Veiled Empire

by Nathan Garrison

  “And what is that?” said Gilshamed.

  “Lightfall Square.”

  Everyone in the tent seemed to stop breathing as each was suddenly reminded of the emperor’s mass execution.

  “What was the final death toll?” Mevon asked. “How many slaughtered in response to our actions?”

  Gilshamed, to his credit, had the decency to look abashed. “Conservative reports estimate thirty thousand. Some say much more.”

  “And hundreds more every day face public execution,” Yandumar added.

  “That’s just in Mecrithos,” said Mevon. “Who knows how many more are questioned by the adjudicators and disposed of quietly?”

  “I won’t contest the tragic nature of our situation,” said Gilshamed. “But we knew there would be casualties. Sacrifices even. What would you have us do to put a stop to it?”

  Mevon glanced at Paen. “As much as I hate to admit it, the boy is right.

  “We should march on Mecrithos.

  “We must.”

  Mevon looked around. His father seemed troubled, but after a glance at Paen and Orbrahn—who wore identical half smiles—appeared to accept the idea. Jasside’s visage beamed at Mevon in what he took as pride. Gilshamed’s eyes were downcast.

  Slowly, Gilshamed said, “We are not ready.”

  “Perhaps not,” Mevon said. “But we cannot wait any longer. If we drag this conflict out for too long, this empire will become an empty husk filled with nothing but ashes and bones. This may not be your land, valynkar—and it may not even be mine—but it is for the millions of men and women who toil under the emperor’s yoke. If there’s a chance for it to be saved—for true justice to be had for all—then we have to act now.”

  “He’s right, Gil,” Yandumar said. “Scorch me, he’s right.”

  Jasside nodded. “It may well be the last thing they expect. Wasn’t surprise the most important criterion for our plans?”

  “We carve out the corrupt heart of the empire,” Orbrahn said, “and the rest will fall.”

  Mevon, as the rest, peered upon Gilshamed. He stood, arms on his hips, brow pinched in contemplation. And for one beat, one infinite sliver of a moment, the man who called himself their leader had upon his face a look that Mevon was not expecting.

  It was the look of a man who thinks he has made a terrible mistake. A man ready to turn his back on everything, everyone.

  And then it was gone.

  Gilshamed inhaled deeply, then finally returned everyone’s gazes. “Mecrithos it is.”

  Mevon inclined his head, wondering if Gilshamed was aware of how much he had just given away. “Let’s get started on the plan.”

  GILSHAMED REMAINED IN the tent long after everyone had left. The details had been worked out, more or less, to everyone’s satisfaction.

  He thought about what waited for him at the end of this journey. About who. He fantasized about the look on the traitor’s face as he read his letter and despaired.

  Soon, Voren. Sooner than either of us expected. Your time will come, and my vengeance will be complete.

  VOREN SWIRLED THE wine around in his glass, thinking how blood-like it appeared. The notion turned his stomach, and he found he could not drink another sip. Not that he much cared for mulled wine, even in cold weather, but it was all that was offered here in the emperor’s personal viewing platform. Voren only held on to the glass as a gesture of respect to his host.

  Rekaj was well into his cups already, and the “competition” had not yet reached the midpoint. Voren glanced sideways at the emperor, who cheered along with the crowd. Voren noted the difference in their shouts and jeers. Whereas Rekaj’s vocalizations were full of malice and glee for each new victim, the rest seemed almost a sigh, as if they were saying, Your pain is at an end. It is time to rest.

  Voren peered down into the pit of the stadium. There, the Ropes.

  A hundred-pace square filled with bubbling tar, deep enough for four men to stand on each other’s shoulders and still not peer over the surface. A dozen taut lines stretched across. Half a score dangling ropes on every line, each intermittently energized with surges of lightning by sorcerous constructs. Those competing were forced to cross, this after days without food, water, or sleep.

  Two were left on the current heat. Voren watched one, about halfway through, incorrectly time a swing. A jolt ran through him and his sizzling body flew into the pit. The last man made it to within two ropes of the ending platform before his grip failed him, and he slipped away into sticky oblivion.

  The Ropes were typically reserved for the worst of the empire’s criminals, with freedom the prize for any who survived not one bout, but three. Too often, none even made it through one. The names of those who surpassed the trial were practically legendary, for only one man in a thousand made that list.

  Another dozen people—men, women, even a child this time—mounted the starting platforms at the urging of sword points. The only thing the victims had in common was their crime: suspected sympathy for the rebellion. This was the ninth round, with eleven more promised before the day was out. No one yet had made it to the far platform.

  Voren sat quietly, trying to ignore the looks of desperation, of hopelessness, flush on every set of faces, and swirled wine around in his glass.

  “What’s the matter, Voren?” Rekaj asked. “Not enjoying yourself?”

  Voren tensed. They were the first words spoken to him. He had wondered ever since the invitation—the summons—had come, what the purpose of this outing would be, all the while dreading to know the answer. Now, it seemed, the wait was over.

  He gave a perfunctory smile. “After a while, anything can lose its charm. It is surprising what one can become used to.”

  He’d hoped to be as vague as possible with his answer but knew he had failed when the emperor scowled.

  “Once again, my generosity is lost on you,” said Rekaj, his face showing an alarming amount of color. “After all this time, you still make me question if it was worth it to keep you around.”

  Voren was tired. So very tired. The revolution was to be his ticket out of bondage. Instead, it had become just another reminder of the complete failure that was his life.

  He had questioned Kael. Though he denied any knowledge, Voren could tell that the man knew the truth. Knew, and was trying to keep Voren ignorant.

  Gilshamed was their leader. Voren, for his part, could think of no one worse.

  He sighed, casting his gaze at Rekaj with something halfway between apathy and defiance. “Without me, it seems, you would have no one to talk to these days.”

  A laugh dripping with bitterness sounded from Rekaj. “Leave us,” he ordered.

  The darkwatch guards, four in all, bowed and departed to the rear. Kael patted Voren on the shoulder before following. Voren flinched at his touch.

  After the Hardohl had shut the door behind him, Rekaj turned in his seat to face Voren. “Do you tire of me so quickly? Is it so exhausting being in my presence?”

  Yes. It had been a long winter, full of conversations with Rekaj. Talks that, on the surface, seemed to be about faith, of all things. Yet the unspoken threats never failed to seep through. Voren knew that arousing Rekaj’s displeasure would bring about his death.

  Voren couldn’t seem to stop teetering on that ledge.

  He shook his head. When the truth condemns, a lie will do. “It is the winter. Too long without seeing the sun. We valynkar are creatures of light and do not cope well with its absence.”

  “You are a terrible liar, Voren.”

  “I know.”

  Rekaj laughed. Almost, there was real humor in it. “Is it Kael? You two have seemed at odds for months. I can have him replaced if you wish?”

  Kael was not the problem. Better the enemy you know . . . He shook his head. “That will not be necessary.”

 
Rekaj drank deeply from his glass. “Come, then. I can’t have one of my loyal subjects moping about.”

  Voren sighed. Rekaj, of course, was part of the problem. Yet not even the biggest part of it. No, that title belonged to Gilshamed. Voren felt himself going mad, stuck as he was between the two sides of the conflict. He knew Gilshamed wanted him dead. Knew the man would stop at nothing to see it done. And Rekaj?

  He eyed the emperor. A flush overcame his body as he realized that he feared the man less than he did one of his own kin. A thought struck him, a moment of insanity that stretched into eternity as he followed the line of thinking to its conclusion.

  He began sweating as he realized where it led.

  My only option now. How did it come to this?

  Voren reached into his coat and pulled out the letter. He pressed it into Rekaj’s hands. “I believe this may shed some light on the situation.”

  Chapter 12

  DRAEVENUS CROUCHED BY the path, covered in a layer of branches and concealed beneath a blanket of fresh snow. This far from civilization, he deemed it an acceptable risk to warm himself with magic. It was the only thing that had been keeping him from freezing to death for the last day while he lay in ambush.

  He had passed through six villages—the last merely a collection of hovels long abandoned by all save a single half-mad hunter—and had fled every one.

  The fiddler was following him.

  Now, nothing remained. Not even a hunting lodge or much of a road beyond an overgrown game trail. Here the man would not be missed. Finally, he could be rid of his tail for good.

  He just wished the man would hurry up. Draevenus had more important things to be about.

  He chewed a piece of dried meat, rinsing it down with a mouthful from his waterskin, all the while keeping an eye nailed to the small hole in his concealment that granted him a view of the trail to the north. The fiddler had not yet tried to hide his movements. Draevenus did not expect him to start now.

  At the very least, this pursuit had kept him on his toes. Kept him alert. Honed his senses. He smiled, knowing that, because of the man with the fiddle, he was more ready to complete his tasks than he would have been otherwise. He would have to remember to thank the man before he killed him.

  He heard his prey before he saw him. A high-pitched sound echoed through the cold, still forest: a tune being whistled. Draevenus recognized it. It was a song about a man who leaves everything he knows behind to pursue a dream, one that, in the end, leads to only bitterness and pain. It was called “The End of the Road.”

  Draevenus thought it quite appropriate.

  The man drew close, walking noisily along the trail. Draevenus focused on quieting his breathing. He succeeded. A smile spread on his lips.

  Still whistling, the fiddler drew abreast of him and continued marching past. Oblivious.

  Perfect.

  Draevenus sprang forward, shoving aside snow and the thin branches that concealed him. He energized and cast an immobilizing web at his opponent. If his observations were correct, the man was, or had been, a formidable warrior. Draevenus was taking no chances.

  His prey froze more solidly than a block of ice. As luck had it, both of his feet had been on the ground when Draevenus’s spell hit him. If not, the man likely would have fallen.

  Eyes darting for hidden threats, Draevenus approached. He circled once, then drew a dagger and thrust it at the man, striking his abdomen with the flat of the blade. If the man had hidden allies nearby, they would have reacted to the move, hopefully revealing themselves in the process.

  Only if they cared about his life, that is.

  He had to be sure.

  Draevenus stepped back and lowered the height of his spell, freeing the man’s head from its effect.

  “You alone?” he asked.

  Working his jaw loose, the man cracked a smile. “ ’Course not, Draevenus. I’m here with you, ain’t I?”

  Draevenus did not react. He already suspected the man was aware of his identity. “Who do you report to? How many are coming after me?”

  The fiddler raised an eyebrow. “To be honest? I don’t rightly know how to answer those questions.”

  “Don’t play games.” Draevenus pitched the point of his dagger to within a finger of the man’s eyeball. “Cooperate, and I will make your death painless. Now, who is the adjudicator in charge of my pursuit?”

  The man stared a moment with wide eyes. Then, he burst out laughing. It was a high, keening cackle, yet somehow quite melodious. Draevenus found it disturbing. Eventually, the man got himself under control, saying, “Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure they’re after you. But I’ve had a whole heap of trouble avoiding their like while staying on your backside.” He paused to laugh again. “I never did stop to ask their names.”

  “Lies.”

  Yet. . .

  He studied the man’s eyes, working through all he knew about him. About his tactics, his behaviors. He did not seem like the typical listener or crony. Too transparent.

  And his lack of stealth . . .

  The man raised both eyebrows. The closest thing to a shrug as was possible in his current state. “She said you might be a little incredulous.”

  She? Draevenus frowned. “Who are you?”

  “Chant’s the name. Harridan Chant. I’d shake your hand, but . . .” He laughed once more.

  Chant. Why does that name sound familiar? “Fine, Harridan Chant, give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you.”

  “Because,” Chant said, smiling, “you’re gonna need some help if you wanna succeed in attacking Verge.”

  Draevenus froze. There’s no way he can know. Not unless . . . “Who sent you?”

  “No one sent me, as such.”

  “What do you mean? Speak clearly!”

  “I was asked to come. Asked to keep an eye on you. Asked to watch your back.”

  “By whom?”

  “Why, your sister, of course.”

  RAIN PATTERED DOWN, soaking Yandumar as he sat atop Quake. Mevon had insisted on letting him ride his son’s favored steed. He considered himself a patient man but had to struggle to keep his irritation from showing. The knot of tension resting between his shoulder blades refused to dissipate.

  “Here they come,” shouted Idrus, mounted a short distance away.

  Yandumar saw and heard nothing, but his son’s instructions echoed in his mind, and he took the ranger captain at his word.

  A week gone by, and already they were running into problems. Mevon’s entire Fist had accompanied him, along with three thousand more, all mounted. Speed was their priority. Unfortunately, so was stealth.

  The split had been no one’s idea. Gilshamed had wanted to move as a single group. Mevon, as scores of small units. Both ideas had their merits. Yandumar wasn’t sure this compromise was the best course of action.

  No, he was sure—sure it was the worst possible idea of the bunch. Why didn’t I say something? Why didn’t I step in when I knew this plan was scorching idiotic?

  They had argued throughout the night. His son and his best friend had nearly come to blows, and Yandumar had stood and watched.

  And did nothing.

  He had been tired. Exhausted. Not just from the late toll or the endless debate. His responsibilities weighed on him. His obligations. His vows. Letting someone else make the decision had been the most selfish thing he could have done at the time. Selfish and stupid.

  He only hoped it would not cost them all in the end.

  Now, he heard the riders approaching, a full mark after Idrus first gave him notice. He swelled a bit with pride as he thought about how well his son had chosen his men. A streak of nostalgia wracked him as he thought about his old Fist, wondering what they were up to these days. He hoped at least some of them were still alive and kicking.

  Abyss—if they
’re still alive, then they’re definitely still kicking.

  His musing were cut short as the two rangers came round a copse of trees and approached. They drew rein next to Idrus, conferring briefly. The ranger captain nodded once, dismissing his subordinates with a gentle command, before guiding his horse over to Yandumar.

  “They’ve moved on,” Idrus said. “South. Looked like they were in a hurry.”

  “How many?” Yandumar asked.

  “Division strength.”

  Yandumar ran his fingers through his beard. Eight thousand heading south. Away from his destination, but towards his allies. Would Gilshamed receive the brunt of their attention? Or would Mevon? Yandumar couldn’t find a single piece of him that was glad that this group of Imperials had moved out of their way.

  His force was a diversion. They had come west, skirting the border between the north and central territories. The plan was to hit a garrison at one of the district capitals as a means of drawing Imperial forces away from Mecrithos.

  Yandumar thought it might even work.

  He prayed that it was true. But in a place deep inside, a place he kept carefully concealed, he suspected it would be a wasted endeavor.

  He muttered his thanks to the ranger, then turned to Ropes and Arozir. “Get everyone moving.”

  “Aye,” they said in unison. They’d become better at that, he’d noticed.

  At hand signals from the two men, his troops surged into motion, the clopping of hooves muffled by the soft shoes worn by every horse and the damp soil that was covered in a layer of dead underbrush.

  He rode in silence for a time. After a while, he turned to Idrus, still at his side. “Tell me something,” he said.

  “What?” replied Idrus.

  “You ever follow an order that you knew was the wrong call?”

  Idrus thought a moment. “Yes. But I adjusted my tactics to account for it.”

  Yandumar nodded. It was answer he hoped for. “I need you to do me a favor . . .”

  GILSHAMED RODE STANDING on a flat wagon bed. He made sure to keep himself visible to his followers at all times. Especially now, with so many new faces, it was vital that he remain in their minds, a symbol of strength and hope. If the faces beaming up at him as he passed the marching formations were any indication, he was succeeding marvelously.