Veiled Empire (35 page)

She looked down on Vashodia as the mierothi came up next to her. “You sure you want to come with me?”

Vashodia flashed a twisted grin—a smirk to show her amusement with all the lesser beings. She wore it ceaselessly. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“But our casters are constantly in communion, sending messages. If they haven’t already, one is sure to notice someone as powerful as you approaching.”

Vashodia waved dismissively. “I began dampening my signal days ago. It won’t be a problem.”

“Dampening?”

Vashodia sighed. “A lesson for another time, perhaps. For now, I think we should hurry along our way.”

“But—”

Vashodia shot her a cold, dead look, and Jasside clamped her jaw shut. “I told you it was good to ask questions. It is. But not when I have made myself perfectly clear. Understood?”

Jasside nodded.

“Good. Now, shall we?”

Jasside—followed by a short mierothi in dark robes, and two Hardohl wearing the plain clothes of peasants and carrying heavy packs—led the way down into the war camp of the revolution. They were stopped three times. First, by the outer sentries, then by the perimeter pickets. Jasside supplied the proper passwords, and they were let by with little more than curious glances for a group bringing a child into what would soon become a battlefield. The third time, a woman stopped in her tracks as they approached her, eyes widening.

“Jasside?” called the woman in disbelief. “Is that you?”

Jasside smiled at her. “Yes, Calla, it is me.”

“How are you still alive? I saw you fall.”

“Clever application of sorc—” She stopped, glancing at Vashodia briefly. Her new mistress forbade the use of words such as “magic” and “sorcery,” considering them superstitious nonsense. Instead, she continued with, “my energies. And a good bit of luck.”

“Incredible,” Calla said. “Oh, you’ve missed so much, I don’t even know where to start.”

“I’d love to catch up, but there’s no time. Can you take me to the command tents?”

Calla ran a narrow sweep of her eyes over Vashodia and the two Hardohl before nodding and waving them all forward. “This way.”

They walked along, barely able to stay out of the way of all the preparations under way. As far as she could tell, not a soul had gotten a wink of sleep. Jasside asked Calla, “Are we attacking today?”

“At dawn,” Calla said. “Scouts have ranged in every direction and report Imperial reinforcements closing in. Yandumar wanted to take the walls before they arrived.”

Jasside nodded absently, muttering something about a good plan.
We’re lucky to have arrived now. Not a moment too soon, by the looks of it.

She spotted Vashodia’s swinging arms out of the corner of her eye.
No. Not luck. When it comes to her, I don’t think anything is ever left to chance.

They continued wending their way through the camp, which was far more vast than Jasside remembered, until Calla brought them up short with an outstretched arm.

“There,” said Calla, pointing. Jasside saw the familiar tents a few hundred paces away. “I’ve got to go. You take care of yourself today, all right?”

“I will,” Jasside said.

They parted ways, and their little group soon came to stand outside the entrance to the tent. No less than threescore soldiers stood guard nearby, several physically blocking the flap. This close to Mecrithos, Jasside could understand the need to guard against assassins.

She cleared her throat, making eye contact with the only guard that would return her gaze. “I need to speak with one of our leaders. Mevon is preferred if he is in, but Gilshamed or Yandumar will do as well. Tell them Jasside Anglasco is here.”

The soldier gave her a quizzical look. “You haven’t heard, I take it?”

Jasside’s heart skipped a beat. “Heard what?”

“You find out soon, I suspect.” The man sighed, jerking a thumb towards the tent. “Yandumar is busy. All the commanders just went inside for a meeting. It’ll probably take awhile. You’re welcome to w—”

The flap burst open and a flood of grumbling men and women poured out in a rush. Before the last had even broken the threshold, a voice barked out from inside. “Send her in!”

The soldier’s jaw hung towards his chest. He motioned Jasside inside without a word.

“Stay here,” Vashodia ordered, turned just slightly towards the Hardohl. The two took places next to the guards, facing out.

Jasside swallowed hard. Together, she and Vashodia marched into the tent.

An argument, low and strained, was ongoing in one of the side chambers. Left. Yandumar’s room. Jasside headed towards the voices.

“You sure?” Yandumar. “Why hasn’t anyone else noticed?”

“She’s a clever girl, that’s why.” That oily voice could only be Paen.

“I’m telling you, I never forget someone’s particular aura once I’ve communed with them.” Few besides Orbrahn could stuff quite so much arrogance into one sentence.

“Yeah, but—”

Yandumar clamped his jaw shut as Jasside stepped through the cloth tunnel into the room.

Orbrahn waved a hand towards her. “Like I said.”

Jasside opened her mouth to offer greetings, but stopped. None of the three men were paying the slightest attention to her. She craned her neck down and to the side, forgetting how to breathe as her gaze fell upon the top of Vashodia’s head.

Her hood was already down.

“My boys,” Vashodia said. “I am so very pleased to see you all.”

Jasside could not look away from the mierothi.
You know them? They know you? Scorch me, what is going on?

Her confusion only deepened as Paen dashed over and scooped up Vashodia into a close embrace. Their lips met, each opening and twisting against the other. Soft moans emanated from both their throats.

After a few long beats, Vashodia pushed away. “Enough for now, you naughty boy.” He put her down, giving her a knowing, longing gaze as he stepped back.

Vashodia set her sights on Orbrahn. “Been enjoying your enhanced capacity?”

Orbrahn smirked, nodding. “Put it to good use, too.”

“By which you mean, ‘killing mierothi’ I assume?”

Orbrahn shrugged, still smiling.

“You’ve done well, keeping me informed,” said Vashodia. She turned to Paen. “And you, my love, your efforts have proven most useful.”

“Always happy to be of service,” Paen said.

“And how is your father?”

“Abyss if I know. No doubt he’s throwing a fit over how many of our family’s resources I’ve commandeered for your little civil war.”

Jasside’s thoughts whirled, unable to comprehend.
Civil war? I thought this was a revolution?

Vashodia’s face lit up. “Can I be there when you tell him? I do so love to watch grown men stammer.”

Paen bowed. “Do I ever say ‘no’ to you?”

Vashodia giggled in delight.

Jasside looked at Yandumar. He’d been silent, still, the only sign of life a slow grinding of his lower jaw and his knuckles going white over the hilts of a mace and axe suspended at his waist. Now, as the diminutive mierothi ceased her laughter, he opened his mouth for the first time.

“I know why you’re here.”

“Oh?” Vashodia raised an eyebrow.

“There’s only two reasons you would come. Either we’re about to fail you, or we already have.”

Vashodia shook her head. “Oh, Yandumar. My dear, sweet, misguided warrior. I always meant to enter the game myself at some point. I am, after all, my very own ace in the hole. But I knew that playing my hand too early would alert our enemies to the real stakes of this conflict.”

“Don’t talk to me about stakes. I’ve already lost Gilshamed, and . . . and Mevon.” Yandumar lowered his head.

Jasside felt tears forming, a twisting clench in her chest.
No . . . not Mevon. Please. . .

“I did the best I could,” Yandumar said. “But I lost focus. Lost sight of the people that were most important to me . . . all because of my vow to
you
.”

“When we came to you thirty years ago, the very night you learned about the murder of your wife and children, and the kidnapping of your newborn, we gave you a choice. Are you really going to tell me you’d make a different one?”

“No. But, scorch me, I wish I didn’t have to owe anything to you.”

A smile slowly crept across Vashodia’s face. “Yandumar, I am pleased with all that you have done. I consider our bargain . . . fulfilled.”

Yandumar’s eyes widened.

Vashodia continued. “So I ask you: What will you do now?”

Yandumar exhaled loudly, slowly, then sucked in a deep breath. Held it. Closed his eyes.

“Ha, HA!”

Jasside could almost see the weight of his burdens sliding off of him. His back seemed straighter, muscles more relaxed, and his lips curled up seemingly without effort or thought.

“I’m gonna lead these people into battle,” Yandumar said. “And do my best not to get them all killed.”

“A wise plan,” Vashodia said.

Yandumar chuckled again. “How ’bout a new deal then?”

Vashodia made a sound like
tsk tsk
. “Just beats from completing one vow, and now you seek to bind yourself to another? I can’t wait to hear it.”

“Help us out. Lend us the full measure of your power for the fight to come.”

“And in return?”

“I don’t hunt you down when this is all over.”

Vashodia giggled. “Stronger men than you have tried.”

“But more dedicated? More persistent?”

She looked at the ceiling, as if contemplating his remarks. “Offer accepted, on one condition.”

“What?”

“You keep news of my involvement strictly confidential, especially from those bandit friends of yours.”

Yandumar frowned. “Why shouldn’t they know?”

“Let’s just say I have a rather unpleasant history with them.”

Yandumar hissed in his next breath. “I almost forgot that was you.”

“Afraid so. On the bright side, that particular experiment yielded fantastic results.”

Jasside couldn’t hold it in anymore. “What happened to Mevon?” she said all at once.

All eyes in the room turned on her, seeming to notice her presence for the first time. She had the feeling life would often be like this if she continued on as Vashodia’s apprentice.

“He left,” Orbrahn said.

“Left? You mean he’s not dead?”

“Of course not,” Yandumar said. “If I’ve learned anything about that son of mine, it’s that he’s one tough nut to crack.” He sighed. “I do wish I’d heard from him, though.”

“Your boy is fine,” said Vashodia. “I sent my brother to help him. They are beginning their work even as we speak.”

Jasside felt the twisting inside her subside. “That was kind of you.”

“Kind? I just put two of this planet’s best killers together and sent them into extreme danger. I intend to use their actions as a catalyst for all that is to come. No, my dear, kind has nothing to do with it.”

Jasside, somehow, felt as if their statures were reversed. She nodded, trying to hide her blush.

“About Gilshamed,” said Yandumar. “I gotta apologize on his behalf. It was my responsibility to keep him in line, and when we split forces, I failed him. Failed us.”

“Fret not,” Vashodia said. “He has fulfilled his purpose as I have intended so far, and even now may still prove useful.”

“Useful? I thought he ran away?”

“He tried. Another player in this game—the wild card, if you will—stepped in to prevent that.”

Yandumar began rubbing his temples. Jasside felt as if her own head were about to explode.

“I don’t—” began Yandumar, but was cut off by a sharp gesture from Vashodia.

“Focus on your task, Yandumar. Let me worry about the big picture.”

“Aye,” he said, clearly relieved

“Good. Now, I believe I offered you my aid in the forthcoming battle. How about we discuss strategy? Paen, be a dear and get us some wine. Your father’s best, of course.”

Chapter 17

M
EVON
KICKED
IN
the door, stepping back as Draevenus shadow-dashed through. The sounds of death hit him before he even took his next breath. The scent of blood. Mevon smiled. He stepped through the portal, unleashing the storm.

The top layer of the wall came into view, murky in the glow of predawn. Ballistae crews were staging their enormous projectiles, and linked trios of daeloth stood on the raised lip of the wall, looking out towards the field where the revolution’s camp stretched to the horizon. Three hundred paces distant, a stone bridge crossed over the central gate of Mecrithos.

It was here that the revolution would strike. And here where the mierothi had gathered the greatest of their strength.

Mevon saw them. Half again a score of sleeping pallets lined the rear wall, and upon each, a resting mierothi. Most still asleep. Those few that weren’t seemed not far removed from it, and slow to respond to the eruption of violence.

Mevon, with Justice at the ready, sprinted towards them.

His first victim never woke from her slumber, her head rolling as he slashed downward through her neck. His blades rotated around, the other dealing an identical blow to the next mierothi in line.

Step.

He cut upward, taking off the front half of a man’s face as he sat up.

Step.

Side slash, bisecting two standing males at the navel.

Step.

Thrust, impaling one through the chest as his heel crushed in a sleeping skull.

Step.

He lost himself in the glory of death, moving with a speed that none of the groggy mierothi could hope to match, and reveling in the beautiful symphony of blood sung by his blades. A few managed spells against him, but he moved like a wraith in the gloom, and none recognized him for Hardohl. And if any did, none seemed able to utilize any other methods against him.

Do none of you know the spell to disable my kind?
The thought gave him hope even as he vanquished the last in line, that the emperor might be just as ignorant.

He turned, just in time to witness Draevenus throw two daggers. The spinning steel struck the stone beneath two groups of daeloth and exploded. The wall collapsed, tumbling down, taking six daeloth with it. Their screams ended abruptly three beats later.

Mevon glanced across the rooftop behind them. Bodies lay strewn about, but nothing moved. His admiration for his newest ally grew.

Draevenus dashed, landing next to him. The mierothi viewed Mevon’s handiwork, then nodded respectfully. “Good work. But the other side is alerted to our presence. Strategy?”

“Stay hidden,” Mevon said. “I’ll engage and draw their attention. Join the fray when it appears to be most advantageous.”

Draevenus smiled. “I like the way you think.”

Mevon returned the smile. “Go.”

Draevenus waved towards himself and nearly disappeared. A living shadow, crouched low, moved away at speed that even Mevon could appreciate.

He turned towards the bridge. A wall of soldiers stood upon it.

Mevon ran straight towards them.

Fondly, he recalled all the practice sessions he had conducted with his Fist. Him against them. They’d shot countless crossbow bolts at him as he assaulted their position, ran across their line, retreated—every angle possible. They had become masters of shooting at moving targets, and Mevon, through much pain, had become a master of dodging those shots.

The soldiers now arrayed before him, at a voiced command, squeezed their fingers on the triggers of their crossbows. Mevon watched the twitch of their muscles and knew which would pull their shots, which blinked, which were trying to aim but couldn’t draw a bead on him. In the end, only three projectiles out of dozens were in any position to do him harm.

Mevon ducked, throwing himself forward into a tumble, and the streaking bolts passed by without injury.

He righted himself and shouldered his way through their line. He didn’t bother killing them. He had more important targets to deal with.

Mevon stomped down the opposite side of the bridge without slowing.

The mierothi, this time, were ready for him.

Ten stood in a line, facing Mevon with hatred in their eyes. Twice that many stood behind this first group, faces blank, shoulders drooping. He felt the tingling of the sorcery coming off the first line and saw scores of stone blocks, each the size of Mevon’s torso, ripped from the very wall and floating in the air.

With a gesture from the mierothi, the blocks began hurtling towards Mevon.

He ducked, dove, and dodged, avoiding direct blows but unable to prevent the dull thuds of pain as several glanced off his body. He heard screams behind him as the soldiers on the bridge took the worst of it.

He tried to keep all the stones in sight, but he had to spin more often than not to avoid them. Before he could close even half the distance, one struck his hip with more momentum than he could absorb. Mevon went down in a heap.

In beats, half a dozen more struck his body. He felt himself being crushed as they pounded into him again and again.

Darkness closed in around the edges of his vision. Breath became a dream.

He saw a shadow move across the backside of the front mierothi line. Each fell as the shadow passed. And as they fell, the blocks they commanded became inanimate once more. All ten were down within the span of three heartbeats.

Mevon burned. The fire of his blessings worked to undo all the damage he had just sustained. It was half a mark before he could even breathe, and several more before he could stand.

He blinked, righting himself, and shook off the pain.
Draevenus . . . the other score mierothi!

Mevon jumped to his feet, scooping up his
Andun
. What he saw made no sense.

Draevenus stood before his kin, head hanging. No one moved.

“What’s going on?” Mevon asked.

Draevenus turned, holding out a hand as if to stop Mevon from coming any closer. “These . . . aren’t our enemy.”

“What do you mean? Do they not stand with the emperor?”

“Not by choice.” Draevenus’s shoulders slumped. “There must have been some on the other side as well. If I had known . . .”

“You didn’t. And neither did I. Who are they?”

“Rekaj calls them the Enlightened. They are . . . simpletons. Their power is drained from them in a process akin to rape, all to empower your kind’s blessings.”

Mevon hissed in a breath. “Are you telling me they are not responsible for their own actions?”

Draevenus nodded.

“Then I declare them innocent.” Mevon replaced his weapon onto his back. “My justice is not for them.”

Draevenus smiled grimly, then turned. A group of soldiers and daeloth from the far side were edging closer. They seemed hesitant, however.

“My kin require care and escort,” Draevenus called. “Which of you is willing to volunteer?”

The men froze. They looked at each other in confusion. Finally, a voice called, “What’s going on, honored one?”

“Change,” said Draevenus. “Keep up or be swept away.” He accented this with a jerking wave of his hand. “Now, I’ll ask again, but do not test my patience. Who will help these people to safety?”

A large group of the soldiers, wide-eyed, dashed forward. Mevon saw the looks of the daeloth. Felt them begin to energize as they stared at the backs of those men that had come forward.

Mevon lunged into their midst, spinning. Daeloth blood flew from the ends of his blades. None had gotten off a single casting.

The soldiers turned, fear evident on their features. Mevon cradled his weapon in one arm. “I do not suggest you make of me an enemy,” he said.

A hundred weapons slammed back into their sheaths at once. Mevon nodded, relaxing his stance. Men moved to begin helping the mierothi to their feet as Draevenus walked over to him.

“Our work here is done,” Mevon said.

Draevenus sighed. “So it seems.”

“You’re not satisfied?”

“No. I came here for one reason, and that goal remains unfulfilled.”

“The adjudicators. If they’re not here, then . . .”

“Exactly.”

Together, they looked out towards the field beyond the city walls.

J
ASSIDE
HELD
OPEN
the tent flap and stared out at the eastern horizon, willing the sun to rise. The butterflies in her stomach were, to her surprise, as much from anticipation as from fear. This day would be hard—a test like no other—but with Vashodia involved, she had faith it would all turn out all right.

Someone gasped behind her. Jasside turned just in time to see Calla fall limp to the ground.

She dashed over, kneeling down and shaking the woman’s shoulders. “Calla?” Jasside said. “Calla, what is it? What’s wrong?”

Orbrahn and Yandumar drew close and hovered, concern writ on their faces. It took half a mark more of gentle prodding before Calla’s eyes finally fluttered open. Tears formed in them, spilling down.

“What happened?” Yandumar asked.

Calla sniffled. “I was getting a commune report from Piran when . . . when . . .” She squeezed her eyes shut once more. “I think he’s dead.”

“Piran,” said Yandumar. “Who was he assigned to?”

“Commander Bellanis,” Orbrahn said.

Jasside looked up at the two men, and the three of them shared a silent moment of dread. Piran had been just a boy. They’d assigned all the youngest casters to the commanders, hoping it would keep them relatively safe in the coming battle.

They’d expected some sort of attack, but none of them had the foresight to see this coming.

“Give me a beat,” said Orbrahn. “I’ll check on the others.”

Jasside felt a tiny pulse of energy as Orbrahn closed his eyes and entered communion. He returned a moment later. Slowly, he shook his head.

“Three others are missing, all assigned to commanders. I think we can assume the worst.”

Yandumar turned to the table and pounded it with a fist. “Get the word out. Assassins in the camp, targeting our commanders and their casters. Tell everyone left to sound the alert and stay alive!”

Orbrahn nodded. Jasside helped Calla to her feet. While the two other casters returned to communion, Yandumar leaned in towards Jasside, lowering his voice.

“Jasside?”

“Yes?”

“See what you can do.”

Jasside heard the unspoken plural in the “you” of his request. She dipped her head and turned away. A few steps led her into the chamber of the tent once occupied by Gilshamed. It had a new tenant now.

“I heard,” Vashodia said as Jasside stepped in. She was seated cross-legged in the middle of the room, which was entirely empty. “Tell Yandumar that we will take care of the issue.”

Jasside slipped back through the narrow cloth passage. “I’ll handle it,” she announced.

“You sure?” Yandumar said. “Just the t—just you?”

Jasside straightened her back, lifting her chin slightly. “Of course.”

Yandumar sighed, then waved her away.

She returned to the side chamber. “What do you need me to do?”

“Be my eyes,” said Vashodia.

“How?”

“Enter communion, then immediately return.”

Jasside nodded. She energized, then conjured a black disc in her mind, turned it, expanded it until it filled the whole of her senses. Then, she stepped through. The white void appeared, occupied by hundreds of black stars, some larger than others. Much larger. And far too close for comfort.

Remembering her instructions, she exited communion, blinking in the dim light of the tent.

“Again,” Vashodia said.

Jasside did so. It came with ease this time, and she sped in and out without pausing.

“Again. Faster, girl.”

The black disc snapped into her mind. She was through and back in less than a beat.

“Too slow. Again!”

Again. And again. And again. Each taking less time than the one before. She had an idea what Vashodia had in mind now, and she learned quickly. She flashed in and out of communion half a dozen times per beat.

“Good,” came Vashodia’s ethereal voice. Jasside was not both in and out of communion at the same time—such was impossible—but she might as well have been. Images of the void and of reality superimposed themselves onto her vision. “Now, how are you with illusions?”

“Passing,” Jasside said, her own voice strangely distant, hollow.

“Can you conjure an image of what you see in communion?”

Still flashing in and out, her mind strained as, in answer, she pulled in more energy and cast a spell of simple darkness. For each dark star she saw in the void, she created an identical image inside the tent. It stretched the limits of her control and concentration, but eventually the two sets aligned, until she saw the same thing—including location and relative sizes of each caster’s soul—in both worlds at once.

“Excellent,” Vashodia said. “Now, all I need is . . . perspective.” A pause, then. “Hold on and don’t stop what you’re doing.”

Jasside didn’t even have time to answer before she felt herself rising. Power rolled off Vashodia, energies directed to change the very ground beneath their feet, lifting it as layer upon layer in quick succession formed, each pushing the rest farther towards the sky. Another wave parted the roof of the tent, and they ascended into the glowing predawn air.

She sucked in a breath and looked down upon the sprawling army of the revolution. Here, standing on a pillar of stone a hundred paces high, she could see it all.

Vashodia pulled in power. And kept pulling. More and more, until Jasside was sure the small form would simply burst from holding so much at once. She’d held more herself, at the battle of Thorull, but then she had been linked with forty others. Vashodia, by herself, now met that strength.

Then, she summoned more.

There was a strange buzzing, and Jasside had a familiar sensation, as if someone were harmonizing nearby. She kept up her task, jumping in and out of communion and maintaining an illusionary image of what she saw—nudging the small bubbles of darkness to align with the new positions of the stars. A small part of her began to worry that the two of them wouldn’t be enough.