Then, the trap. And their capture.
The choice granted to them all. One by one, his compatriots refusing the mierothi, spitting defiance in the face of certain death.
Voren’s decision, that led them all . . . here.
Voren shook his head, escaping his cage and slamming the bars shut behind him.
He turned from her, the woman he loved but could never have, for she had already been mated to another. Among the valynkar, such things were never broken. The pain of choosing between death or eternal nightmare was an agony he would not wish upon anyone, yet it paled before even a single moment of this unrequited desire.
Ignoring the glass shards at his feet, Voren stood and returned to the center of the room. Thirty-nine would have to be enough. The infant Hardohl would not suffer from such a minor lack.
A small dagger rested on the table. With it, Voren sliced open his palm then pushed his hand down into the blood-filled bowl.
Voren began energizing.
The chamber filled with a thick humming, a vibration in all senses, as the sorcerous power of his kin’s souls awakened, magnified by the blood-scything, every last drop of essence pouring into Voren, and through him. Ecstasy washed away all traces of guilt, every last bit of . . . everything.
Gods, imagine what I could do with this power . . . if only I dared. But Voren never had dared. He might be able to secure his own escape, but his kin would be left behind in Rekaj’s clutches. And without Voren, the emperor had no use for them.
His thoughts became jumbled as he drew in more power—now almost a tenth of the capacity available to him. Such magnitudes of energy begged to be used, to scorch and burn, to take control, and he needed the utmost of his concentration to keep it bent to his will.
Voren forgot all else as he extended his other hand over the jar of ink and began preparing the blessing.
Chapter 4
THE FOREST LAY about them, twisted trees wilting in the late-summer heat. An underbrush of yellow grasses and shrubs blanketed a parched landscape, ground pocked with clusters of drab boulders and patches of soil too dry to sustain much more than weeds. Mevon thought it a fitting place for his enemy to meet their end.
They rode into a rough clearing, and he held up a hand. “We’ll make camp here.”
“Aye,” said Arozir and Tolvar in unison. They dismounted, setting off a clatter of motion as the rest followed suit.
The days and leagues had taken their toll, showing in the faces of every member of the Fist. Even the rangers, ever at home in the wilderness, had circles under their eyes from too-brief rests and long stretches in the saddle. They had made good time, though. Tens of thousands of rank-and-file troops had begun their marches well before them, but the Fist had outpaced them all. For those masses were merely the walls of the trap.
Mevon and his Fist were its teeth.
The scenes they had already visited were gruesome indeed. First the voltensus, a shattered ruin, confirming the rumors of powerful sorcerers among their quarry. Whoever they were, they were bold. Mevon almost admired them for that.
More chilling were the sites of supposed ambush, where daeloth bodies had been found. That, and not much else. Where the rest of the soldiers had disappeared to could only be guessed at. Eight sites and not a trace of them, leaving Mevon in the dark as to their numbers and capabilities.
They had left a trail well enough, though. And Mevon had not hesitated to follow.
Mevon hopped down from Quake, then helped Jasside off her mount. One of the Elite guided both horses away to the picket lines now under construction.
Mevon glanced down at her, then tilted his head for her to follow. Together, they began circling the campsite. “Tell me again,” he said, “of this rebel leader.”
“Searching for a weakness?” she said with a smirk. “You won’t find one.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
She shrugged. “He is smarter than you, by far. Whatever plan you come up with, be sure that he has prepared for it. Your defeat is certain.”
She had displayed nothing but cooperation since their departure from Thorull. Her one defiance showed in her descriptions of this “golden man,” the one to whom she claimed loyalty. He assumed that such words were intended to instill fear in him, or perhaps some caution, but they had the opposite effect. A prize, as this man surely would prove, was not one Mevon intended to share with others.
“We shall see, won’t we?” he answered at last.
Her façade remained in place, for now, a smile and upturned nose and an air of nonchalance. Whatever paltry acting lessons she had been given seemed to give her enough confidence not to realize how pathetic her attempts at subterfuge were. All the better. Mevon played her game, letting her think she was effective in her deceptions.
“Your confidence would be admirable, were it not so misplaced,” she said. “I don’t know where you get it from.”
Mevon stepped over a fallen log, then reached behind to help Jasside over. “I was taught by the best.”
“One of your old masters at the Hardohl academy?”
Mevon nodded. “Master Kael. It was no secret the other masters were afraid of him. He was something special. Didn’t look like much, but he could fight any five students at once, even the oldest ones. Never lost, so far as I saw.”
“Let me guess, he took a keen interest in you from a young age? Said that you were special?”
Mevon peered at her sideways. “Yes. How did you know?”
She flashed a crooked smile. “Like I said—a guess. Though, if he’s even half of what you make him out to be, I can see where your arrogance stems from.”
“Is it still arrogance if it’s justified?”
She shrugged. “Some would say so.”
He grunted. “Kael taught me everything he knew. The lessons he gave me far exceeded the instruction received by my peers. When I graduated, he said I was the best he had ever seen. No one disagreed with him.”
“And this peerless review extended to your tactics as well?”
“He taught me to surround myself with men who knew their business in that regard. I am a weapon, and best suited to that task alone.”
“The task of killing, you mean.”
“Yes.”
They strolled in silence, making half a circuit around the camp before she spoke again.
“Have you decided what you will do about me and my . . . ability?” said Jasside.
Mevon hesitated. He’d thought much on the subject but had failed to come up with any satisfying resolution. “After this is all over, I will turn you over to the prefect as I had originally planned.”
“And simply keep quiet about my secret?”
“What would you have me do? It’s not as if I can confront the emperor about this.”
She took a long breath. “What if you could?”
Mevon furrowed his brow. “What?”
“If you could confront the emperor, what would you say?”
“I . . .” had never even thought of it, “don’t know. It’s just not my place.”
“So you are afraid of the mierothi then? Good. I was beginning to think there was nothing you feared.”
“It’s not fear, but respect. They are this land’s rulers, and all must bow before their authority.”
“Why?”
Mevon rocked his head back. “Excuse me?”
“Why should they be allowed to rule unopposed? Why not someone else? Someone . . . better?”
“And your glorious master thinks he is this ‘better man’?”
“And what if he does?”
Mevon released an amused grunt. “Then I pity your cause. From what you’ve told me, I gather that your lord is ruthless and possessing of arrogance that would make even Ruul seem humble. He would make no better ruler than we currently have
, and probably far worse.”
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. His words must have pinched a nerve. This unexpected turnabout proved most satisfying. Her face scrunched up in thought, and it was a score of beats before she spoke again.
“In truth,” she said, “I am not his closest confidant. That post belongs to another. As to my master’s plans, his desired end state, all I know is that the mierothi will no longer be the undisputed power in the empire.”
The truth of her words was belied by her quavering voice. She didn’t know. An interesting development if she was indeed ignorant of the final goals of this golden man. He added “manipulative” to the list of adjectives in his head describing him.
“So,” Mevon said. “This ‘revolution’ of yours . . . I take it some deep-seated hatred for the mierothi is fueling your cause?”
Carefully, Jasside replied, “I suppose that would not be inaccurate.”
“And your master, his strife with them is greatest of all?”
“Perhaps. But each of us, to some degree, has reason for joining.”
“What’s yours?”
She turned away, a tear rolling down her cheek, and sniffed. Softly, she said, “The unjustified death of someone I loved.”
Mevon frowned. And by my own hand, nonetheless. Then he paused. She had become a rebel before he had killed her half brother. It must have been someone else. His actions had probably only confirmed her decisions.
Their path had now completed its revolution, bringing them back to where they started. Mevon was rescued from further conversation by the thump of approaching hooves. In moments, their source rode into view: Idrus, along with two other rangers, returning from their reconnaissance.
Mevon turned to wave Tolvar and Arozir over, but the pair was already on the way. Their steel boots dragged up close as Idrus, on his lean steed, came huffing to a stop. The ranger captain motioned his companions off, then vaulted from the horse.
“Bad news first,” ordered Mevon.
“There is but one road into the valley,” Idrus said. “A narrow canyon passage guarded by five hundred alert and entrenched soldiers. They are protected by stakes and bulwark fortifications, and have a killing field a hundred paces deep. At least a dozen casters stand at the ready, with all kinds of nasty wards laid about the place. Any frontal attack would cost us dearly and awaken the hornet’s nest beyond.”
“And the good news?”
Idrus smiled deviously. “Our enemy is confident that no other path exists. With patience, and a bit of rope, we were able to create our own trail into the valley.”
Mevon, though facing Idrus, kept his attention in his peripheral vision for Jasside’s reaction. So far, her mask held: a thin smile and eyes that gave away nothing.
“Excellent,” Arozir said. “Looks like our rebels are in for quite the surprise.”
“Aye,” said Tolvar. “Bastards won’t know what hit ’em.”
“Tonight we rest,” Mevon said. “And most of tomorrow as well. Come the next nightfall, we cut off the head of this rebellion and feast on its bleeding corpse.”
As his captains moved off to inform the Fist, Mevon spied a twitch of Jasside’s lip. But the setting sun had cast her face in an odd light, and he was unsure if the movement had been towards a frown or a smile.
He wished he knew what it had been . . . and, either way, what it meant.
“THEY ARE CLOSE,” said Gilshamed.
Yandumar, seated on a flat grey stone around a low fire, glanced over his shoulder at the valynkar, who had come up behind him. In his hand was a smooth object that glowed at the center. Jasside’s soul-stone. Each day he had watched as Gilshamed took its reading, measuring the progress of Jasside and Mevon. Each time, as he confirmed their continued approach, a part of him marveled that this crazy plan was actually working.
The rest of him was filled with dread.
“You think tonight, maybe?” he asked.
“Possibly,” said Gilshamed. “Though, as hard as they’ve been pushing, I imagine Mevon will want to give his men a rest first.”
Yandumar nodded, turning back towards the fire. “Let’s hope he takes the bait.”
“He will. Your faith in Kael is greater than mine. I should think you most intrepid regarding this stage of our plan. Should I, instead, be worried?”
“Ha! No. That old geezer came through. In more ways than we’ll ever be able to count.”
“Ah.” Gilshamed stepped forward and sat at his side. “Then it is yourself that you doubt.”
Yandumar sighed, slumping forward. “Right, as ever. You know, Gil, you should try being wrong once in a while. Might do ya’ some good.”
Gilshamed shook his head, voice turning solemn. “I think not. I have had enough of failure. Underestimating my adversaries . . . misplaced faith in my allies . . . no. No more.”
“Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ve thought of everything this time.”
Yandumar settled his gaze on Gilshamed. Those golden eyes reflected the dancing firelight, sight lost in memories. His usually regal posture sagged in a mirror of Yandumar’s own, and his leather-wrapped feet kicked absently at a clump of grass. Yandumar noted these details and more, his mind grasping at everything, anything, trying to keep busy so he wouldn’t think. There are things I haven’t told you. . .
He sat up, stretching his back to a satisfying ripple of vertebrae. “Still, we’re not gods. We can only do our best and . . . pray.”
Gilshamed drew a sharp breath, snapping back into the present. “True, I suppose. Does the God of your people lend strength to such endeavors?”
“Yes. At least, I’d like to think so. As long as our intentions remain pure.” In truth, he didn’t know. So much was lost. He and his kin, the people of the old nation of Ragremos, did their best to live according to the teachings of the First Creator, fragmented though the scriptures were. It was not always easy deciphering truth from the scattered passages. Oh, the vows we have taken. . .
But they tried, and prayed that trying was . . . enough.
“Would you two shut up already?”
The woman’s voice broke his thoughts. Both he and Gilshamed jerked their heads up to face the speaker, who sat across the pit of flames. Her throaty laughter accompanied the shhkkt sound of her whetstone as it sharpened her favored daggers.
Gilshamed addressed her. “This may be the last moment of peace we have for quite some time, Slick Ren. Let us spend it as we may.”
Slick Ren slid the blade into a sheath situated crosswise under her breasts and drew its twin. Her curve-hugging leather attire, the shade of blood, held a score of daggers of various sizes and purposes. Both her plump lips and her slicked-back hair matched the hue, though the latter held a streak of grey—the only indication of her forty-two years of age.
“You go right on and do that,” she said as she set to work sharpening the new blade. “While we sensible folk actually prepare.”
The bandit queen of the Rashunem Hills had a point. Yandumar, however, had no desire to conduct such prebattle rituals. Usually, he would. Not this time. He planned to fight, but did not wish his edges to cut too deeply.
Gilshamed turned towards his tent, and Yandumar followed with his gaze. “As you can see,” said Gilshamed, “my own preparations are under way.” As he spoke, a man passed through the golden flaps towing a cart, flanked by another pair who carried shovels. Before the entrance folded closed, Yandumar spied another dozen men working inside.
“Risky business, that,” Slick Ren said. “Better hope it pays off.”
“You’re not backing out now, are you?” Yandumar asked.
She fixed her icy eyes on him, smiling. “Our kingdom was founded on risky plays. I have every confidence that this game will be no different. We’d not be involved otherwise. Isn’t that right, Derthon?”
Mentio
n of his name brought her brother’s gaze up. He sat cross-legged at her side, silent, as always. They both had their share of brains and brawn, but when it came to voicing thoughts, he let her take permanent lead. Yandumar had never heard him speak. He wasn’t sure if the man could.
Derthon nodded once, then bent his eyes down again. He returned to rubbing an oiled cloth across his sword, a sleek, curving, single-edged work of art. The blade was impossibly sharp and never dulled, enchanted, most likely. The man wore no clothes, at least not what normal people would consider clothing, but his entire body was wrapped in linen bandaging. Beneath, Yandumar did not know what would be found.
“I am glad to hear it,” said Gilshamed. “We all stand to gain much from this. Though some”—his eyes flicked to Yandumar—“more than others.”
“So long as we get around to killing some of them mierothi bastards,” Slick Ren said, “I’ll help you fetch lost pups from wells all you want.”
Yandumar jumped up, glaring down on her. “That’s not what this is about.”
“Tell yourself whatever you want to,” she said, pointing with her dagger. “So long as you remember our deal.”
“We will,” said Gilshamed, standing alongside him. “But let us not count victory before battle has even begun. I suggest we all get some rest tonight.” As if on cue, the sun flashed, then disappeared behind the Godsreach Mountains. Gilshamed continued. “I will notify you all at once as soon as Jasside makes contact. Until then . . .” He bowed, as if at some royal court, and departed for his tent.
Slick Ren and Derthon both rose as well, slipping blades into their respective sheaths. The brother stepped away, but Ren lingered.
“You know,” she said. “I never like to step into battle feeling . . . unfulfilled.” She raised an eyebrow. “How ’bout you?”
Despite himself, he smiled. “Tempting.” Scorch me, isn’t that the truth! “But . . . maybe some other time.”
She chuckled and sauntered away, lips turned down mockingly. “What a shame. I’ve always had a thing for beards . . .”
Her allure trailed away along with her words, and Yandumar sat once more by the fire. He closed his eyes, running fingers through his beard.
Veiled Empire Page 8
