Besides the dozen men standing alert in the borrowed garb of Imperial soldiers, a hundred other men sat crouching on the parapets. Ahead lay the western quadrant of Thorull, which was slowly being illuminated by the rising sun. The park lay behind.
Mevon didn’t like being separated from his Fist, nor reliant upon so many others. In this situation, though, he could think of no better way to achieve victory. Gilshamed’s plan, however well thought out, was not without risk. The valynkar seemed more focused on sending a message than minimizing casualties. Yet, in the end, Mevon had swallowed it. He’d offered scant advice, fearing little of his input would be accepted. He had been right.
His own part, significant as it was, seemed, somehow, less than it could be. Less than it should be.
Perhaps it is not too late for one little change.
“What’s your name again, sergeant?” Mevon asked.
“Bellanis,” she said.
“Bit young for a sergeant.”
She shrugged.
“Also rare, isn’t it, for a woman to become a career soldier? Then to betray that life for one of rebellion?”
Bellanis turned to him, lifting the visor of her helm to reveal a face both youthful and hard. “What do you want, Hardohl?”
Mevon grunted in amusement. “A . . . modification to your orders.”
She stared, seeming to consider a moment. “Well?”
“When it starts, keep everyone on the wall.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What for?”
“I’m used to fighting alone. It will be better this way. For all of us.”
She closed the visor and turned back to the east. The sound of booted feet, marching in unison, could now be heard. “Aye,” Bellanis said. “We’ve got enough bows for it. Just don’t go getting yourself killed.”
Silently, he thanked her.
He felt better. Somehow. What he was about to do was something he needed a clear head for, and looking out for the safety of allies would only hinder that.
Time for the mierothi to start paying for their crimes.
Perhaps not Rekaj himself, but all of them were agents of his regime just the same. All were guilty. The mierothi community was too small for any to be truly ignorant of the multitude of violations their race committed.
Once he’d learned the plan, Mevon had spent much of the last ten days sparring with his Elite, practicing with Jasside, and simply thinking. To say one was going to fight against everything he had ever believed had been, in retrospect, as easy as cracking eggs with a mallet. To actually do so was something else entirely.
Mevon had to make sure he was ready. Ready to shed the blood of his former masters. Ready to stand up against a tyranny so pervasive as to be invisible, obscured beneath a veil of contempt, fear, and control.
Mevon clenched his fists—his wielders of justice—before his face.
Ready?
He thought of his mother, bleeding to death on the very birthing bed that had brought him into this world. The brother and sister drowned in the nearby lake of their hometown. His father, forced to flee the continent, yet never forsaking a vow to return and set things right.
He thought of the mierothi who had caused it all to happen.
Ready.
Mevon inhaled deeply as the first of the darkwatch marched through the gate beneath him.
JASSIDE FELT HER mouth go dry as the first carriage rolled into view. As she looked south and west, the vehicle rumbled towards her position from the right, four daeloth walking at its corners and fifty armored men marching both fore and aft.
A brief gap, then the second such group began.
Six mierothi and their darkwatch guard. Are we insane to even try?
Her stomach fluttered. What beauty the park might have held on any other day was invisible to her eyes. With the top half of her head poking above the parapets on the north side of the enclosure, she focused on tracking the movements of their enemy through the nearly bare branches of the park’s trees. She tried, and failed, to keep her breath even as she glanced back at those gathered behind her, giving them a silent gesture to let them know to be ready.
Many of the middle-aged casters had balked at Gilshamed’s choices. Not the older ones, though. They knew who was best for the job and, as they put it, there was no use getting your breeches in a bunch if you didn’t agree.
Forty-one casters huddled in a mob behind her. She made forty-two. It seemed a good number though she couldn’t say why. She’d harmonized often enough before, though never with so many at once, and never with such stakes.
She glanced to her right. About half a klick away, another such group lay in wait. One member short of her assembly, they were led by Orbrahn.
Orbrahn turned to her. Over the distance, they made eye contact. He flashed a confident, charming smile. She returned the gesture, sure her own lip twitch had been far from reassuring. Still, the exchange gifted her with a dollop of confidence.
Whatever else, she would do her part and prove to them all how indispensable she truly was. Oh mother . . . if you could see me now . . . you would be so proud.
Jasside breathed deep and waited. The third carriage lumbered into view.
YANDUMAR STARED AT Slick Ren. “That some kinda joke?”
“I don’t jest about these sorts of things, dear,” she said. “You have an answer for me or not?”
Rake in hand, he examined the pile of leaves at his feet. A piece of metal poked out of one side. He quickly covered it up with a fresh batch.
“This ain’t the time or place, Ren.” He tilted his head toward the sound of the marching hundreds. “In case you didn’t notice.”
She laughed. He couldn’t help but smile at the sound, like the twitter of birds in the morning. The way her lips curled, showing just a hint of teeth. “Oh, Yanny, this is precisely the time for it. When better than just before facing almost certain death?”
Yandumar looked past her to Derthon, the only other soul in the vicinity. All three of them were wrapped in long cloaks made bulky by what they wore underneath. The man glanced up from his own rake. Yandumar flashed him the hand-talk for “help.”
Derthon signed back “on your own.”
Yandumar grunted.
He peered south. One of the doors to the fortifications was ajar, an overeager face poking out of it. Yandumar frowned towards him. The man started, then withdrew.
“Keep raking, dear,” Slick Ren said. “We can’t be giving our position away too early.”
Yandumar grumbled under his breath and resumed the mindless movements. “If I said yes, what would that make me?”
She brushed her hair out of her eyes, a gesture he knew meant that she was thinking. “Not . . . not king. My brother already has that post, and he does not wish to give it up.”
“So . . . what? Emperor then?”
“Yes! And I would be Empress. How marvelous.”
“Ha! I’d think a thousand or so mierothi might not take kindly to our use of those titles.”
“Well then, we’ll just have to kill them all, now won’t we?”
“I love it when you talk dirty to me . . .”
THE WARMTH OF the rising sun on his back filled Gilshamed with joy. Today, finally, the blood of his true enemy would be shed. And this was just the beginning. So much more did he have prepared. The mierothi would crumble before the combined efforts of his will, his might, and his cunning.
Nothing will stop me.
He ignored the hundred soldiers crouched on the wall around him, focusing instead on listening. The sound of marching steps drew nearer. Now, though, a sudden diminishing in volume. The signal from the watchers was almost unnecessary. Gilshamed knew the foremost group had halted.
Gilshamed energized. In three beats, he was bursting to capacity, filled with the holy fire of Elos. He ro
se as the first carriage loomed into view, black like the horses that pulled it. He extended his hands forward, focusing his power, gathering all he had.
He aimed for the center of the carriage, and just as the door opened, he released his spell.
Like a flare from the sun, light and fire burst forth in a wide beam. The carriage, the mierothi inside, the daeloth at the corners—these all simply melted. The horses and a score of the closest men burst into flames.
Gilshamed slumped on the parapets, sick yet somehow satisfied by the smell of roasting flesh. As his nearby allies jumped up and began loosing their bows and crossbows, he gathered his strength.
“NOW,” SAID BELLANIS.
Mevon unleashed the storm.
He gathered his legs up beneath him and launched himself off the wall. He took hold of his Andun as the ground rose to meet him. Two daeloth marched at the rear of the carriage. His feet kicked towards their heads, crushing skulls with a crunch. Still descending, he swung Justice sideways at the vehicle.
The wood shattered. Mevon kept pushing the swing through until, with great pleasure, he felt the blade pass through flesh. The scent of blood hit his nose, and he smiled.
I may reject the reason I was made a killer, but I don’t think I’ll ever lose my passion for it.
He hit the ground and immediately sprang forward again. He thrust to the right, impaling the third daeloth. He drew a dagger with his left hand and sliced across the throat of the fourth, the cut deep enough the leave the head dangling by a thread.
Bolts and arrows from his friends on the wall flashed down. Darkwatch fell by the dozens.
Mevon raced forward, casually cutting down any that drew too close. More came anyway, and he chopped them down, too. Finally, through the press, he came to the next carriage.
He couldn’t see any of the four daeloth, nor the mierothi. Strange. He took two steps and leapt onto the vehicle’s roof. He lifted his Andun and thrust down.
The carriage exploded.
Shards of wood and metal shredded into him from below, and he fell. Shrapnel careened at his face, slicing across his cheek and nose. Blood sprayed into his eyes. Blind, he swung, hoping to make contact with whoever had been in the carriage.
His torn feet hit the ground, and he staggered, nearly falling to a knee. He pushed the pain into the back of his mind as he wiped the blood from his eyes. He stood.
A powerful spell was cast. Close. Mevon turned to see a dark, robed figure standing less than two paces away.
Hezraas.
Mevon growled. He slashed at the mierothi.
The prefect sprang forward.
Mevon had never been punched so hard in his life. He skidded backwards, falling to hands and knees. His lungs felt like they were being squeezed in a vise. He could feel at least three broken ribs, and his heart yammered in panic.
His vision darkened.
JASSIDE SWALLOWED HARD. She turned to the others, tried to speak, but found she could not. Instead, she energized, pulling in just a whisper of energy. Holding out her hand, she clenched her power, feeling it squeeze out like mud between her fingers.
Over several beats, her sorcery took on a sort of rhythm, a thrumming, like a pulse only faster than the beat of a hummingbird’s wings. The other forty-one casters mimicked her actions. First, they each gathered a small pool of energy. Then, set it to pulsing. Like hers.
With agonizing slowness, the others matched the cadence of their sorcery to hers. She felt the first one snap into harmony.
Forty more to go.
YANDUMAR THREW DOWN his rake and ripped off the cloak, revealing the armor beneath. His usual assortment of weapons surrounded his bulk. He reached down into the leaf pile and drew forth a bulwark shield and one of his favored bastard swords.
He glanced over at Slick Ren and Derthon, as they made similar preparations, then past them, to where half a thousand of his allies were pouring out of doors set in the stone foundations of the park’s southern wall. Former Imperial soldiers led the way, a long, thin line of shields and armor. Behind them came a mass of bandits, shepherds, and other warriors of the revolution, wielding axes, spears, dueling staves, and countless varieties of blunt and thrown weapons.
Yandumar smiled at Slick Ren. “Ready to do some killing?”
Her return smile, and the glint of sunlight off her bared daggers, was all the response he needed.
The three of them turned to the enemy line as their allies came abreast of them. Together, they charged forward.
Yandumar peered up and down the spread line of the darkwatch. Front and back, each three hundred paces distant, were already a mess of destruction. The middle milled in confusion. As they closed the gap, a hissing sound grew louder in his ears.
The barrage arced over Yandumar’s head, launched from bowmen hidden on the rooftops of the buildings just outside the walls of the park. The darkwatch formations, just forming tight ranks against the threat of ground assault, withered under the volley of more than four hundred arrows. Men fell, screaming.
Yandumar felt his pulse rising as he rushed towards the nearest group of guards.
GILSHAMED UNFURLED. HIS wings glowed. He launched himself skyward, the sun blazing at his back down into the eyes of his enemy below. Eyes that smoldered with hatred as they locked on him.
That’s right. Focus on me. I can take it.
Gilshamed cast a barrage of fireballs. They moved slowly, spreading out to strike near the location of each carriage. Each hit a barrier a few paces overhead. Three sets of red eyes glared as the mierothi erased their hasty shields and launched counterattacks. The daeloth joined them.
Gilshamed shaped his power into a bubble-like shield of his own. Over a dozen attacks struck him within two beats, battering at his protection.
It held.
He had no strength remaining to strike back, though, so he kept up his shield, continuing to float over the battlefield. He had their attention. And with it, bought the time his allies needed.
Hurry, my friends. Hurry.
MEVON SHOOK HIS head, holding on to consciousness. His whole body burned as his blessings worked to heal his injuries. He sucked in a breath. The storm had vanished as soon as he had been hit, and Mevon stoked his fury into retrieving it.
Hezraas stalked towards him.
“So it’s true,” the mierothi said. “You did turn traitor.”
Mevon coughed, spitting blood onto the grass. He staggered halfway up. “To betray you,” he replied, wheezing, “would require that I first owed you loyalty. By the shed blood of my mother, brother, and sister, I owe you NOTHING!”
Talking, he now saw, was a mistake; he had not fully caught his breath. Though only a handful of beats, the wasted time had also allowed a flood of darkwatch to converge upon his position.
Mevon cartwheeled backwards, avoiding the first falling blades. The mob descended on him like a pack of ravenous wolves. They had heard the prefect’s words: TRAITOR! Mevon could tell that they lusted for his blood, frenzy and fury twin glints in their eyes.
Unfortunately for them, Mevon found the storm again.
He danced back, spinning, not bothering to parry. Though sharp and held by strong, skilled hands, the weapons could not pierce his armor, too fast and fluid were his movements. The Andun in his hands came alive. Each arm that extended a weapon toward him was caught and severed by the twirling blades.
Still he retreated, leaving a dozen injured men writhing on the ground, clutching their bleeding stumps. The mob had thinned, but they still clamored for him. Deciding to take them off guard, he suddenly reversed direction, charging headlong right into the thick of them. His weapon swung out in deadly arcs again and again. They had pressed too close together in their pursuit and now had no room to dodge or deflect his strikes. For his efforts, Mevon received half a dozen shallow cuts, but ten of the darkwatch fell
, never to rise again. Their dying bodies crashed into those behind them, and Mevon stood, for one fleeting moment, in a serene bubble of perfect stillness, perfect solitude.
His eyes quickly scanned. Only fifteen left.
They came, heedless of the danger as they flung themselves at him. The bodies already piled at his feet made a coordinated assault impossible. They didn’t seem to care, coming instead in ones and twos and threes.
Fools.
Mevon channeled his rage into Justice, assailing any that came near with a savagery few had ever seen, and none had lived to tell about. If they tried to parry, he poured in his strength, breaking through their defenses and cutting them down. If they tried to dodge, he slowed and altered the blow, catching their twisting bodies and cutting them down. If they tried to rush as a group, he would swing wide and long, cutting them down. Again and again they rushed at him, striking without regard for their own safety, and Mevon would step forward, over and over, plunging his bloody blades into their bodies.
At last, the final darkwatch lunged recklessly. Mevon stepped to the side and swung upwards through the man’s abdomen. Red mist filled the air. The two halves of the body tumbled down to join the tangle of corpses already strewn in an assortment of grotesque positions.
The prefect, flashing his pointed teeth, sauntered towards Mevon. He stepped absently over his dead and dying guardsmen and drew a pair of twisted daggers.
THE OPPOSING LINES slammed into each other. The sound of the impact throbbed in Yandumar’s ears. Sweat and spit flew, and men screamed in rage and fear and pain.
The darkwatch lines held. Despite being heavily outnumbered, they were showing why they had the honor of guarding the lords of the continent.
Yandumar barreled forward anyway, his shield knocking over the two darkwatch in front of him.
Into the gap formed by Yandumar’s fallen opponents flew Slick Ren and Derthon. Her knives snicked about, finding throats and hamstrings and groins and major arteries. Derthon—My God that man can fight!—became a whirlwind of death. Around him, heads and limbs flew in a shower of blood.
The gap widened, and Yandumar led the charge through. He grabbed hold of one of his commanders. “Take your men east!” Yandumar said, pointing.
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