Veiled Empire

by Nathan Garrison

  After his third cup, he set down the glass and began making his way—slightly unsteadily—towards his bathing chamber. He kicked off his boots as he went, then tugged off his coat. He tossed it to the side, where it landed with a crunch.

  Voren made it as far as the threshold, eying the porcelain tub with a smile, before he turned around.

  What was that sound?

  He stepped back to the coat, inspecting it with curiosity. Finally, he bent down and picked it back up, and began squeezing in various places until he heard the crunching noise again.

  It did not take long. He reached into the inner pocket and withdrew an envelope.

  The front simply read “Voren.” He flipped it over. Red wax held it closed, and pressed into it . . .

  Ruul’s light!

  . . . the seal of the High Council of the Valynkar.

  Voren’s heart began pounding. He tore open the letter.

  Voren,

  Make your peace with Elos. I am coming for you.

  —Gilshamed

  Voren fell to his knees.

  PART III

  Chapter 11

  THE WINTERS WERE harsh this far south, and Draevenus had not made it as far as he wished to before it became too dangerous to travel. Less than fifty klicks from where he’d left the men he’d rescued, he was forced to hole up in the inn of a small town to wait out the snowstorms and ice storms that ravaged the land.

  Though he kept the rest of his body covered, even he knew that wearing a hood indoors at all times would draw far too many questions. Questions that might lead to a whisper in the ear of the local garrison commander. So, instead, Draevenus wore a thick wig, which sent black hair tumbling past his shoulders. He also applied a paste to his face that darkened it enough to hide his pale complexion.

  The weather would soon begin warming. The first thaw was but weeks away. He was glad that the need for such hiding, such stagnation, would soon be over.

  Time to get on with it.

  Verge. He didn’t want to think about that place. About what took place there. He’d done all he could throughout the winter to keep himself distracted, focusing on securing provisions for the trek and keeping his body in peak condition. And returning his mind to the place it had been all those centuries ago. A place ready to kill at a moment’s notice. A place that didn’t think about the consequences and didn’t hesitate.

  He thought he was nearly there.

  Draevenus shoveled the last bite of food—mutton again—into his mouth and pushed the plate away. Within beats, a serving girl came to clear his plate, offering him a smile and a refill on his ale. He declined the latter but returned the former, which caused a spot of pink to blossom on her cheeks. He gulped the last of his ale and set the mug down just as an icy wind blew in from the open front door.

  Draevenus studied the lone man who entered. He was tall, with a girth that indicated an appetite a shade north of healthy. The man shook snowflakes from his cloak and from the grey hair he kept tied in a ponytail. He carried a pack with a fiddle case strapped across the top of it.

  As he made to sit, he pushed back the flaps of his cloak, and Draevenus saw the unmistakable outline of a sword sheath.

  Draevenus tensed up. Only two kinds of civilians were allowed to carry swords: retired darkwatch, and retired Elite.

  Instinct gripped him. He’d been staring at the man since he walked in but had not received the barest of glances in return. And the man had not been conservative with the cast of his eyes.

  Bad move, friend. You might as well have announced your interest in me.

  The only question was why? No answers came to mind that did not leave a sour feeling in his gut. He was not about to stick around to find out which it was.

  Draevenus stood and made for the stairs. His room was on the second floor. Not easily accessed from the ground, yet, if he had to exit quickly, not too far a fall. As he put his hand on the banister, his gaze left the man for the first time.

  From the corner of his eye, far past a normal person’s edge of perception, he saw the man look his way.

  He took the stairs three at a time.

  He reached his door, silently padding the last few paces, and leaned his ear against it. He listened for several beats, holding his breath until sure that no one was inside. He pushed his key in the lock and swept in, closing it behind him with care not to make a sound.

  He exhaled. “Foolish, Draevenus. Foolish to think you could trust those men. Gold fast loses its allure when an adjudicator has his blade at your throat.”

  Draevenus should have known what to expect. He had founded their order, after all.

  He threw on his cloak and shoved in the few things he had that were not already in his pack. He was ready to go in less than a dozen beats. It was early yet to travel, but he had no choice. If the listeners were already this close, staying in place would only lead to a confrontation. Such would draw far more attention than would the small uses of sorcery required to keep him alive in the wilderness.

  Draevenus cracked open the windowpane and peeked up and down the alley. Clear. He dropped his pack, then swung his legs out and lowered himself. With just four fingers gripping the sill, he reached with his free hand to close the window.

  He released and landed softly in a crouch. He slipped his arms through the pack straps, lowered his hood to cover his face, and marched out of the alley.

  He rounded the corner and stopped cold. A squad of guardsmen crowded around the front of the inn’s main door.

  The man with the fiddle stood in their midst.

  Draevenus averted his gaze. He walked, step unchanging, doing his best to appear not the least bit interested. His right hand grazed the hilt of the dagger hidden up his sleeve.

  Maybe they’re just checking his certifications? Draevenus had never been very convincing, least of all to himself. His pace quickened.

  South was where he needed to go, but the eastern gate was closer. He needed to get outside the town walls as fast as possible. It would be easier to disappear in the woods, and his pursuers would have to be sure of their quarry if they were to chance following in this snowstorm.

  In three marks, he came to the gate. No one had looked twice at him on the way, but the guards now eyed him with open suspicion.

  “You crazy or something?” the sergeant said. “Don’t know if you noticed, but there’s half a blizzard under way.”

  Draevenus gave an exaggerated shrug. “The old lady wants more firewood.”

  “And she thinks this is the best time to gather?”

  “She claims this storm gonna get worse before it gets better. But it’s not like we don’t already got four days’ worth stockpiled.”

  The sergeant grunted. “Women, huh?”

  “You got that right.”

  A flip of his hand, and one of the sergeant’s men lifted the bar and pushed open the gates. Draevenus gave a nod full of sincere gratitude. He looked back once, saw no one watching or following, and ambled out of the town.

  “We’ll keep an eye out for you, friend,” said one of the guardsmen.

  “Don’t bother,” Draevenus called over his shoulder. “I’m gonna circle around and come in a different gate. But thanks anyway.”

  It wasn’t long before the town walls had disappeared behind a sheet of falling snow. Draevenus, at last, released the knot of tension that had gripped his belly since the fiddler had walked into the inn.

  Still, I’m not out of danger yet. Feeling invigorated by a full stomach, and a seeping flow of adrenaline, he burst into a jog. He needed the exercise and, more importantly, to put as much distance between himself and those he knew were now on his trail. And to draw closer to his destination. He could almost hear the sands siphoning away, a countdown that he could not afford to let outpace him.

  Verge awaited.

 
Despite the sweat starting to form beneath his attire, Draevenus shivered.

  JASSIDE RAN THROUGH the camp, smiling at each patch of newly thawed ground and grateful for the modicum of warmth gifted her by the midday sun. Her patrol had just come in when she heard the news. She didn’t want to be late.

  Red-faced and sweating, she burst through the ring of onlookers just in time to see it begin.

  Mevon stood in the center. All he had on was a pair of breeches. Had she not already been out of breath, it would have been taken away by the sight. Scores of pale scars crisscrossed his frame of rippling muscles. His eyes were closed. Only the faint expansion and compression of his chest let her know he was even breathing.

  Three men circled him warily, each fully armed and armored. At a slight nod, they all lunged at once.

  Jasside couldn’t follow what happened next. Mevon moved too quickly. Two of the men ended up sprawled on their backs, and the third fell to a knee, wincing in pain.

  One of the downed men rolled onto his stomach, then pushed himself up. “Check!” he called. “By Ruul, I swear I drew. Check!”

  Mevon took on a wide stance and lifted his arms as his captains came forward. Idrus started on the right side and Arozir the left. Ropes, newly promoted, knelt and inspected Mevon’s feet and legs.

  A moment later, Ropes stood. He lifted his finger, lips twisted in what might be taken for a smile. “Take a look,” he said.

  Mevon peered down. He grunted. The end of Ropes’s finger was slick with blood. He looked past his captains to the three combatants. “Welcome to the Fist,” he said.

  A cheer rose from the small crowd. A few casters moved forward to attend to the Elite. These men had once belonged to Ilyem’s Fist. They were part of the threescore Ragremons among those Elite who had attacked them, all of whom had defected upon Mevon’s speaking one simple phrase.

  Ragremos remembers.

  This was the last bout. Mevon’s Fist was again at full strength.

  Jasside waited patiently while the men did what men do: grunting, slapping each other’s backs, boasting loudly. She knew not to intrude at a time like this.

  The winter had been strange between them. Letting go of her hate for Mevon had allowed something else to take its place. She didn’t know quite what it was yet. She didn’t know what she wanted it to be. But to say what lay between them was better than before would be an understatement.

  At first, she thought it enough that his humanity was beginning to overcome the monster she’d first taken him to be. But more than that, his passion for justice let her know that, perhaps, he might be capable of passion in . . . other areas.

  At last, the crowd began dispersing. Jasside moved forward to congratulate Mevon.

  “Five,” said a voice behind her, stopping her cold. “Five is the usual number.”

  Jasside turned slowly. Ilyem stood, flanked by a pair of shepherds as escort. Though she had no weapons or armor on her, Jasside still knew how dangerous the woman was.

  “What do you mean?” Jasside asked.

  Ilyem stepped forward, sunlight glinting off her freshly shaved head. “The trial for new Elite. It is usually five applicants at once, not three.”

  Jasside raised an eyebrow. “What are you trying to say?”

  Ilyem gave her half a smile. “Three indicates that the Hardohl either has no confidence in himself or that his standards for the men he allows in his Fist are much higher.”

  “I see,” Jasside said. “And which do you think it is?’

  Ilyem stared past her. Jasside followed the gaze to where Mevon was squeezing into his combat suit. “I always wondered why he kept his Fist so small.”

  Jasside could only shake her head in wonder.

  Ilyem turned to march away.

  “Wait,” said Jasside. Ilyem paused midstep and craned her neck around. “Our offer . . . won’t you reconsider?”

  The Hardohl stood so still for so long that Jasside was afraid she would never answer. At last, the woman sighed, and slowly shook her head. “I cannot.”

  Jasside nodded. One Hardohl on our side has given us unfathomable momentum. If we could have two. . .

  She closed her eyes. It was not to be. Ilyem had made her choice.

  “But,” Ilyem said, “I will keep my word. You shall not meet me on the battlefield again.”

  “When do you leave?”

  “Tomorrow, I and my Fist will depart. Not including, of course, those who have elected to stay.”

  In a surge of insanity, Jasside pounced upon an idea that had sprung up in her mind. “It must have been a shock when your men chose us over you?”

  Ilyem eyes narrowed, lips pressing together. Jasside thought she saw the woman’s cheek begin to quiver and was reminded that she was less than ten paces from a Hardohl whom she did not consider an ally. Out of fear, she almost began energizing. Almost.

  “Yes.” Ilyem’s voice had become like a mirrored pond. “It was. But not nearly so great a shock as was your unique . . . ability.”

  Jasside’s eyes flashed wide. She realized, upon closer examination, that the Hardohl was not in an aggressive stance but a defensive one.

  Ilyem was afraid of her.

  Jasside felt her spine firm up a bit. “There is one thing I would ask, then.”

  “What is it?”

  “Spread the word among your peers. Let them know what you’ve learned. Maybe—if at all possible—get them to follow you.”

  “Follow me in doing . . . ?”

  “Nothing.”

  Ilyem appeared troubled.

  “You owe us,” Jasside said. “For your life, and those of your Elite. You owe us.”

  The Hardohl ground her teeth. “No, I do not.”

  “But after everything we’ve told you? Everything we’ve shown?”

  “Your claims are . . . convincing. But I considered the lives of myself and my Elite forfeit the moment we surrendered. Passive treason is the best I can give you.”

  “Understood. But wouldn’t you say the rest of your peers deserve an end to the lies? Shouldn’t they get to make their own decision based on the truth the mierothi have kept from them?”

  Ilyem turned away, and Jasside thought she could almost hear a frustrated growl. “Very well,” said Ilyem. “I will consider your request. But I make no promises as to the response of my peers should I even mention it to them.” She marched away before anything more could be said.

  Jasside breathed a sigh of relief as she watched the retreating back of the Hardohl. It was not quite a yes, but it wasn’t a no, either. For the first time in her life, Ilyem might actually think for herself, and maybe—when she realized her life has worth outside the orders of the mierothi . . .

  It would be a small miracle, but sometimes that’s all we can ask for. I have a feeling we’ll need every last one.

  YANDUMAR CAUGHT THE cask in the cradle of his arms as it rolled off the wagon bed.

  “Fresh from the Taditali vineyards,” Paen said. “My father’s finest for the esteemed leaders of the revolution.”

  The smooth-skinned young man smiled down at him. Yandumar tried not to grimace. “Any trouble?”

  Paen arched an eyebrow while straightening his silk cloak, a gaudy shade of purple with silver embroidery. “My family does not have trouble.”

  “What about all the extra guards?” Yandumar pointed to the columns of armed men flanking the caravan. “No one thought it a little suspicious?”

  Paen laughed with youthful arrogance. “My friend Yandumar, have you not heard? There’s a rebellion stirring up trouble in these parts. Honest businessmen, such as myself, need to take extra precautions to ward against such lawless ruffians.”

  Yandumar sighed. The kid had come in the middle of winter, offering the full support of not only his family but the entire guild of wine and spir
it makers. The campaign had seen few losses over the year’s coldest months, and recruitment had soared. With over twenty thousand mouths to feed, the timely logistical support Paen provided had prevented a winter spent huddling in the cold with empty bellies.

  I just wish he wasn’t such a pain in the ass. Obviously, he couldn’t let such feelings show. The revolution owed them big. And none more than Yandumar himself.

  “Tell your father, next time you see him,” Yandumar said, “that I can’t afford to fall any more into his debt. He saved my ass thirty years ago, when I had no one else to turn to, and he’s doing it again now.”

  “Yes, well. My father is ever practical. Upheaval means change, and change means new opportunities for profit.” Paen laughed again, a dark tone lacing his voice. “And, of course, he does all he can to please our dearest Dia.”

  “Ah, yes. How is your . . . cousin, is it?”

  Paen’s lips twisted in wry amusement. “Cousin, yes. She is well. Fascinated by all the goings-on in the empire these days. Pleased.”

  Yandumar nodded. He turned to leave, still carrying the cask in his arms. “Thanks for the wine,” he called over his shoulder.

  “Enjoy!”

  Yandumar strolled through the camp, returning nods and friendly greetings to all he passed. So many new faces, so many he didn’t know, yet all had come together, all bound under one purpose. He felt a stirring in his gut, just the faintest of twinges, every time he thought about all the people who looked to him to lead and protect them.

  How many dreamed the same dream? This dream of freedom. Did anyone even know what that looked like?

  I’ve seen the world beyond. I know what life can be like. Should be like. I only hope our dreams don’t end up like all those that came before. Those who struggled and died in hopeless causes. Let this time be different.

  Dear God, let us win!

  He pushed through the flaps of the command tent. He set the cask down in his section, then strode into the central chamber. Gilshamed stood studying a table that held a geographical representation of the continent. He looked up and motioned Yandumar over as he entered.