Through the Black Veil

by Steve Vera

  “Seven,” she said. “Perhaps eight. I’m not sure.”

  When they came back to their quarters, which in dollars would have run ten thousand a night, neither one of them went in. They just drank in the silence of the sleeping world and wondered what tomorrow had in store for them.

  “You think Lucian would have fallen into that trap today?” he asked. He was still angry with himself for not seeing it coming. Of course they’d want him to lead it. Of course they’d wanted to get rid of them.

  “Probably not,” she said.

  He nodded.

  “But what else could we have done?” she continued. “Who else is qualified to do this besides us?” Cirena sighed and slid down to her heels, cloak pooling around her boots. Gavin followed her lead and after they were eye level, he rested his forearms on his knees. They just stared at each other.

  “What’s our best-case scenario?” he asked. “We go, just one single turmae of light cavalry, four Shardyn and a few extinct Cavaliers against Asmodeous the Pale and whatever Drynn he’s already mustered up. Maybe Asmodeous hasn’t opened up the gate yet, and we somehow, finally, after all this time, kill him and save the world, again. Then what? Vambrace won’t stop hunting us down until we are dead. They will stalk us, ambush us, sacrifice a thousand souls just to kill one of us. The same as they always have. We will live the rest of our days looking over our shoulders. Best-case scenario.”

  “We’d be safe in Nu’rome.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to stay in Nu’rome. Maybe I just want to go home. That’s where we’re supposed to be right now, home. It was a mistake coming here.”

  “No. We’ve warned more people in one meeting than we could have running around the entire realm. You heard the Senator. They’re even going to send riders to the Elverai.”

  “Maybe we should have gone there first.”

  “No again, that would have taken another two weeks riding, when every day is precious, and Elves are not exactly fond of Men, remember? In fact, isn’t their policy to kill on sight?”

  “True, but that never applied to Valis.” He shook his head. “I spent the first decade on Earth wishing every day that we’d someday come home, and here we are,” he said, pointing around at the splendors and mysteries of thousands of years of history and culture. “And now that I’m here, I just want to go back to my living room in Connecticut and watch a movie. Eat some popcorn and Raisinets.”

  “Knock, knock.” It was Skip. Cirena immediately darkened. Before waiting for an invitation, Skip walked right out and joined them on the patio, which was easily large enough to accommodate the three. It was shaped like a soft hexagon with a sinuous marble rail that came up to the belly. “So what’s this bullshit I hear that I’m not coming tomorrow?” he said, taking a sip out of his mug. He took a closer look at the two of them. “Am I interrupting something?”

  “Yes—”

  “No—”

  Skip pointed at Cirena. “One of these days you’re gonna like me.”

  “Until then...” Cirena answered.

  “You’ll see. Now, I’d like to know, why aren’t I going?”

  “Because I need you to keep an eye on things here.”

  “You mean babysit your girl.”

  Gavin sighed. “That’s part of it. That and I like you, Skip. I’d rather not seen you butchered and devoured.”

  “At least you’re optimistic.”

  “If it was a firefight we were headed to, then you’d be the first I’d call, but this is war like you can’t even imagine.”

  “You don’t know what I’ve seen.”

  “True, but I can bet your ass that you are unfamiliar with our tactics, our weapons and our enemy. There are skills required when fighting alongside Magi and Sorcerers, especially against Drynn. Would you want me riding shotgun with a strike team of PJs without any formal training in your methods or tactics?”

  “Hell yeah, you know how many times I could have used a Shardyn or two in Afghanistan?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I get your point, but I thought this was just recon.”

  Cirena laughed, and there was a note of bitterness in it.

  “No, Skip,” Gavin said, “it will never be easier to win this war than it is right now. We can only hope that the chimera has held him off, or wounded him, or at least slowed him down enough so he hasn’t had enough time to build a new gate to the Underworld. Even if he has, he still has to molt and that takes time.”

  “Alright, time out. Chimera? Molting?”

  “The Chimera is a creature that was spawned from the Elements and dark magic, nobody knows for sure, but there is only one in the world at any given time, and they are legendary guardians. They have three heads—a goat’s, a lion’s and a fire-drake’s. The front of the body is a lion’s with razor-sharp talons while the rear of it is a goat, whose hooves are rumored to be able to crack granite.”

  “Right on.”

  “Skip, we’re riding into the heart of darkness tomorrow. My aim is to engage and end this war before it begins. As for the molting, Drynn don’t have females and they don’t have children. They molt—that’s why you’ll always see them in pairs. They’ll look like twins, but one will have horns and the other one won’t. The one with the horns is the first-born. If he dies, the second-born will need about a week to grow his horn, and then he’ll be the first-born and molt a second. Killing one isn’t good enough—you have to kill them both.”

  “Which is not easy,” Cirena added.

  Gavin watched Skip think. “How many can a Drynn molt?”

  “Just one, there’s a first and a second.”

  “Then where does the first-born come from?”

  “From Asmodeous, of course.”

  “So lemme get this straight. The one with the horn is the first, and the one without a horn is the second.”

  “Correct.”

  “So basically, the horn is everything. He’s the molter, the one you wanna kill first.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But what if the second dies, the one without the horn?”

  “Then the first molts another one.”

  “So why not molt a whole shit load?”

  It was actually helpful talking about it. It got Gavin’s head screwed on right. “One horn, one Drynn. Kill them both and that line dies forever. Kill only one, and in a week you’ll see his brother.”

  “So they’re related?”

  “Yes. Twins. Clones. Something like that.”

  “And they all come from Papa Ugly.”

  “You’re getting it.”

  “And how many can he molt?”

  “He has no limit, but he can’t make them from nothing, either. Each Drynn molted requires one brain and one heart.”

  “Aaaah. That’s why he’s always eating people’s brains and hearts.”

  “Make sense now?” he asked.

  “Mostly. Do you have any idea how many he’s got waiting for you?”

  Gavin shook his head very slowly. “Not a clue.”

  “I see,” Skip said. He spaced out for a couple of seconds, came back, looked into his mug and stood. “I think I’m gonna get me another beer.”

  “One more thing, Skip,” Gavin said and stopped him with his hand.

  “Just say the word.”

  Gavin rubbed his fingers together and rested them on the hilt of his Quaranai. “Keep an eye on Donovan. Something’s up with him.”

  Chapter 40

  Thirty-two horsemen waited in perfect formation in the empty cobblestone courtyard of the Northern Gate. Plumes of steam jetted from equine mouths in the cool, spring morning. A man clad in the more elaborate armor of a Centurion waited at the head, his back rigid, chest out. Despite the fact that m
ost of his features were hidden by the traditional Nu’romian helm—sloped neck guard that ribbed at the nape, ear guards that were lowered to protect the cheeks and a thick, deep purple horsehair crest that arched horizontally over the top—Gavin could sense the man was not happy.

  Behind Gavin was his own row of knights. On the flanks were Sir Taksony and Sir Arnaut, armor gleaming, pennants fluttering proudly on two skyward lances. In the middle were Cirena, Tarsidion and Noah, sitting like dark angels, hoods drawn. At the rear by himself was Aluvion atop his new buckskin palfrey, a short cavalry bow strapped to his back, two long bows sheathed on each side of his saddle. Taksony had dubbed Arnaut a knight, as well as Aluvion, which was unusual, considering that Aluvion was an archer.

  The courtyard was easily large enough to accommodate them horizontally.

  “A hail to the Caesar,” the Centurion said, pounding his chest and then extending his arm parallel to the ground, saluting in the Nu’romian custom.

  “A hail to the Caesar,” Gavin answered, returning the salute as they closed the distance.

  Though a single turmae was a drop in the bucket of what would be needed, at least these men had the fierce, hungry look of professionals. Still, they were in essence merely a scouting troop—fast but not heavily armed. They wore only steel breast plates, riding leather beneath, greaves and wrist guards. Each man held a light lance that was pointed to the sky and a sheathed long-gladius strapped to their sides. Gavin was pleasantly surprised to see that each carried a shortbow slung against each saddle. Traditionally knights and cavalry scoffed at such things, but in Nu’rome, the Elves had had their say. Any Legionnaire of Nu’rome could fire a short bow, just as every Marine was a rifleman.

  “I am Centurion Tremar,” the man said with a slight tilt of his head. His words were crisp and clipped, and though it was very subtle, Gavin detected irritation. They would be missing the Olympics.

  “And I am Sur Stavengre Kul Annototh, Knight of the Shard, Second Born of the House of Annototh, First Rune. Well met.” Gavin extended his hand.

  Tremar regarded it a moment and then extended his own, grasping forearms in the informal salute of all warriors.

  “Well met,” he returned. After he retracted his hand he stared at them hard, looking them up and down. “Before this moment the Knights of the Shard were mere myths, stories told to children.” He turned his attention to Sir Taksony and his men. “And the Southern March has not existed in over five hundred years. I am staring at ghosts and yet I felt your sinew within my grasp. I should like to be told what this is all about.”

  “You were not told?” Gavin asked.

  “No,” Tremar said disapprovingly. “We were told to report for duty at the Northern Entrance at dawn. That is all.”

  “I see.”

  “Of course, we have heard rumors.”

  Gavin could only imagine. “May I address your troops?”

  “Please,” Tremar said with a hand.

  Gavin turned his horse and faced the assembled cavalry, who watched him in stoic silence. They were not happy. “Well met, brothers,” he called out in a strong, clear voice. He let the pause between his greeting and his next statement drag out, let the early stirring of the city behind them be heard. “If I were to be dragged away from the Olympics on the first day of the Games, I would want blood. Any apology given to me, dare I say, would be used to wipe my horse’s ass.”

  Nothing.

  He sat up straighter. “Riders of Nu’rome, I offer you no apology. You have been assembled here for one reason and one reason alone.” Gavin spurred his horse and cantered across their ranks, locking eyes with each as he rode past. When he got to the end he turned and cantered back, memorizing each of their faces, knowing that most likely, none of them would make it back. When he returned to his starting place he halted. “To meet on the field of battle the greatest foe the world has ever known. We ride to face the Drynn!”

  A murmur went through the men, grumbles and whispers and the occasional clop of a horse hoof.

  “Order!” Tremar bellowed, and all sound dropped.

  “In the first Drynnian War, we fought Asmodeous the Pale, Lord of the Underworld at Carnage gate, spilled his blood and chased him across the worlds themselves—” Gavin was interrupted by the unmistakable thunder of many hooves on cobblestone streets echoing from within the city. It had to be at least a hundred horses, growing in volume like an approaching sandstorm. They all turned.

  What he saw dropped his stomach into his feet. Scarlet. The red robes of three Red-Cloths bounced in harmony with the hoof-falls of the horses that carried them. Behind them clopped a hundred knights in tight formation, their armor and scarlet capes reflecting the early sun like blood on a knife. At the lead was a man who poured dry cement on an already sinking stomach.

  It was the Collector.

  He hadn’t died after all. Though he rode with a calm, neutral aplomb, his eyes were as dead and gray as they’d been back at the barracks, only this time, they were ringed in the fire of fury. “Greetings Shardyn,” he said, riding toward him. His words were mild but with deep intonation, like a hypnotist.

  His men stopped crisply behind him and dwarfed the combined strength of both Gavin’s uranium isotope force and the turmae of Nu’romain Eques. In between the Wizards and Knights of Vambrace was a group of riders Gavin had never seen before. There were ten of them. Instead of flowing capes, they had deep, hooded cloaks clasped at their plate mail gorgets in a different style and design of the knights behind them. Skillfully crafted plates sat atop a harness of brilliant chainmail, each link trimmed in electric blood. In fact, they were eerily reminiscent of the style worn by the...Shardyn.

  What a bunch of copycats.

  Hands from the turmae drifted to hilts, as did his brethren. The Legions of Nu’rome were no friends of Vambrace. Gavin cantered to meet their visitor.

  “Allow me to apologize for the uncouth conduct of the Ambassador yesterday,” came the oily voice of one of the other Wizards, a court Wizard, judging by his meticulous jet black hair slashed with silver. Unlike the Collector, this man was handsome and refined, with a neat, trim beard that matched his hair. “He is the product of nepotism at its worst. Allow me to introduce myself, Shardyn. I am the Wizard De’mond. At your service.” He even gave his head a polite nod though his eyes were flat. Every one of De’mond’s fingers had a gold ring on them, each set with a different-colored gem. With the exception of the Arch-Wizard himself, there was only one Ten-ring Wizard in all of Vambrace, the equivalent of the Secretary of State. The Wizard De’mond was a very high-roller, even higher than the Collector.

  They all stared eye to eye from across their horses.

  “A hail to you,” Gavin said in a monotone. “To what do we owe your presence?”

  “I should think our purpose was obvious, Shardyn.” For the briefest of moments a gleam of malice rolled across his dead eyes but disappeared like the dorsal fin of a diving shark. “History’s legends have taken flesh, bearing the direst of tidings. What sort of empire would not ride immediately to meet this threat?” He looked directly into Gavin’s eyes and it was like standing at the edge of the abyss—lightless, cold and infinite. “We shall accompany you.”

  His smile did not touch his eyes.

  “It’s good to see that Vambrace still abounds with honor and wisdom,” Gavin responded with a humorless smile. “I welcome you into my army.”

  Before De’mond could respond, a shadow passed all of them, followed by an ear-splitting shriek that slashed at the silence. One of the famed Gryphriders of Nu’rome circled above them and then coasted to a landing in a spread of wings nearly twenty feet from tip to tip. Atop the enormous, majestic creature was Senator Merevus himself. A second later another gryphon cry sliced the air, and Roland landed beside his Senator, donned in his purple-trimmed battle robe.

 
“Greetings, warriors,” Merevus called from atop his steed. The Gryphon’s eyes were piercing gold with black slits for pupils and though they were animalistic, there was intelligence in them. It glared out dangerously to all assembled. Even the Wizard kept his distance.

  “And to what do we owe the honor of a Nu’romian Senator in our midst?” De’mond asked dryly.

  “As you said, Wizard, our realm is faced with dire tidings. I would not send my own personal Turmae to such a quest without leading from the front.” His eyes became expressionless and met the dead gaze of De’mond. “I shall keep an eye on things.”

  De’mond cracked a lightless smile that originated only on the right side of his mouth. “We are honored by your presence, of course,” he said with a slight bow that conveyed neither respect nor disrespect.

  “Sur Stavengre,” Merevus then said to Gavin. “We shall follow your lead.”

  The Wizard De’mond stared a long time at the Senator atop his mythical creature before finally acquiescing with another respectless bow and a cold smile. Gavin looked out over his assembled...army and tried not guffaw at the irony pogo-sticking on top of his head.

  On one side of the expansive courtyard were the professional Nu’romian cavalry in perfect formation, on the other...a much larger sea of scarlet, and in the center was the core—three Knights of the Shard in the middle, with two Southern Knights at each end. And Aluvion, their lone archer.

  If they could manage to not kill each other, it was a potent little force, the addition of Vambrace nearly tripling their numbers.

  Wouldn’t that be a kick in the head? Getting saved by Vambrace.

  A true leader would have given a speech right there and then, inspired them to charge off with nothing but thoughts of glory and conquest, but his gut told him they’d see right through him.

  Would see his hatred.

  Instead, he gave a heavy nod to the assembled, turned his horse and spurred it to a gallop. His core of Shardyn and Southern Knights followed him and then Merevus’s Turmae. Both Gryphriders leaped into the air with a shriek and scratch of talons on stone and finally he heard the riders of Vambrace bring up the rear.