He ascended, seeking more allies to aid. He spotted a large group of the enemy charging down a hill at his troops. A beat later he saw a second cluster of his soldiers about to be overrun. His spine chilled as he realized he could not help them both in time.
Save whom you can. Show them their faith in you is not misplaced. Gilshamed set his jaw and flew towards the first group.
He aimed his spells not for the Elite themselves, but both below and above them. The ground before their feet he churned into thick mud a few hands deep. Their charge stalled as they struggled through the muck. His second spell pulled at a gathering of boulders, sending them tumbling down the hill. The stones crushed half of the enemy squad. The rest retreated.
Gilshamed looked towards the second group, still two hundred paces distant, just as the Elite began cutting into them.
He saw movement. Men running, not in retreat, but straight into the enemy.
Yandumar, leading some of Mevon’s Elite.
They crashed into the enemy, knocking several to the ground. Blades thrust out. Shield struck upon shield, an impact that Gilshamed could feel even from this distance.
The clash lasted but a few beats. Gilshamed counted six enemy Elite retreating at full speed, leaving more than twice that many of their dead behind. The squad lead by Yandumar seemed intact.
Gilshamed landed near them, dismissing his wings. “Mevon picks his men well, I see,” he said loud enough for them all to hear.
“That he does,” Yandumar said. He turned to the Elite and pointed into the distance. “You got me to him safe. Now go. You have your orders.”
Mevon’s Elite raced off without another word.
Yandumar turned on Gilshamed. “I’ve had conflicting reports. Some say there are thousands of them out there. You’ve had a better view than any of us.”
“Not thousands,” said Gilshamed. “They are less than a thousand for sure, likely closer to five or six hundred.”
Yandumar nodded. “We’re pulling everybody back. Clustering at a strong center. Casters are next to useless individually, so I had Orbrahn and the others all do that linking thing.”
Gilshamed raised his eyebrows. “Excellent thinking.” He turned to survey the field. “It looks like the first wave of attacks are finished.”
“They’ll be back. Soon. And with tactics adjusted to our defenses.”
Gilshamed sighed. “Get back to the center, then. They need a strong commander right now.” He unfurled once more and craned his neck skyward.
“What will you be doing?” Yandumar asked.
“What I can.”
Once more, Gilshamed launched himself into the air.
MEVON HALTED TEN paces from the three Hardohl. The distance between them seemed so small, yet felt like a chasm nonetheless. No one moved—not so much as a muscle twitch—but Mevon knew that each of them stood upon the cusp of violence.
The storm rumbled within him. For once, he was not glad of its company.
He studied his brethren. No. Not my brethren. Not anymore. The thought drove up inside him a swell of . . . something. It was an unfamiliar feeling. Like a piece of him had just been murdered.
Killing mierothi had seemed difficult at the time, a leap off a cliff into unknown waters. But this? This made it seem easy in retrospect. This was falling into an eternal abyss, knowing the end would come without warning, and without mercy, and that by the time it came, he would welcome it gladly.
And their silence only widened the void.
Mevon eyed them, these three among many whom he had declared enemy by his change of allegiance. He did not regret the decision. Not until now, at least. Now, he didn’t know what to think, what to feel. Now, as only once before, he hesitated.
“Mevon,” whispered Jasside. “We must hurry. Our friends depend on us.”
Friends?
Yes. I suppose I do have those now.
He turned, peering down upon her. For the first time, lit by pale moonlight, he took in the heart shape of her face, the deep chocolate of her ever-so-slanted eyes, the way her hair tumbled over one shoulder. Now, when he felt vulnerable like he never had before, he saw her beauty. And he saw the courage she possessed to overcome her fear and stand at his side at a moment such as this.
Courage of a kind he’d never had.
He smiled. Not his usual smile, the one only spawned by memories of blood, but a different kind of gesture altogether. He saw the shock on her face as she realized what he was doing.
Mevon squeezed Jasside’s hand gently, somehow invigorated by the exchange, then turned to face the other Hardohl once more.
He cleared his throat. “It seems that you wished my presence.” He spread his arms. “Here I am.”
The one on the right, of similar build to himself only smaller, leaned forward. “Yes. Here you are.”
“What do you want with me, Naeveth?”
Naeveth smirked. “Me? Nothing. These two wanted to see you for themselves. Hear you try to defend yourself. I already knew you were a traitor.”
“I am not a traitor.”
“You killed two mierothi. How is that not treason?”
“Because our loyalty was bought with blood and lies. Such actions permit—no—demand retribution. Demand justice.”
Naeveth frowned. “What madness are you spouting now?”
“Think, Naeveth. We grew up together in the academy. How many of our fellow students had identical stories to our own? How many supposed orphans?”
Naeveth narrowed his eyes but said nothing. Mevon knew what he was thinking: all of them.
“And how many voids have you met who were not counted among our order?”
Again, silence. But again, Mevon could practically see the word dancing across Naeveth’s mind: none.
Mevon took a deep breath. “We were brothers, once. If you could open your eyes to the truth, perhaps we could be again.”
Naeveth sneered. “You always did think you were special. Kael’s favored student. Always receiving extra lessons that the rest of us could only wish for. Always a little better at everything and thinking you were some kind of Ruul-given gift to the world.” He spat towards Mevon’s feet. “You, Mevon, are a fool.”
The one in the middle—a bear of a man—placed a hand on Naeveth’s arm. “That’s enough,” he said.
Mevon met his eyes. “Have you nothing to say, Mosnar?”
“What’s to say?” Mosnar said. “You’ve only confirmed our suspicions.”
“And what about the truth of our heritage?”
Mosnar shrugged. “The only truth I know is that we have orders. I intend to follow them.”
Mevon shook his head. A lost cause, these two. He turned to the third figure. She had yet to speak. Though her form was hidden in shadow, Mevon could tell she was short—barely taller than Jasside—with a freshly shaven head. Her face did not look familiar.
“I don’t know you,” he said. “But I may have heard of you. What is your name?”
She did not move. Nor blink. Mevon could not even discern the rise and fall of her chest. At last, she replied. “I am Ilyem.”
Mevon had indeed heard of her. Ilyem Bakhere was known by a peculiar moniker: Ilyem the Uncut. It was said she not taken a single wound in battle, and not for lack of participation. Mevon leaned down to Jasside. “When the time comes, the lady is all yours,” he whispered.
She furrowed her brow. “Are you certain?”
He stared at her. Whatever she saw in his face seemed to be enough confirmation, for she nodded.
“And who is this?” Naeveth asked. “This was supposed to be a private . . . discussion.”
“She is . . .” Mevon paused, making eye contact with Jasside. “ . . . a friend.”
An avalanche of emotions rolled across her face, none of which Mevon could make sense of
.
“Why is she here, then?” asked Naeveth.
“She is here to even the odds.”
Mevon nodded, once, firmly, to Jasside. Then, he stepped away from her.
She took a deep, slow breath, and Mevon felt the familiar tingling of a caster beginning to energize.
Naeveth burst out laughing, and even Mosnar let out a chuckle. Ilyem only responded by shifting her eyes, briefly, to Jasside.
“You,” Naeveth said, still fighting to control his mirth, “have truly gone mad.”
Mevon stepped to the right. “My only madness is in thinking that this revolution might actually succeed. And that, perhaps, I could convince some of you to join us.”
From the corner of his eye, he witnessed Jasside’s hands begin their dance. And now, we’ll see if all our practice has paid off.
It took her only three beats. Her hands shot out towards Ilyem.
The female Hardohl dropped like a sack of grain.
YANDUMAR RAISED HIS shield just in time. The arrow bit deep, hitting right in front of his face, and sent a ripple up his arm. This was the third time those scorching rangers had gotten close enough to take a shot at him. Seems like they knew who was in charge.
He’d ordered everyone to the center of the camp. Now they sat, huddled together behind double-thick lines of shield bearers. They waited. Rough estimates told him that less than thirteen thousand remained.
They’ve cut us deep. So few of them, yet the best the empire can send at us. It could have been worse, though. Had their Hardohl joined in, he doubted he would have been able to drive away the first wave of assaults.
Yandumar looked west. Mevon was out there, facing them. Nearly alone. No, not alone. And I’ve seen what that girl can do. Knowing Jasside was with him brought a small measure of comfort. Not so much as to calm him completely, but enough.
He scanned his forces. Fear ran rampant among them. As far as introductions go for these new troops, he could think of few worse disasters. Some would desert. It was inevitable unless they could salvage not only victory but a spectacular one. And for that they needed a grand gesture. A single defining act that would plant itself firmly in everyone’s mind. Anchor them to the cause. Give them hope.
Trouble was, Yandumar had no idea how to achieve this.
Slick Ren and Derthon slid up next to him. They were covered in blood, but little looked to be their own.
“Any news?” Yandumar asked.
Slick Ren shook her head. “Except for those rangers taking shots from out of the darkness, we can’t see them anywhere.”
“Any sighting of Gilshamed?”
She threw up her hands. “Flying about someplace to the north. Man thinks he can win this all by himself. Idiot.”
Yandumar sighed. He shared her sentiment but did not dare voice the thought aloud. The soldiers needed to have faith in Gilshamed, not doubt. Especially right now. “I assure you,” he said, adding volume to his voice. “Gilshamed is doing everything in his power to keep us all safe.” He peered at Slick Ren, tilting his head slightly, and wished he felt as confident as he sounded.
Slick Ren frowned, then seemed to pick up on his stance. “Of course, dear. Just venting. I hate fights like this. At least,” she added, smiling, “when I’m on this end of the game.”
“Me too,” said Yandumar.
She stepped close to him. Her body pressed up against him, and she leaned her lips up towards his ear. “Have you thought anymore about my proposal?”
He didn’t have time to answer. Their moment was broken when Yandumar spotted three men pushing towards them through the crowd: Mevon’s captains.
“What is it?” Yandumar asked.
Idrus spoke first. “They’ve circled around. Their main force is to the west. They’re readying to assault en masse any moment now.”
Yandumar noted the blood staining Idrus’s sleeves and fresh cuts on his shoulder and thigh. “How close did you get?”
“Close.”
Yandumar dipped his head in respect. Slick Ren and Derthon did the same. And he remembered what Mevon had said about his ranger captain’s powers of observation.
“We’ll go out to meet them, then,” he said.
Arozir nodded. “Our Fist will form the center. We’ll stop them in their tracks and hold them. Protect the casters behind the strongest men you have left and have them flank to both sides.”
“Linked, they should be enough to carve holes in their lines,” Tolvar said.
Yandumar nodded. “And we’ll drive our skirmishers into the gaps.” He turned to Slick Ren and Derthon. “That’s you and your best men.”
She smiled deviously. “And here I thought you’d try to spare me the dangerous assignments, what with our . . . evolving relationship.”
“You?” Yandumar raised his eyebrows. “You’d never allow it. And I’d rather save our first argument for a less hectic time.”
He turned back to Mevon’s captains, ignoring their quizzical looks. “Let’s move!”
AS SOON AS Jasside’s spell hit—it had taken her only a fraction of the time to prepare since she had first used it against Mevon—both Naeveth and Mosnar turned their heads and stared. The shock on their faces was clearly visible even in the moonlight.
It was only the briefest of moments, but that was all Mevon needed. He dashed forward, flashing before her eyes in a blur of motion. She saw his hand shoot out. It connected with Mosnar’s throat with a crunch.
Naeveth recovered, drawing his Andun, as did Mevon. The two blades struck together, filling the glade with a queer sound, unlike anything she had ever heard before. It was shrill, like the scream of a mountain cat mixed with the wail of an out-of-tune fiddle, yet at the same time, it reverberated deeply, shaking her down to her bones.
Mosnar fell, and the two spun away into the darkness. Their movements too fast for her to follow, their bodies too similar for her to tell them apart.
She maintained her spell, not pouring all her power into it as she had the first time but keeping a steady flow. She could last marks at best. Though still better than a few score beats, she was not without limits. Hurry, Mevon.
Ilyem had fallen with her head pointed towards Jasside. Though the rest of her body did not so much as budge, the woman’s eyes darted about, often locking with Jasside’s for long moments. What she saw there surprised her. Jasside could discern little fear, only alertness, confusion, and . . . Could that be awe?
Jasside’s thoughts broke as Mosnar began stirring.
Impossible! Your throat was crushed in. No one can survive that.
But then she remembered the steps necessary to subdue Mevon and the blessing, which burned away his wounds as she watched, leaving only faint scars behind.
Mosnar lifted himself onto an elbow and sucked in a breath.
Jasside felt her own fear rise into panic. The spell she now held on Ilyem took the whole of her power and concentration. She had no weapons on her.
Naeveth and Mevon came into view, swinging at each other in what could only be described as a dance. Everything became a pale blur as they stepped into a shaft of moonlight.
Mevon, though, still managed to spare a glance her way. He must have seen the sweat pouring down her brow and her frantic gaze directed towards Mosnar. But he could do nothing, for Naeveth stood between him and the others.
Then, she saw him smile. He opened his mouth, and shouted, “Quake!”
Jasside had forgotten about the horse. He came tromping up behind her. The wind from his passing whipped her hair across her face. The enormous mount, without hesitation, tromped over to Mosnar and promptly began stamping down on him.
She watched in morbid fascination as the first blow from Quake’s hoof flattened the Hardohl to the ground. The horse immediately followed up with three rearing stomps directly on his victim’s head, the last o
f which splattered skull and brain matter on the ground like a melon caught under a falling rock.
From that, no one could recover. She was sure of it this time.
So it seems our numbers were equal after all.
Jasside turned her head, attempting to track the state of the battle by the twisting shadows and that eerie sound which had, if anything, intensified as their duel raged on. She needed Mevon to finish quickly. To win. And not just because her energy reserves were nearly spent.
Despite the hate she had held on to for her half brother’s death at his hands, Jasside realized that she wanted Mevon to live. He had become a different person in the months since they first met. A better person.
And the look in his eyes, just before their battle had begun . . . Jasside knew what it meant. And she could no longer deny that she cared for him. Perhaps, even, as more than just an ally.
She felt a tear swimming gently down her cheek.
Mevon . . . I forgive you.
Naeveth appeared, backing up towards her. Mevon followed soon after, battering down upon the other Hardohl’s defenses, which were visibly weakening. Naeveth had a gash across his temple and forearm, and each shook free more blood each time their weapons clashed.
Jasside felt the weariness begin to wash over her. She had a handful of beats left.
Mevon crushed down upon Naeveth. Once. Twice. Three times. On the fourth, Naeveth’s guard failed, and Mevon’s Andun slashed down, severing an arm at the shoulder.
Naeveth reeled back, crying out in pain. Mevon swept his blades down, slicing cleanly through both knees. Mevon fell atop the crumbling body. His face paused fingers away from that of his opponent.
“I’m sorry it had to be this way,” Mevon said, almost reverently.
Naeveth, gasping, said, “Abyss take you, Mevon.”
Mevon nodded. Then he rose up and chopped down. Naeveth’s head tumbled away in a spray of blood.
I am spent. Jasside’s mouth was dry and every muscle had turned to jelly. Willpower alone kept her from collapsing, kept her spell from dissipating, but even that was on its last hair-span of strength.
Veiled Empire Page 20