A Shattered Empire

by Mitchell Hogan

  It took half a step backward, eyeing him warily.

  Amerdan took a full step forward. “What do you mean you sensed me?”

  The vormag snuffled. A dark purple tongue licked its fangs. “Sorcery. Like . . . the Old Ones. Are you one of the Old Ones?”

  Amerdan hadn’t accessed his wells since he’d decided to hide from the warlocks and leave Riversedge. Which meant the vormag had sensed the power of his trinket. And in turn, that meant it had to die. But the Old Ones . . . Who were they?

  “Yes,” he lied. “I am.”

  With an unnatural reverence, the vormag knelt and bowed its head, baring the back of its neck. It was whispering quietly to itself, and Amerdan realized it was chanting a ritual.

  Its words stopped abruptly, and it stood. Tears streaked its face, leaving trails in its filth. “We have waited for this day,” it growled. “Come.” The vormag shuffled backward and turned to face south. “Come. You will be honored.”

  By filth such as you? Amerdan sneered. He could kill it here and hope he subsumed its well. Or it could lead him to more of its kind, and he could possibly use them to get at Caldan and the emperor. It took him only an instant to decide.

  “Do you have a name?”

  The creature grinned, showing its yellow fangs and teeth. “Gamzegul. Gamzegul the Believer. They think to insult me by calling me that. But they’ll see the truth.”

  Amerdan held out a hand, palm up. “Lead the way.”

  Gamzegul took him partway back up the hill before heading along a barely discernible animal run. Amerdan noted with interest the vormag frequently touched the leaves of plants and trunks of trees, and occasionally stooped to touch the earth, all the while muttering to itself.

  “You were sent alone,” Amerdan stated. The first words either of them had spoken for an hour.

  Gamzegul stopped and regarded him with its slanted, pale orange eyes. “Alone, yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Others not believe.”

  Amerdan grunted. He felt like he was starting to put it together. “The others don’t believe any of the Old Ones survive from the Shattering.”

  “I believe.”

  “And it’s good you do. Tell me, who do you serve?”

  “Serve?”

  “Yes. Who is in charge? Who gives you orders?”

  “Talon Xarlas. It is . . . of the Old Ones . . . but not one of the Old Ones.”

  The vormag placed an emphasis on the word talon, as if it was an honorific. “Talon? Is that a name or a title, like lord?”

  “It is . . . what they are. They are Talons.”

  “They? So, not one of you, or a jukari?”

  The vormag shook its head. “Jukari are warriors, and servants, and slaves.”

  “Different castes, then,” Amerdan mused. “So what is Xarlas?”

  “Talon Xarlas—”

  “Not Talon to me.”

  The vormag bowed his head jerkily, multiple times. “Yes. Talon Xarlas is . . . Talon Xarlas. After the Great Upheaval, the talons saved us all. Jukari and vormag.”

  Alive since the Shattering, what this creature called the Great Upheaval? Impossible. Except, as Amerdan had found out, many things that were thought impossible were actually quite the opposite.

  Someone without a well becoming a sorcerer, for one.

  “Xarlas and its kind have ruled you for thousands of years, then?”

  Gamzegul blinked. “Yes. When the raging fires of the Great Upheaval were stamped out, there were many embers. But they will welcome you. I am sure.”

  It didn’t sound sure. Embers from the Shattering . . . the jukari and vormag, and talons. Who knew what else survived from those times? “Power and influence are difficult to give up after so long. You understand this?”

  Gamzegul nodded thoughtfully. “Yes.”

  “They will claim I am not an Old One. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. They will see reason. You are proof.”

  “If they make me disappear, there is no proof. And they’ll kill you as well.”

  “No . . .”

  “Yes. Before they know of me, you must find as many of you who believe as possible. We must be sure our strength cannot be challenged. Then Xarlas and its kind can know of me. You must see this is the only way.”

  With a look Amerdan could interpret only as a mix between caution and fervor, Gamzegul slowly jerked its head forward in a nod.

  “There are others that think as I do. They will decide.”

  Other ignorant vormag that clung to ancient myths and superstitions about the Old Ones, no doubt. But how best to take advantage of this? Amerdan needed more information. Yet the delay . . . Could he afford it? Anasoma beckoned him still. His sister’s treatment . . . the physiker Zakarius would need more ducats soon to continue her therapy, and to take care of the two other little ones he’d rescued—Annie and Pieter. They wouldn’t be left alone and scared like he and his sisters had been.

  “Old One? We must keep moving.”

  Amerdan shook the memory of the sorcerer’s cages from his head and waved at the creature to lead the way.

  They passed through the sparse forest. Most of the undergrowth consisted of wildflowers and grasses, and bushy plants he didn’t recognize. Gamzegul paused occasionally, eyeing the sun and sniffing the breeze. The creature didn’t try to keep quiet, clawed feet crunching on dried leaves and twigs, and Amerdan realized the vormag didn’t need to keep their progress stealthy. The area around them must have been under total control of the jukari horde. Or rather, the talon horde.

  Abruptly, the vormag stopped, holding up a hand. It snuffled, testing the air, and strode away from the dry streambed they’d been following for a good while. They pushed through a dense patch of shrubs and stopped at an abandoned campfire. Dry lumps that looked like the leavings of rats littered the ground, though they were far too large to be from any rodent. A rotting stench filled the air, and Amerdan’s nostrils flared. Blackened bones stuck out from the cold ashes, and rags with dark patches were scattered across the area. Flies buzzed around them, and the rags swarmed with movement. Maggots, realized Amerdan. Feasting on rotting flesh.

  Gamzegul snarled as he skirted around the fire. With a kick, he sent a pile of rags flying, scattering tiny white maggots across the dirt.

  “Should have waited,” it growled.

  A straw figure caught Amerdan’s eye: a doll made from bunches of dry grass, tightly wound with strips of cloth. Two buttons had been sewn onto its face in place of eyes. He examined the scorched bones carefully. Some were too small to be from an adult.

  He reached for his knives. Under his shirt, Dotty shifted, the edges of her patches scratching his skin.

  Not yet, she said, in the voice only he could hear. Soon. It is needed, for now.

  Amerdan ground his teeth together. His hands gripped the hilts of his blades, while the vormag continued to pace the campsite, cursing in a guttural tongue.

  Closing his eyes for a moment, Amerdan fought to clear the red haze that had overcome him. He released his hands from his weapons, one finger at a time.

  “We should keep going,” he said softly. “Is it far now?”

  “No, not far. Close. These stupid jukari. I will punish them. They should have waited.”

  Amerdan stared at the soon-to-be-dead vormag, which was still walking and talking, for now.

  “It’s nothing for you to worry about.” Soon there’ll be plenty of death for all of you.

  CHAPTER 25

  A chilling sense of foreboding fell down onto Felice along with the rain. It had started as drizzle, strengthening to a downpour that threatened to flood the streets. The ominous feeling had stayed constant, a niggle at the back of her mind she couldn’t shake, no matter how hard she tried.

  Perhaps it was Rebecci’s death, or maybe Felice’s lingering feelings over Avigdor’s mutilation and murder. The callousness of both acts still haunted her. Whatever the reason, she knew she couldn’t let it get to h
er. She crushed her feelings into a tight ball and squeezed them to the back of her mind, where they would remain.

  Or so she hoped.

  A sheet of lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating the graveyard for a blink. Streams of water flowed between and over graves, following the path of least resistance. Most of them ran toward and off the cliff, where the wind whipped the muddy discharge into spray.

  Felice tugged the hood of her cloak closer to her face to keep the downpour out. A crack of thunder made her jump. Ancestors, she was nervous tonight. After the lightning, she should have expected it. There was something in the air they all felt.

  Izak, normally nervous, was standing as still as a corpse behind her. An apt metaphor, considering their surroundings. He hadn’t said a word since they’d arrived at the graveyard. The place probably had him spooked. It was eerie enough at night, and now the drenching rain gave everything a washed-out, insubstantial look, as if they’d crossed over into a nightmare. The air reeked of decay and worse.

  Enough of that. Where was the assassin? Were they early? Was he late? She couldn’t gauge the time with the moon and stars obscured by the clouds. She should buy herself another pocket watch, having lost hers when hiding during the Indryallan invasion. The bloody mechanical things were expensive, though.

  “Felice,” Izak hissed.

  “Now you decide to talk? What is it?”

  “Turn around. Please.”

  There was an edge to Izak’s voice. A terrified edge.

  Felice turned slowly. Not three paces from her was the assassin. She had to crane her neck to look up into his face, which was obscured by a voluminous hood. Again, lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating the graveyard for an instant.

  Felice swallowed, mouth suddenly dry.

  As before, the assassin was clad in little more than rags—shredded, washed-out cloth trailing fringes and threads. Didn’t they get in the way? Trip him up? But he’d been so quiet, they hadn’t known he was here until he’d chosen to reveal himself. He was a few steps from her, and her back had been exposed to him. Felice shivered, and not from the freezing rain.

  “You’re late.”

  “Are we? It’s the rain, probably. And my pocket watch. I lost it somewhere . . .” Felice trailed off. This man wouldn’t care for explanations, and she honestly didn’t feel like giving any.

  “Next time, you won’t be late.”

  Felice sniffed and brushed water from her nose. “There won’t be a next time.”

  The mountain of rags swayed back and forth. It took her a few moments, but Felice realized he was laughing quietly.

  “There’s always a next time. Always.”

  Izak skirted a grave with a cracked stone lid that had fallen into the tomb. He stood next to her, knife in hand. The assassin didn’t move. She couldn’t even be sure he’d noticed Izak. But of course he had. And dismissed him as no threat.

  “Izak,” she said gently. “Put it away. We’re among . . . friends.” She almost choked on the word.

  Reluctantly, Izak sheathed his blade. He remained next to her, however, where a few weeks ago she figured he might have fled. The man was developing a backbone.

  Rags at the assassin’s side moved, and a cloth purse landed at Felice’s feet with a wet plop.

  “Payment, please.”

  Felice rummaged under her cloak and came up with three trinkets: an earring shaped like a mermaid, a brooch in the form of a twisting snake, and a flat plate the size of her palm, depicting a tree bearing fruit. Rare examples of their kind, they were worth a fortune; but these days, hardly anyone was buying. Markets had dried up in Anasoma because of the invasion, and everyone was keeping their heads down. As such, the trinkets had been both difficult and easy to obtain. Since it was her job to know secrets, she knew quite a number of nobles in Anasoma had stashes hidden away. It had only taken the time to find two different nobles who’d died recently, and then she’d simply raided their secret lockboxes.

  She placed the trinkets in the purse and held it up.

  Rags extended and enfolded her hand, brushing unsettlingly against her skin. She resisted the temptation to draw away. When she felt a tug on the purse, she let go, and the rags withdrew.

  “Good. Come, follow.”

  Felice faltered. “What’s your name?” she asked.

  The assassin turned to her, visage still lost in the folds of his loose hood. “I don’t remember.”

  A nutcase, Felice decided. Albeit a highly effective one. He’d better be, for all the trouble she’d gone to. “What do I call you, then?”

  For a long time, there was no movement, no sound, save the wind and rain.

  “You’ve called me an assassin so far.”

  “Well, Assassin. What next?”

  “Follow.”

  Felice turned to Izak. “You heard our man. Let’s go.”

  “Are you sure this is wise?”

  “No. But we have to do something, and soon. This is the only way. Rebecci thought so as well.”

  “And look where she is now,” Izak muttered.

  Felice’s face went hard. “We’ll end up like her if we don’t do this. Dying like Rebecci is what we’re trying to avoid. And when we kill Kelhak, the Indryallans will fall apart. We’ve been over this already. Now’s not the time for second thoughts.”

  “What about third? Or fourth?”

  Despite herself, Felice smiled. “Those either. We’re in this till the end.” She briefly squeezed Izak’s arm and turned to face the assassin. “What do you do with the trinkets?”

  “Do? I release them from their servitude.”

  Definitely a nutcase. As mad as an alchemist who’d drunk too much quicksilver. If Rebecci had placed all her hopes in him . . . perhaps she should have looked at other options.

  Felice knew, though, there weren’t other options.

  She sighed, rubbing her eyes. “Lead the way.”

  CHAPTER 26

  It cannot be!”

  “We must hide him! The Talon will be angry.”

  “So long. We had almost given up hope.”

  “The scrolls did not lie!”

  The night air was thick with chatter. There were now four vormag. All gray haired and wrinkled. Old, like Gamzegul.

  When his guide had told him they were almost there, Amerdan had insisted on waiting until dusk, when they’d be less noticeable. He didn’t want Talon Xarlas finding out about him too soon. Not until he’d cemented his hold over these ignorant vormag. In the distance, he could hear the low roar of battle—jukari fighting Quivers. The sound ebbed and flowed as the feel of the night did when he was out hunting alone.

  As the sun had gone down, Gamzegul had made Amerdan take his trinket and leave it hanging outside his shirt.

  “A sign,” it had said.

  Amerdan wasn’t comfortable with it out in the open. His secret. But if it bent the minds of these savages, then he could tolerate it for a short time. After all, they’d be dead soon. Amerdan had no doubt the warlocks and the emperor’s forces would triumph over the jukari. The question was, why didn’t the jukari realize this? Did they have something they thought would sway any battle? Sorcery? Reinforcements?

  Some of the jukari bore signs of fighting: hastily bandaged injuries, stained black with leaking blood. Broken pieces of armor and weapons lay scattered around, as if clung on to while the jukari fled and discarded in favor of new ones once they were safe. Amerdan saw a few of the beasts lick open wounds.

  “We must take him to Talon Xarlas!” one of the creatures said now. “If it’s found out we hid the Old One, the Talon will kill us all.”

  “I’ll kill you now,” Amerdan said with a snarl, “if you don’t do as I say.” He briefly opened his well and fed a pulse of power to Bells’s crafting. Around him, the black shield flicked into, then out of, existence. He’d sensed flashes of sorcery close by—vormag—and it was a safe bet his would be lost among them.

  At his display, the vormag h
issed and snarled. Some stepped back in fear, while others fell to their knees.

  “The darkness of the Old Ones! It is true,” howled one.

  “Quiet!” Gamzegul snapped at them, and the other creatures backed away.

  Interesting, thought Amerdan. They recognized the dense shield as an ability of the Old Ones. He held back a laugh. As always, his luck was almost palpable. A trinket, a crafting, and a show of confidence and authority, and these beasts from before the Shattering were bent to his will. Pathetic creatures. But what could you expect from such unnatural things? Were they even alive, or just sewn-together pieces made to move and speak like puppets?

  “Tell me of the talons,” Amerdan said. “How do they differ from you? Are they sorcerers as well . . .” He trailed off as some of the vormag began to look strangely at him. Then he saw his mistake. As an Old One, he should already know. They were stupid, but not immune to some critical thinking.

  “Time changes all things,” he extemporized. “I need to know how they have been altered, to best deal with them.”

  “Of course,” Gamzegul replied. “Some are sorcerers, some are not. They have other powers. Some of stealth, some of strength, of quickness. Only the Keepers are sorcerers.”

  Muttering arose from the other vormag at the words. Gamzegul silenced them with a glare.

  Amerdan withheld a sigh. “The Keepers?”

  Another vormag nodded; this creature had only one ear. “The Keepers hold the relics of the Old Ones, to await their triumphant return.”

  I doubt that’s how the talons see it, mused Amerdan. “Why are only the Keepers sorcerers?”

  “We . . . we do not know.”

  “Huh. Do the talons all have a trinket like this one?” Amerdan touched his silver cage.

  Gamzegul shook his head. “Only—”

  “Only the Keepers do. The sorcerer talons. Of course. And how many talons are there? And how many of them are Keepers?” The thought of foul creatures such as these possessing trinkets similar to his filled him with revulsion. They shouldn’t be defiled that way. They were only for those who had been chosen.