the two scrambled backwards, practically racing each other out of the tent.

Yandumar fell to his knees.
It was all for you. Everything I’ve done—every drop of blood, every vow, every deal with every devil—all to find you and bring you peace. Somewhere, I lost sight of that . . . and now
I
am lost
.

He bowed his head, closing his eyes.
God, please watch over my son, wherever he is, and guide his steps. Bring him back to me. Please . . . bring him home.

T
HE
STADIUM
LAY
quiet and empty, dark under the blanket of night, but the stench of death lingered. Mevon sat, hidden beneath his cloak, on the balustrade encircling the upper levels of the Ropes, feet dangling over the edge, looking down into the pit of tar swelled by the rotting corpses of its victims. He found no joy it in, only a sickening sorrow, and anger burning like the sun.

Getting into the city had been easy enough. Mevon used the contact information provided by Paen and met a man within the sprawl of ramshackle buildings outside the westernmost gate of Mecrithos. After providing the right passwords, he’d found himself tucked into a wagon beneath several layers of wine crates. Floods of the empire’s citizens crowded through every gate, fearing the clash to come, and guards did not have enough time to perform more than cursory inspections.

Once inside the city, he’d come straight to the Ropes. He’d already made the decision to act—the atrocities committed here only served to fuel his fury—but he did have one more thing left to decide.

Mevon looked south over the lower tiers of the city. At the base of the slope rested the wall.

He looked north. Displays of wealth increased as his eyes trailed up the mountainside. At the city’s crown sat the Imperial palace.