Veiled Empire

by Nathan Garrison

  A powerful force destroys the voltensus, presumably with efficacious sorcery.

  The only other Hardohl in the vicinity vanish without a trace.

  A mysterious girl confronts me, doing the impossible, which captures my attention as surely as snow in winter. And, from the beginning, she knows my name.

  You knew me! You were sent for me!

  A blade of ice shot up his spine. Oh . . . gods. . .

  Why?

  He became aware of alarmed stares from both the general and the prefect. “ . . . informant,” he finally said. “My informant. I believe she knows something about what’s going on.”

  “Good.” Hezraas rose, smiling hungrily. “Very good. I’ll question her myself.”

  “No! I mean,” he said, seeing Hezraas’s strained expression, “that I’ll need to keep her with me. If she’s in as deep as I think she is, I must have her close to answer any questions that arise.”

  “Hmm. All right. I can see your need.” Hezraas sat down again. “You’d better not disappoint me, Daere.”

  “Have I ever?”

  The prefect grinned.

  Mevon turned to Jasside, a new heat rising in him, and her smug face only stoked its flames. He grabbed her arm, lifting her to stand, and began marching out.

  Mevon whispered in her ear, “Whoever sent you will have answers, and they had better be good.”

  She smiled up at him. “Oh, Mevon, you have no idea . . .”

  GILSHAMED STEPPED TO the edge of the outcropping. He peered down on the crowd gathered below. His followers ringed the edges of the clearing, and in the center stood the prisoners. A combination of awe and terror had kept them from putting up a fight, but now, as they continued their march up into the Rashunem Hills, they were becoming restless. Gilshamed’s troops could no longer manage so large a burden.

  By day’s end, they would be prisoners no more. One way or another.

  All eyes clung to him, waiting for his declarations. He decided not to bring out his wings again. No bright lights. No booming voice from the sky. He had used such tactics once before and knew they would lose efficacy if attempted again. No, they needed something different now. Something to make them feel as if Gilshamed were truly one of them. Something . . . heartfelt.

  Gilshamed smiled to himself. I can do heartfelt when I need to. He cleared his throat.

  “Soldiers of the empire,” he began in tones loud enough for all to hear, “look around you, and tell me what you see.”

  He allowed a moment for them to swing necks left and right, minds searching for the answer Gilshamed desired. He did not let them flounder. “I will tell you,” he continued. “I see farmers and shepherds, bakers and butchers and blacksmiths, former soldiers and former whores. All citizens of your same empire. But all fighting for me.

  “None of you ask why they are fighting. I can see, though, hidden within your eyes, that you already know.”

  No few number of heads dropped at this. Shame, after all, was a powerful tool. But Gilshamed did not mean to use it exclusively. These people did not need reminders about friends and family who have been hauled away to toil endlessly in the mines and tunnels, or made playthings of the mierothi and their bastard-spawn daeloth, or those who had become virtual slaves to the great merchant families that squeeze human flesh dry to line their own pockets, all without a breath of regulation.

  No, what they needed was a cause to call their own.

  “I have traveled the length and breadth of this continent for years, observing life among its people. Wherever I went, the story was the same. Every man, woman, and child feels utterly powerless.

  “That is why you put on the empire’s uniform, take up your swords and shields, and stand your walls. It is the only way, even as small and empty as it is, for you to reclaim some sense of power, some notion that you are not being constantly ground underfoot by forces so much greater than yourselves.”

  Gilshamed shook his head, sighing. “For this, I do not blame you.”

  Drooped heads shot back up again. Bodies leaned forward, ears straining to catch his words. The small rustling and whispers that accompanied any crowd ceased, blanketing the clearing in utter silence.

  Gilshamed drew a breath. “BUT WHAT DOES IT MATTER!”

  The crowd rocked back on their heels.

  “Surely,” he continued, beginning to pace back and forth along the edge of the outcropping, “our cause is doomed. What chance do a few thousand have against a million-man army that can descend on us like an avalanche? What chance against the sorcery of the mierothi themselves, which makes that avalanche seem but a snowflake?”

  He stopped, turned to the crowd, and lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “Then again, what good are a million men if they are in the wrong place? What good a measured response, when our hidden allies strike from the shadows? What good the mierothi’s potent sorcery, when we will have means of negating it?”

  Excited chatter erupted from his audience’s former silence. Such a promise had never before been delivered, never dared to be dreamed. Gilshamed knew that he had them now. He raised his hands, silencing them once more.

  “So I offer you this. If any of you wish to leave, to go back to your empty life of servitude to an empire that cares for you naught, I will not stop you.

  “But if you wish for the remainder of your days upon this world to have meaning, if you wish to fight for a worthy cause, if you wish to feel truly powerless no more, then pledge yourself to this revolution.” He cast one last, long glance over the crowd. “You have until the end of the day to decide.”

  Gilshamed pivoted away, descending the back side of the rock outcropping. He kept a smile on his face as he treaded down the short path to the waiting command tent.

  Even before he pushed aside the flap to enter, the thick aroma of alcohol hit his nose. Yandumar was sunken into a chair, his feet propped on another. A pewter mug filled with ale was in his hand. Half of its contents seemed to be dripping down the man’s beard.

  Gilshamed raised an eyebrow. “Celebrating something, Yan?”

  Yandumar’s glossy-green eyes eventually managed to settle on Gilshamed’s face. He chuckled but did not smile, and raised his mug. “To our new recruits!”

  “And how exactly do you know that my speech achieved the desired effect?”

  Yandumar drained the rest of his ale in one long gulp, then belched. “It’s the great Gilshamed we’re talkin’ ’bout here. You could convince a pig to eat bacon, even after ’splaining what it was.”

  A freshly tapped cask rested on a table near the entrance. Gilshamed nudged it gently, easily determining that it was over half-empty. He frowned over at his friend. “Yan, do you remember where we met?”

  “You mean that dusty tavern in the middle of nowhere? What about it?”

  “You were well into your cups that day, and have been many a day since. But I have never once seen you this drunk before. What is going on?”

  Yandumar sighed. “Today is the thirty-third of Sepuris.”

  Gilshamed’s eyes flared. “Your family . . .” Today was the anniversary of their deaths. “I had not realized.”

  Yandumar waved the sentiment away. “Don’t beat yourself up about it. I’ve always tried to keep these little pity parties to myself but couldn’t manage it this year. Not now that we’ve kicked things off. I’m afraid we’ll be keeping even less from each other than before.”

  Gilshamed stepped over to his friend. He touched his hand upon Yandumar’s shoulder. “Either way, I am truly sorry for what happened to them. If there is anything I may do for you, please do not hesitate to ask, my friend.”

  Yandumar nodded. Gilshamed remained by him, offering his support and comfort.

  So often, words expressed were actually the least appropriate thing in the world. Times like this reminded Gilshamed of that. Des
pite both of their propensities for the superfluous, this stillness, this silence, it fit them, filling the empty spaces in their souls with that which naught else could.

  Yandumar peered down into his empty mug, then tossed it to the side. “It is good, though,” he said, straightening in his chair, “to be reminded of why you fight.”

  “Indeed it is.”

  “And you know,” Yandumar said, a bit of his old self already starting to return, “this road we’re on feels good, don’t it?”

  Gilshamed marveled at the resiliency displayed by Yandumar, which, at times, put his own to shame. Without such an attribute, he doubted any of their success thus far would have been possible. “Treading the path of justice often grants such feelings, especially while rectifying an evil so pernicious as this.”

  “Gotta be careful, though. The line between justice and revenge is thin, especially when you’ve lost a loved one.”

  “Yes . . .”

  The words sent Gilshamed plunging into distant memories. Not a flood of images this time, but rather a single frame, holding the likeness of a valynkar woman. She had hair of violet and a smile that melted glaciers. The woman he loved. The woman he lost. The woman he had not spoken of to anyone, nor dared to allow his thoughts to dwell upon. This solitary window was all he had left of her, all he could allow himself to keep locked inside, for the pain of her loss still ached like a hammerblow to his soul.

  And with pain came the rage. The rage he felt towards the one responsible for her fate.

  Gilshamed flinched as Yandumar’s hand came down on his shoulder. “Who was she, Gil?”

  A protest of ignorance sprang onto his tongue, but he clamped his lips shut. It was no use. “Am I really so transparent?”

  “Only when you think of old things. Old, painful things. Your face looks like I feel when I think of my wife and children.”

  With solemnity, Gilshamed closed the window, sighing as the image of his one and only love faded away into oblivion. “She was my life-mate. I do not . . . that is . . . I suppose I should have told you before now.”

  Yandumar let loose a warm chuckle, the kind Gilshamed knew meant that all was well. “I understand why you didn’t. Still, we need to keep an eye on each other. Now especially, since things are in motion that we have little hope to control, we must keep our motivations in check. I know you’ll be there for me. I just wanted to let you know that I am also here for you.”

  Gilshamed smiled, placing his hand on Yandumar’s shoulder, their embraces now intertwined. “You constantly surprise me. It seems I may never learn all there is to know about you.”

  Yandumar dropped his hand, grimacing briefly before he turned away. “Just don’t go digging too deeply, Gil. You may not like what you find . . .”

  To this, Gilshamed did not know what to say.

  VOREN STEPPED FROM the carriage, blinking, into the newly risen sun. The image jarred him. On principle, he avoided sunrises, for they could hardly fail to conjure memories of his early days of confinement. Days when he still harbored thoughts of his redemption, of his own light rising and conquering the darkness once more.

  So foolish to think such is still possible.

  He felt a tug on his wrist as the man next to him jerked the band that connected them. A band made of human flesh. “C’mon, Voren,” said Kael, much as a man might address a hesitant pet. “No point in dawdling.”

  Voren, sighing, stepped to keep pace with his keeper. Kael looked as old as Voren felt, with thin hair and an even thinner beard the shade of new snow. His appearance, however, was doubly deceiving. At first glance one might guess him at around seventy years of age. However, the man had nearly four decades on this estimate. But neither of these numbers was the slightest indication of the man’s physical ability, for he was a warrior still and could fight better than most men even a quarter his age.

  All thanks to me.

  A wind roared overhead, but they were saved from its bite by a wall of towering boulders on either side of the faded game trail. Distant Mecrithos could be seen sporadically through gaps in the stones, a dark wave widening as it spread down the mountain’s slope. North of the city, an endless sea of grasses rolled to the horizon, appearing as if on fire by the sharp angle of the sun.

  The four daeloth acting as his protection walked by twos, both fore and aft of him. They wore not the heavy armor of the empire’s officer corps, but rather padded leathers overlain with chain mail, all black. These were not mere daeloth, but adjudicators. Voren had no illusions about their purpose. They were not here to protect him but to subdue or kill him if he tried to escape. Their garb, weaponry, and tactics were straight out of Methodology of the Sorcerer-Assassin, written by Draevenus himself.

  Voren began sending a silent prayer to Elos for his friend’s journey, wherever it might lead him, but then thought better of it. The god of the valynkar was not in the habit of casting a compassionate eye on the mierothi.

  There are times when I wonder if he still looks favorably upon me.

  Their little group marched in silence save the scuffle of their feet on the rocky path. Voren knew this trail well, having trod it countless times. They rounded a bend, and the entrance to a cave came into view ahead. The lead daeloth marched in, with only the slightest hesitation as they passed under the jagged stone teeth marking the entrance.

  In mere moments, light had become a memory, and a thick odor, reminiscent of moss and bile, filled the air. Despite having been here on numerous occasions, Voren still nearly choked with each intake of breath. The cave closed in around them, stifling sound and thought. Each adjudicator conjured a ball of blue fire to illuminate their path.

  Periodically, the lead daeloth would motion Kael forward, and the Hardohl would march to stand in place whilst the rest of them passed. The sorcerous wards here held out all intruders and could only be passed with the aid of a void such as his keeper. Voren, so many centuries ago, had insisted upon such protective measures.

  After some time, yet all too soon, they arrived at their destination. A simple wooden door stood before them. They paused just outside. Kael pulled the handle, dispelling the last ward standing between Voren and the chamber beyond. The Hardohl held open the door with a foot as he slipped the band off Voren’s wrist.

  “In you go,” Kael said.

  Voren nodded, then walked inside. The door closed softly behind him.

  Free now.

  He smiled, truly alone and unhindered for the first time in nearly a year, lacking the suppression of both a Hardohl’s touch and the wards affixed in his chambers back at the palace. He energized, savoring the torrent of raw power that filled his whole being. This was life, not the paltry existence he endured on most of his other days. Oh, to be able to hold this sweet, scathing essence at will again. Voren could think of few things greater.

  He opened another door, this of smooth grey metal, using sorcery to pull the heavy bulwark which had no handle to speak of. He stepped inside the room beyond.

  His elation dimmed.

  A soft turquoise light bathed the chamber in luminescence. Round and a dozen paces across, the room had but a few tables in the center. Around the edges of the room were twoscore figures, held floating upright in individual alcoves filled with a glowing, viscous fluid. In stasis, as they had been for time unending.

  Valynkar, one and all.

  Voren steeled himself, and set to work immediately. He approached the first stasis pod, which held a middle-aged valynkar male with sky-blue hair. Voren produced a glass vial from his robes and held it up to a small tube jutting out from the wall. This tube connected with the subject’s inner elbow, inserted intravenously into the main artery. A small wave of magic coaxed a stream of blood down the tube and into the vial. Once it was filled, Voren stemmed the tide and stepped to the table at the center of the chamber. He poured the contents of the vial into a large stone bow
l.

  He proceeded to the next prisoner and repeated the process. Down the line, one after another, he drew from them all, slowly but surely filling the stone bowl with the mixed lifeblood of his kin.

  Each new face threatened to open the locked cell of his memories, but he was sure to keep his eyes averted, mind firmly on his present task and naught else. Pain rested there, behind iron bars in his mind. He had no desire to revisit a time when they had called him “friend.”

  At last he came to the final static soul. More than any of the others, he could not afford to rest his eyes upon her. He kept them firmly downcast as he extracted her blood. Or, tried to, anyway.

  As soon as the red trickle began, a most peculiar thing occurred. None of the others had so much as flinched, but she . . . she began swaying.

  Then, she started twitching.

  The motion intensified, becoming a violent thrashing. Her head rocked back and forth, swirling her hair into tangled violet threads.

  Her face pressed forward through the motion, and her lips parted the vertical seal of liquid. In a cry so hollow, so wracked in misery, as to make his heart skip, she let loose a single word: “Why?”

  He stumbled backwards, the vial falling from his hands to shatter on the floor. He stared up at her, frozen. This isn’t possible. You are all locked away into perpetual dreams . . . perpetual nightmares.

  Voren surged forward and pushed her head back into the pool. Now, as his gaze lingered on her face, he could no longer keep the cage of his ancient memories shut.

  He pictured himself in his youth, not yet even a century old, as the War of Rising Night dragged on. He and his band of equally impetuous valynkar, tired of being told they were too young to fight, forming their own strike force.

  Lashriel coming to him, like an older sister, begging him not to go.

  Voren looking into her eyes, emotions burgeoning that were anything but brotherly.

  His zeal, in time, winning her to his side . . . but merely as an ally. Nothing more.

  Their early successes, disrupting the mierothi supply lines.