Veiled Empire (8 page)

Gilshamed smiled, placing his hand on Yandumar’s shoulder, their embraces now intertwined. “You constantly surprise me. It seems I may never learn all there is to know about you.”

Yandumar dropped his hand, grimacing briefly before he turned away. “Just don’t go digging too deeply, Gil. You may not like what you find . . .”

To this, Gilshamed did not know what to say.

V
O
REN
STEPPED
FROM
the carriage, blinking, into the newly risen sun. The image jarred him. On principle, he avoided sunrises, for they could hardly fail to conjure memories of his early days of confinement. Days when he still harbored thoughts of his redemption, of his own light rising and conquering the darkness once more.

So foolish to think such is still possible.

He felt a tug on his wrist as the man next to him jerked the band that connected them. A band made of human flesh. “C’mon, Voren,” said Kael, much as a man might address a hesitant pet. “No point in dawdling.”

Voren, sighing, stepped to keep pace with his keeper. Kael looked as old as Voren felt, with thin hair and an even thinner beard the shade of new snow. His appearance, however, was doubly deceiving. At first glance one might guess him at around seventy years of age. However, the man had nearly four decades on this estimate. But neither of these numbers was the slightest indication of the man’s physical ability, for he was a warrior still and could fight better than most men even a quarter his age.

All thanks to me.

A wind roared overhead, but they were saved from its bite by a wall of towering boulders on either side of the faded game trail. Distant Mecrithos could be seen sporadically through gaps in the stones, a dark wave widening as it spread down the mountain’s slope. North of the city, an endless sea of grasses rolled to the horizon, appearing as if on fire by the sharp angle of the sun.

The four daeloth acting as his protection walked by twos, both fore and aft of him. They wore not the heavy armor of the empire’s officer corps, but rather padded leathers overlain with chain mail, all black. These were not mere daeloth, but adjudicators. Voren had no illusions about their purpose. They were not here to protect him but to subdue or kill him if he tried to escape. Their garb, weaponry, and tactics were straight out of
Methodology of the Sorcerer-Assassin
, written by Draevenus himself.

Voren began sending a silent prayer to Elos for his friend’s journey, wherever it might lead him, but then thought better of it. The god of the valynkar was not in the habit of casting a compassionate eye on the mierothi.

There are times when I wonder if he still looks favorably upon me.

Their little group marched in silence save the scuffle of their feet on the rocky path. Voren knew this trail well, having trod it countless times. They rounded a bend, and the entrance to a cave came into view ahead. The lead daeloth marched in, with only the slightest hesitation as they passed under the jagged stone teeth marking the entrance.

In mere moments, light had become a memory, and a thick odor, reminiscent of moss and bile, filled the air. Despite having been here on numerous occasions, Voren still nearly choked with each intake of breath. The cave closed in around them, stifling sound and thought. Each adjudicator conjured a ball of blue fire to illuminate their path.

Periodically, the lead daeloth would motion Kael forward, and the Hardohl would march to stand in place whilst the rest of them passed. The sorcerous wards here held out all intruders and could only be passed with the aid of a void such as his keeper. Voren, so many centuries ago, had insisted upon such protective measures.

After some time, yet all too soon, they arrived at their destination. A simple wooden door stood before them. They paused just outside. Kael pulled the handle, dispelling the last ward standing between Voren and the chamber beyond. The Hardohl held open the door with a foot as he slipped the band off Voren’s wrist.

“In you go,” Kael said.

Voren nodded, then walked inside. The door closed softly behind him.

Free now.

He smiled, truly alone and unhindered for the first time in nearly a year, lacking the suppression of both a Hardohl’s touch and the wards affixed in his chambers back at the palace. He energized, savoring the torrent of raw power that filled his whole being.
This
was life, not the paltry existence he endured on most of his other days.
Oh, to be able to hold this sweet, scathing essence at will again.
Voren could think of few things greater.

He opened another door, this of smooth grey metal, using sorcery to pull the heavy bulwark which had no handle to speak of. He stepped inside the room beyond.

His elation dimmed.

A soft turquoise light bathed the chamber in luminescence. Round and a dozen paces across, the room had but a few tables in the center. Around the edges of the room were twoscore figures, held floating upright in individual alcoves filled with a glowing, viscous fluid. In stasis, as they had been for time unending.

Valynkar, one and all.

Voren steeled himself, and set to work immediately. He approached the first stasis pod, which held a middle-aged valynkar male with sky-blue hair. Voren produced a glass vial from his robes and held it up to a small tube jutting out from the wall. This tube connected with the subject’s inner elbow, inserted intravenously into the main artery. A small wave of magic coaxed a stream of blood down the tube and into the vial. Once it was filled, Voren stemmed the tide and stepped to the table at the center of the chamber. He poured the contents of the vial into a large stone bowl.

He proceeded to the next prisoner and repeated the process. Down the line, one after another, he drew from them all, slowly but surely filling the stone bowl with the mixed lifeblood of his kin.

Each new face threatened to open the locked cell of his memories, but he was sure to keep his eyes averted, mind firmly on his present task and naught else. Pain rested there, behind iron bars in his mind. He had no desire to revisit a time when they had called him “friend.”

At last he came to the final static soul. More than any of the others, he could not afford to rest his eyes upon her. He kept them firmly downcast as he extracted her blood. Or, tried to, anyway.

As soon as the red trickle began, a most peculiar thing occurred. None of the others had so much as flinched, but she . . . she began swaying.

Then, she started twitching.

The motion intensified, becoming a violent thrashing. Her head rocked back and forth, swirling her hair into tangled violet threads.

Her face pressed forward through the motion, and her lips parted the vertical seal of liquid. In a cry so hollow, so wracked in misery, as to make his heart skip, she let loose a single word: “Why?”

He stumbled backwards, the vial falling from his hands to shatter on the floor. He stared up at her, frozen.
This isn’t possible. You are all locked away into perpetual dreams . . . perpetual nightmares.

Voren surged forward and pushed her head back into the pool. Now, as his gaze lingered on her face, he could no longer keep the cage of his ancient memories shut.

He pictured himself in his youth, not yet even a century old, as the War of Rising Night dragged on. He and his band of equally impetuous valynkar, tired of being told they were too young to fight, forming their own strike force.

Lashriel coming to him, like an older sister, begging him not to go.

Voren looking into her eyes, emotions burgeoning that were anything but brotherly.

His zeal, in time, winning her to his side . . . but merely as an ally. Nothing more.

Their early successes, disrupting the mierothi supply lines.

Then, the trap. And their capture.

The choice granted to them all. One by one, his compatriots refusing the mierothi, spitting defiance in the face of certain death.

Voren’s decision, that led them all . . . here.

Voren shook his head, escaping his cage and slamming the bars shut behind him.

He turned from her, the woman he loved but could never have, for she had already been mated to another. Among the valynkar, such things were never broken. The pain of choosing between death or eternal nightmare was an agony he would not wish upon anyone, yet it paled before even a single moment of this unrequited desire.

Ignoring the glass shards at his feet, Voren stood and returned to the center of the room. Thirty-nine would have to be enough. The infant Hardohl would not suffer from such a minor lack.

A small dagger rested on the table. With it, Voren sliced open his palm then pushed his hand down into the blood-filled bowl.

Voren began energizing.

The chamber filled with a thick humming, a vibration in all senses, as the sorcerous power of his kin’s souls awakened, magnified by the blood-scything, every last drop of essence pouring into Voren, and through him. Ecstasy washed away all traces of guilt, every last bit of . . . everything.

Gods, imagine what I could do with this power . . . if only I dared.
But Voren never
had
dared. He might be able to secure his own escape, but his kin would be left behind in Rekaj’s clutches. And without Voren, the emperor had no use for them.

His thoughts became jumbled as he drew in more power—now almost a tenth of the capacity available to him. Such magnitudes of energy begged to be used, to scorch and burn, to take control, and he needed the utmost of his concentration to keep it bent to his will.

Voren forgot all else as he extended his other hand over the jar of ink and began preparing the blessing.

Chapter 4

T
HE
FOREST
LAY
about them, twisted trees wilting in the late-summer heat. An underbrush of yellow grasses and shrubs blanketed a parched landscape, ground pocked with clusters of drab boulders and patches of soil too dry to sustain much more than weeds. Mevon thought it a fitting place for his enemy to meet their end.

They rode into a rough clearing, and he held up a hand. “We’ll make camp here.”

“Aye,” said Arozir and Tolvar in unison. They dismounted, setting off a clatter of motion as the rest followed suit.

The days and leagues had taken their toll, showing in the faces of every member of the Fist. Even the rangers, ever at home in the wilderness, had circles under their eyes from too-brief rests and long stretches in the saddle. They had made good time, though. Tens of thousands of rank-and-file troops had begun their marches well before them, but the Fist had outpaced them all. For those masses were merely the walls of the trap.

Mevon and his Fist were its teeth.

The scenes they had already visited were gruesome indeed. First the voltensus, a shattered ruin, confirming the rumors of powerful sorcerers among their quarry. Whoever they were, they were bold. Mevon almost admired them for that.

More chilling were the sites of supposed ambush, where daeloth bodies had been found. That, and not much else. Where the rest of the soldiers had disappeared to could only be guessed at. Eight sites and not a trace of them, leaving Mevon in the dark as to their numbers and capabilities.

They had left a trail well enough, though. And Mevon had not hesitated to follow.

Mevon hopped down from Quake, then helped Jasside off her mount. One of the Elite guided both horses away to the picket lines now under construction.

Mevon glanced down at her, then tilted his head for her to follow. Together, they began circling the campsite. “Tell me again,” he said, “of this rebel leader.”

“Searching for a weakness?” she said with a smirk. “You won’t find one.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

She shrugged. “He is smarter than you, by far. Whatever plan you come up with, be sure that he has prepared for it. Your defeat is certain.”

She had displayed nothing but cooperation since their departure from Thorull. Her one defiance showed in her descriptions of this “golden man,” the one to whom she claimed loyalty. He assumed that such words were intended to instill fear in him, or perhaps some caution, but they had the opposite effect. A prize, as this man surely would prove, was not one Mevon intended to share with others.

“We shall see, won’t we?” he answered at last.

Her façade remained in place, for now, a smile and upturned nose and an air of nonchalance. Whatever paltry acting lessons she had been given seemed to give her enough confidence not to realize how pathetic her attempts at subterfuge were. All the better. Mevon played her game, letting her think she was effective in her deceptions.

“Your confidence would be admirable, were it not so misplaced,” she said. “I don’t know where you get it from.”

Mevon stepped over a fallen log, then reached behind to help Jasside over. “I was taught by the best.”

“One of your old masters at the Hardohl academy?”

Mevon nodded. “Master Kael. It was no secret the other masters were afraid of him. He was something special. Didn’t look like much, but he could fight any five students at once, even the oldest ones. Never lost, so far as I saw.”

“Let me guess, he took a keen interest in you from a young age? Said that you were special?”

Mevon peered at her sideways. “Yes. How did you know?”

She flashed a crooked smile. “Like I said—a guess. Though, if he’s even half of what you make him out to be, I can see where your arrogance stems from.”

“Is it still arrogance if it’s justified?”

She shrugged. “Some would say so.”

He grunted. “Kael taught me everything he knew. The lessons he gave me far exceeded the instruction received by my peers. When I graduated, he said I was the best he had ever seen. No one disagreed with him.”

“And this peerless review extended to your tactics as well?”

“He taught me to surround myself with men who knew their business in that regard. I am a weapon, and best suited to that task alone.”

“The task of killing, you mean.”

“Yes.”

They strolled in silence, making half a circuit around the camp before she spoke again.

“Have you decided what you will do about me and my . . . ability?” said Jasside.

Mevon hesitated. He’d thought much on the subject but had failed to come up with any satisfying resolution. “After this is all over, I will turn you over to the prefect as I had originally planned.”

“And simply keep quiet about my secret?”

“What would you have me do? It’s not as if I can confront the emperor about this.”

She took a long breath. “What if you could?”

Mevon furrowed his brow. “What?”

“If you
could
confront the emperor, what would you say?”

“I . . .”
had never even thought of it
, “don’t know. It’s just not my place.”

“So you are afraid of the mierothi then? Good. I was beginning to think there was nothing you feared.”

“It’s not fear, but respect. They are this land’s rulers, and all must bow before their authority.”

“Why?”

Mevon rocked his head back. “Excuse me?”

“Why should they be allowed to rule unopposed? Why not someone else? Someone . . . better?”

“And your glorious master thinks he is this ‘better man’?”

“And what if he does?”

Mevon released an amused grunt. “Then I pity your cause. From what you’ve told me, I gather that your lord is ruthless and possessing of arrogance that would make even Ruul seem humble. He would make no better ruler than we currently have, and probably far worse.”

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. His words must have pinched a nerve. This unexpected turnabout proved most satisfying. Her face scrunched up in thought, and it was a score of beats before she spoke again.

“In truth,” she said, “I am not his closest confidant. That post belongs to another. As to my master’s plans, his desired end state, all I know is that the mierothi will no longer be the undisputed power in the empire.”

The truth of her words was belied by her quavering voice. She
didn’t
know. An interesting development if she was indeed ignorant of the final goals of this golden man. He added “manipulative” to the list of adjectives in his head describing him.

“So,” Mevon said. “This ‘revolution’ of yours . . . I take it some deep-seated hatred for the mierothi is fueling your cause?”

Carefully, Jasside replied, “I suppose that would not be inaccurate.”

“And your master, his strife with them is greatest of all?”

“Perhaps. But each of us, to some degree, has reason for joining.”

“What’s yours?”

She turned away, a tear rolling down her cheek, and sniffed. Softly, she said, “The unjustified death of someone I loved.”

Mevon frowned.
And by my own hand, nonetheless.
Then he paused. She had become a rebel before he had killed her half brother. It must have been someone else. His actions had probably only confirmed her decisions.

Their path had now completed its revolution, bringing them back to where they started. Mevon was rescued from further conversation by the thump of approaching hooves. In moments, their source rode into view: Idrus, along with two other rangers, returning from their reconnaissance.

Mevon turned to wave Tolvar and Arozir over, but the pair was already on the way. Their steel boots dragged up close as Idrus, on his lean steed, came huffing to a stop. The ranger captain motioned his companions off, then vaulted from the horse.

“Bad news first,” ordered Mevon.

“There is but one road into the valley,” Idrus said. “A narrow canyon passage guarded by five hundred alert and entrenched soldiers. They are protected by stakes and bulwark fortifications, and have a killing field a hundred paces deep. At least a dozen casters stand at the ready, with all kinds of nasty wards laid about the place. Any frontal attack would cost us dearly and awaken the hornet’s nest beyond.”

“And the good news?”

Idrus smiled deviously. “Our enemy is confident that no other path exists. With patience, and a bit of rope, we were able to create our own trail into the valley.”

Mevon, though facing Idrus, kept his attention in his peripheral vision for Jasside’s reaction. So far, her mask held: a thin smile and eyes that gave away nothing.

“Excellent,” Arozir said. “Looks like our rebels are in for quite the surprise.”

“Aye,” said Tolvar. “Bastards won’t know what hit ’em.”

“Tonight we rest,” Mevon said. “And most of tomorrow as well. Come the next nightfall, we cut off the head of this rebellion and feast on its bleeding corpse.”

As his captains moved off to inform the Fist, Mevon spied a twitch of Jasside’s lip. But the setting sun had cast her face in an odd light, and he was unsure if the movement had been towards a frown or a smile.

He wished he knew what it had been . . . and, either way, what it meant.

“T
HEY
ARE
CLOSE
,” said Gilshamed.

Yandumar, seated on a flat grey stone around a low fire, glanced over his shoulder at the valynkar, who had come up behind him. In his hand was a smooth object that glowed at the center. Jasside’s soul-stone. Each day he had watched as Gilshamed took its reading, measuring the progress of Jasside and Mevon. Each time, as he confirmed their continued approach, a part of him marveled that this crazy plan was actually working.

The rest of him was filled with dread.

“You think tonight, maybe?” he asked.

“Possibly,” said Gilshamed. “Though, as hard as they’ve been pushing, I imagine Mevon will want to give his men a rest first.”

Yandumar nodded, turning back towards the fire. “Let’s hope he takes the bait.”

“He will. Your faith in Kael is greater than mine. I should think you most intrepid regarding this stage of our plan. Should I, instead, be worried?”

“Ha! No. That old geezer came through. In more ways than we’ll ever be able to count.”

“Ah.” Gilshamed stepped forward and sat at his side. “Then it is yourself that you doubt.”

Yandumar sighed, slumping forward. “Right, as ever. You know, Gil, you should try being wrong once in a while. Might do ya’ some good.”

Gilshamed shook his head, voice turning solemn. “I think not. I have had enough of failure. Underestimating my adversaries . . . misplaced faith in my allies . . . no. No more.”

“Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ve thought of everything this time.”

Yandumar settled his gaze on Gilshamed. Those golden eyes reflected the dancing firelight, sight lost in memories. His usually regal posture sagged in a mirror of Yandumar’s own, and his leather-wrapped feet kicked absently at a clump of grass. Yandumar noted these details and more, his mind grasping at everything, anything, trying to keep busy so he wouldn’t think.
There are things I haven’t told you. . .

He sat up, stretching his back to a satisfying ripple of vertebrae. “Still, we’re not gods. We can only do our best and . . . pray.”

Gilshamed drew a sharp breath, snapping back into the present. “True, I suppose. Does the God of your people lend strength to such endeavors?”

“Yes. At least, I’d like to think so. As long as our intentions remain pure.” In truth, he didn’t know. So much was lost. He and his kin, the people of the old nation of Ragremos, did their best to live according to the teachings of the First Creator, fragmented though the scriptures were. It was not always easy deciphering truth from the scattered passages.
Oh, the vows we have taken. . .

But they tried, and prayed that trying was . . . enough.

“Would you two shut up already?”

The woman’s voice broke his thoughts. Both he and Gilshamed jerked their heads up to face the speaker, who sat across the pit of flames. Her throaty laughter accompanied the
shhkkt
sound of her whetstone as it sharpened her favored daggers.

Gilshamed addressed her. “This may be the last moment of peace we have for quite some time, Slick Ren. Let us spend it as we may.”

Slick Ren slid the blade into a sheath situated crosswise under her breasts and drew its twin. Her curve-hugging leather attire, the shade of blood, held a score of daggers of various sizes and purposes. Both her plump lips and her slicked-back hair matched the hue, though the latter held a streak of grey—the only indication of her forty-two years of age.

“You go right on and do that,” she said as she set to work sharpening the new blade. “While we sensible folk actually prepare.”

The bandit queen of the Rashunem Hills had a point. Yandumar, however, had no desire to conduct such prebattle rituals. Usually, he would. Not this time. He planned to fight, but did not wish his edges to cut too deeply.

Gilshamed turned towards his tent, and Yandumar followed with his gaze. “As you can see,” said Gilshamed, “my own preparations are under way.” As he spoke, a man passed through the golden flaps towing a cart, flanked by another pair who carried shovels. Before the entrance folded closed, Yandumar spied another dozen men working inside.

“Risky business, that,” Slick Ren said. “Better hope it pays off.”

“You’re not backing out now, are you?” Yandumar asked.

She fixed her icy eyes on him, smiling. “Our kingdom was founded on risky plays. I have every confidence that this game will be no different. We’d not be involved otherwise. Isn’t that right, Derthon?”

Mention of his name brought her brother’s gaze up. He sat cross-legged at her side, silent, as always. They both had their share of brains and brawn, but when it came to voicing thoughts, he let her take permanent lead. Yandumar had never heard him speak. He wasn’t sure if the man could.

Derthon nodded once, then bent his eyes down again. He returned to rubbing an oiled cloth across his sword, a sleek, curving, single-edged work of art. The blade was impossibly sharp and never dulled, enchanted, most likely. The man wore no clothes, at least not what normal people would consider clothing, but his entire body was wrapped in linen bandaging. Beneath, Yandumar did not know what would be found.