Veiled Empire

by Nathan Garrison

  “Come, Yan.” He was smiling.

  Yandumar slid up next to him, looking down. “This the latest?”

  Gilshamed nodded. “Fresh communes this morning. Things are progressing perfectly.”

  Yandumar had to agree. The entire map was covered in marks, each indicating a local uprising of the people. Many were thousands strong. One, on the plains of Agoritha—the breadbasket of the central territory—almost rivaled their main group in numbers.

  “Looks like all the groundwork we laid years ago is finally paying off,” Yandumar said.

  “Oh, indeed,” said Gilshamed. “We have created a wealth of opportunities and sown chaos for the empire. They will have no way of knowing where we will strike next and no way to respond in time once we do.”

  “Do you know where that next push will be?”

  Gilshamed rubbed his chin. “There are several possibilities. The most promising one will be to strike north and establish a stronghold in Namerrun.”

  Yandumar frowned. “North?”

  “Yes. What is it?”

  “I mean, I understand why, what with our allies up there . . .”

  “But?”

  “But, well, maybe there should be some discussion about it at the meeting?”

  Gilshamed flipped a hand. “Fine, fine. I will, of course, welcome suggestions.”

  Yandumar clapped the valynkar on the shoulder. “Good. It’s not just you and me anymore, scheming away in some nameless tavern halfway between nowhere and lost. There’s too much at stake for anyone, even you, to think they can take it all upon themselves.”

  A look of fury flashed across Gilshamed’s face, so briefly that Yandumar was sure he had imagined it. A smile instantly replaced it that was so genuine, so convincing, that he knew it must be false.

  Can’t fool me, Gil. I know you too well. And I know you have had to carry the entire burden for so long. But that time is past—you have friends now.

  He knew why Gilshamed tried to keep the pain hidden, and he loved him for it. Almost two millennia of holding on to anger, on to dreams of revenge—no matter that he had labeled it justice—would drive any man crazy. That Gilshamed had withstood the lure of madness so far spoke volumes about his resolve.

  Maybe soon he could share the pressure and expend a bit more energy keeping himself in check—at least for the time being—instead of balancing on the edge of sanity.

  We need you too much to have you lose it now.

  Yandumar began slipping around the table. Before he had gone two steps, his eyes picked up something on the map he hadn’t noticed before. A black flag, the only one present. He pointed to it, asking, “What’s that?”

  “That,” said Gilshamed, “is an anomaly.”

  “Why? What happened there?”

  “Details are scarce. All I know is that no fewer than six adjudicators have been seen in the area, asking questions with the tip of a dagger. And whatever took place there was not of our doing.”

  Yandumar peered closer. The flag rested in the Fyrdra prefecture, the westernmost in the southern territory—and just north of where the Andean cliffs gave way to the ice fields of the Frozen Fangs. “Hmm.”

  “Something on your mind, Yan?”

  “Not really. I just remembered that some of my old friends lived out that way.”

  “Old friends? Did you ever try to make contact?”

  Yandumar shrugged. “Tried. Couldn’t find ’em.”

  “Well, perhaps they are behind whatever has been stirred up. Who knows, maybe they are helping us without even knowing it?”

  Yandumar shrugged, not ready to commit that much optimism. “Any word from Slick Ren?”

  Gilshamed quirked a sideways smile. “Missing her already?”

  “Don’t judge,” Yandumar said, holding up his hands. “I’m just worried about her.”

  “Of all the women in the world, she is the most capable I’ve ever seen at taking care of herself. And with Derthon at her side?” Gilshamed laughed. “Your concern would touch her, I’m sure.”

  Yandumar arched an eyebrow impatiently. “Well?”

  Gilshamed sighed. “No word as of yet. Their mission will take more time, more finesse than the rest. After all, you know the temperament of bandit lords better than most.”

  “Ha! Ain’t that the truth.”

  MEVON STOOD WITH his arms folded as he surveyed the training grounds. Thousands, grouped in platoons, were being drilled by Elite. Practicing reactions to commands, movement as one, oftentimes simply growing accustomed to wearing full battle kit for tolls on end.

  They had been caught unawares by the enemy once. Mevon vowed it would not happen again.

  Most of the new Elite had tried out for Mevon’s Fist. Only the best had succeeded. The rest had been tasked as leaders of the new units. It was a sound plan. Though Mevon had little experience with large-scale battles, he’d seen enough men panic and break simply because there was no one in charge nearby to tell them what to do.

  Mevon hoped it would all be enough.

  The winter had seen them moving constantly. No major battles yet, just minor skirmishes, a few strategic ambushes, and feints in every direction. All attempts to keep the full brunt of the Imperial war machine from bearing down on them. So far, it had worked.

  Now, however, it was time to decide what to do next. Mevon turned to his captains. “That’s enough for today. Let them rest for the night.”

  “Aye,” Ropes said. Arozir simply nodded. The two moved off. Idrus lingered at his side.

  “How are they doing?” Mevon asked.

  “Ropes is . . . adjusting.”

  “Can he do the job?”

  “Well enough. He’s just not happy about Ivengar.”

  “Trouble between them?”

  “You didn’t know, but before you promoted Ropes, they fought each other for the captain position. Ropes lost.”

  Mevon rubbed his chin. “I see. What about Arozir?”

  Idrus exhaled heavily. “Tolvar’s death hit him hard. But he’ll be ready when we need him.”

  “Good enough.”

  The sun began to set, painting the snowcapped trees harsh shades of orange and casting long shadows over the landscape. Mevon could just make out the deepest shadow of all—the nearest tip of the Chasm, that scar upon the face of the continent that comprised a third of the boundary between the eastern and northern territories, and stabbed partway into the central. Mevon turned from the sight and marched towards the command tent.

  He swept inside without pausing. As soon as his eyes adjusted, he became aware that he was the last to arrive. Yandumar was there, standing for the soldiers. And, of course, Gilshamed. Representing himself, as always. For the caster contingent, the young sorcerer Orbrahn.

  And, of course, Jasside.

  As his eye met hers, she smiled. Mevon could not help but smile back. They’d spent quite a bit of time together over the winter. It felt good being near her in a way he had never experienced before. He was eager to see where it led.

  As he moved to stand beside his father, Mevon noticed one last person in the tent. Someone he had not been expecting.

  “What’s he doing here?” Mevon said, pointing at the intruder.

  Paen swept his cape back and executed an exaggerated bow. “Fear not, Mevon Daere. I am merely here to see to the interests that I represent.”

  “Why? This is a meeting to discuss strategy. You have no place here.”

  “My benefactors consider this revolution an investment in the future. I must ensure that it remains a healthy enterprise and will offer guidance as befits that goal.”

  Mevon glared across the tent at the boy. Paen smiled back.

  Mevon had never been enthralled with the notion of the merchant families. Too much money controlled by too few people. Too much pow
er and influence bought with the blood and sweat of a desperate populace. The whole enterprise was too similar to the way the mierothi ruled, and now that he was working to undo one group, the other seemed an enticing candidate for his next target.

  Justice should be immune to the effects of influence. Equal for all. No man should be able to escape the penalty for his sins based on the size of his coffers or the strength of his army. . .

  Mevon surprised himself as he completed the thought.

  . . . or the god that he serves.

  But he knew this wasn’t the time to wage a second war. He sighed. “Very well.” He turned to Gilshamed and nodded.

  The valynkar raised his brows. “Let’s begin then, shall we?”

  A chorus of murmured assent answered him. “With spring approaching, movement will become significantly easier. Not only for us, but for Imperial forces as well. As you can see”—Gilshamed gestured to the table—“the empire is in chaos. Many of these groups are in contact with us, some even willing to take direction. But we gathered here are the focus, both as the hope of the people and the thorn in the side of the mierothi. Our fate is the fate of the continent.

  “So, we find ourselves at a critical juncture and must ask ourselves: What is the best course of action? How now should we proceed to ensure victory for the revolution and freedom for this land?”

  Gilshamed eyed Yandumar, who seemed pleased by the speech. “I am . . . open to suggestions.”

  Silence gripped the tent as each person contemplated. The purpose of the meeting had been known for a while, and everyone present would have ideas to put forth. They all seemed to be waiting for someone else to go first, however. Mevon himself was content to wait.

  Finally, Jasside spoke up. “I, for one, have enjoyed the freedom to cast due to the destruction of the first voltensus. Wherever we end up striking for next, I believe should be preceded by an attack against the region’s sensor tower.”

  “A fine idea, Jasside,” said Gilshamed. “Though, once we make such a move, the empire will have strong indications about our intentions.”

  “What about a feint?” Yandumar said.

  Gilshamed gestured for him to continue.

  “We send a token force to attempt to destroy another voltensus. Imperial numbers have increased tenfold at the towers, and our attempts will appear weak and disorganized, making them underestimate us. Meanwhile, we take our main force in another direction, maybe even link up with some of the smaller cells along the way, and attack an important target. Maybe one of the territory capitals?”

  “I like it,” Orbrahn said. “Just like Thorull.” He nudged Jasside. “You in for killing some more mierothi?”

  Mevon could tell she was trying to hide her enthusiasm for the idea. “Wherever I am needed,” she said, looking from Orbrahn to Gilshamed, “you can count on me.”

  Gilshamed sighed. “I dislike the idea of retracing our steps. It borders on predictability—a situation I wish to avoid at all costs.”

  “Don’t think we can handle it?” said Orbrahn.

  “The mierothi are scared, which is a double-edged sword,” said Gilshamed. “They have stripped their local military to bolster their own guard, and keep close to each other, cowering in their cities. Though this has reduced the number of men in the field, and made our movements easier, it also makes any attempt to rid ourselves of their filth that much harder.”

  “Right,” Yandumar said. “The death of individual mierothi isn’t the point. It’s the end of their rule that truly matters.”

  “Precisely,” said Gilshamed. “More of them will die. Of that, you all have my assurance. But as our next move . . . ?” He shook his head.

  A hush fell once more as they all turned their minds to the problem at hand. An errant thought began tickling the recesses of Mevon’s mind, but it was still unformed, still brewing. He was not yet ready to give voice to it.

  Paen cleared his throat. “What about Mecrithos?”

  Gilshamed laughed. “I appreciate the enthusiasm, but we are nowhere near ready to take on the heart of mierothi power.” He pointed at the top part of the map table. “There, in Namerrun, we have allies, the source of our logistical support, and a populace ready to join our cause. I suggest we make for the plain and establish a base of operations. From there, we can gather our strength, renew our focus on training and recruitment, and systematically plan how to dismantle the Imperial war machine. Perhaps, in a few years’ time, we may actually be ready to strike at the capital. But not yet.”

  “You’re talking an extended campaign?” said Yandumar. “Fighting from a position of strength instead of all this sneaking around?”

  “Indeed.”

  Yandumar ran his fingers through his beard. “Well, I do prefer a straight fight. Most of the time . . .”

  Gilshamed sighed, fixing Yandumar with an impatient stare.

  Yandumar grumbled. “But it seems like we’re heading the wrong direction.”

  “I see,” said Gilshamed. He looked around the room. “Any other opinions about my plan?”

  “I have no issues,” Jasside said. “Careful planning will grant us a greater chance of success, I think.”

  “I dunno,” Orbrahn said. “I think I’m with Yandumar on this one. Seems like north is the wrong way to go.”

  “Agreed,” Paen said. “Those I represent would, I’m sure, wish to remain a distant source of support.”

  Gilshamed sighed, and Mevon thought he saw a flicker of irritation in the valynkar’s eyes though it was over in a beat. “Very well. We can shelve the northern approach until we’ve considered other suggestions. I suppose our options, then, are to finish cleansing the eastern territory or head to the western territory. Now, our raids in this area have been highly effective. Imperial supply lines are stifled, their command structure is in disarray, and their strength in numbers has been cut to a manageable size.

  “Yet despite our efforts, and the distractions in every last prefecture in the empire, reinforcements are still heading our way. Staying put and finishing our work here will be greatly rewarding for both morale and momentum, but it will take time and comes with significant risk.

  “The western territory has been untouched by our machinations. A surprise attack—”

  “No.”

  All eyes turned to Mevon. They were the first words he had spoken since the debate began, and even he was surprised by the firmness of that single word. As Gilshamed had been talking through his plan, Mevon’s mind had worked through its thoughts. He knew now what he needed to do. What they all needed to do.

  Gilshamed cast a sour gaze his way. “You have a problem with some part of my plan?”

  “We cannot go west,” Mevon said.

  “Well, it does not have to be west. It could be—”

  “Not west,” said Mevon, ignoring the fury bubbling behind Gilshamed’s eyes at being interrupted again. “Not east either. And certainly not north. We are overlooking some crucial facts. Facts that must dictate our path.”

  “Very well,” said Gilshamed, lifting his chin in the air. “Enlighten us.”

  “First of all, Imperial military strength is far beyond your reckoning. They’ve been surprised on many occasions, but they’ve also been biding their time. Once spring hits, so will they. Hard. We won’t be able to stand against a full assault by a major force.

  “Secondly, these distractions you seem so confident of will soon be wiped out. The Hardohl alone will see to it. Since you saw fit to implant casters into each group, they will be easy to track down and annihilate.”

  “Have you no faith in our allies then?” said Gilshamed.

  “Faith?” Mevon paused. “I’m not much familiar with the word. But I know the empire, and I know what it will do. And I know that every last man and woman involved in these small-scale uprisings is likely doomed.”

&nbs
p; “Maybe not,” Jasside said.

  Mevon turned to her. “What do you mean?”

  “Before she left, I had a . . . talk. With Ilyem.”

  “And?” said Gilshamed.

  “She said she would consider speaking to the other Hardohl. That she might try to convince them to sit this conflict out.”

  “Sit it out?” Yandumar said, wonder evident in his voice. “And you thought of this yourself?”

  Jasside blushed. “Yes.”

  “Will she do it?” asked Orbrahn. “And, more importantly, will any of them listen to her?”

  “I don’t know. But she was definitely scared enough to give it serious thought. Perhaps others will as well.”

  “Hardohl don’t . . .” Mevon stopped himself. He had almost added “fear anything” but then he remembered when Jasside had first disabled him. He cringed at the memory yet couldn’t help but smile. “We don’t change our minds easily. But if anyone can make us see reason, Jasside can.”

  He locked eyes with her, and something passed between them that he could only describe as a spark. Emotions and thoughts all jumbled and twirling. A sudden intake of breath. Right now, Mevon couldn’t even remember quite what he’d said to her, but apparently it had been the right thing.

  Yandumar cleared his throat and turned to Paen. “Your family has ears everywhere. They heard anything about the Hardohl and their Elite?”

  “I can confirm nothing, of course, but I can tell you that my father’s guards have recently seen a huge influx of highly skilled applicants. Some of them have very impressive resumes.”

  Mevon eyed Jasside again, nodding to her with respect. And gratitude. Facing his peers once had been hard enough. He did not relish the thought of having to do it again. “That was good thinking,” he said. “Thank you.”

  She cast her eyes down, obviously embarrassed by the attention everyone was giving her.

  “But as good as this news seems to be,” continued Mevon, “that only alleviates one of our problems. There is another, more serious issue that no one has mentioned yet.”