“Aye!” said the old veteran.
“The rest of you, with me!”
Yandumar guided the men around. They drove deep to the west before slamming into the exposed flanks of the darkwatch formations. In a dozen beats, the battle lines blurred into a score of isolated skirmishes. The enemy fell. But for each one killed, five or six of his allies did as well.
They had the numbers, but victory would be costly.
And yet Yandumar drove farther west, pulled by something he could not explain.
JASSIDE SHUDDERED AS another snapped into harmony.
Thirty. Almost there. . .
THE ATTACKS ABATED. Gilshamed allowed himself a breath, thankful for the reprieve. The mierothi were relentless, blasting him with a hundred varieties of sorcerous destruction. He had managed to hold back their attacks, but only barely, and he could feel his energy reserves draining rapidly.
He looked down, wondering why they had stopped.
A chill ran up his spine as he realized what they were doing.
Each of the three mierothi had paused to harmonize with the four daeloth nearest them. His defenses were already strained. With the added power . . .
He pooled what energy he could in a beat and cast a beam of light down at their positions. His enemy thus blinded, Gilshamed made his retreat. He cast light bending on himself and glided, invisible, to the ground.
Jasside . . . Orbrahn . . . hurry. It’s your time, now. Show me that my faith in you has not been misplaced.
Blood covered Mevon. The substance, warm and sticky, matted his hair, soaked his armor, dripped from his limbs, squished between his clenching fingers. It pooled on the ground, still oozing from the circle of bodies. The men of the darkwatch had given their lives to protect their master.
And judging by the look on the prefect’s face, their sacrifice had meant nothing to him.
Hezraas continued advancing, his gaze boring into Mevon, his mouth twisted in scorn. The blades in his hands twirled with a flourish.
“Impressive, I must say,” the prefect said. “I’ve never seen such wanton slaughter from a single man, even among those of your station. I can see now, looking into your eyes, that you enjoy all this killing, these lives snuffed out by your hand.”
“I am nothing but what your kind made me,” Mevon said. He rammed his Andun into the ground. Stepping forward, he drew his ivory-hilted daggers.
“Yes, such a good dog you have been. So well trained and obedient.” Hezraas paused to snicker. “But, as everyone knows, when a pet becomes rabid and begins snapping out at his masters . . . well, I’m afraid the beast must be put down.”
“You’re welcome to try.”
The prefect grunted. “There will be no trying, traitor. I will end you quickly, then aid my brethren in exterminating the rest of your pitiful allies. Your rebellion is finished.”
Mevon raised his daggers into a fighting stance. “Enough words.” He pounced forward.
Sneering, the prefect launched himself towards Mevon. Four blades met in midair. The twisted metal of Hezraas’s knives flashed up with such speed, such strength as to knock Mevon’s daggers out of his hands. The prefect’s face filled with confidence and bloodthirsty glee . . . which was exactly how Mevon wanted him to feel.
Scaled hands darted forward. Mevon twisted at the last moment, but the knives still pierced through the armor and into his flesh.
Pain blazed into his right buttocks and left abdomen a hand above his waist.
Mevon smiled.
The pain was slight, tolerable. Surface pain. Not the deep throbbing of a mortal wound.
Hezraas’s eyes widened. His self-blessing had indeed given him both strength and speed beyond that of Mevon, but it could do nothing to change his mass.
And Mevon weighed a lot more than the prefect.
They collided. Mevon continued barreling forward, falling atop Hezraas, grasping for his throat. The prefect abandoned his now-ineffectual knives and darted out his clawed hands to intercept Mevon’s.
Their hands clenched together, Mevon’s massive heft pressing down upon the dark figure. Like this they remained for several beats, straining, grinding their jaws. Slowly, slightly, Mevon felt himself rising, his grip being pressed back by the mierothi, his wrists bending.
“You mentioned the blood of your mother and siblings, traitor,” Hezraas said through clenched teeth. “What of your father? Did his death mean so little to you?”
Mevon, now red-faced with exertion, glanced up. What he saw filled him with hope. “You must not have known, then. The empire’s assassins were not quite as thorough with him. I’m afraid that little oversight”—Mevon ceased pressing, instead pulling the Mierothi up into a standing position—“will be the death of you.”
The tip of that now-familiar bastard sword plunged through the prefect’s chest, exploding out the front in a gush of dark blood.
Hezraas cried out with inhuman, guttural shrieks. Yandumar swept his other sword horizontally, removing the source of the dissonant screams.
“Ya’ looked like you could use a hand, son,” Yandumar said.
Mevon smiled. “Thank you . . . father.”
THE LAST CASTER came into parallel with her, and Jasside quivered in ecstasy. Though she only held a fraction of their power, it was still more than she had ever controlled, more than she had ever dreamed of holding.
She stepped up, gaining a full view of the battlefield. The chaos and death that greeted her nearly drove the joy from her. But her experiences over the last several months had forced her to grow more than the first two decades of her life combined. She surveyed the carnage, and with forced serenity, found her targets.
Pulling from the energy sources of the forty-one casters behind her, Jasside filled herself with all she could hold.
She groaned, leaning against the parapets. “My God,” she whispered.
She shook herself and formed a spell. The first mierothi was dead ahead.
For you, mother. And for you, Brefand. “And now . . . my redemption begins.”
The bolt of lightning that struck from the sky darkened the entire park for one brief moment. The crack that sounded left her deafened. Where the mierothi had been standing was . . . nothing. Just an ashen smear for a score of paces in any direction.
Three beats later, a maelstrom of dark energy consumed the spot another mierothi had been. Orbrahn. Jasside allowed herself a smile that she had struck before him.
She turned her gaze to the last mierothi, positioned in the very center of the park. Pulling half her energy, she casted, pushing the ground up beneath his feet. The mierothi and his daeloth flew skyward fifty paces in a jumble of dirt and stone.
With the other half of her current pool, she formed hundreds of razor-sharp discs of pure, volatile energy. She sent them forward. They chopped through the bodies of her airborne enemies, slicing them into countless bloody chunks.
She watched the shower of flesh fall for four beats. Slowly, the din of battle began sounding as her hearing returned. Clusters of darkwatch still fought her allies, killing them in droves.
She had ended the mierothi threat here. Now Jasside narrowed her focus and set to work ending the battle.
GILSHAMED SURVEYED THE handiwork of his followers. The effectiveness of the linked caster groups was, he admitted to himself, quite impressive. Jasside and Orbrahn, after annihilating the mierothi, had used a surgical application of sorcery to end the remaining groups of darkwatch. Those two were now lying on the ground. A linkage of that magnitude, he knew, would leave them drained for days.
Mevon and Yandumar stood talking beneath the hanging boughs of a willow tree. Their animated gesticulations indicated they were replaying the battle, congratulating each other on their kills. There had been a barrier between them—understandable, given the circumstances—but it was obviously gone.
Truly, the two were now father and son. A new bond formed in the heat of bloodshed. He hoped it would be enough to ensure . . . cooperation.
The troops had suffered worst, but Gilshamed had expected that. Of the five hundred committed to the ground assault, less than a hundred remained. They had bled for their cause. They would not have had it any other way.
It is well. More will come. What we have lost today in manpower we have gained back in reputation tenfold.
Already, as casters moved around the field of broken bodies, administering healing to those who could be saved, curious civilians had flocked to the scene. His men had orders to keep them out but not to prevent them from seeing. Or from witnessing that which was mounted on stakes at both of the park’s gates.
Mierothi heads.
The crowds would talk. The word would spread. The revolution had killed six mierothi, and all of their guards, in broad daylight, in the middle of the prefecture capital. A flying, golden man had weathered the worst the mierothi could conjure, and men of every station—from lowly peasant to unstoppable Hardohl—had joined in the battle.
Yes. Let news spread. Let the emperor shake in fear of what we have done. Let him know that this is just the beginning and that this empire is veiled no more. Its people now know their oppressors are not invincible. Someone has stood up to them and prevailed. Spectacularly.
Gilshamed, arms crossed, allowed himself a smile.
A man rushed through the eastern gate, wearing a haggard look. He looked around frantically for a moment before his eyes fell across Yandumar and he bolted in that direction. Gilshamed moved closer as the man gave a report.
Gilshamed came to Yandumar just as the man saluted and rushed away. “What is that about?” he asked.
Yandumar turned to him. His shoulders slumped as he said, “Scout from the eastern city gate. There’s an army approaching.”
“How many?”
“He said that the hills were buried beneath them,” Yandumar said.
“Masri,” Mevon said. “And her host. It has to be.”
Gilshamed’s spine went cold. Forty thousand . . . we’re not ready to face that. Not yet. “Give the order. Full retreat. Out the western gate.”
“On it,” said Yandumar. “Let’s move!”
VOREN SWEATED BENEATH his grey furs. The crowd below huddled together, bundled in coats and hats and gloves to stave off the chill of late autumn, red noses visible on those closest. The masses blurred all the way to the palace gates, a swaying sea of brown and orange and yellow. Close to fifty thousand souls by Voren’s estimation.
They came because they were told to. Because the emperor had commanded that the compound be full, so that as many ears as possible could hear what he had to say. Voren wondered, with no small amount of trepidation, if this had something to do with the revolution. When the voltensus had been destroyed, the palace had been full of angry mierothi. But now . . .
Now, it was not anger on their faces, on their lips, in their behaviors and stances. It was fear. Cold, mortal fear.
Voren bent his head next to Kael. “What do you think happened?”
Kael, ever dour, had on the blankest expression Voren had ever seen on the man. The very lack spoke volumes about the Hardohl’s effort to conceal his true feelings. Ah, but what is it, exactly, that you are trying to hide?
Kael slowly turned his head and eyes up to Voren. “Don’t know. It’s serious, though. Rekaj don’t hardly ever make public speeches.”
Voren nodded absently, scanning across the balcony to where the council stood. No one spoke, the mood too dour for even the most basic of civilities. Only Truln held something on his face other than shock. The Imperial chronicler seemed to be taking mental notes. Voren stepped over to him.
“Good to see you, Truln. You reckon this is a day for the Chronicles?”
Truln blinked rapidly. “Uh, hello, Voren. Yes. Yes I do.”
“Why is that?”
Truln opened his mouth, then shut it quickly. A long moment passed before he was able to re-form words. “Just wait for the emperor’s announcement. It should answer . . .” he paused, frowning. “You’ll understand soon enough.”
“Of course,” Voren said. “I suspect his speech will prove most enlightening.”
Truln stared at Voren, wide-eyed. He pressed his lips together, shook his head, and said no more.
Voren peered at the rest of the council but dared not approach any of them. Few looked on him as anything other than a leashed pet, and the tether connecting him to Kael did not help the image. No, now was not the time to speak to them. But he could watch.
Kitavijj, the mother phyzari. Head of the group of mierothi women who monitored every birth in the empire, keeping careful tabs on the number of casters born, as well as finding every last void. Finding, and ensuring no questions remained. No loose ends. No witnesses. Her jaw hung open, and her glazed eyes gazed unflinchingly onto the ledge.
Lekrigar, the high regnosist. His order was devoted to the furthering of knowledge both magical and mundane, conducting experiments of every kind. Horrific, gut-wrenching experiments. He sat, arms crossed, legs twitching up and down in a staccato beat.
Jezrid, the marshal adjudicator. His network of listeners and hidden daggers had been running ragged chasing rumors of dissent, only to find themselves blindsided by the very real revolution popping up in the one place they hadn’t bothered to look. He stood rigid, jerking his head and body around at every sound, as if expecting assassins to jump out at any moment.
Grezkul, the supreme arcanod. Over a million men under his command. Yet even he could not control the look of despair that plagued his features.
They each collectively inhaled as the emperor strode onto the balcony.
Rekaj stepped up on the podium. He swept his robes around as his eyes glared over those assembled behind him. Voren felt a lump forming in his throat as that piercing gaze passed his position.
The emperor sneered, then turned to face the crowd.
“Listen, you mewling masses. Listen and heed this warning. Today, the blood of my kin has been shed. Eighteen of my brothers and sisters breathed their last upon the mortal plane. Murdered by insurgents. By people just like you.
“What have I to say in response? Just this. Anyone involved in this rebellion will be hunted down and exterminated. Anyone helping them will by flayed alive. Anyone whispering of their deeds with smiles on their lips will instead find smiles on their throats. Anyone so much as thinking of aiding them in the smallest way will be burned alive.”
Rekaj paused. The words sank into the crowd, and a hush fell over them, making a graveyard seem a boisterous place. Voren felt his pulse racing, his breath become shallow and strained. Well done, Rekaj. If I am any indication, you have put the fear of the gods back into them.
The emperor, however, was not finished.
“My agents tell me that there are sympathizers among us, even now. Right here in this crowd. Never let it be said that I am not a man of my word.”
With that, he raised his hand, forming a fist, then let it fall.
It began with the bowmen. Stationed atop the outer walls as well as the roofs of the buildings in the causeway, they released a barrage aimlessly into the crowd.
Guardsmen poured out of every gate leading to the square, formed lines, and began advancing. They cut down all in their path, and as packed as the area was, no one had any chance to run.
I take it back. You are a fool, Rekaj. The biggest fool this world has ever seen.
The council, as one, stepped up to the edge of the balcony. Voren sensed them energizing. By Elos, no!
The emperor leading them, the six mierothi cast their spells into the screaming, desperate crowd.
Tornadoes of dark energy, swirling with destruction, churned through the seething mass of flesh, ripping bodies and spraying skin and b
lood and bone and pulpy chunks of human meat into the air. This excrement fell upon others, claiming even more victims.
Voren turned away, his stomach wrenching. He fought to keep its contents down. He closed his eyes and tried to will away the sounds of death and panic below him.
His efforts to block out the world only served to plunge him into nightmares of memory.
Voren’s mind conjured the scene. A familiar one. The one he strove to run from every time his mind’s eye was opened.
The day of the Cataclysm.
He saw himself, bound, as were twoscore of his kin. His brothers in arms who had all fallen into the mierothi trap. Lashriel tied up at his side. She was praying.
Vashodia, Rekaj, and Gandul—the second emperor—arguing. The entire nation of the mierothi gathered around them. Finally, Gandul sighing and nodding. Vashodia scowling. Rekaj twisting his mouth in suppressed glee.
They took their places. Emperor Gandul initiated, and the thousand surviving mierothi harmonized with him. It took almost a toll to finish.
When they had linked, all eyes turned to the ten thousand captured soldiers, bound together in a massive mound of wood and hay. The stench of oil. A hundred torches touching within beats of each other. Blazing. As grand a funeral bier as ever there was. The sickly-sweet smell of roasting human flesh. The choking smoke.
Blood sacrifice. To empower the casting.
And oh how it had.
Voren’s memory blanked out, and when it returned . . . the world had changed.
Gandul was dead. The land was shaking. The enemies of the mierothi had been swallowed up, the Chasm now their grave. The sky became an electrified web as the Shroud first fell into place.
And Voren’s shackles were removed.
He had shaken his head to the accusing stares of his kin. I do this to save you. How can you not see that?
Lashriel had said nothing. A single tear had fallen, carving a ragged river down her dust-strewn cheek. Then she turned away.
Maybe one day, you will thank me. Maybe one day, you and he may find it in your hearts to forgive me.
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