“Mevon,” she croaked, barely above a whisper.
Mevon’s head shot up. In a beat he took in her condition, looked over to Ilyem, and lunged atop her.
Jasside released her spell, and with it, her ability to stand. She crumpled, more exhausted than she could ever remember being. But I did it. I succeeded. We won.
She fought the urge to lie down and sleep. She knew this was only a small part of the battle at large. There was still work to do. She might still be needed.
She struggled up to a knee.
“Rest,” Mevon said.
She looked up at him. Somehow, he had already trussed Ilyem up in bindings more secure than she had ever seen, and mounted Quake, his prisoner splayed sideways in front of him.
“I can still help,” Jasside said.
Mevon looked down on her. “You’ve done more than enough already. You, Jasside, are the very best of us. There’s no need to prove yourself any further.”
Jasside managed a smile, feeling an enormous weight being lifted from her shoulders. “Thank you, Mevon.”
He offered her a salute, then whistled at Quake. The horse and both riders disappeared into the gloom of night.
GILSHAMED FUMED. The men he followed had not been heading for the main enemy force. They had been a diversion, intended to draw him out of position. Away from where he could protect his allies.
And they had tried setting a trap. Six rangers. They had almost succeeded. Gilshamed had burned them all to ashes.
He flew south now, back to the army. His army. His tool for retribution. The anger seared him. These Hardohl and their men had disrupted his plans. Set him back. Killed thousands he needed for other things. And now they sought to trick him into missing the battle.
I must be there, to be seen, to be the instrument of our victory. The people must maintain their faith in me if ever we are to scourge this land of my enemies, of all those that declared themselves against me.
Mierothi . . . or otherwise.
Gilshamed swept over a hilltop. The mass of humanity came into view, waged still in a tight, bloody encounter.
Yandumar had done it. The enemy forces were surrounded, cut off into a several small groups and fighting off attacks from all sides.
But even as he watched, the clustered formations of his adversary surged into motion, disengaging from the battle by simply trampling over any that got in their way. A surge of newly dead, on both sides, littered the battlefield in their flight.
Gilshamed flew over their heads. He landed several hundred paces ahead of the enemy’s line of retreat, resting briefly to gather his strength. He knew he had not the power stop them all, not even if he were fresh to battle, but perhaps there was one thing he could do.
He stretched his arms out to the sides. In a semicircle, welcoming in his fleeing foe, sprang up a wall of fire twenty paces high and as many thick. An illusion, of course, but they’d have to get dangerously close before they realized the flames gave off far too little heat. He cast an aura of light, centered on himself, which transformed the midnight forest into the brilliance of noon.
Gilshamed lifted his chin and, amplifying his voice with sorcery, shouted for all to hear. “Stop! All of you! This battle is finished!”
Everyone froze.
Gilshamed smiled.
Yes. This is the moment we needed. My moment. Now, to plant it firmly in their minds.
The Elite stared him down, murder in their squinting eyes. He had an appropriate fate in mind for them. He stretched out his arms . . .
But the wall of flames vanished.
Gilshamed jerked around, staggered by the voiding of his spell. “What the abyss . . . ?”
MEVON STRODE TOWARDS Gilshamed, carrying Ilyem in one arm and three Andun in the other. His skin tingled after having absorbed Gilshamed’s wall of fire. He whistled once, and Quake turned and galloped away, vanishing into the forest in mere beats. Mevon stepped past Gilshamed, giving him a nod.
He laid Ilyem down gently. He then took the weapons and, one by one, thrust them into the ground in a line.
“Mosnar and Naeveth are dead,” Mevon said to the gathered Elite. “And I have captured Ilyem.”
He watched the enemy soldiers, watched their rage flash hotly for a beat, watched fear and despair rise to take its place.
Mevon bent down to Ilyem and removed the cloth from her mouth. “If you wish to save any of them,” he said, “this is your only chance.”
Ilyem glanced once at Mevon. Then, she cast her eyes downward. After several beats, she nodded. Mevon helped her to her feet, and she faced the Elite.
“I claim no authority over the other Fists,” she said. “But as for mine, I order you to stand down. I urge the rest of you to do the same.”
Her soldiers immediately obeyed. A cluster near the center, some two hundred strong, began laying down their shields and weapon harnesses, and unstrapping pieces of armor.
The rest of them, seeing this, stood in shock for several long moments. Eventually, and with obvious reluctance, they, too, submitted. Mevon saw his own Elite move forward to begin removing the gear and apply bindings to what were now considered prisoners.
Mevon noticed a familiar figure winding his way towards him. “Father,” shouted Mevon. “It’s good to see your head still attached to your shoulders.”
“Ha!” Yandumar patted his neck. “This here is too stubborn to give way before any mere blade.”
They drew together and clasped forearms. Yandumar eyes flicked past him, and the old man’s brows scrunched together. “Something the matter, Gil?”
Mevon turned to see the valynkar, eyes locked on his back, shaking a glare loose from his face. Gilshamed waved a hand dismissively. “It is nothing.” He stalked away, saying no more.
Yandumar shrugged. “Probably mad he missed most of the last part of the fight. Had us all worried when he didn’t show up for so long.”
“I doubt you ever need worry about him,” Mevon said. “I’ve never met a man more capable of ensuring his own preservation.”
Yandumar nodded. “I don’t see Jasside anywhere. Please don’t tell me—”
“Look,” interrupted Mevon, pointing into the trees. Quake rode up. Atop his back was a weary-eyed Jasside, clutching to the horse’s mane as though her life depended on it.
“Well done, son.”
“You too, father.”
Mevon helped Jasside down just as Idrus and Arozir came up next to him. He turned to them, giving them the same greeting he had given his father. “What the status of the Fist?”
“More than half are recovering from wounds,” Idrus said. “But the casters made our men a priority, and no one died who could be saved.”
Mevon sighed. “How many?”
“Twenty-one,” Arozir said. “Including . . .” His voice nearly cracked. Mevon laid a hand on his shoulder. He now noticed what he should have recognized immediately: both men, Arozir especially, fighting to hold their emotions in check.
“Tolvar,” Mevon said.
His two remaining captains slowly nodded. Mevon clenched his hand into a fist.
Tolvar, who had been with him since the beginning. A great warrior. An even better leader of men. Gone now. Dead because he had followed Mevon.
And twenty others. Mevon had never lost so many in a single encounter. Not even close.
“You led them into the thickest fighting?” said Mevon, only half a question.
“Aye,” said Arozir. “There was no other way to thwart their assaults.”
“And how many were saved by your actions?”
“Thousands,” Yandumar said. “Had your men not turned back those initial waves, they would have trampled right through us. Just like you planned to do the night we captured you.”
Mevon bobbed his head absently. Another failure that I shoul
d have been able to prevent. The best men in this land, doomed by their own bravery. Doomed by me.
Yandumar moved to stand in front of him, less than half a pace away. “We lost over three thousand tonight. It could have been much worse. Your Fist made the difference.”
Mevon frowned.
His father stepped even closer, laying hands on both of Mevon’s shoulders. “What you have to realize, son, is that every man and woman in this revolution is our responsibility. Mine, Gilshamed’s, and yours. We each did what was necessary for the good of all.”
“I know. But those men can never be replaced.”
“ ’Course not. We don’t forget the fallen. We honor them by continuing to fight for our cause.”
Mevon nodded. “I suppose you’re right.” He swept his gaze over the Elite prisoners and settled on Ilyem. “One question remains, however. What are we going to do with them?”
REKAJ’S HEAD SERVANT gestured towards the antechamber couch after taking his coat. Voren obliged, seating himself as the deaf-mute man—dressed in brightly colored livery—retreated, leaving him alone.
From the emperor’s room, raised voices could easily be heard.
“I said pull them back, Lekrigar. All of them. Even your creatures and the slaves.”
“Rekaj, surely this threat cannot be all that serious?”
“It is.”
“But that’s no reason to put the invasion on hold. You know how Ruul dislikes such setbacks.”
“I am the voice and will of Ruul. No one else. Need I remind you of the cost of disobedience?”
There was a pause.
“No.”
“Good. I trust your forces will be on their way back to our lands before dawn?”
“Y-yes, emperor.”
Another pause.
“Your predecessor, though brilliant at her job, suffered from severe insubordination. I would think twice about following in her footsteps.”
“Let me assure you, then, that I have no intention of doing so.”
A chuckle. “Smart of you. I don’t think you would handle exile well.”
Voren heard something that sounded liked choking, or a chortle of pain—he wasn’t sure. He had no time to contemplate, for the door opened, and the high regnosist stepped in. The reedy mierothi looked down his beak-like nose at Voren, sniffed, and exited the antechamber’s opposite doors.
Voren remained seated, unsure whether Lekrigar’s departure indicated an invitation to enter. Not that he had any desire to. Apprehension gripped him, for he still had no idea why he had been summoned, and he was fairly sure he didn’t want to find out.
“Get in here, Voren!”
Sighing, Voren rose to his feet, put on his best demure expression, and shuffled into the emperor’s presence.
The odor hit him—urine and feces and blood and bile—and an involuntary glance revealed its source: three women, kneeling and chained, covered in the aforementioned matter. Voren cringed as he absorbed the cuts marring their once-fine faces, the dead look in their eyes.
Somehow, he peeled his gaze away, trying to hide his shock and disgust as he approached Rekaj. He stopped five paces away and bowed, eyes trained on the fine scarlet carpet. “You summoned me, emperor?”
Rekaj, his back to Voren, stood at his open window, which let in an icy breeze and occasional flurries of snow. The city spread out down the gentle slope of the mountainside, glowing softly as a million souls warmed themselves by their nightly hearth fires.
The emperor waved his hand across the sight. “Look at them all. Living their lives in peace. Many, even, in luxury. Safe and protected. By me.” He turned, fixing Voren with a stare. “Yet so many still defy me. Still spit in my face with their whispers and their schemes.”
Voren nodded. It took him a moment to realize that Rekaj wanted some kind of response. Tread carefully. “They do not understand our kind. They are brief upon this world, and cannot comprehend the grand nature of our struggles and purposes.”
Rekaj sighed, turning back to face the city. “You are right, of course. Such small-minded souls can’t be expected to fathom the very will of the gods. It is difficult enough for us.”
Voren gulped, not knowing how to respond.
“I asked him once, you know, about Elos. Do you know what he told me?”
Voren, eyes wide, shook his head.
“Ruul called your god impotent,” Rekaj said, bursting into laughter. “How absurdly ironic.”
Ironic? Shade of Elos, what have you learned about your god to think so? “I am in no position to argue his assertion,” Voren said. “After all, if Elos had any true power, you think he would have figured out how to undo your god’s work.”
“Such as?”
“The Shroud comes to mind.”
Rekaj let out a puff of amusement. “You assume too much.”
Voren lifted an eyebrow. “But if not Ruul . . . ?”
The emperor’s scowl halted the voicing of his thoughts. Once again, Voren found himself perched on a precipice far too precarious for his liking.
“The Shroud,” said Rekaj, “was a mistake. One I have failed to fully correct. At least a way around has been recently found.”
A way around? Suddenly, the argument with Lekrigar he had overheard made sense. He shivered, thinking about mierothi influence spreading beyond the confines of this continent.
Then he remembered how shaken Rekaj had sounded. How afraid. The revolution had the man worried, enough so that he risked Ruul’s ire to bring more forces to bear. Voren suppressed a smile at the thought.
“Tell me, Voren, when you look upon the face of your god, what do you see?”
“I . . . I have never . . .”
“No? I thought all your kind gazed upon his face?”
“Yes. Normally. Once every hundred years we are allowed to bask in the presence of Elos. To hear his words of wisdom and reason. To see, with our own eyes, proof to validate our devotion.
“I was ninety-seven when I was . . . when I came to be in your service.”
“Ah. How peculiar then. Here we are, you and I, on opposite ends of the fulcrum. I, the only one of my people to have actually seen my god. And you, the only one of yours not to.”
Voren furrowed his brow, looking away.
The edge of Rekaj’s lip twitched outward. “You disagree?”
Voren shut his eyes. Too late to hide it now . . . “We both know that isn’t true. You’re not the only mierothi—”
“The others,” Rekaj snapped, “are dead. Or as good as dead, anyway.” He smiled. “And it was no accident things turned out as they did.”
Voren cringed. “I know.”
Rekaj studied him for several moments. He moved his jaw in tiny circles, and the sound of his teeth rasping against each other put Voren on edge. “My kin,” he said at last, “do not. If they did, my rule would be threatened. I wonder . . . can you be trusted with this secret?”
And so, we come at last to why I was brought here. “I have known since the day of the Cataclysm what kind of person you are. Among all the mierothi, living or dead, there are none more ruthless. This secret”—Voren shrugged—“it keeps itself.”
Rekaj laughed again, a sound devoid of amusement. “Ruthless. Yes, I suppose I am at that. But my actions, are they my doing? Or Ruul’s? It was he, after all, that set our people on the path to conquest, even if he never used such specific words.”
“Never used . . . ?” Voren frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“Conquest was . . . implied. Or so thought our first emperors. A tradition I maintained after their deaths.
“Ruul, however, had . . . other things in mind. Things that, to this day, make little sense.”
“Why . . . ?” squeaked Voren, working moisture into his mouth. “Why are you telling me this?”
&n
bsp; “You were able to keep one secret. Let us see how you handle another.”
Fighting against the urge to shake his head—vigorously—Voren said, “As you wish.”
The next moment stretched. Voren couldn’t say how long it lasted. The sound of his shallow breathing and the thumping of his heart seemed to play over and over, countless times, becoming a nightmare of rhythm. And yet Rekaj stood rigid, unblinking.
At last, the emperor’s lips parted. “Ruul,” he said, dragging the word out the length of two breaths. “Ruul has gone . . . silent.”
Pinpricks blossomed on the surface of Voren’s skin. “How long?”
“Attempts at communication became labored and broken almost two hundred years ago. It has been more than half a century since I’ve heard even the faintest whisper.”
Voren nodded. “That must be difficult.”
Rekaj waved a dismissive hand. “My people continue to believe I operate solely on the word of our god. Suffice to say, were this knowledge to be revealed, it would end me far more quickly than would the other secret you are privy to.”
“Yes.”
Rekaj narrowed his gaze. “I will not allow that to happen.”
Voren swallowed the lump in his throat. “Of course.”
The look in the emperor’s eyes was that of a boy watching an animal caught in a trap, wounded and helpless. Voren shook. He closed his eyes, and he summoned every fiber of his will to hold back his tears.
Rekaj stepped past him, stopping in front of one of the women. He picked up a pair of bloody pliers from a metal tray and forced open her jaw with a firm grip. A single tooth could be seen. Rekaj gripped it with the pliers and slowly twisted it free. The woman choked in pain, whimpering feebly.
“Sleep well, Voren,” Rekaj said as he began to undo the front of his robe.
Voren walked rigidly to the antechamber, shrugged into his coat, and fled.
He closed the door to his chambers and immediately headed for his recently replenished wine rack. He knelt in front of the display, passing a hand over the ’79 Taditali red—he had no time to savor such a fine vintage—and selected a cheap bottle without even the prestige of a maker’s label. He popped open the stopper and filled a glass almost to the brim. Voren lifted it to his lips, tilted his head back, and emptied it in a series of gulps. He refilled and repeated the process.
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