Veiled Empire

by Nathan Garrison

  The woman began scrubbing him immediately with a soapy sponge. He let her, failing to respond even in the slightest when her hands lingered in suggestive locations.

  “You should relax,” she said, squeezing his shoulders. “It will be better for both of us.” One of her hands slid down to his chest, his stomach . . .

  He grabbed her wrist. “No.”

  She stood back, and he let her go. “Very well, sir. Tell me what you would like, then.”

  To sit here . . . forever . . . and let my troubles dissolve into mist. “A bathrobe,” he said. “And some quiet, if you do not mind.”

  He stood, letting the water slough off his body into a tub now browned by weeks of his filth. She held out a robe, and he shrugged into it, securing it about his body with a silken belt, and stepped out to the balcony.

  Merely half a klick distant, separated by only a single wall and several low buildings, sat the Imperial palace.

  So, this is where you have spent the last nineteen hundred years, old friend. I am afraid it does not look like much.

  Gilshamed could tell, from the outside, that very little thought had gone into making the structure aesthetically pleasing. “Imposing,” rather, was the word that came to mind. Built to menace and intimidate, not welcome or dazzle. The empire had no need to play host to foreign dignitaries, no need to impress. The only message sent to those that came here was this: Look upon your rulers and quiver in fear.

  He peeled his eyes away, turning his head halfway around. “This is the finest establishment in the city?”

  “Our rivals would argue that assertion, sir,” she said with a smile. “But they would be wrong.”

  “Then may I assume your members are often called upon to serve in the palace?”

  “Only the best for the masters of our land.”

  “You personally?”

  She nodded.

  “Good.” He turned to her fully, giving her his warmest smile. Inside, though, he felt nothing. “I mean to visit an old friend who lives there. However, I have no idea where his chambers are. I was wondering if you could help me?”

  A surge of alarm streaked through her features. “Perhaps, if you could describe your . . . friend . . . I might be able to help.”

  “He is nearly as tall as me, with midnight-blue eyes and hair to match. Last time I saw him—”

  “He has a statue of you in his room, you know.”

  A stab of shock raced through him. “What?”

  “Yes. And three others. The names carved into their bases were Analethis, Murathrius, and Heshrigan.”

  Gilshamed shuttered his eyes, feeling a blow of almost physical pain as she said each name. The three greatest failures in the history of his people . . . and himself. The association made his stomach twist.

  He took a deep breath to steady himself. “I do not suppose you could tell me where it was you saw this?”

  She tilted her head. “Is he really an old friend of yours?” Her lips were pressed together, drained of blood. So slightly that a lesser man would have missed it, he saw her entire body shaking.

  “No,” said Gilshamed. “Quite the opposite.”

  She nodded, gesturing towards the palace. “South side, above the gardens. There is a giant glass bubble sticking out from his chamber. You can’t miss it.”

  One knot of tension unclenched but another took its place immediately. He knew everything he needed to in order to carry out his plan. Now, all he had to do was . . . execute.

  Justice. Revenge. He could no longer differentiate between the two. He no longer cared. His love had been taken from him. First by zeal, then by recklessness, then, finally, by betrayal. It mattered not how, though . . . only whom. Voren had to be punished for his crimes, and circumstances had dictated that it be Gilshamed himself who carried out the sentence.

  And who would blame me for taking what pleasure I can from that?

  “Will you be needing anything else from me, ser?”

  Gilshamed blinked. He had nearly forgotten the woman was still there. “You may sleep on the bed, I will not need it. You have been a great help to me. I think you deserve a night off.”

  An appreciative smile decorated her lips. “Thank you, ser. You are too kind.”

  “Kind?” Gilshamed rubbed his chin. “No. I am not kind.

  “I never have been.”

  YANDUMAR SOOTHED QUAKE into a trot as the outlying buildings of the village came into view. He saw movement ahead through the trees—probably a runner gone to report the approach of strangers. Good. Maybe this won’t take all day.

  He pointed his chin over his shoulder, eying the four men—his “honor guard”—riding behind him. Idrus had insisted on them. He and Arozir had wanted to come, which was understandable given his purpose here, but he’d convinced them that the army needed them more.

  Yandumar faced forward. “Let me do all the talking.”

  Maybe they nodded, but none responded in any way that he could tell.

  “Good,” he said. “Just like that.”

  They continued for a few marks, passing longhouses that appeared devoid of life. Yandumar knew better, though, and could feel the hidden eyes on his back as they rode. It didn’t take much longer until their mounts were stamping hooves onto the village square.

  It was empty. Still. Quiet. A breeze blowing a few crinkling leaves was the greatest sign of life he could see.

  They rushed out from everywhere at once. Yandumar didn’t even hear the signal. A solid ring of flesh, armed to the teeth, sprang up around them in beats. Men and a nearly equal number of women, the latter by far the more ferocious, stared grimly up at him. For every pitchfork, woodsman’s axe, and makeshift cudgel there were as many spears, pikes, swords, and shields. Youths on the rooftops had arrows nocked to bows, pulls steady.

  And in the center stood a big man who was obviously in charge, hunkered beneath the low thatch roof of a stable. Yandumar leveled his gaze at him. “I take it you got problems with bandits in these parts?”

  The big man rubbed his beard, burnt-orange flecked with grey. Sunlight glinted off his smooth pate. “Not bandits so much these days. Soldiers. Little squads breaking off from all the armies, thinking their uniforms grant them immunity. Thinking a backwoods village is the kind of place they can have any kind of fun they want. Thinking they can get away with it.”

  “Thinking wrong,” Yandumar said.

  “Dead wrong,” the man said.

  Yandumar raised an eyebrow.

  The man mirrored him.

  “Ha!” said Yandumar. “Ain’t no other way to deal with ’em, is there Abe?”

  Abendrol Torn stepped out from beneath the shadow of the stable roof. He had to duck under its lip to allow the handle of his greatsword, which was strapped to his back, enough room to clear through. “No, Yan, there is not.”

  Yandumar looked around. No one had yet moved to stand down. If anything, they looked even more ready to pounce. “So, what’s it gonna be then? We getting the same treatment?”

  “That depends,” Torn said. “Why are you here?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? Or have our people taken to burying their heads in the sand?”

  “We are well aware of the goings-on in the empire. But we’ve heard . . . disturbing rumors . . . about your loyalties.”

  Yandumar sighed. Maybe I should have brought you, Arozir. Maybe you’d be able to talk some sense into your uncle. “We’ve all taken vows. Perhaps I have taken more than one, but that doesn’t mean they conflict with each other. And it certainly doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten my people, or value my oaths to them any less.”

  “So . . . what? You think you can come back here after all this time and simply decide our fates for us?”

  “Of course not. Our people’s vow was not meant to force anyone to do anything. I came only to sound th
e call. Let all men and women decide for themselves if they wish to answer.”

  “And you honestly thought this . . . this revolution . . . was enough cause to invoke it? Last I heard, you were on the brink of disaster.”

  Yandumar gritted his teeth. Lying will do no good . . . “Yes. We were. Are. We went up against the mierothi. Not everything went quite the way we planned.”

  “And you expect us to risk everything on an already failing cause?”

  Yandumar shook his head. “You’re right to think we have little hope of victory. As we stand, I doubt we’ll even make it inside the walls of Mecrithos. But the rise of our people may just tip the scales in our favor. And let me assure you, this land will not see a better opportunity than this for a thousand years.

  “This is not just the right time to invoke the vow. It’s the only time.”

  Abendrol Torn stepped towards him. He paused, staring in silence for several beats, arms crossed. Finally, he said, “Before we decide anything, you gotta prove yourself worthy.”

  “What? That was never a condition of invoking our vow!”

  “Oh? So you’ve been inducted as an elder then? Learned all about our most secret laws?”

  Yandumar growled. Forgot about that little detail. “What do I gotta do?”

  Torn pulled his greatsword from its scabbard. “You and me will fight. To the death. The winner will lead our people wherever he chooses.”

  Yandumar slumped, a knot forming in his stomach. “Is there no other way?”

  “No.”

  He slipped off Quake, patting the horse’s neck, then stepped towards the empty space between him and Torn. He closed his eyes, filled his lungs, and exhaled, looking around the circle of his kin, pausing a beat at each set of eyes his gaze fell upon. Everyone seemed expectant, with an edge of fear. He didn’t know what to make of that.

  Yandumar peered at Abendrol. “God views all sins equally. But man does not. And the title of ‘kinslayer’ is not something I wish to carry for the rest of my days. Nor,” he said, as Torn began objecting, “would I force it on anyone else.”

  He drew both of his bastard swords in one swift motion. He stepped forward, then slammed the tips down into the ground, leaving them quivering.

  “If this is the price for our people’s soul, then I refuse.”

  Slowly, Torn slipped his greatsword back into its scabbard. He smiled. “That, my friend, was the right answer.”

  Yandumar frowned. What . . . ?

  He looked around at his people again. The fear and tension were gone, replaced by . . . joy?

  “I don’t understand,” Yandumar said.

  Abendrol stepped up, patting him on the shoulder. “I said you had to prove yourself, and you just did. Only a true leader would refuse to shed his own people’s blood to get his way.”

  Yandumar blew out his lips, letting his anxiety run out with his breath. “So . . . that’s it?”

  “Almost,” Torn said. “This is just one village after all. We’ll have to get the word out to the rest of us.”

  That will take too much time—time we don’t have. His people had no casters among them. They rarely married outside of fellow Ragremons and never allowed outsiders to settle near their towns.

  Torn whistled. “Hey, Celar! Your boy ready with them doves?”

  “ ’Course he is, Abe!” the woman shouted back. A boy, maybe ten or eleven, stepped up next to her, limping slightly.

  “Doves?” asked Yandumar.

  “Birds, Yan. We’ve trained them to carry messages between towns. After your son was born, we knew we’d have to start preparing for this.”

  Message-carrying birds . . . genius! “Wait. You’ve been getting ready for thirty years? Why?”

  “Mevon was something special. First void from our blood. When Harridan told us what had happened to you, we knew that you would come back someday, and that finding your son would be your top priority. We didn’t know how it would all play out, but we figured this was an opportunity that only came around once in an age.”

  Yandumar nodded, head whirling with all the news. He still couldn’t believe he had gotten what he came for.

  He stepped towards Celar and her son. “Hope you’re good with your letters, kid,” he said.

  Yandumar was stopped by a tug on his sleeve. “Excuse me?” said a voice.

  He spun to face the man. “Yes?”

  “Sorry, yes. I was wondering if I could draw you?”

  “What? Who are you?”

  “Oh,” said Torn. “This here is our historian. Be nice to him, Yan. He means well.”

  “Historian, huh? Well, nice to meet you . . . ?” He stuck out his palm.

  “Thress,” the man said, shaking his hand vigorously. “Sarian Thress. I’d love to get your story down, if you don’t mind?”

  “Uh, sure. What’s this about a drawing though?”

  “Oh, that. Well, I try to include illustrations in my chronicles. I think it’s important to capture the true essence of a moment.”

  “I’ve really got to be going. Lots to do. A war to fight . . .”

  “No problem, I can ride beside you. I’m quite adept at working on the move.”

  Yandumar glanced at Torn, who merely shrugged. “Ah, I see. Well, that’s fine I guess.”

  “You must leave nothing out.” Sarian Thress pulled a blank journal from the pocket of his robe. “Now, start at the beginning . . .”

  Yandumar groaned.

  MEVON SNIFFED DEEPLY as the scent of woodsmoke hit his nose. He pulled back the hood of his cloak and shifted his gaze about the expansive plain, searching for its origin. He did two full circles before realizing where he was.

  Mecrithos lay only two days away, directly south from here. He knew this land. He’d spent many a day sweating with exertion from dawn to dusk—and often beyond—right . . . there.

  He spotted the depression hidden between two mounds too low to be called hills. The haze of smoke drifted up from the spot. Mevon shifted his pack straps and left the game trail he had been following to head towards it.

  Memories of his final year in training lifted to the forefront of his mind. It was here that he endured the final lessons a Hardohl would ever receive, training his body and mind to kill. His reflexes sharpened to razors. His skill burgeoning from endless sparring bouts with the masters. Most students received one-on-one training. Mevon got a bit more than that.

  Kael, as ever, was present. But the old man convinced a few of the other masters, and even some active Hardohl, to join their training. Kael matched Mevon up against several others, including himself, at the same time. Mevon would never forget how many near-death defeats he suffered in the first few months.

  But he did get better. Two at once quickly became easy for him, and when facing three, he could often fight to a draw. Kael didn’t let up, though. During the month before his eighteenth birthday, he was fighting five of the best warriors in the world at once . . . and getting thrashed regularly.

  Mevon smiled to himself. Some lessons, you never forget.

  As he approached the entrance, the smell of woodsmoke grew thick—too thick—and he heard the chatter of many voices emanating through the simple wooden door. He only hesitated a moment before pulling the handle and, back straight, thrusting himself inside.

  The chatter ceased before the door had even shut behind him. He blinked rapidly, forcing his eyes to adjust to the suddenly dim environment. In three beats, he was able to make out nearly threescore figures staring at him. Some were strangers. The others . . .

  “My brethren,” he said to his fellow Hardohl. “It is good to see you.”

  Their responses varied. Some smiled or stood slowly, with shock on their faces. Others spat in the dirt or simply glared. At least none drew steel. That would not have ended well.

  “Mevon,”
said a familiar voice. He turned, noticing a figure crouched on the far side of the nearest fire pit. Logs were stacked up within the circle of stones, but it had yet to be lit.

  “Ilyem,” he said, moving slowly towards her. “I see you kept your promise.”

  “As much as I could. Not everyone agreed to stay out of this fight.”

  He sat down on a log next to her, dropping his pack. All the others took their cue and resumed whatever they were doing before he had intruded. Mevon watched the smoke from half a dozen fires drift up through a gap in the roof of the enclosure. “Cave” wasn’t quite right because the space was carved from between two hills and had no true ceiling. Still, it kept out most of the elements.

  “How many in total?” he asked.

  “Most of our peers in the eastern and northern territories, and all in the central. Minus, of course . . .”

  “The Blade Cabal. I wouldn’t have expected you to even try for them.”

  “I didn’t.”

  Mevon nodded. “It should be enough. I . . . hope.”

  “Do you?”

  “Do I what?”

  “Hope.”

  Mevon sighed. I don’t know anymore. “Of course I do.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  He studied her face. “Would you answer that question if you were in my place?”

  “It depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On why you’re here.”

  Mevon grunted. “Fair enough.” He looked into the unlit logs in front of him, which were built over the embers of a previous fire. He wished it were blazing. He could have used some of its warmth right now.

  “Well?” Ilyem said.

  He sighed. “I . . . I don’t know. They wanted me to lead, but that ended in disaster. We were never trained for that. Only for killing.”

  She nodded. “So, you . . . ran away?”

  He opened his mouth to refute her, but stopped. That’s exactly what I did. He pressed his lips together and remained silent. He could feel her eyes on his face, but refused to meet them. He didn’t want to see their accusation. Instead, he said, “She’s dead because of me.”