When he got to the command post, only Orbrahn was present. His eyes were closed. Gilshamed stepped up to him and shook his shoulders.
The boy gasped, opening his eyes. “What? What is it?”
“Where are the commanders? They are supposed to stay where I can easily find them!”
Orbrahn still appeared dazed. “They’re . . . off. Fighting. Half went south to lead the retreat . . .”
“Retreat? What are you talking about? The first Imperial force is nearly destroyed and pulling back. The second has adjusted tactics to my presence, but I have a few ideas—”
“A third army just hit our northern flanks. That’s where the other half went. To lead a volunteer force to hold them so we could get away.”
“A third army? How big?”
“The scout that reported in stopped counting when he got to twice our size.”
Gilshamed’s mouth went dry. Trapped. Our only route of escape is towards more danger. How the abyss did they know where to find us?
His forces were moving. Fleeing. He marched in their midst. Just a few tolls ago they had been eager for battle, filled with ardor and zeal. Now, their faces held nothing but weariness and dejection.
This was, he realized, their first true defeat. How easily is your enthusiasm blanched. How quickly your great purpose forgotten. Is this all it takes to break you?
Gilshamed looked behind, eyes trailing to the small force locked in battle against now-overwhelming odds. They were the truest soldiers of the revolution, the only ones he was not hesitant to call his. And today they would die for those less worthy.
He sighed. Such has always been the way, the blood of the brave and strong spilled to allow the weak and cowardly a few more wasted moments upon this world.
Gilshamed glared at Orbrahn. The boy glanced his way every so often. Each time, Gilshamed could tell what he was thinking: This is your fault, Gilshamed.
Yes, my fault. My fault for believing the people of this continent were ready for freedom, were truly willing to sacrifice everything to achieve it. My fault for believing in any of you.
He laughed bitterly. “I’ll fly ahead to make sure we are not running into any more traps.”
Orbrahn glared but said nothing beyond a quick nod. Gilshamed unfurled his wings and took off, once more, to the skies.
He skimmed over the heads of his retreating formations. Soon, he came to the leading edge of his troops. He did not slow.
You said that you did not need me anymore, Orbrahn. Let us see how true that statement turns out to be.
Gilshamed rounded a hill and lost sight of all of his troops. He banked west, flying well out of the path that they would take, staying low. He continued another half a toll before landing.
Patience had always been one of his defining qualities. He had demonstrated it beyond any who had ever lived as he plotted how best to enact his revenge on the mierothi. This revolution was his first and greatest scheme.
But by no means his only one.
MEVON RAN. HIS troops scrambled out of his way as he plunged through their lines. The Imperial formation had started with less than half of their own numbers, and with the daeloth out of the way, their command and control had crumbled. The casters of the revolution shredded gaping holes into the Imperials, and his troops stepped in to break them wide open. His enemy was reeling.
Yet Mevon’s stomach twisted in fear.
As he approached the rear of his own formations, where all the troop commanders and casters were positioned, his fear became realized. A new knot of sorcery bloomed in his senses, coming from the far side of his formations.
He had found the remaining daeloth at last.
Hundreds perished within a beat. Daeloth spells ripped through the unsuspecting, and unprotected rear. His sergeants and casters took the brunt of it, even now falling as the daeloth advanced.
Jasside!
He scanned as he sprinted, but he couldn’t find her. He began cutting down daeloth, barely pausing to register their deaths. But there were too many. The damage had already been done.
He propelled forward, searching, slashing about in a rage. His control began slipping. If anything happens to her. . .
The daeloth reacted to his presence. Some drew blades and dashed at him. Some picked up rocks or trees with magic and flung them at him. Some, realizing their doom had come upon them, either froze or fled. Mevon cut them all down. The symphony of death sung by his blades had morphed into dissonance.
In the distance, Mevon spotted two daeloth burst into blue flames. A caster—one of his own—still alive, still fighting back. It had to be her. It had to be.
As he scythed his way towards what he hoped was the only woman he had ever dared to love, he saw several sorcerous arrows speed toward a group of daeloth. But the aim was off and they flew wide. The daeloth smiled and launched counterspells at the caster. The arrows, unseen by them, turned in the air and struck them all from behind. A series of pops announced the explosion of their heads.
Mevon came around a large boulder and finally spotted the caster.
Jasside!
Relief flooded through him as their eyes met. Sweat poured down her forehead, and her chest heaved with each breath, but she appeared unharmed, leaning against a waist-high stone on the edge of the ravine. They shared a smile as he walked towards her.
Mevon craned his neck to look behind him. Several hundred paces distant, the last daeloth were engaged with Mevon’s forces. Too far for him to be any use. With the surety of victory entrenched in his mind, Mevon turned back to Jasside and allowed himself to relax.
His eyes swept towards her face, passing three shadows on the way. Those three shadows moved, coalescing into men as they stepped out from beneath the low-hanging branches of a nearby cluster of trees.
Daeloth.
Mevon’s blood turned to ice. They were right next to Jasside. And judging by her eyes, still trained on him, she had no idea.
The shout of warning caught in his throat. Too late for even that. He dashed forward, moving faster than he ever had before.
The daeloth lifted their hands towards Jasside. Mevon felt a tingling as black fire flew from their fingertips. He flung himself the last five paces into the path of the sorcery. In midair, he dropped his Andun and—just as he had when he first encountered Jasside—threw his daggers at his enemy. The distance was near point-blank, and his two targets were stationary. This time, he hit exactly where he wanted to: dead-center forehead.
His body intercepted first one, then—with outstretched fingertips—the second of their spells, voiding them into nothingness. His eyes followed the third as it passed him on its trajectory. Agony gripped him as he realized it would strike true.
Mevon’s gaze found her. She stood with arm outstretched in his direction. A spell flew from her hand, but too late. Her sorcery met that of the daeloth less than three paces from her, each annihilating the other in an outward burst of air. Jasside flew backwards.
He watched panic grip her eyes as she disappeared over the side of the cliff.
VOREN, NOW A regular of the war room, stood in silence and looked out over Mecrithos from the balcony, letting the reports wash over him in a muffled flood of sound. Reports of victory for the empire and defeat for the revolution.
My doing. All of it. Their deaths are on my head.
He took the full weight of the burden, neither shirking from it nor attempting to justify it. He had made a choice nineteen hundred years ago—a choice to live, and live free. As free as was possible, anyway. It had never been easy, especially when constantly reminded of what he had sacrificed, but not once had he ever wished he could change his mind.
If there was a single word that could define him, it would be “survivor.” Every action he had taken, even his choices during the War of Rising Night, had been rooted in self-preservatio
n.
And it was the fear of death that drove him. Not just fear, either, but gut-wrenching terror. He had never met his god, never felt the supposed comfort of his presence, never had his prayers answered. Never had faith. The paradise that was promised by Elos to the valynkar was, to Voren, a sham. Elos could not even penetrate the Shroud, a construct of this world’s mere dwellers.
Voren knew he was on his own.
He closed his eyes, pooling just enough power to pull him into communion. He made note of the relative position of Gilshamed’s star and dropped back into the waking world once more. He made a mark on the small, rolled-out map on the table next to him, then resumed staring out over the city.
“That’s not right,” a voice barked at Voren’s shoulder.
He looked up into Grezkul’s face. “What do you mean?”
The supreme arcanod was peering down at the map. He pointed to the mark that Voren had just made. “Is this his latest position?”
“Yes. Why?”
“It can’t be. My scouts are keeping contact with their main force, here.”
Voren glanced down to see a finger far to the east of his mark. He stood. “I just checked. The position is accurate.”
“You calling my best men liars? Or just idiots?”
The room became quiet. Voren ignored the stares. “What I’m saying is that Gilshamed must no longer be with that group of rebel soldiers.”
Grezkul appeared perplexed. “Why would he do that?”
“Either he is running,” Rekaj said, coming up behind them, “or he is linking up with another, previously unknown force. Wouldn’t you say so, Voren?”
Voren’s eyes widened. Is he actually valuing my opinion? Or merely appearing to? “Yes,” he said before the pause in his response would be noticed. “We already know they have split their forces. The loss of your division along the Shenog Ravine is proof enough of that. I suppose it’s possible Gilshamed could have any number of small units that he could bounce back and forth between.”
“I suppose . . .” Grezkul said.
“Either way,” Voren said quickly, “we should box him in. Restrict his movement. I assume you want a quick end to this rebellion?”
“Of course,” said Rekaj.
“Then, if he is trying to escape, it is imperative that we not allow him to do so. He has the patience of a mountain. If he sees this endeavor failing, I believe he will simply start over again.”
Rekaj thought a moment, then waved the marshal adjudicator over. “Grezkul, you will push your troops into the towns, and along all major trade routes. Jezrid, instruct your people to watch the hidden paths, the roads less traveled.”
They both nodded.
“Voren will tell you how to dispatch your men.”
At this, both mierothi shot gazes of pure hatred his way. Once, and not too long ago at that, Voren would have wilted under such scrutiny. Instead, he stood tall, raising his chin slightly. “As you command, emperor.”
Hearing this, both men’s belligerence floundered. They muttered the same words though far more begrudgingly.
Rekaj walked away, leaving them to their arrangements. Voren acknowledged Grezkul and Jezrid with a grin. “Let’s get to work then, shall we?” He gathered energy and returned again to the black void of communion.
Come to me, Gilshamed. Let us finish this. One way or another, let it be done.
Chapter 14
SUNLIGHT GLINTED OFF the ice fields far below. The jagged formations of crystalline cold swept as far south as the eye could see. To the west, the Shelf cut the land away like a cleaver. Wind whistled overhead, but they were sheltered from the worst of it by the cliff’s edge rising on their left as they traversed the narrow mountain path.
Icy footing made the trek hazardous. A single slip, and a fall of several hundred paces awaited them, but this impromptu trail was the only approach in which they could remain unseen.
Draevenus had been inside once, centuries ago, then again a few decades past. He knew the layout. Knew how many guards there were, where they patrolled, when shifts changed. He’d shared this knowledge with his new allies. They hadn’t balked when he’d told them what they faced. Instead, they had hunkered down and pounded out a plan.
Shadow, the only ex-ranger among them, led the way. As they rounded a bend of the path, he stopped. Draevenus looked past him and saw it.
Verge.
Crafted by sorcery and carved right out of the cliff side, it protruded into empty space, held up by nothing that could be seen. Squarish and blocky, and glistening beneath layers of ice and snow, not a mar could be seen. No gaps, no holes in the construction.
No way in.
There were only two entrances, east and north. Both hidden, both leading to underground tunnels, and both well guarded. Draevenus didn’t plan to use either of them.
Shadow lifted a far-sight to his eye. After a moment’s perusal, he turned to Draevenus. “I see the breach point. You got the trinkets?”
Draevenus lifted the band from around his neck and held it out to Shadow. “This will allow you past their wards without alerting them, but remember, you must move slowly.”
“Aye,” Shadow said, fitting the leather cord over his head. “And the package?”
Draevenus presented his back. Shadow reached into his ruck and withdrew a long, cylindrical object wrapped in linen. Once extracted, Draevenus turned and pointed at the end marked red. “Point this side towards the wall, then pull the string. You’ll have five beats to get clear.”
Shadow nodded. Without another word, he began his approach, staying low and slow. The package had taken him most of two days to create. This close to Verge, he couldn’t risk using his full power, and so had only drawn a sliver of energy over and over again. Two hundred spells were stacked upon each other inside the device.
There was no explosion. No noise at all that could be heard. Draevenus smelled it though. Melting stone had a peculiar scent.
It took a mark to eat through the wall. Draevenus waited one more until he felt the wards wink out of existence. Shadow had taken out their handlers, and still no alarm raised. He smiled. All according to plan so far. He ran forward, Chant and the other twelve right on his heels.
They flowed smoothly into a circular hole—half a man’s height in diameter—and into sudden darkness.
Shadow waited with blood on his hands and two dead daeloth at his feet. “Breach successful.”
“Where to now?” Chant asked.
Draevenus took a moment, getting his bearings. The hallway was plain stone lit by lightglobes. He began down the left path. “Follow me.” He didn’t need to add “quietly.”
He pulled two throwing daggers as he stalked towards his destination. He paused before each hallway intersection, thrust a blade out, and looked at the reflection on the mirrored surface to ensure it was clear.
They came to the last one. He peered towards the double doors leading into the barracks and saw two daeloth standing guard outside. He drew back, took a breath, then lunged out. His daggers flew. The two daeloth fell limp to the ground, hilts sticking out of their bloody temples. Draevenus cringed at the noise their bodies made upon contact with the ground.
The Elite took up positions on both ends of the corridor. Draevenus softly opened the doors.
Beds lined the walls, twenty to each side. Wall lockers separated them. In each, a sleeping daeloth. It was exactly in the middle of their sleep cycle, the time least likely for any to be up and about.
Draevenus energized. Here, in the heart of Verge, no one would suspect a little casting. His spell took effect, smothering the room in silence. His own breathing and heartbeat became as loud as explosions in his ears as all other noise ceased.
He turned and waved the Elite in. They began their grisly task. Daggers through the heart. No mess, no noise. Quick, efficient work. Drae
venus dashed to the end of the room, drew his own blades, and began working back towards the center. It didn’t take long.
“Halfway done,” he whispered when they had all gathered at the exit. “With the easy part, at least.”
They pushed out, still in silence, still undiscovered, but they would have to move quickly now. Routine check-ins would begin any moment. When the guards Shadow had killed didn’t report in, the alarm would sound.
They split into five groups of three. Four groups headed to the perimeter to scour the rest of the on-duty guards. They would have to ignore those at the two entrances, but they were distant still, and—if all went to plan—would not know anything was amiss until it was too late. Draevenus, with Chant and Shadow in tow, had another destination.
It was only one passage farther on from the barracks. They waited, giving the other groups time to complete their cleansing. Draevenus stared at another set of double doors. He paused and caught his breath. So close. No mistakes now.
Unable to wait any longer, Draevenus dashed towards the doors, flinging them open with a kick. He, Shadow, and Chant flowed into the room, weapons bared.
A half dozen daeloth, though caught off guard, quickly spun to engage. Draevenus shadow-dashed forward, gouging two as he passed but otherwise leaving their fate to his companions. He had more important targets.
Three mierothi females stood, eyes wide, as he approached. A glass wall slanted up from their feet towards the ceiling farther on, which looked upon a wide chamber below them. Draevenus didn’t slow. He slammed the hilts of his daggers into the jaws of the outer two. Their unconscious forms sprawled backwards, knocking over the swivel chairs they had just vacated.
He lunged upward, driving a knee into the middle mierothi’s sternum. She crumpled beneath the blow and fell. Draevenus landed atop her, both of them coming to a rest on the slanting glass.
Draevenus forced himself not to look at what lay beyond.
He brought the tip of one dagger to the woman’s eye. “Hello, Samaranth.”
“Draevenus,” she hissed. “What the abyss do you think you’re doing?”
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