Through the Black Veil

by Steve Vera

  “Did you get all that, grasshopper?”

  If Skip had said it, it would have been funny. But Donovan had said it so it wasn’t. It was jeering. Arnaut didn’t find it funny either.

  “The day you become a protector, Amanda, will be the day I waive your life debt.” He was in his usual position on his back, ankles crossed, hands behind his head.

  Amanda turned and for once sought his eyes out. “You mean that?”

  “Sure. One of them at least.”

  She looked at Arnaut, at her magical crossbow and then back to Arnaut. “Will you help me?” she asked.

  Arnaut’s stern face cracked into a smile that accented the lines around his eyes. “I would be honored, Amanda Kasey.” He then stood, walked over to his campsite and began rummaging. A moment later he came back with a sword in each hand. “Shall we begin tonight?”

  Chapter 35

  From twenty miles out they could see it. A sprawling metropolis of dazzling white marble and elegant towers spiraling outward like a pale galaxy, set against the deep blue of the ocean. Just looking at it summoned a salty tang in the air. There was something both familiar and eerily alien about it. Skip counted no less than three different seaports and even from the distance could see the sails and prows of ancient and magnificent vessels, like out of a vivid dream he could remember a year later, bathed in red-tinged sunlight.

  “That’s a rather large grin you’re sporting there, Skip,” Noah said from his side.

  “Hell yeah I am. Just look at this place. It’s like we’ve gone back in time.”

  “Do you now see—”

  “Yeah, yeah, now I see why you weren’t so impressed with Earth, but how’s the pizza?”

  “Do you always think with your stomach?”

  “Not always. There’s other parts that think for me...” His grin got wider.

  She gave him a little backhand across his shoulder.

  “I look out there and I see Rome,” he announced. “A relative at least—the deluxe magical version. Am I right?”

  “You could be a detective or something,” Noah said. “Do you see it too, Amanda?”

  “I do. It’s kind of like seeing the features of a son in his father, different and similar at the same time. I wish I could get my hands on my Palominos.”

  Noah’s smile broke open. “I love those too! Very smooth and they sharpen nicely.”

  “Exactly,” Amanda said with a matching smile. “Think they’ll have anything similar in the city?”

  Skip cleared his throat. “As you were saying?”

  “Aww, don’t like being left out of a conversation, Skippy?” Noah asked. Her brown hair had grown out a bit in their two weeks of hard riding. Most times she kept it in a ponytail but today she had it down and it blew becomingly around her face.

  “No, I don’t, so how about a quick little history lesson. What’s the deal on this place?”

  “For starters, Nu’rome was built more than sixteen thousand years ago,” Cirena said out of nowhere. Her voice, as usual, got Skip’s immediate attention. “By a marauding Legion of Romans from Earth, a left-for-dead column of Crag D’worves and a renegade band of Sun Elverai. Elves. Unlikely partners to say the least, but in desperation, the three wildly different races of people banded together and ultimately changed the course of history by building the most spectacular city in Nu’rome.”

  “That’s debatable,” Noah said evenly. Seemed to Skip that some of her good cheer had been taken by Cirena’s sudden gregariousness.

  “Either way, Nu’rome is the ultimate crossroads city that has spanned sixteen millenniums.” Cirena gazed out at it, her raven black hair blowing behind her. “It has never fallen.”

  “Did you just say sixteen millenniums?” Skip asked.

  “I did.”

  “Romans didn’t exist that long ago.”

  “Here they did. Remember, time passes differently here, and now that we have an equation to work with—the fact that a hundred and thirty-seven years have transpired here when only seventeen transpired on Earth tells us that time passes here at about eight times what it is on Earth. Using that math, seventeen thousand years divided by eight, we get roughly twenty-one hundred, which would put the Roman legions that came this way late republic, early empire. Which about fits Nu’rome and its heavy Greek influence, as well as the Elverai and D’worven interwoven cultures.”

  “Hold on,” Skip said. “What about the Black Veil?”

  “The Black Veil was completed in fifteen twenty-three A.D. Earth time.”

  “Got it. You’d make a good teacher, Cirena. Who knew?”

  “Please. I wouldn’t have the patience.”

  In the last two weeks, dare he say that perhaps an epidermis of ice had peeled away from her glacial demeanor? “What’s that in the middle?” Skip asked.

  Rising from the center of the city was a pale dome that had to be some Theian version of the Roman Colosseum; it was enormous, easily as large as any football stadium he’d ever seen. Bigger.

  “The Colosseum?” Amanda asked.

  “The one and only,” Noah answered.

  “So they have an Olympics here?”

  “Yes, but make no mistake, it’s quite different than what it was on Earth—think Roman Gladiator games meets the original Greek Olympics in Antiquity meets the most elaborate of the medieval tournaments in Paris or London, swirl them together with some magic, and then square that. Then imagine adding Elverai—Elves to you, Minotaurs, D’worves and dozens of other races, each who think they are the most gifted creature ever to grace Theia with their footprint. There has never been a bigger arena of competition other than war itself. There are no words to describe it.”

  “I bet you’ve never been in Philly when the Cowboys come to town,” Skip said.

  “Please,” Cirena scoffed.

  “I have heard it mentioned in stories,” Archer Aluvion interjected, looking out at the distant city, “but until this moment it existed only as a concept, a fragment of a dream.”

  “Mere words fail to give proper credence,” Arnaut added.

  “So, is it a good thing or bad thing the Olympics are in town, Gavin?” Skip asked.

  Gavin’s gaze was distant and clouded, but he came right back, turned on his horse to Skip and answered, “Double-edged.”

  “How so?”

  “The upside is that in addition to the Nu’romian Legions, Sorcerers of the Parthenon and the famous Gryphriders, there will be thousands of exquisitely trained warriors armed with the finest weapons in the world, bodyguards and mercenaries, as well as royal retinues. The downside is simply that those forces will not be cohesive. There will be friction, resistance politics and backstabbing. Hopefully we’ll be able to direct that friction toward the real enemy and not spontaneously combust. If we can do that...we stand as good a chance as possible. If not...” Gavin clucked his tongue and guided his horse back onto the road. “A lot of people are going to die.”

  Fair enough.

  They resumed their journey.

  This close to the city they shared the Nu’roman Road with long columns and entourages of major and minor nobles from all over the world. Skip saw his first Dwarf, or D’worv as they were called here, marching double file in perfect synchronization, a deep, gruff voice calling cadence that would have done any PJ sergeant proud. They were thick and stocky, with big bushy beards, an assortment of armor incorporating leather, chain and plate, and on their heads they wore steel helmets with bright green and horse-brown hair streaming from the tops. The cadence caller was also the standard bearer, which mirrored the colors of the plumes on top of their helmets, featuring a battle ax crossed against a war hammer.

  Their own little entourage attracted more than its share of attention.

  Out of the corner o
f his eye, Skip could see their Nu’romian escort beaming with a grin.

  “What’s up?” Skip asked.

  Markus glanced at the sky, shook his head in what seemed like self-admonishment (he really should have been used to Skip’s frequent use of the conversation starter) and spoke. “The Olympics. You couldn’t have come at a more glorious time, Skip Walkins.” His grin got wider.

  “Oh, yeah?” Skip asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Markus said. “Prepare yourself for...what was it you said to me the other day? ‘Prepare yourself to have your hair blown back,’” Markus said in triumph, remembering. “Your hair is going to be blown from your skull.”

  They were riding double file now, Gavin at the point alongside Markus, who seemed to sense Gavin’s attention. Markus returned his attention ahead and dropped his grin, mirroring Gavin’s professional neutral expression. Their fearless leader’s eyes were intense and deep in thought. Every once in a while he’d glance at a large crow that seemed to always be around.

  “We can be there by nightfall,” he said and then twelve horses kicked to a gallop over stone.

  Chapter 36

  Senator Merevus was running behind. The Olympics were beginning tomorrow and he wasn’t nearly ready. Speeches had to be given, ambassadors pacified and there were fires that needed to be put out. Already the damn Red-Cloths had crossed swords with the ambassador of the D’worvan Emerald Clan, re-arranging a seating chart that had taken months to prepare; the egos that flocked to the Eternal City during these times was immeasurable. And so very volatile.

  “Senator?” came a voice he normally would have welcomed. Merevus, however, had known Roland too long to not detect the calm raising of pitch on the third syllable. Not good news.

  “What is it, Roland?” he asked, preoccupied nonetheless. Where was that robe with the turquoise trim and embroidered moonrunes? The Elder King had given it as a gift two Olympiads ago and it would be perfectly appropriate today, especially when he needed his wisdom and, more pointedly, influence dealing with Vambrace these games. Those accursed Red-cloths were going to be the death of him.

  Roland cleared his throat. “I have four Knights of the Shard waiting in your inner courtyard, Senator. They wish to speak with you.”

  Merevus froze. He turned and made sure he’d heard correctly. “What did you say?”

  His old butler and bodyguard Sorcerer stood patiently in his white robes, as if expecting the question. “I said that you have four Knights of the Shard presently waiting in your inner courtyard, and no, sir...I do not jest. They have with them also a Captain of the Southern March.” He cleared his throat again and kept his expression utterly neutral.

  Merevus walked over to his old friend, robe forgotten. “Are you certain?”

  “I am,” Roland said with a somber nod. “The runes of a Shardyn are unmistakable and impossible to forge. I would recognize deception.”

  And he would too. Though Roland appeared mild-mannered and affable, he was in fact an eight-ring Sorcerer.

  “Show me to them.”

  “Shall I assemble your guard?”

  “Not feeling up to the task, old friend?”

  “I dare say nobody would be up to the task if even half of what I’ve read of the Shardyn is true.”

  “I suspect if they meant me ill they would not be waiting patiently in my courtyard. Lead the way.”

  Roland pursed his dry lips, licked them and then nodded. “Yes, Senator.”

  It wasn’t often that Merevus felt such trepidation in his own demesne. The double doors he’d so many times nodded at in appreciation suddenly seemed inadequate; the refined alder with the hand-carved clusters of burgundy grapes on red-bronze vines seemed for the first time showy and ostentatious without the slightest inkling for defense.

  I dare say nobody would be up to the task...

  Roland opened the doors.

  * * *

  Until this day, Donovan had never known wonder. To him it had been an abstract theory, something that could be read in others but never known.

  Until today.

  Nu’rome was by far the most intriguing, complex place he’d ever come across. It was utterly alive, filled with so much energy and spirit that he turned off his Othersight because it was driving him to distraction. He took note of the clash of myriad voices in different languages—he’d counted seven distinct language patterns so far—against the clops of hooves and the shouts of vendors on the sides of the avenues. In the Colosseum District the roads were paved with marble and teemed with every walk of life—swaggering sailors with single-edged sabers bouncing against their thighs, entourages of aristocrats and nobles like stretch limousines bearing bold and intricate coats of arms, shadowy figures clothed in hooded robes of different orders though he noticed that people stepped aside no matter what color their robes were.

  Neither his photographic memory nor his cyborg ability to grasp and assess data to determine its significance in a heartbeat was needed to know that in Nu’rome, the Olympics were everything.

  And it was contagious. Only in the days of his childhood, before his murder, had his heart pounded with such unabashed excitement. For the first time since his death, and hers, Donovan knew exactly what he wanted, and to want anything, was ambrosia to his soul.

  He wanted to feel the rush of the crowd vibrate his cell linings, to show them who he was, to unleash the arsenal of abilities he had at his command. He might not know his true beginnings yet, but in one fell swoop he could become a god.

  And it would begin at that Colosseum.

  Out of habit he dimmed his aura signature so that he registered as little more than occupied space by the casual observer. There were different rules here, different currents for him to familiarize himself with, a different flow. He observed and recorded every detail and nuance his eyes fell on, evaluated it, prioritized it and then stored it.

  He observed a trio of stocky D’worves with maroon ceramic beads in their beards bartering with gravelly voices with a sinewy, balding shopkeeper over a slab of meat. Donovan observed two minotaurs explaining to a cluster of Legionnaires why a hobgoblin lay bleeding in an alleyway and then saw something that stopped him in his tracks. Which was a rarity in of itself.

  A Gryphrider.

  He recognized it immediately from Cirena’s description of them when she’d dished out a crash course in Nu’romian history and culture to Skip, Amanda and the newcomers from the pass. The gryphon was enormous, larger than a draft horse with wings that he calculated to be near eighteen feet in full spread. Even larger than the dead ones they’d seen south of the Pass.

  Their plumage was bronzed cranberry with gold-trimmed feathers. He hardly paid any mind to the Legionnaire seated on it, though his peripheral vision took in the armor ensemble, a blend of both Roman and Medieval technology. Unlike the scarlet capes of the Legionnaires, the rider’s cape was a royal purple, deep and vivid.

  The gryphon’s spirit was blinding, like light that pierces between the fingers no matter how tightly they are drawn to the eyes.

  Noble, majestic but equally ferocious, it watched everything with eagle-eyes, and Donovan was no exception. It saw him. It watched him. He smiled.

  I want one.

  Donovan walked past it and continued on his original trajectory. First things first.

  * * *

  Gavin had no idea what to expect. It had been a hundred and thirty-seven years since he’d last been to the Eternal City; every connection he’d ever had was long gone. Dead. The only connection he had right now was a decanus, the equivalent of a corporal in the U.S. Army.

  The door opened and out stepped exactly what Gavin had been hoping for...a good old-fashioned, regular-looking human being. The man was older, early sixties, with a casual refinement that seemed at home in his draped toga with purple borders,
minus the customary arrogance of nobility and royalty.

  “A hail to the Caesar and to you, Senator Merevus,” Gavin said. He bowed his head deeply enough to convey respect without bending his spine.

  The senator allowed a moment to lapse. “To what do I owe this honor, Sir...” Merevus let the question hang in the air.

  “Stavengre Kul Annototh, of the House of Annototh, Knight of the Shard, First Rune,” Gavin completed.

  He was mildly impressed with himself; the old protocols came back quickly, even though it had been nearly two decades on a completely different solar system. He kept his hands folded in front of him, thumbs pressed together, and only when it was time unclasped them to offer his hand in greeting, palm up, to signify peaceful intentions. It also, in a single gesture, signified that the person being dealt with was a magic-user, which was often missed due to a Shardyn’s martial attire. What the senator was supposed to do was mirror his gesture, but Merevus did not. He stared with serious, questioning eyes.

  “I have heard that name before. In a history text. When I was nine.”

  “It is my name.”

  Senator Merevus held his stare a moment longer before flashing it at the rest of them—Tarsidion, Noah, Cirena, Sir Taksony, Arnaut, Aluvion and Skip. Had to have Skip.

  “As I recall, that tale is an accounting of the last battle of the Drynnian War, a hundred and thirty-seven years ago, when the Lord of the Underworld was destroyed, as were the Shardyn Knights who gave their lives in his destruction.”

  “He was never destroyed,” Gavin said. “Asmodeous tore a hole into the Black Veil and crossed onto Earth. We followed.”

  “Earth?” Merevus asked, his face a mask of ascertainment. “The mythical world of old lore, the realm of no magic?”

  “The same. Theia’s twin.”

  Merevus was a true politician; he let none of his true reactions through despite his incredulity. He looked over to his Sorcerer. “What say you, Roland?”