Veiled Empire

by Nathan Garrison

  Kael, somehow unaffected by the casting, dashed into the room. A sword in either hand chopped through the necks of two of the Blade Cabal. Twin heads rolled across the floor, leaving blood trails as Kael, spry as ever, came to stand with Mevon.

  Before even a word of greeting could be said, the remaining eight lunged forward.

  Mevon retreated, parrying and dodging a hail of blows. He took a cut on his right shoulder and left calf.

  He cartwheeled back, seeking to summon the storm.

  A voice shouted. Draevenus. “Keep them off me! Watch for the fall!”

  The word sank into Mevon’s mind somewhere. He was too busy fighting for his life against four other Hardohl. Two each had engaged Kael and Draevenus. It was clear who their priority was.

  And still, the storm wouldn’t come.

  His Andun twirled in his hands, fending off blows. He had no room to counterattack. He took another cut just below his left elbow. Another on his right hip. The Blade Cabal drove him and his two allies farther and farther apart.

  Mevon grasped Justice at one end and swung, wide and wild. His assailants all bounced back a step.

  In that gap, small as it was, he had time to summon the storm.

  Rage and chaos swirled around him, pushed through his limbs and out to his weapon. In the center, calm and focus. Here, he was untouchable. And no storm before could compare to what he had now conjured.

  Draevenus’s imperative sprang forth into his mind. Mevon reversed direction, spinning into his four attackers faster than he had ever moved before. Their blades bounced off his, and he landed his first blood, slashing across the upper chests of two men. He broke through their blockade.

  He spared a glance for Kael. His old mentor was holding his own, twin swords flowing like water around the heavier Andun. Both his assailants were bleeding from several wounds.

  Mevon sped towards Draevenus, leaving his own opponents in a wake of dust. The mierothi saw him coming and shadow-dashed across the room.

  Mevon tossed Justice into the air, threw both his daggers at one of the Hardohl attacking Draevenus, and caught his weapon before it hit the ground.

  The man paused in his pursuit of the mierothi, turning to deflect the flying steel.

  Draevenus extended a hand towards him. A familiar pattern of sorcery engulfed the Hardohl.

  The daggers flew over the figure as he crumpled. Mevon sprang over him, sweeping down with a blade and severing head from body.

  The mierothi retracted the spell and pushed the same one into his other attacker as the man approached. Mevon lunged forward. His Andun split the prone Hardohl’s chest through the heart.

  Mevon twisted, spinning his weapon out to deflect the blows he was sure would fall on him at any moment.

  His weapon swung through empty air.

  His four attackers were on the other side of the room. All six now surrounded Kael. Mevon couldn’t even see his old mentor behind the bodies of the remaining Blade Cabal. All he saw was the rise and fall of their weapons. And the figure between them go down.

  Like the wind . . . Mevon was across the long chamber in two beats.

  Draevenus was faster. He shadow-dashed through the line of Blade Cabal. His heavy daggers slashed across two necks as he passed. The wounds weren’t quite fatal—not for a Hardohl—but they were distracting. Mevon’s attacks were, though, as he chopped sideways, finishing them off before they could recover.

  All four of the remaining Blade Cabal turned, readying their weapons defensively. Mevon attacked with cold, precise strikes. His strength flowed down his arms into the steel of his weapon and broke through their defenses, again and again.

  Draevenus distanced himself with another shadow-dash. His spell shot out. One of the Blade Cabal crumpled. Mevon altered the swing of his blade and cut the man in half from shoulder to opposite rib cage.

  Mevon could see the final moment of confusion and fear in their eyes as—one by one—they fell before Draevenus’s sorcery and died by Mevon’s blade.

  As the last of his enemy faded, another wave of the abhorrent magic writhed through the palace. This one was closer. Mevon, again, lost all other senses and felt himself being pulled towards it.

  “What is that?” Mevon said.

  “I don’t know,” Draevenus said. “This . . . was not something we planned for.”

  Mevon nodded. Then, he looked down and finally saw Kael.

  There would be no last words. If a Hardohl had the strength left to speak, he could recover from his wounds. Kael was slashed to ribbons, a heap of bloody flesh.

  Still. . .

  Mevon fell to his knees before the body. Jasside had woken within him the ability to feel. When she died, he thought that such a gift would die with her.

  He was wrong.

  A single tear dropped from his eye and flowed down his cheek. He placed a hand on Kael’s forehead. “Thank you, old friend, for this one last gift. You’ve laid your final plank. And . . . it was a good one.”

  He stood. Another wave hit, even closer this time. Somehow, he resisted the pull.

  Mevon looked at Draevenus. “Rekaj. Where is he?”

  Draevenus closed his eyes. A few beats later, they sprang open again. “Into the hallway. Left. Up the first staircase. Right at the third corridor. Large double doors halfway down.”

  Mevon nodded. “Where will you be?”

  “Me?”

  The rampant sorcery again wracked Mevon’s senses. The palace shook. Stones from the roof and walls exploded into the room. He and Draevenus sprang out of the way as the bodies of the Blade Cabal were crushed into pulp beneath the falling blocks.

  “I,” Draevenus said, “will be trying to stop that.”

  YANDUMAR DOVE FOR cover as another bolt of dark lightning crested the lip of the wall, snapping as it tore its way across the battlements. Calla, at what seemed to be the last possible moment, threw up a shield to deflect the spell from their position.

  Yandumar scrambled to his feet. “Don’t cut it so close next time, will ya’?”

  “Sorry,” she said. “I’m sending too many messages myself now that Orbrahn is occupied.” She waved a hand towards the stone archway atop the gate.

  Yandumar cast his gaze that way. “What’s taking so long?” he shouted.

  The boy held up a finger.

  Yandumar cursed under his breath.

  Finally, whatever it was that casters did to link their sorcery was complete. Orbrahn looked up, a glow of pure ecstasy on his face. “You can’t rush perfection,” he shouted.

  Joined with the power of a hundred other casters, who stood in a cluster behind him, Orbrahn began laying waste to the Imperial lines assaulting the central gate.

  Each of the five gates had an equivalent group of casters, but it had taken too long, by Yandumar’s estimation, for them to become effective. Ballistae crews and Slick Ren’s archers had decimated the enemy ranks as they came, but the wall was still under siege in a dozen places. With a quarter million troops—and thousands more of daeloth—the Imperials could afford the losses.

  Yandumar’s forces, however, could not.

  We’re spread too thin.

  “They’ve broken through in sector fourteen,” Calla said. “Same in sectors one and four.” She paused, eyes going black. “And sectors seven through ten.”

  Scorch me!

  “All casters hold their positions,” Yandumar ordered. “Focus on driving back any Imperials who get too close. All other troops besides ballistae crews and archers will assault Imperial footholds and reinforce the space between gates.”

  Calla nodded, then began relaying the orders.

  Yandumar rubbed his temples as he peered down at the ground outside the central gate. Orbrahn was catching his breath between spells. Like a boulder tossed into a pond, waves of devastation rippled ou
tward from his position. Piles of armor littered the scorched soil, steaming husks empty of life. The sickly-sweet smell of roasted human flesh hit his nose, making Yandumar gag. Where a few moments ago had been ten thousand souls, there was now nothing but stillness and death.

  Yandumar glanced again at the mierothi bodies, which had been pushed into a heap against the edge of the wall. He knew that, had Mevon not taken care of them, the revolution troops would have faced much worse when they had first assaulted the walls than Orbrahn was now unleashing. He shivered. The daeloth had the advantage in both number of casters and individual sorcerous strength, but they were slow to adapt. If they realized what they could accomplish with large-scale links. . .

  He turned to his messengers. “Tell the ballistae crews to target Imperial commanders whenever possible.”

  They nodded their understanding.

  He turned to Paen, who lounged nearby. “Do me a favor?”

  Paen, who had been gazing up toward the palace, twisted around with a flourish. “What is it, old man?”

  “See if you can organize those civilians.” Yandumar pointed down at the crowds. After ambushing the fleeing Imperials, they’d simply milled about. It was time to put them to good use. “Take any that are willing and get them to plug up the gaps in our defenses.”

  Paen bowed low. “Anything for our esteemed leader.”

  Yandumar sighed. The boy dashed down the stairs.

  He walked over to the edge, peering down on the field beyond the city. His troops had their orders, the best he knew how to give. Now, all he could do was . . . wait.

  And so he did.

  Ballistae and bows kept firing. The casters pushed back the Imperials from the walls. Armed civilians became soldiers of the revolution as they made their way up the stairs. Step by step, each bought with blood, his troops drove their enemy off the wall.

  He listened as the reports came in. Each sector, one by one, retaken for the revolution. Then he heard the casualty lists.

  Between the initial assault, and holding off the Imperial counterattack, his troops had been cut down by over thirty thousand. Imperial losses were more than triple that, yet they still outnumbered him.

  “Imperial forces are . . . retreating?” Calla voiced the report as a question.

  “What?” Yandumar said.

  “They’re pulling back everywhere,” she said. “Why would they do that?”

  “Yandumar!” called Orbrahn, gesturing wildly. “Look to the west!”

  Yandumar pulled out his far-sight, adjusting the focus until he could see the land beyond the Imperial lines.

  “What the Abyss?” he said.

  “What is it?” asked Calla.

  “Someone is attacking the Imperials from behind. Who could be stupid enough to try something like that?”

  “Didn’t I tell you, dear?”

  Yandumar spun. Slick Ren and Derthon stood at the head of the stairway, covered in blood. He hadn’t bothered to ask her to avoid the fighting. He knew she just would have ignored him anyway.

  “Tell me what?”

  “When seeking out the lords of the central territory, I came across another uprising, completely detached from ours. The plantations of Agoritha are a nasty place, after all. It’s no surprise they used the fine distraction that is our revolution to stage their own.”

  Yandumar shook his head. He was reminded, once again, just how big the empire was. He did not envy whoever took control after this was all over. The job of ruling this continent was far beyond anything he could comprehend. “Any idea of their numbers?”

  Slick Ren shrugged. “Last I heard, they were up to forty thousand, or so. That was a month ago.”

  “And they came to help us?”

  “They’re brave little soldiers, my dear.”

  He looked out over the retreating Imperials. He understood the move. He’d not want to face threats from two sides at once either. Best to cut your losses and eliminate one as quickly as possible.

  He closed his eyes, breathing deep. “If they stand against the mierothi, then we must stand with them.”

  He was ready for resistance, but none came. All heads were bobbing.

  “We’ve got fifteen thousand horses. The Ragremons will lead the cavalry charge. We’ll ride double, with bandit archers behind who’ll dismount before the final distance is closed. Leave ballistae crews and half the casters. Everyone else come by foot as quickly as you can.”

  No one opposed his orders. He rushed down the stairs and made his way to Quake.

  “GATES,” VASHODIA ORDERED. Gathered energy crackling the air around her.

  Jasside, already fully energized, peered over the shoulders of the Elite marching before them. The palace gates stood stark against the dawn. Closed. The lack of guards made her nervous.

  She reached out with her will, seeking the hinges upon which they swung. Once found, it was a simple matter of disintegrating the bonds of the specks—what Vashodia called “atoms”—that made up the mechanisms. All twelve hinges dissolved at her command. She used a pulse of crude power to topple the gate backwards.

  Before the dust had even begun to clear, palace guardsmen charged towards them.

  Vashodia released her power. A wave of hissing darkness rolled through the guards. It melted the flesh off every man it touched, leaving rank upon rank of skeletons. Still armed, they remained standing for a moment, a mockery of the life that so quickly fled, an undead army on the march. Then they clattered to the ground.

  The two Hardohl signaled their commands, and each of their Fists poured through into the palace grounds. Jasside followed on the heels of Vashodia.

  “That was well done,” said Vashodia.

  “Thank you,” said Jasside.

  “It took nearly all of your capacity, though?”

  “Yes.”

  Vashodia sighed. “Next time, instead of dissolving the bonds, try simply changing them.”

  “Into what?”

  “Something that will not support such a massive weight. It will take practice, but requires far less energy.”

  Jasside nodded, grateful—truly—for the lesson. Every moment with Vashodia was like the first breath of air after being held underwater, the first beat of coherency after waking from a dream. The life she had lived before seemed so hollow, so ignorant, that she had a hard time thinking it was not all a hallucination.

  They marched now between rows of outbuildings, three to each side. Jasside peered into one, which was full of shelves holding books. A library? Here? I didn’t think the mierothi cared for such things.

  “Do something about those bowmen, dear.”

  Jasside looked around, energizing. “Where are—”

  From the rooftops, figures revealed themselves. Hundreds. They lifted their arms, showing the curved wood of their bows.

  Don’t dissolve, just change.

  With each hand she formed a tiny ball of energy. Within them, just like she had seen Vashodia do moments ago, a field designed to alter whatever it touched. She pushed them up to the rooftops. Starting at one end, they shot along the line of bowmen, passing through the center of their weapons, changing the consistency of the very material. Weakening it.

  The men flexed, fully extending their pulls.

  A sound like a thunderclap echoed through the corridor. Every last bow had snapped in half. As if on cue, several Elite emerged onto each rooftop and began mowing down the guardsmen. Though they had swords, most remained forgotten in their sheaths, and the bowmen died trying to fight with broken sticks.

  Jasside looked ahead as they came free of the buildings and entered Lightfall Square.

  Here, the enemy hadn’t even bothered with the surprise tactic. They were displayed in the full of their might, spread out east and west, a wall of flesh standing between the intruders and the palace prop
er. Jasside’s heart fluttered as she realized they were outnumbered more than ten to one.

  From the large formations on the flanks, thousands of arrows arced into the air.

  Jasside gasped as the female Hardohl picked her up by wrapping a single arm around her waist. The woman dashed forward, carrying Jasside like a trussed pig under the waiting canopy of Elite shields. As she was set down—noting Vashodia had received the same treatment by the male Hardohl—a sound like a hailstorm beating on a wooden roof filled her ears.

  “There are some daeloth ahead of us,” Vashodia said. “Take care of them.”

  “How many?” Jasside asked.

  “Oh, less than a hundred, surely.”

  Jasside felt her mouth go dry. “How am I supposed to kill them all by myself?”

  Vashodia giggled. “I don’t expected you to kill them, just hold them off awhile. Try using this.”

  The mierothi floated a small field before them as they walked. Jasside studied it.

  “You see?” said Vashodia.

  Jasside, eyes wide, nodded.

  “Spells incoming!” The shout came from someone ahead. Jasside snaked her way through the Elite, stopping just before the foremost line. Peeking through them, she witnessed dozens of castings flinging through the air. And now, dozens more.

  Jasside energized fully. With her will, she formed the field that she had just been shown, spreading it out like a curtain before their formation. Two beats later, the daeloth spells passed through it.

  One by one, they fizzled, falling apart into aimless strands of energy that struck the Elite but did no harm. Jasside smiled.

  She maintained her shield as the Elite marched in lockstep, closing the gap. Vashodia, behind her, gathered power. The guards on the flanks fired one more volley of arrows, then readied their spears and charged.

  Vashodia’s power shot straight up into the air, then fell upon their advancing enemy. A jolt, like lightning, passed through them in an instant. For a beat, nothing happened. Then, men fell, gasping and clutching at their chests. Of the four thousand guardsmen, less than a hundred remained standing.