Veiled Empire (39 page)

There was no cry of rage. No frenzy. No chaos as men forgot themselves in the heat of battle, becoming animals. The two groups of professional soldiers merely tightened their ranks, shields overlapping, swords thrust out over top, and closed the distance.

Jasside sank back, letting Vashodia come up next to her. “What do I do?”

Vashodia hummed. “Stay alive, of course.”

The lines crashed together, reverberating like tumbling boulders. Short cries of pain sounded as men suffered wounds. Shorter ones as they died. Jasside did the only thing she could think of.

She squatted and encased her body in shadows, praying that no one would give her notice. She watched the battle unfold.

The Elite were outnumbered nearly three to one, but Vashodia’s two Hardohl, spinning and chopping their way through the darkwatch, opened up gaps that eased the pressure. The daeloth, obviously empowered by self-blessings, crashed into her allies’ lines. Wherever they did, however, Vashodia shadow-dashed in at nearly the same instant. With a pair of conjured whips in either hand—like liquid swords formed of pure dark energy—she sliced the daeloth into pieces before they could inflict too much damage.

Men died on both sides. Jasside wasn’t sure, but she thought the Elite gave more than they got.
As long as the darkwatch don’t have any hidden tricks up their sleeves, I think we can win this.

A figure leapt through the air. Towering pauldrons. Spiked armor the color of midnight. A barbed sword in one hand and a half-moon axe in the other. Though she could not see his face as it was covered by his helmet, Jasside knew exactly who he was.

Supreme Arcanod Grezkul.

Fear leapt into her throat.

He landed in the thickest part of the Elite ranks, knocking several men over. Daeloth sorcery might have been too weak to be effective against the Elite armor, but his was not.

Power encircled him like a wreath, cooking eight of the nearest Elite where they stood. With movement like a blur, he dashed out, striking precisely for throats and hearts. Ten more men fell, never to rise again, all before Jasside thought to release the breath she was holding.

Both Hardohl appeared a beat later. Jasside felt dizzy, watching Grezkul’s blades dance out only to be blocked by the
Andun
. The two voids parried and dodged expertly, but it quickly became apparent to her that they were not equal to Mevon . . . and maybe not to the supreme arcanod either.

Their adversary moved like a snake, flowing around them, blades snicking out to inflict wounds that would have dropped normal men. Yet the two moved together, as if a single entity. Grezkul changed stance, pouring the strength of an oxen into his strikes. Even blocking them, the Hardohl were driven back by the sheer force of the blows.

Jasside realized that they were going to lose. She looked around for Vashodia, but didn’t see her anywhere.
She doesn’t even know. . .

She stood. Energized. Swallowed her fear. Enough power was being flung about the battlefield. Her small addition, she hoped, would simply go unnoticed.

Her first casting shot out. It struck the female Hardohl as she spun into its wake and vanished, jolting Jasside slightly. She tried again. This one passed through all three combatants, and she dissolved it before it could strike the Elite fighting beyond.

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and concentrated.
I need not make it a projectile. I can simply form it . . . right . . . there!

The field crackled in the supreme arcanod’s chest. He stumbled.

The two Hardohl pounced. Blades chopped through both arms and legs in less than a beat, and their opponent—now just a writhing torso and head—fell to the ground. The male dove on top of him, and the female readied her weapon for the killing blow.

Jasside dissolved the shadows around her and stepped forward. “Stop! Wait!”

They looked at her askance. But they waited.

Jasside moved up to the figure and knelt by his head. She removed his helmet. Their eyes met.

The mierothi man coughed. “Don’t I know you, little wench?”

“Yes,” she said, then leaned in, pressing her lips next to his ear. “This is for what you ordered my father to do to my mother.”

She drew her belt knife, leaned back, and drove it through his forehead.

Jasside stayed, leaning over his body for a few marks. When she rose at last, Vashodia stood before her. The battle was over. Less than fifty Elite remained standing, but the darkwatch were no more.

“Ready?” said Vashodia.

Jasside nodded, a lightness coming to her step. Together, they marched into the palace.

V
OREN
FLOATED
THROUGH
the palace at the center of a sun. Power flowed through him, outward into a sphere that incinerated all it touched. Nothing escaped its wrath. Flesh and bone melted like wax. Wood and cloth turned into vapor. Metal burned. Even the very stones crumbled to dust.

Before, when he had used this power in the chamber up in the mountains, it had been for a specific purpose. Now, he had none. All the fear and sorrow and loneliness, pent-up for centuries, bled out from him. The hope he had abandoned long ago, rekindled by the whispers of freedom only to be squelched once more, took with it everything that had once been recognizable as his soul. He had not passion nor dream nor joy nor love nor faith.

Voren now had only power. He
used
power.

And power, in turn, used him.

G
ILSHAME
D
DOVE
AS
another ray of power lashed through the hallway. His shield, into which he poured every last drop of his energy, writhed and screamed against him, nearly popping. The molten power had barely brushed against him.

He stood and continued running, glancing back over his shoulder. The walls were gone, as was the ceiling. He could see into the hallway of the floor above and the rooms to the side. At least what was left of them. Scorched swaths marked where this latest outpouring of fury had scythed through. Nothing remained in its path.

Gilshamed did not know if Voren pursued him. Nor if the creature now tearing apart the palace could still be considered “Voren” at all. He could not even think. He fled through the palace, heart racing, pitiful noises emanating from his throat, blinded by the unholy power that consumed all sense, all reason.

Another wave pulsed towards him. He shouldered his way through a door, stumbling into a darkened room. The corridor behind him glowed as power raced through it, but the ray, this time, struck downward rather than straight through.

Gilshamed took a deep breath and peered about. Shelves lined the walls, filled with tomes and scrolls, inkwells and quills and blank parchment. Four writing tables sat evenly spaced in the center. In the far corner, several brown-robed youths crouched, fingers stained black. Fear was writ on their faces as clearly as words on a page.

Huddled between them was a small mierothi man, shaking. He had hugged to his chest a book not much larger than Gilshamed’s open palm. He stepped closer until he could make out the title.

History of the Empire, vol. I.

“My fault,” the mierothi said. “All my fault.”

“What do you mean?” Gilshamed asked.

“I got it for him. Never thought he’d do this. Never thought . . .” He lowered his head and began rocking back and forth.

Gilshamed shivered, somehow recovering some small sense of himself. He quested toward Voren’s power. Despite its abhorrent nature, he now realized that some small part of it was . . . familiar . . . like an old friend shouting from the far side of a crowd.

He shook himself loose as another wave began wracking the palace. He lunged forward and snatched the book from the mierothi, a pitiful gasp escaping the man’s lips. He turned to the scribes. “Why aren’t you fleeing? Can you not see that staying here is a death sentence?”

They each turned wide gazes to the hallway behind him, which was already brightening. None moved. Gilshamed, energizing, searched the room and found a blank spot on the wall opposite the door. He cast a spell towards it, blowing open a hole wide enough for him to pass through.

He dashed through the opening. A patter of steps sounded in his wake. He pushed the tome into the inner pocket of his robe and began running. A scream sounded as flame engulfed the room behind them.

M
EVON
PUS
HED
OPEN
the double doors and stepped into the chamber. It smelled thickly of dust. Carpets, worn and grey, covered the floor. Tapestries hung on both walls, reduced to tatters by age. Sunlight streamed through a series of windows to his right. Weblike patterns hinted at what once might have been images, but the glass had sagged and warped so much that Mevon could not tell what they were intended to depict. Soaring archways reached their peak three stories up, supported by rotting, moldy timbers.

Mevon, at last, focused on the far end of the room, some hundred and fifty paces distant. There sat a wide, high-backed chair, sharply carved from pure obsidian. It shimmered in the dawn. Lurid reflections danced on the floor around it, marring the raised marble dais with its antilight.

Upon it slouched the emperor.

He shifted upright as Mevon entered. “You?”

Mevon marched forward, his footfalls echoing throughout the hollow chamber. He said not a word.

“Ah . . . of course,” Rekaj said with a sigh. “Even now she fears to face me.”

His long strides overtook another, shorter set of footprints in the dust. The emperor’s.

Rekaj stood and began ambling down the steps before his throne. “I do not blame her, though. It’s not as if she could win.”

Mevon reached behind him. As the cold steel of Justice slipped into his grasp, he became one with the weapon.

“How does it feel, Daere, knowing you’re just a pawn?”

Mevon shook his head.
I’ve been
your
pawn my entire life. Now, I’ve finally found a purpose I can call my own, and I do all in full knowledge of who benefits from my actions.

And I have never felt more at peace.

Perhaps Rekaj deserved an explanation. Perhaps not. Either way, Mevon did not feel like sharing his thoughts. He broke into a sprint. The distance between them melted away.

A look of resignation passed over the emperor’s features. In a whisper, he said, “What a waste.”

Mevon sprawled on the ground with a thump. His
Andun
fell from his grasp. His face was turned away and he did not know where it landed. It might have been fingers away, or paces.

Only after experiencing the effects of the spell did Mevon feel the tingling that announced casting nearby. Rekaj’s sorcery made lightning seem slow. He understood, now, how the man had gained his power. How he had kept it all these long centuries. Why anyone would fear to become his enemy. Against such speed, such power, how could anyone hope to stand?

The realization that the emperor knew this spell did not surprise him. Nor that the man had hoarded such knowledge from even his closest allies. In this moment, as a man about to die before no witnesses, Mevon knew that he was seeing Rekaj’s truest self.

He heard footsteps drawing near. The snick of a dagger being pulled from its sheath. “Another sacrifice to the gods,” said the emperor, his voice full of sorrow. “Will you not ever be satisfied!”

Mevon, slowly, stretched out with his hand, searching with his fingertips. After a few beats, they brushed against something hard and cold.

The footsteps drew closer.

Closer.

Stopped.

Mevon summoned strength of will from the depths of his soul. Strength beyond anything physically possible. His hand shot out, gripping the rod of his weapon. He swung sideways across the surface of the floor.

Twin thunks sounded as a blade passed through flesh and bone. Blood sprayed across the floor, pattering dully, turning instantly to mud in the dust. A cry of surprise and pain gurgled from Rekaj. He fell.

The spell holding Mevon dissolved. He jumped to his feet and dove on top of the emperor.

Crazed eyes glared up at him as Mevon planted a knee on Rekaj’s chest, cracking ribs. He took hold of the mierothi’s wrists and held them down. The move brought their faces so close, Mevon could feel wheezing breath on his cheeks. The emperor hadn’t even bothered to empower himself with blessings. If he had, he could have thrown Mevon off him with ease. Now, however, Rekaj was completely in his control.

“How?” croaked the emperor.

“A woman,” Mevon said. He smiled, remembering her. “The first time she used the spell on me, it made me question everything I thought I knew. And the more she used it, the more I came to understand the effects.”

Mevon shifted his left knee onto one of Rekaj’s wrists, freeing his arm.

“You see,” he continued, “the spell only cancels the effects of our blessing. All the speed and strength and perception granted us is negated backwards, and we experience—all at once—the peeling back of those benefits.”

He reached to his belt, extracting a dagger. He brought it up, with no haste, to rest on the emperor’s throat.

“The more she practiced on me, though, the less the effects became. The more I was able to fight past them.

“And she practiced a lot.”

Rekaj began coughing, which turned into a sardonic laugh. “So what now? You kill me and take my throne?” He glanced at the obsidian chair. “You think you know how to govern an empire? Ha!” He broke into more coughing, wheezing. “You know nothing.”

Mevon sighed. “I know one thing.”

He pushed down and slashed sideways.

“I know justice.”

Black blood spurted from Rekaj’s grinning throat.

Mevon stayed atop him for several marks, watching until the life faded from those red eyes. He pressed his head to the emperor’s chest, listening for the intake of breath, feeling for a heartbeat. Nothing.

It is finished.

Mevon stood, dusting himself off. He thought he’d feel better, maybe even whole, but something was still missing. Some
one
. And nothing he had done could bring her back.