Veiled Empire

by Nathan Garrison

  “I was going to stay,” Gilshamed continued, “after this war was won. Stay and guide the people to a bright new future. I was going to reclaim this continent for the valynkar and end our long exile from this land.”

  “Do any, besides you, even still hold to such a dream?”

  Gilshamed eyed him sideways.

  Yes, Gilshamed, I have been away that long.

  “No,” said the golden-haired man. “I alone carry the torch of such a hope. Carried.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “A good friend, the best man I have ever known. And an arrogant young bastard. Hearing the truth from either of them would not have been enough. But from both? Somehow, it became supplanted in my mind, and now I cannot ignore it if I wanted to.”

  This did not sound like the Gilshamed he knew. Voren never would have put it to him to give up on something he had truly set his mind to. And to do so for apparently selfless reasons? Whatever else had happened, the man had been changed by his experiences among the people of this continent. Changed for the better.

  But is it enough?

  Voren swallowed hard. There would be no better time than now to ask.

  “What do you plan to do with me?”

  Gilshamed’s lips pressed together into a sad smile. Voren’s heart broke. “This has been a nice chat, Voren, but there was never any question about your fate. The only question was when. And by aiding the mierothi in tracking me down, that timeline quickly shrank to nothing.”

  “There is nothing I can say to dissuade you?”

  “Nothing,” said Gilshamed, his voice cutting like a razor. “You took her from me . . . my Lashriel. You stole her loyalty . . . her heart . . . and finally, her life.”

  Voren closed his eyes. He did not know where to begin explaining just how wrong Gilshamed was. Her loyalty was always to you, but she just needed a chance to escape, for a time, from the shadow of your legacy. Her heart—oh, how I wished she had given it to me, but she did not. Not even a little bit. Not even for a moment. And her life . . . ?

  He opened his eyes, but Gilshamed was already fading.

  “When next we meet,” the ethereal figure said, “there will be no words. Only reckoning.”

  With that, Gilshamed vanished.

  Voren knew, now, that only one path remained for him to take.

  JASSIDE SHUFFLED UP the dirt- and rock-strewn hillside, pausing at the crest as the camp first came into view. It had not been hard to find. They’d been able to steer towards it all night by the glow from ten thousand fires reflected off the clouds.

  She looked down on Vashodia as the mierothi came up next to her. “You sure you want to come with me?”

  Vashodia flashed a twisted grin—a smirk to show her amusement with all the lesser beings. She wore it ceaselessly. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “But our casters are constantly in communion, sending messages. If they haven’t already, one is sure to notice someone as powerful as you approaching.”

  Vashodia waved dismissively. “I began dampening my signal days ago. It won’t be a problem.”

  “Dampening?”

  Vashodia sighed. “A lesson for another time, perhaps. For now, I think we should hurry along our way.”

  “But—”

  Vashodia shot her a cold, dead look, and Jasside clamped her jaw shut. “I told you it was good to ask questions. It is. But not when I have made myself perfectly clear. Understood?”

  Jasside nodded.

  “Good. Now, shall we?”

  Jasside—followed by a short mierothi in dark robes, and two Hardohl wearing the plain clothes of peasants and carrying heavy packs—led the way down into the war camp of the revolution. They were stopped three times. First, by the outer sentries, then by the perimeter pickets. Jasside supplied the proper passwords, and they were let by with little more than curious glances for a group bringing a child into what would soon become a battlefield. The third time, a woman stopped in her tracks as they approached her, eyes widening.

  “Jasside?” called the woman in disbelief. “Is that you?”

  Jasside smiled at her. “Yes, Calla, it is me.”

  “How are you still alive? I saw you fall.”

  “Clever application of sorc—” She stopped, glancing at Vashodia briefly. Her new mistress forbade the use of words such as “magic” and “sorcery,” considering them superstitious nonsense. Instead, she continued with, “my energies. And a good bit of luck.”

  “Incredible,” Calla said. “Oh, you’ve missed so much, I don’t even know where to start.”

  “I’d love to catch up, but there’s no time. Can you take me to the command tents?”

  Calla ran a narrow sweep of her eyes over Vashodia and the two Hardohl before nodding and waving them all forward. “This way.”

  They walked along, barely able to stay out of the way of all the preparations under way. As far as she could tell, not a soul had gotten a wink of sleep. Jasside asked Calla, “Are we attacking today?”

  “At dawn,” Calla said. “Scouts have ranged in every direction and report Imperial reinforcements closing in. Yandumar wanted to take the walls before they arrived.”

  Jasside nodded absently, muttering something about a good plan. We’re lucky to have arrived now. Not a moment too soon, by the looks of it.

  She spotted Vashodia’s swinging arms out of the corner of her eye. No. Not luck. When it comes to her, I don’t think anything is ever left to chance.

  They continued wending their way through the camp, which was far more vast than Jasside remembered, until Calla brought them up short with an outstretched arm.

  “There,” said Calla, pointing. Jasside saw the familiar tents a few hundred paces away. “I’ve got to go. You take care of yourself today, all right?”

  “I will,” Jasside said.

  They parted ways, and their little group soon came to stand outside the entrance to the tent. No less than threescore soldiers stood guard nearby, several physically blocking the flap. This close to Mecrithos, Jasside could understand the need to guard against assassins.

  She cleared her throat, making eye contact with the only guard that would return her gaze. “I need to speak with one of our leaders. Mevon is preferred if he is in, but Gilshamed or Yandumar will do as well. Tell them Jasside Anglasco is here.”

  The soldier gave her a quizzical look. “You haven’t heard, I take it?”

  Jasside’s heart skipped a beat. “Heard what?”

  “You find out soon, I suspect.” The man sighed, jerking a thumb towards the tent. “Yandumar is busy. All the commanders just went inside for a meeting. It’ll probably take awhile. You’re welcome to w—”

  The flap burst open and a flood of grumbling men and women poured out in a rush. Before the last had even broken the threshold, a voice barked out from inside. “Send her in!”

  The soldier’s jaw hung towards his chest. He motioned Jasside inside without a word.

  “Stay here,” Vashodia ordered, turned just slightly towards the Hardohl. The two took places next to the guards, facing out.

  Jasside swallowed hard. Together, she and Vashodia marched into the tent.

  An argument, low and strained, was ongoing in one of the side chambers. Left. Yandumar’s room. Jasside headed towards the voices.

  “You sure?” Yandumar. “Why hasn’t anyone else noticed?”

  “She’s a clever girl, that’s why.” That oily voice could only be Paen.

  “I’m telling you, I never forget someone’s particular aura once I’ve communed with them.” Few besides Orbrahn could stuff quite so much arrogance into one sentence.

  “Yeah, but—”

  Yandumar clamped his jaw shut as Jasside stepped through the cloth tunnel into the room.

  Orbrahn waved a hand towards her. �
�Like I said.”

  Jasside opened her mouth to offer greetings, but stopped. None of the three men were paying the slightest attention to her. She craned her neck down and to the side, forgetting how to breathe as her gaze fell upon the top of Vashodia’s head.

  Her hood was already down.

  “My boys,” Vashodia said. “I am so very pleased to see you all.”

  Jasside could not look away from the mierothi. You know them? They know you? Scorch me, what is going on?

  Her confusion only deepened as Paen dashed over and scooped up Vashodia into a close embrace. Their lips met, each opening and twisting against the other. Soft moans emanated from both their throats.

  After a few long beats, Vashodia pushed away. “Enough for now, you naughty boy.” He put her down, giving her a knowing, longing gaze as he stepped back.

  Vashodia set her sights on Orbrahn. “Been enjoying your enhanced capacity?”

  Orbrahn smirked, nodding. “Put it to good use, too.”

  “By which you mean, ‘killing mierothi’ I assume?”

  Orbrahn shrugged, still smiling.

  “You’ve done well, keeping me informed,” said Vashodia. She turned to Paen. “And you, my love, your efforts have proven most useful.”

  “Always happy to be of service,” Paen said.

  “And how is your father?”

  “Abyss if I know. No doubt he’s throwing a fit over how many of our family’s resources I’ve commandeered for your little civil war.”

  Jasside’s thoughts whirled, unable to comprehend. Civil war? I thought this was a revolution?

  Vashodia’s face lit up. “Can I be there when you tell him? I do so love to watch grown men stammer.”

  Paen bowed. “Do I ever say ‘no’ to you?”

  Vashodia giggled in delight.

  Jasside looked at Yandumar. He’d been silent, still, the only sign of life a slow grinding of his lower jaw and his knuckles going white over the hilts of a mace and axe suspended at his waist. Now, as the diminutive mierothi ceased her laughter, he opened his mouth for the first time.

  “I know why you’re here.”

  “Oh?” Vashodia raised an eyebrow.

  “There’s only two reasons you would come. Either we’re about to fail you, or we already have.”

  Vashodia shook her head. “Oh, Yandumar. My dear, sweet, misguided warrior. I always meant to enter the game myself at some point. I am, after all, my very own ace in the hole. But I knew that playing my hand too early would alert our enemies to the real stakes of this conflict.”

  “Don’t talk to me about stakes. I’ve already lost Gilshamed, and . . . and Mevon.” Yandumar lowered his head.

  Jasside felt tears forming, a twisting clench in her chest. No . . . not Mevon. Please. . .

  “I did the best I could,” Yandumar said. “But I lost focus. Lost sight of the people that were most important to me . . . all because of my vow to you.”

  “When we came to you thirty years ago, the very night you learned about the murder of your wife and children, and the kidnapping of your newborn, we gave you a choice. Are you really going to tell me you’d make a different one?”

  “No. But, scorch me, I wish I didn’t have to owe anything to you.”

  A smile slowly crept across Vashodia’s face. “Yandumar, I am pleased with all that you have done. I consider our bargain . . . fulfilled.”

  Yandumar’s eyes widened.

  Vashodia continued. “So I ask you: What will you do now?”

  Yandumar exhaled loudly, slowly, then sucked in a deep breath. Held it. Closed his eyes.

  “Ha, HA!”

  Jasside could almost see the weight of his burdens sliding off of him. His back seemed straighter, muscles more relaxed, and his lips curled up seemingly without effort or thought.

  “I’m gonna lead these people into battle,” Yandumar said. “And do my best not to get them all killed.”

  “A wise plan,” Vashodia said.

  Yandumar chuckled again. “How ’bout a new deal then?”

  Vashodia made a sound like tsk tsk. “Just beats from completing one vow, and now you seek to bind yourself to another? I can’t wait to hear it.”

  “Help us out. Lend us the full measure of your power for the fight to come.”

  “And in return?”

  “I don’t hunt you down when this is all over.”

  Vashodia giggled. “Stronger men than you have tried.”

  “But more dedicated? More persistent?”

  She looked at the ceiling, as if contemplating his remarks. “Offer accepted, on one condition.”

  “What?”

  “You keep news of my involvement strictly confidential, especially from those bandit friends of yours.”

  Yandumar frowned. “Why shouldn’t they know?”

  “Let’s just say I have a rather unpleasant history with them.”

  Yandumar hissed in his next breath. “I almost forgot that was you.”

  “Afraid so. On the bright side, that particular experiment yielded fantastic results.”

  Jasside couldn’t hold it in anymore. “What happened to Mevon?” she said all at once.

  All eyes in the room turned on her, seeming to notice her presence for the first time. She had the feeling life would often be like this if she continued on as Vashodia’s apprentice.

  “He left,” Orbrahn said.

  “Left? You mean he’s not dead?”

  “Of course not,” Yandumar said. “If I’ve learned anything about that son of mine, it’s that he’s one tough nut to crack.” He sighed. “I do wish I’d heard from him, though.”

  “Your boy is fine,” said Vashodia. “I sent my brother to help him. They are beginning their work even as we speak.”

  Jasside felt the twisting inside her subside. “That was kind of you.”

  “Kind? I just put two of this planet’s best killers together and sent them into extreme danger. I intend to use their actions as a catalyst for all that is to come. No, my dear, kind has nothing to do with it.”

  Jasside, somehow, felt as if their statures were reversed. She nodded, trying to hide her blush.

  “About Gilshamed,” said Yandumar. “I gotta apologize on his behalf. It was my responsibility to keep him in line, and when we split forces, I failed him. Failed us.”

  “Fret not,” Vashodia said. “He has fulfilled his purpose as I have intended so far, and even now may still prove useful.”

  “Useful? I thought he ran away?”

  “He tried. Another player in this game—the wild card, if you will—stepped in to prevent that.”

  Yandumar began rubbing his temples. Jasside felt as if her own head were about to explode.

  “I don’t—” began Yandumar, but was cut off by a sharp gesture from Vashodia.

  “Focus on your task, Yandumar. Let me worry about the big picture.”

  “Aye,” he said, clearly relieved

  “Good. Now, I believe I offered you my aid in the forthcoming battle. How about we discuss strategy? Paen, be a dear and get us some wine. Your father’s best, of course.”

  Chapter 17

  MEVON KICKED IN the door, stepping back as Draevenus shadow-dashed through. The sounds of death hit him before he even took his next breath. The scent of blood. Mevon smiled. He stepped through the portal, unleashing the storm.

  The top layer of the wall came into view, murky in the glow of predawn. Ballistae crews were staging their enormous projectiles, and linked trios of daeloth stood on the raised lip of the wall, looking out towards the field where the revolution’s camp stretched to the horizon. Three hundred paces distant, a stone bridge crossed over the central gate of Mecrithos.

  It was here that the revolution would strike. And here where the mierothi had gathered the greatest of
their strength.

  Mevon saw them. Half again a score of sleeping pallets lined the rear wall, and upon each, a resting mierothi. Most still asleep. Those few that weren’t seemed not far removed from it, and slow to respond to the eruption of violence.

  Mevon, with Justice at the ready, sprinted towards them.

  His first victim never woke from her slumber, her head rolling as he slashed downward through her neck. His blades rotated around, the other dealing an identical blow to the next mierothi in line.

  Step.

  He cut upward, taking off the front half of a man’s face as he sat up.

  Step.

  Side slash, bisecting two standing males at the navel.

  Step.

  Thrust, impaling one through the chest as his heel crushed in a sleeping skull.

  Step.

  He lost himself in the glory of death, moving with a speed that none of the groggy mierothi could hope to match, and reveling in the beautiful symphony of blood sung by his blades. A few managed spells against him, but he moved like a wraith in the gloom, and none recognized him for Hardohl. And if any did, none seemed able to utilize any other methods against him.

  Do none of you know the spell to disable my kind? The thought gave him hope even as he vanquished the last in line, that the emperor might be just as ignorant.

  He turned, just in time to witness Draevenus throw two daggers. The spinning steel struck the stone beneath two groups of daeloth and exploded. The wall collapsed, tumbling down, taking six daeloth with it. Their screams ended abruptly three beats later.

  Mevon glanced across the rooftop behind them. Bodies lay strewn about, but nothing moved. His admiration for his newest ally grew.

  Draevenus dashed, landing next to him. The mierothi viewed Mevon’s handiwork, then nodded respectfully. “Good work. But the other side is alerted to our presence. Strategy?”

  “Stay hidden,” Mevon said. “I’ll engage and draw their attention. Join the fray when it appears to be most advantageous.”

  Draevenus smiled. “I like the way you think.”