Draevenus wondered. After all they had been through, all the plots and schemes and coercions, could they have accomplished much the same simply by . . . asking? He shook his head, chuckling to himself.
“Something funny?” asked Mevon.
“No,” said Draevenus. “Just realizing how right you are.” And you can be sure, Mevon Daere, that if anyone can claim to be free of the leash . . . it is you.
The alley bent suddenly, ending in a high wall of black stone. Beyond it, the palace grounds.
“I take it,” Mevon said, “we won’t be entering through the front gate?”
“A thousand darkwatch might not take kindly to such an intrusion.” Draevenus smiled. “Besides, I’ve always preferred of the road less traveled.”
He faced the wall, energizing. It had been no random alley path they’d been traversing. It was this spot exactly that he’d been aiming for. And though he wasn’t capable of the type of change-sorcery Vashodia employed, he did know a thing or two about covert infiltration.
Layer by aching layer, he scraped off the wall, using infinitesimal amounts of power. A caster would have to be right on the other side of it—and straining their senses—to feel anything. It would take time—time they didn’t necessarily have—but he was confident this intrusion would remain undetected, and at the moment, that was more important.
In ten marks, he’d made a hole just large enough for Mevon to duck through. Beyond, nothing could be seen but darkness. Draevenus beckoned to his companion and, in silence, slipped inside.
The air was close, stale, like it had been sitting unused for centuries. Which it had.
“What is this place?” Mevon asked. Draevenus followed his gaze to myriad stalls set apart by stone crumbling to dust, vacant of all signs of what they might have been used for.
“This,” Draevenus said, “was the Imperial dungeon.”
“Dungeon?”
“We used to send criminals in here to rot to death, slowly losing all sense of what it was to be human, to be alive.” And far too many of them had been sent here by me. “Once the Ropes were constructed, it was cleaned out and sealed off. Rekaj preferred playing to the crowd.
“I’m still not sure which would be worse . . . but I suppose that’s what we’re here to change.”
They ascended several flights of stairs before coming to an archway. Here, they could see the vague outlines of a doorway, and beyond that a wall of bricks far newer than the others. Draevenus drew to a halt.
“What’s on the other side?” said Mevon.
“The end,” said Draevenus, “of the need for subtlety.”
“Good.”
Draevenus energized fully, enhancing his body with temporary blessings. Then he flung a spell at the wall. It shattered, debris flying backwards from the blast as vaporized mortar filled the air. Mevon was through before he could blink. Draevenus followed.
They emerged into a chamber fifty paces by thirty with a high roof. Unlike most rooms in the palace, the walls, floors, and ceiling were of unadorned stone. Weapon racks lined one side, and padded mats another. Bloodstains marred the open center in a thousand different patterns.
Two men, shirtless and sweaty, had been sparring with metal staves on one of the mats. They stopped as he and Mevon entered. Stared. A beat later, they ran out the only door in the room.
“This what you had in mind?” Draevenus asked.
Mevon smiled as ten men flooded into the room but moments later. They bore identical armor and weapons to each other . . . and to Mevon.
The Blade Cabal.
“Yes.” Mevon reached for his Andun. “Exactly what I had in mind.”
TWENTY THOUSAND BOWS snapped in near unison, their arrows arcing down upon the top of a half-klick stretch of the wall. Nothing answered. No shields formed by daeloth to protect the Imperial troops. No return fire from the ballistae.
Yandumar began to sweat. “Report,” he ordered.
Calla, marching at his side, was the first to speak. “Eastern flank advancing under moderate bow fire, but the mobile cover is keeping casualties low.”‘
“Same in the west,” Orbrahn said.
Yandumar strained his eyes, looking forward toward the center. Of the enemy, he could see nothing.
He took a breath. This is not what we expected. I don’t like it. He pulled Orbrahn in close. “Tell the casters to keep defenses ready. We don’t know what’s waiting for us.”
“Aye,” he said.
He turned to Jasside. “Any idea what’s going on?”
She smiled at him, holding up a finger. She closed her eyes as she walked. Matching pace fifty steps behind, were a man and a woman in peasant clothes, and between them, Vashodia, her features completely obscured by a hooded robe.
Half a mark later, Jasside blinked, meeting his gaze. “A good surprise, for once. We suggest you take advantage of it.”
It wasn’t the sort of answer he was looking for, but it was good enough. “All units full assault,” he commanded. “No hesitating. No disengaging. I want all ladders in place within the mark!”
Orbrahn and Calla bowed their heads, a mock prayer, to deliver the orders. Yandumar wondered how many he had just sent to their deaths.
The center hit first. Let’s see what those Elite have cooked up.
Eight ladders began rising, the ends lifting into the sky on the side farthest from the wall. Pushed from below and pulled by long ropes, they rose faster than Yandumar believed possible. They were thick, too, the shafts and rungs twice as wide as he expected. And swinging on each outstretched tip, a wooden cage.
The cages crashed down upon the top level of the wall. From the wreckage emerged heavily armored Elite. Yandumar could only make out flashes of sunlight off their helmets and didn’t know what they saw, or whom, if anyone, they fought.
He was about to demand another status report when the gates split open.
His breath caught. A wall of armed figures stood on the other side.
Have we been deceived? Is this the trap that will kill us all?
“Got a message for you,” reported Orbrahn.
“Out with it.”
“Paen says: ‘You’re welcome.’ ”
“Huh?”
Orbrahn swung an arm towards the gate.
Yandumar watched as Elite converged on the opening. The figures opposite them did not move, and the Elite came to a halt before them. There appeared to be a conversation ensuing.
“Abyss with this,” Yandumar said. He was sick of being so far from the action. He broke into a run. The casters, each yelping in surprise, raced to catch up. The men who had taken to guarding him—a mix of Ragremons and some of the original shepherds—struggled to keep pace as he threaded his way through the middle ranks. In two marks, he had made it to the gate.
“What’s going on?” he shouted.
Ropes, Arozir, and Idrus turned at his question.
“ ’Bout to be a reunion,” Ropes said, adding a keening cackle for good measure. “Best not get in the way.” He gestured over Yandumar’s shoulder.
He turned as Vashodia and her twin guardians stomped up, Jasside and Paen close behind. The two Hardohl stripped off the bulky peasant clothes, revealing the hard, crimson leathers beneath. Simultaneously, they pulled and assembled their Andun with a twist.
Yandumar turned back. Those that had been on the inside also began removing their outer garments. Beneath, the camouflaged leathers of rangers, and the dull green armor of Elite. There were nearly half a thousand of them. Vashodia’s Hardohl stepped among them and began issuing orders. The Fists, as he now saw them, sprang into formations and began advancing up the main street.
He fixed a glare on Paen. “You couldn’t have told me about this before we began our assault?”
Paen shrugged. “I did not expect them to be ready so
soon. But I gather they met significantly less resistance than we foresaw.”
Why is that, I wonder? Could the Imperials be preparing some kind of trap?
“We’re off to the palace,” Vashodia said, breaking his reverie. She stepped forward, still hooded. “Do be careful, though, Yandumar. You have such a bright future ahead of you.”
He glared at the back of her head as she passed, hoping she tripped and fell flat on her face. Just for once, he’d like proof that Vashodia was, in fact, fallible. But he doubted she had seen herself that way in a long time.
He grabbed Jasside’s arm as she came near. “Find him,” he said.
“I will.”
He released her and looked around. Mevon’s captains were gone, leading their men, as he should be doing. He dashed through the gate, sparing a glance for the group marching up the main avenue of Mecrithos, and entered the nearest door leading into the wall. He quickly found the stairs, taking them two at a time, and emerged onto the roof. He took stock of all he could see.
Signs of battle, but not fresh. No wonder we met no resistance. Thirty mierothi bodies lay on or near a line of sleeping pallets, their wounds caused by blades he had come to know well. He smiled. Mevon was still alive, still fighting for their cause. Despite her tendency towards blatant honesty, he could never quite bring himself to take Vashodia at her word. Proof he saw himself was much more comforting.
He viewed the battle. Soldiers of the revolution now swarmed over all parts of the wall that he could see. Resistance increased the farther out they went, as though what had taken place here at the center had reverberated outward, like ripples in a pond, and sapped the will to fight from the Imperial defenders.
It was not without cost, though. Flashes of sorcery spewed down from the wall in places. His caster cadre had less to contend with than Yandumar had feared, but still his allies fell. Answering spells silenced these attacks, however, and soon no one who did not belong to him moved in or on the wall.
The surviving Imperials scurried away from the wall like ants, seeking refuge in the city. They made it two blocks.
Hordes of civilians sprang out of every building in sight. They fell upon the fleeing soldiers, and—with cudgels, makeshift weapons, and even bare hands—began ripping them apart.
Yandumar recognized the gesture for what it was. Rekaj had held the city under a yoke of fear for far too long. This was its breaking.
It is a beautiful sight to see.
His guardsmen burst through onto the roof, escorting Orbrahn and Calla. They were out of breath, but Yandumar turned on them before they had a chance to catch it.
“Tell all units to push out,” he ordered. “We’ve got five klicks of wall to cover, and every last finger of it needs to be guarded twice.” He looked out at the field. On the horizon, as far east and west as the eye could see, ranks of men began marching into view.
Imperial reinforcements.
“Taking the wall,” he added, “was the easy part.”
GILSHAMED SQUINTED AS the sun peeked over the horizon. A new day dawning, and with it, the end of an age.
But will it also see the birth of the next?
He stepped up onto the railing of his balcony. In a blaze of light that drowned out even the sun, he unfurled his wings.
Time to find out.
He leapt.
Gilshamed fell free for four beats, letting the wind rush past his face as he plummeted. Letting gravity takes its natural course. Letting himself, for one last moment, let go of all sense of control.
Then he flexed his back, spreading his wings, and swooped up out of his dive. He banked east. With the sun warming his left side, he made a lazy loop around the palace grounds. He spotted the bubble-dome indicating his destination in exactly the spot the girl had indicated. He wondered, briefly, what Voren had done to her to earn her ire but banished the thought. He had more important things on his mind.
Like how he was going to make his entrance.
Directly south of the palace now, he turned sharply to the right. Jagged rocks poked up from beneath him. He energized. A razor wave of power sliced through the base of one boulder, its twisted form reminding him of two oxen mating. With his will, he picked it up, propelling it ahead of him as he flew in a line at the glass dome.
I am the right arm of Elos. The avenger. By my actions, his will is complete.
The boulder slammed into the glass, shattering it into a thousand thousand pieces, each glittering like diamonds in the sunlight. It continued through, striking the base of a sloping ledge and causing a platform to crash down upon the steps below it.
His power spent, Gilshamed released his sorcery and dove through the wreckage into the chambers. He touched down, dismissed his wings, and skidded along the marble floor towards a set of ancient wooden doors.
He drew his sword and turned.
Silence. He took a step, glancing about, and found his eyes drawn to his own face. The girl had been right. The statue was a strikingly accurate depiction of himself. The other three, less so, but he assumed the makers had had only Voren’s memories to draw from.
Gilshamed’s gaze flick upwards. He froze. Wards on the roof . . . attuned to our kind. What have I walked into? He felt a twinge of ice wriggle through his body.
A burst of bright blue light made him squint. Gilshamed watched as a figure flew up from below, touching down like a butterfly upon a blade of grass. The light and wings vanished. There, less than thirty paces away, stood the most vile of creatures ever to step foot upon the surface of the world.
Voren.
Gilshamed set his features firmly. No joy. No hatred. No rage. He was here simply to exterminate the vermin.
He brought his blade up and stalked forward. True to his word, he uttered not a single syllable.
Voren smiled sadly.
Armed men burst into view. From four side chambers, up both curving stairs, and from the main double doors behind him. Weapons and shields held at the ready. At least a dozen daeloth, energized with hands extended, just waiting for him to make a move.
Gilshamed glanced once more at the wards on the ceiling and knew he was doomed.
His sword clattered to the floor.
“The emperor,” Voren said, “has plans for you.”
Gilshamed felt too numb to answer. After all this time and planning, waiting and hoping, killing and praying . . . he had failed.
Voren reached into the folds of his robe, extracting a small object. He rolled it in his palm. “Shall I let him?”
Gilshamed worked saliva into his mouth. “What does it matter now? Neither of us has the power to stop him.”
“But his plans,” continued Voren, as if he had not heard him, “do not include me.” He fingers curled about the object into a fist.
Gilshamed hung his head, his eyelids drooping half shut. Lashriel, my love . . . forgive me. At least now we can finally be together. He bent over, reaching for his sword, finding a purpose for it after all. He gripped the handle and righted himself, with the tip of the blade pointed at his own heart.
Daeloth spells crackled at fingertips. The guards surged forward.
Voren, nearly forgotten, whispered, “No. I do not think I will let him.”
With his free hand, Voren swiftly drew a small dagger across his palm, then contracted his now-bleeding hand into a fist. Gilshamed heard the faint sound of breaking glass.
He felt Voren begin to energize.
What are you thinking, Voren?
The wards triggered, shooting their stored spells at the offender faster than thought. They had enough power to render him utterly disabled.
But they didn’t.
A wave of energy burst forth from Voren. The spells aimed for him melted. The wards shattered.
Impossible! It would take scores of full valynkar harmonized together to overpo
wer such wards! How did he—?
He blinked, looking closer at Voren. Blood poured down from his hand. Far more than could possibly come from his small, self-inflicted wound.
Voren’s face had become empty. A stab of ice hit Gilshamed’s chest. Voren lifted his arms, releasing another wave of energy outward.
Straight through the clustered guardsmen.
Gilshamed’s robes began smoking as the fire burned through every other living thing in the room. In a beat, not even bones remained. Not even ash.
He stared at Voren. No—not Voren. Not anymore. The creature standing before him, wreathed in molten fury and unmatchable power, had transformed into the very avatar of vengeance.
Gilshamed turned and fled.
ALL TEN OF the Blade Cabal stood across the long room from him. Mevon had hoped that some would stay to guard the emperor. This would make matters more difficult.
“Strategy?” Mevon said.
“I have an idea,” Draevenus said. “But it will put you at great risk.”
“Let’s hear—”
The world cut out. Mevon felt a tingling such as he never had before. A casting, nearby. What he had felt on prior occasions, even in the midst of large battles, was as a trickle compared to the floodgates now pouring forth. For a moment he couldn’t even see, and his entire being thrummed.
Mevon, involuntarily, took a step towards it.
A single word came to him: Abhorrent. Whatever it was, he felt a compulsion to stop it, to void the sorcery into oblivion. All other considerations became secondary.
This . . . this is what we were made for. This is our purpose.
Mevon shook his head, blinking to clear the haze. As his vision returned, he saw that all the other Hardohl were as disoriented as he was.
“Who is doing that?” asked Mevon.
“I don’t know,” said Draevenus. “But it is no kin of mine.”
Movement returned Mevon’s attention to the line of his peers. And beyond them, springing through the open door, he witnessed the return of an old friend.
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