“What I should have done a long time ago.”
Footsteps approached from behind. Draevenus turned to see Harridan and Shadow, both covered in blood. Chant held a hand over a wound on his forearm, and the ex-ranger was limping, but there was no other movement in the room. He spied what he was looking for on a nearby table.
“Go fetch that pitcher for me, please,” he said, nodding towards it. Shadow hobbled to retrieve it. He filled a cup and knelt next to Draevenus. “Fancy a drink, Samaranth?”
Her eyes bulged. “What? No! You can’t! Don’t you know what that stuff does?”
“Of course I do. It didn’t stop you from pouring it down the throats of your ‘patients’ for all these years.” He moved his dagger to her throat. “You drink, or my blade will.”
She gulped. Nodded. Shadow dropped the cup to her open lips and poured in its contents, the smell of sage and cinnamon suffusing Draevenus’s nose. A tear leaked out from Samaranth’s eyes as she swallowed.
After half a mark, Draevenus stood, lifting her into a standing position. He had Chant and Shadow bind the other two women. Samaranth’s head lolled, and her eyes took on a glazed look though she remained fully conscious. He supported most of her weight as they walked out of the room.
They descended a set of stairs, then waited. The rest of the Elite began returning. Two of the groups were missing a man, and a third had only one return. No one was free of bloodstains or injuries. Draevenus could do little for their wounds.
“It’s all right,” Chant said. “At our age, we’re just looking for a good way to go. They couldn’t have asked for a better death than this.”
Draevenus nodded soberly. He gestured, and the remaining Elite moved to take hold of the “treatment room.”
The doors opened. Draevenus stared down row after row of beds. Maroon curtains separated each one, and dozens of human women moved about the chamber. Nurses. They stopped and gaped as their sacred grounds were invaded.
Two Elite darted to the far end, securing the doorway. The others rounded up the nurses and pushed them to a corner and out of the way.
Draevenus put his mouth next to Samaranth’s ear. “Take me to her.”
She waved, the motion seeming to take enormous effort, and Draevenus moved in the indicated direction.
That same sage-and-cinnamon smell permeated the entire chamber. A pitcher of the liquid occupied every bedside table. Each patient he passed looked up at him with the same glossy eyes and slack faces, the same disinterest in the world. Three hundred in all.
Mierothi women.
“How could you, Sam?” Draevenus asked. “All this time, how could you do this and still live with yourself?”
She muttered incoherently. He’d only given her half a dose, but apparently even that much was enough to disable intelligible speech. He was glad, though. He didn’t want to hear her excuses. Didn’t want her to say she did what she did for the good of the empire. That she had to choose between becoming a phyzari or finding herself among those now interned in this place.
Mierothi could not have children; nor could they mate with either human or valynkar. A flaw of Ruul’s design? Or, perhaps, it was intended. Draevenus didn’t know. Not yet, anyway. But here, after endless experimentation, and countless sacrifices, the phyzari had discovered a way around mierothi limitations.
Men, just like the ones he had rescued, were brought and sent in, one by one, to lie with the mierothi women. And at the moment of release, one of the overseeing phyzari would cast a complex spell that would kill the man and bind his soul, his ineffable spark of life, to his seed.
And thus would daeloth be conceived.
All for the glory and might of the mierothi empire. Right. As if any of these women volunteered.
They came at last to their destination. Draevenus stopped and helped Samaranth down to the floor, far more gently than she deserved. He stood straight and approached the bedside.
The woman’s eyes were like all the rest. But . . . perhaps there was the faintest glimmer of recognition. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.
He stooped over and placed his hands on either side of her head, softly stroking her temples. He energized. Draevenus had never been very good at healing. Despite the centuries, it had never come naturally to him, digging around inside a person’s body with sorcery. But this one spell he had practiced. And practiced.
Practiced until he could get it right blindfolded, drunk, and mostly asleep.
The sage-and-cinnamon drink had saturated their systems. It would take months, possibly even years to become fully cleansed. He did not have that much time.
His spell worked its way through her, slowly purging fifteen hundred years of poison. That was the easy part. The damage to her mind was far worse, entire sections atrophied from lack of use, others shut down to protect her from the horror of her own existence. Draevenus sweated with concentration, willing the harm to be undone.
After over a toll, straining all the while, he finished and pulled back.
Her eyes closed tightly, then popped open. She looked at him. Sat up quickly and sprang out of the bed.
Draevenus fell to his knees, suppressing all but a single tear from flowing out his eyes. “Angla,” he said breathlessly.
She looked down and slapped him across the face.
Rage boiled behind her eyes. “What took you so long!” she screamed, voice cracking from disuse.
Draevenus barely felt the sting and heat from her hand. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” He closed his eyes, not bothering to fight the tears anymore.
After a moment of tense silence, her arms wrapped around his neck. “Draevenus,” she whispered. “My boy. My sweet, sweet boy.”
He hugged her back. “It’s all right, mother. I’m here now. The nightmare is over. You’re free.”
SITTING ATOP QUAKE, Yandumar brought the far-sight to his eye. The broad cave mouth carved into the hill two klicks away sprang forth into his vision.
A sorcerous shield held over the opening, pummeled by endless waves of destructive spells from hundreds of daeloth at the base of the hill. Behind it, the clustered remains of Gilshamed’s army.
As he watched, half a dozen formations surged up the hill, pushing forward from the mass of over forty thousand Imperial soldiers. The ground was already slick with blood from previous attempts, and their charge was slower than it needed to be. As they neared his entrenched allies, arrows arched up and fell on their heads. Only the front rows held shields, and those behind them suffered grievously. Closer, the revolutionary soldiers pounded the Imperials with rocks, crossbows, and thrown javelins.
Much reduced, and winded from the uphill sprint, the Imperial lines crashed into the pickets. The close-in, heavy fighting lasted all of a mark before the last of the Imperials were cut down. None retreated. He’d seen some try earlier, but they were executed by the daeloth before making it ten paces.
He could tell by their sluggish movements—how slowly they re-formed their barricades and lines—that his trapped allies were on their last leg, though. One, maybe two more Imperial assaults before they capitulated from sheer exhaustion.
He swept his far-sight down among the daeloth. Two-thirds of them were either sitting or lying down, and those that were actively casting moved as if underwater. A three-day siege had burned their energy reserves down to embers.
Perfect.
Yandumar drew his bastard swords from their crossed sheaths and held them up high. Early-morning sunlight shone down on his back, glinting off the bared steel. Tolvar on his right, and Ropes and Idrus on his left, each on the top of their own hill, couldn’t mistake the signal. Without looking, Yandumar brought an arm behind him, then arced it forward. Nearly four thousand horses sprang into motion. The ground began to rumble.
He kept swords in hand as they closed the distance. Quake moved with perf
ection, needing no guidance from Yandumar. He could tell the horse was as eager for battle as he was. They crested a rise, and the full breadth of the Imperial camp surged into view. More than ten times their number. Yandumar smiled.
It is only in times of strife when the true measure of man can be found. No matter his intentions, his words, his morals even. When tested, what a man does is the only thing that counts.
And so, Yandumar led the charge.
The pounding hooves became a roar, like standing under a waterfall, as the gap closed from three hundred paces to two, to one. Some few soldiers turned, wide-eyed. Not enough. Panic spread among the loosely milling crowd.
From four directions at once, the revolution’s cavalry struck deep.
Yandumar slashed down, first on the right into a fleeing man’s skull, then on the left where shoulder met neck. Quake crushed one beneath his hooves and chomped another man’s face off with his teeth.
His horsemen plunged into the Imperial lines, barely slowing. Only four ranks deep, the charge used surprise and momentum to inflict maximum casualties. Yandumar continued forward, hacking at any who came within reach. His allies behind him would take care of any he couldn’t.
The cries of frantic, dying men rang out, and the scents of blood and sweat and fear filled his lungs. Yandumar’s vision tunneled. His next opponent and the tips of his blood-drenched blades became the whole of his existence.
A crossbow bolt zipped past his face, clipping his ear. Warm liquid spread down his neck, but he barely felt it. The press of Imperial soldiers suddenly thickened into a wall of shields. The charge stalled. Several men thrust swords up at Yandumar. He chopped at their wrists then turned Quake left.
His allies mimicked him. The straight charge became a swooping rake of claws across the Imperial face. Javelins lanced out, often finding gaps in the wall, but even one stuck into a shield weighed it down and rendered it near useless.
Yandumar spun away, taking stock of the battle. More than half the Imperials had been cut down by the charge, and his cavalry was still mostly intact. But now, the remaining enemy forces had reacted, turning and forming tight square formations to counter them. The daeloth, one and all, had stood and were facing his direction.
Facing away from the hill.
A cluster of boulders overgrown with thick brush lay seventy paces beyond the daeloth. The ground was too rough and uneven, and the area had been ignored by the Imperial advances up the hill. Last night, Mevon’s Fist had sneaked into it.
Now, as all eyes were turned towards Yandumar, ninety-two of the finest warriors in the land burst forth.
The rangers struck first with pinpoint strikes from their bows. Daeloth began dropping like stalks of grass before a charging boar. The Elite spread out and began hacking into the rest. Fast, efficient kills. It was over in beats.
They pulled back, leaving almost six hundred dead daeloth behind.
A battle cry rose from the hill—the remains of this part of the revolutionary army. Thousands rushed down, a flood of pent-up violence. Orbs of flame arced down towards the Imperials ahead of them. It was probably the last scoop of power many of the casters could summon, but it was enough. Fire and chaos erupted in the enemy lines, breaking the shield wall that held his horsemen at bay.
Quake drove forward once more, and the rest followed suit, crashing again into the Imperials from one side as the Elite led companies to scythe into the other.
The fighting became close, hot, desperate. The Imperials would not give. Though surrounded and now outnumbered, they fought on, clearly expecting no mercy. And just today, Yandumar was not prepared to grant any.
It was twenty-five marks before the last of their enemy fell.
Yandumar dismounted. He staggered towards the group he had rescued, letting his battle fury dissipate with each step. He wiped the spattered blood from his face and hands in an attempt to appear civilized.
“Yandumar!”
He turned towards the voice. Orbrahn. Just whom he was looking for. The boy’s pale face and unsteady gait told Yandumar how hard he’d been pushing himself to keep everyone from harm. Still, Orbrahn managed a smile.
“Boy are we glad to see you,” Orbrahn said. “Another day—abyss, another scorching toll—and we would have been done for.”
Yandumar narrowed his eyes. “Ruul’s light, how’d you even get in this mess? And where’s Gilshamed?”
“He’s . . . not here. I think that answers both your questions.”
Yandumar froze. “Dead?”
Orbrahn spat to the side. “Not yet. Once I get my hands on him though . . .” He shrugged, scowling.
Yandumar closed the distance in an eyeblink. He didn’t strike Orbrahn though he wanted to. He merely put his face so close that they breathed on each other. “Regardless of your personal feelings, or your . . . other loyalties . . . we wouldn’t have gotten this far without him. Scorch me, we wouldn’t even have started!”
Orbrahn appeared thoughtful for a moment. Finally, he looked down and nodded. “Fine. But what do you think will happen to morale once everyone realizes he’s not just on some extended recon? He started this, sure, but he also abandoned it!”
“This was never about him. As instrumental as he was so far, we’ll just have to carry on the best we can.”
“And you’ll lead us?”
Yandumar gritted his teeth. “It seems I must.”
Orbrahn considered this a moment, a look of acceptance slowly spreading across his face. “Think we have a chance?”
“That depends,” said Yandumar.
“On what?”
Yandumar looked over the army—what was left of it anyway. Between them and Mevon’s group—provided they could link up safely—they had barely thirty thousand troops. The outer-wall garrison of Mecrithos could muster almost that much by itself, and they had the benefit of the most fortified position in the empire.
“We’ll need to bolster our support. Slick Ren and Derthon will be back soon, but that alone won’t be enough. I’ll need you to contact whoever you can that may be swayed to join us. Anyone. Everyone.”
Orbrahn lifted an eyebrow. “I see. And what will you be doing?”
Yandumar smiled. “I’ve got some old vows to collect on.”
GILSHAMED ADJUSTED THE shoulder straps of his pack as he shuffled through the town, hunched over to hide his height, hood forward to hide his face. It was middling as far as towns went, and he moved along with the light midday traffic, mostly people on foot. Everyone seemed in a hurry. Eyes darted about. He rounded a corner and found out why.
A group of soldiers had set up a barricade across the road leading out of town. They were checking every person who tried to pass, inspecting faces and comparing them to a sketch.
Abyss take me! Again? Gilshamed knew exactly whose visage was displayed on that paper.
He faked coughing, slowed down, then ducked into an alley. He pressed himself against the wall of a butcher’s shop and suppressed the urge to punch something.
Seven towns and villages, and in each the story had been the same. The empire knew he was coming, knew he was trying to travel north, and they blocked him at each turn. He could have flown over, or fought his way through with ease, but doing so would have pinpointed his location, something they had not yet done.
The faint aroma of sausages and bread wafted from his pack, reminding him why he had come here in the first place. Though centuries of wandering the world had gifted him with ample survival skills, the land here was barren, picked clean of most forage and game by the armies marching every which way. He had gone without food for extended periods of time before, but doing so now would weaken his body and his senses, both things he needed to keep in prime condition to escape this trap.
And it was a trap. He was sure of it now. He had been forced farther and farther south with each passing day.
It felt as if a noose were closing about his neck, and his only choice was to continue drifting away from his destination . . . right into the lap of his enemy. South, towards Mecrithos.
But how are they tracking me? He had been careful. No casting, very little speaking beyond terse bartering for goods, nothing to draw attention to himself. Yet, at every step on his path, the empire had been waiting for him.
“Impossible,” he hissed.
He could understand if his army was eventually found out. Large groups of casters clustered outside of cities was nearly unheard of, and through communion . . .
His breath caught in his throat.
Shade of Elos. . .
Gilshamed closed his eyes, his mind racing through the evidence and arriving swiftly at the only possible conclusion. He was being tracked, funneled back to the capital. And there was only one person on the continent that could do it.
Voren.
I always knew you for a coward. But a traitor? Actually siding with the mierothi against your own kin? I never knew anyone to stoop so low.
Voren was trying to draw him into an ambush. To force a confrontation. He could see that now. But the best thing to do when one becomes aware of a trap is not to avoid it, no . . .
The best thing to do is to turn it on its head.
Gilshamed smiled. He stepped back into the avenue, heading the opposite direction, no longer worried about the soldiers and daeloth that sought to ensnare him. Vengeance would come. Soon, if a little different than he had originally planned. But that was the thing about strategy: Flexibility was the key to any successful plan.
Gilshamed hefted his pack on his shoulders and assumed his hunched, shuffling gait as he walked out the southern road of the town.
“DID YOU EVEN hear me, Mevon?”
Mevon looked up into Paen’s smooth face. His mind had wandered, recalling Jasside’s final look. Within the clarity of the storm, he had witnessed her surprise turn to terror as her body flung into open space. Terror, then, into acceptance. Acceptance into determination.
Even as inevitable death approached, still you retained your courage. Her final look humbled him, even as it filled him with despair. With her, a part of him felt whole, a part he had never even known to be empty. Now she was gone, and he felt the emptiness, like a gaping wound in his soul, and he feared it would never be whole again. Just now, he didn’t want it to.
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