Mevon returned the smile. “Go.”
Draevenus waved towards himself and nearly disappeared. A living shadow, crouched low, moved away at speed that even Mevon could appreciate.
He turned towards the bridge. A wall of soldiers stood upon it.
Mevon ran straight towards them.
Fondly, he recalled all the practice sessions he had conducted with his Fist. Him against them. They’d shot countless crossbow bolts at him as he assaulted their position, ran across their line, retreated—every angle possible. They had become masters of shooting at moving targets, and Mevon, through much pain, had become a master of dodging those shots.
The soldiers now arrayed before him, at a voiced command, squeezed their fingers on the triggers of their crossbows. Mevon watched the twitch of their muscles and knew which would pull their shots, which blinked, which were trying to aim but couldn’t draw a bead on him. In the end, only three projectiles out of dozens were in any position to do him harm.
Mevon ducked, throwing himself forward into a tumble, and the streaking bolts passed by without injury.
He righted himself and shouldered his way through their line. He didn’t bother killing them. He had more important targets to deal with.
Mevon stomped down the opposite side of the bridge without slowing.
The mierothi, this time, were ready for him.
Ten stood in a line, facing Mevon with hatred in their eyes. Twice that many stood behind this first group, faces blank, shoulders drooping. He felt the tingling of the sorcery coming off the first line and saw scores of stone blocks, each the size of Mevon’s torso, ripped from the very wall and floating in the air.
With a gesture from the mierothi, the blocks began hurtling towards Mevon.
He ducked, dove, and dodged, avoiding direct blows but unable to prevent the dull thuds of pain as several glanced off his body. He heard screams behind him as the soldiers on the bridge took the worst of it.
He tried to keep all the stones in sight, but he had to spin more often than not to avoid them. Before he could close even half the distance, one struck his hip with more momentum than he could absorb. Mevon went down in a heap.
In beats, half a dozen more struck his body. He felt himself being crushed as they pounded into him again and again.
Darkness closed in around the edges of his vision. Breath became a dream.
He saw a shadow move across the backside of the front mierothi line. Each fell as the shadow passed. And as they fell, the blocks they commanded became inanimate once more. All ten were down within the span of three heartbeats.
Mevon burned. The fire of his blessings worked to undo all the damage he had just sustained. It was half a mark before he could even breathe, and several more before he could stand.
He blinked, righting himself, and shook off the pain. Draevenus . . . the other score mierothi!
Mevon jumped to his feet, scooping up his Andun. What he saw made no sense.
Draevenus stood before his kin, head hanging. No one moved.
“What’s going on?” Mevon asked.
Draevenus turned, holding out a hand as if to stop Mevon from coming any closer. “These . . . aren’t our enemy.”
“What do you mean? Do they not stand with the emperor?”
“Not by choice.” Draevenus’s shoulders slumped. “There must have been some on the other side as well. If I had known . . .”
“You didn’t. And neither did I. Who are they?”
“Rekaj calls them the Enlightened. They are . . . simpletons. Their power is drained from them in a process akin to rape, all to empower your kind’s blessings.”
Mevon hissed in a breath. “Are you telling me they are not responsible for their own actions?”
Draevenus nodded.
“Then I declare them innocent.” Mevon replaced his weapon onto his back. “My justice is not for them.”
Draevenus smiled grimly, then turned. A group of soldiers and daeloth from the far side were edging closer. They seemed hesitant, however.
“My kin require care and escort,” Draevenus called. “Which of you is willing to volunteer?”
The men froze. They looked at each other in confusion. Finally, a voice called, “What’s going on, honored one?”
“Change,” said Draevenus. “Keep up or be swept away.” He accented this with a jerking wave of his hand. “Now, I’ll ask again, but do not test my patience. Who will help these people to safety?”
A large group of the soldiers, wide-eyed, dashed forward. Mevon saw the looks of the daeloth. Felt them begin to energize as they stared at the backs of those men that had come forward.
Mevon lunged into their midst, spinning. Daeloth blood flew from the ends of his blades. None had gotten off a single casting.
The soldiers turned, fear evident on their features. Mevon cradled his weapon in one arm. “I do not suggest you make of me an enemy,” he said.
A hundred weapons slammed back into their sheaths at once. Mevon nodded, relaxing his stance. Men moved to begin helping the mierothi to their feet as Draevenus walked over to him.
“Our work here is done,” Mevon said.
Draevenus sighed. “So it seems.”
“You’re not satisfied?”
“No. I came here for one reason, and that goal remains unfulfilled.”
“The adjudicators. If they’re not here, then . . .”
“Exactly.”
Together, they looked out towards the field beyond the city walls.
JASSIDE HELD OPEN the tent flap and stared out at the eastern horizon, willing the sun to rise. The butterflies in her stomach were, to her surprise, as much from anticipation as from fear. This day would be hard—a test like no other—but with Vashodia involved, she had faith it would all turn out all right.
Someone gasped behind her. Jasside turned just in time to see Calla fall limp to the ground.
She dashed over, kneeling down and shaking the woman’s shoulders. “Calla?” Jasside said. “Calla, what is it? What’s wrong?”
Orbrahn and Yandumar drew close and hovered, concern writ on their faces. It took half a mark more of gentle prodding before Calla’s eyes finally fluttered open. Tears formed in them, spilling down.
“What happened?” Yandumar asked.
Calla sniffled. “I was getting a commune report from Piran when . . . when . . .” She squeezed her eyes shut once more. “I think he’s dead.”
“Piran,” said Yandumar. “Who was he assigned to?”
“Commander Bellanis,” Orbrahn said.
Jasside looked up at the two men, and the three of them shared a silent moment of dread. Piran had been just a boy. They’d assigned all the youngest casters to the commanders, hoping it would keep them relatively safe in the coming battle.
They’d expected some sort of attack, but none of them had the foresight to see this coming.
“Give me a beat,” said Orbrahn. “I’ll check on the others.”
Jasside felt a tiny pulse of energy as Orbrahn closed his eyes and entered communion. He returned a moment later. Slowly, he shook his head.
“Three others are missing, all assigned to commanders. I think we can assume the worst.”
Yandumar turned to the table and pounded it with a fist. “Get the word out. Assassins in the camp, targeting our commanders and their casters. Tell everyone left to sound the alert and stay alive!”
Orbrahn nodded. Jasside helped Calla to her feet. While the two other casters returned to communion, Yandumar leaned in towards Jasside, lowering his voice.
“Jasside?”
“Yes?”
“See what you can do.”
Jasside heard the unspoken plural in the “you” of his request. She dipped her head and turned away. A few steps led her into the chamber of the tent once occupied by
Gilshamed. It had a new tenant now.
“I heard,” Vashodia said as Jasside stepped in. She was seated cross-legged in the middle of the room, which was entirely empty. “Tell Yandumar that we will take care of the issue.”
Jasside slipped back through the narrow cloth passage. “I’ll handle it,” she announced.
“You sure?” Yandumar said. “Just the t—just you?”
Jasside straightened her back, lifting her chin slightly. “Of course.”
Yandumar sighed, then waved her away.
She returned to the side chamber. “What do you need me to do?”
“Be my eyes,” said Vashodia.
“How?”
“Enter communion, then immediately return.”
Jasside nodded. She energized, then conjured a black disc in her mind, turned it, expanded it until it filled the whole of her senses. Then, she stepped through. The white void appeared, occupied by hundreds of black stars, some larger than others. Much larger. And far too close for comfort.
Remembering her instructions, she exited communion, blinking in the dim light of the tent.
“Again,” Vashodia said.
Jasside did so. It came with ease this time, and she sped in and out without pausing.
“Again. Faster, girl.”
The black disc snapped into her mind. She was through and back in less than a beat.
“Too slow. Again!”
Again. And again. And again. Each taking less time than the one before. She had an idea what Vashodia had in mind now, and she learned quickly. She flashed in and out of communion half a dozen times per beat.
“Good,” came Vashodia’s ethereal voice. Jasside was not both in and out of communion at the same time—such was impossible—but she might as well have been. Images of the void and of reality superimposed themselves onto her vision. “Now, how are you with illusions?”
“Passing,” Jasside said, her own voice strangely distant, hollow.
“Can you conjure an image of what you see in communion?”
Still flashing in and out, her mind strained as, in answer, she pulled in more energy and cast a spell of simple darkness. For each dark star she saw in the void, she created an identical image inside the tent. It stretched the limits of her control and concentration, but eventually the two sets aligned, until she saw the same thing—including location and relative sizes of each caster’s soul—in both worlds at once.
“Excellent,” Vashodia said. “Now, all I need is . . . perspective.” A pause, then. “Hold on and don’t stop what you’re doing.”
Jasside didn’t even have time to answer before she felt herself rising. Power rolled off Vashodia, energies directed to change the very ground beneath their feet, lifting it as layer upon layer in quick succession formed, each pushing the rest farther towards the sky. Another wave parted the roof of the tent, and they ascended into the glowing predawn air.
She sucked in a breath and looked down upon the sprawling army of the revolution. Here, standing on a pillar of stone a hundred paces high, she could see it all.
Vashodia pulled in power. And kept pulling. More and more, until Jasside was sure the small form would simply burst from holding so much at once. She’d held more herself, at the battle of Thorull, but then she had been linked with forty others. Vashodia, by herself, now met that strength.
Then, she summoned more.
There was a strange buzzing, and Jasside had a familiar sensation, as if someone were harmonizing nearby. She kept up her task, jumping in and out of communion and maintaining an illusionary image of what she saw—nudging the small bubbles of darkness to align with the new positions of the stars. A small part of her began to worry that the two of them wouldn’t be enough.
Then it didn’t matter. She witnessed Vashodia unleash—as promised—the full measure of her strength.
Eight orbs shot out from their position. They each traveled towards the largest stars, clusters of five that, by their size, could only be other mierothi. Jasside peered closer at the spells. No—not spells. Manifestations of will, empowered by the body’s symbiotic energy manipulators. Their design was genius. The outer shell concealed the rest, and what was held within . . .
They struck. Energy exploded forth from the shells, but with extreme discrimination, honing in on forty mierothi bodies. In the blink of an eye, they were reduced to less than ash. None were able to defend against it, yet not a single nearby soldier was harmed in the slightest by the blast.
“So sorry, dear brother,” Vashodia said. “Looks like you won’t have the privilege of crossing Jezrid off your list yourself.”
Jasside ceased her bouncing and dissolved the conjured illusion. She felt the stone beneath them compressing, changing layer by layer, as they descended. In beats, they were back inside the tent. The roof returned to its original form, cutting out the sky just as dawn’s first rays flashed down upon them.
She took a breath, reveling in what she had just witnessed. “That was . . . spectacular.”
Vashodia smiled. “You’ll be capable of even greater, soon.”
“Me? You’re serious?”
“Of course, dear. And together, just think what we could accomplish, hmm?”
Jasside’s imagination began running rampant with possibilities. She had to force herself to rein it in, the needs of the moment not allowing her to indulge such fancies. “I’ll go tell Yandumar.”
She dashed into the central chamber. Smiling, she met Yandumar’s worried eyes. “It’s taken care of. You’re free to begin your assault.”
His jaw fell towards the floor. “What? Just like that?”
Jasside stared blankly at him.
“Right.” Yandumar looked to Orbrahn and Calla. “Give the order. Dawn’s come. Time to take those walls.”
DRAEVENUS RACED ALONG the alleyways of Mecrithos, Mevon following close behind. The walls on either side were close enough to touch with both hands at once, slick with grease and soot and other things Draevenus did not want to think about. The main streets would have been faster, but less inconspicuous. Besides, they were empty—too empty—as though the entire populace had decided to sleep in today, and Draevenus did not trust things for which he had no explanation.
A scent hit his nose. It was pleasant, especially after so many marks among the refuse of the city, and Draevenus slowed to a halt.
“Wait here,” he told Mevon, then dashed through a nearby door. He emerged ten beats later with his prize.
Mevon showed confusion as Draevenus shoved a greasy sausage, a quarter wheel of cheese, a fresh-baked loaf of bread, and a skin of wine at him. “Eat up,” Draevenus said. “You’ll need it.”
“For what?”
“Energy.”
Mevon shrugged, but tore off a large section of the loaf and pushed it into his mouth. Draevenus resumed their run, sure that Mevon was following by the sound of his unsubtle footsteps.
“Don’t you want any?” Mevon called, his words filtered through a mouth full of half-masticated meat.
“You need it more,” said Draevenus over his shoulder. “Your body just had to repair itself from the brink of death. That takes a lot out of your kind.”
“And all this will replenish me?”
“Well enough for such short notice.”
Mevon fell silent for half a mark, the sounds of his thudding steps and loud chewing all that Draevenus could hear from him. Finally, he said, “You seem to know a lot about Hardohl.”
Draevenus shrugged. “My sister did a lot of research.”
“Research,” Mevon said. “Don’t you mean experiments?”
Draevenus cringed. He knew he couldn’t lie. Not about this. Mevon had said the last word more like a curse than a question. “Yes. Not that I approved, of course.”
“Did one of these experiments yield you the spell for di
sabling voids?”
“Yes.”
Mevon went silent again. Draevenus braced himself for the reaction. He feared that now, after all that had come to pass, it would all fall apart based on this.
“I suppose,” said Mevon, “that I should thank you.”
Draevenus stumbled as they ran. “What for?”
“A young caster learned the spell by watching your sister. She then used it on me. If she hadn’t, I never would have come to know my father, never questioned my place in the world, never done anything meaningful in my life. And . . . I never would have known Jasside.”
Jasside? Why does that name sound familiar? He felt as if he had heard the name said, and recently. Someone Vashodia had mentioned maybe?
“I’m glad you see it that way,” Draevenus said. “Especially since it would be easy for you to blame us instead.”
“Been planning all this awhile, I take it?”
Draevenus turned his head and nodded.
Once decided upon this path, everything he had done had been for those he loved. His mother, his sister, his people. Whatever it took to get the freedom, the solace, and the redemption each so desperately needed. And Draevenus never dreamed that he would ever make it this far down his chosen road.
But there had been casualties along the way that still haunted him.
He glanced over his shoulder at the towering figure stomping effortlessly in his wake.
Mevon’s mother and two siblings had been killed, and his father exiled. He had never known his people. He’d grown up as nothing but a tool of Rekaj, used to perfect the will of a power-hungry and paranoid emperor.
Yandumar, at least, had been given a choice—even if he’d had few logical options left to him. Mevon? He’d been a pawn of every side in this conflict from before he was even born. Draevenus was just as guilty as the rest of them.
And even now, we continue to use you. Perhaps the historians are right. Perhaps all this bloodshed will be pointless in the end, no matter if we emerge victorious or not.
“I understand,” Mevon said, his words pulling Draevenus out of his reverie. “I think, from the beginning, I had a suspicion that Vashodia might be involved. Even if I never had a definite thought, the whole situation was plagued with coincidences, the kind that could easily be explained by her involvement.” He paused, collecting breath. “But, knowing what I know now, I think I still would have made the same choices.”
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