“Captain Chant,” Draevenus said. “Captain Shadow. And your third, Captain . . .”
“Daere,” Harridan finished. He swept his arms to indicate his brethren. “All of Kael’s old Fist. What’s left of us, anyway.” He set his fiddle case by the fire.
Further questions were set aside when someone mentioned a room with both privacy and a washbasin. Draevenus bolted towards it.
It been months since he’d had a proper washing, and a week since he’d even changed his clothes. The water had been warmed, and Draevenus found himself lingering, hands pressed to the bottom of the basin even after his body had been washed. Warmth. Cleanliness. It’s funny how your appreciation for things grows immensely when you are denied them. Draevenus smiled to himself as he re-dressed and joined the others by the fire.
A hot bowl of stew and a foaming mug of ale were waiting for him when he emerged. He inhaled them, asking for seconds of both.
Chant reached for his wooden fiddle case. “Think she’s about warmed up, now.”
And true to his name, the old Elite captain began to play a tune, singing along. Draevenus barely heard the words, but the voice . . .
He had expected a tavern singer. Someone capable but forgettable. Chant’s voice was, quite simply, the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. Perfect pitch, a range greater than the Andean Mountains, and every utterance dripping with authentic emotion. The notes scratched out from the beat-up fiddle, despite their rawness, matched the voice perfectly.
Draevenus lost track of time, listening to the songs, joining in occasionally, eating, drinking, swaying side to side along with the soldiers seated around him. Just for a while, he was able to forget about everything. He felt, for one fleeting moment, at peace.
Eventually, Chant put the fiddle away, and the soldiers, one by one, turned to Draevenus with expectant gazes.
He knew what they wanted.
“Thank you all for being here,” he said. “What I hope to do is dangerous, and the chance for victory improves drastically with all of you to help.”
“Of course,” Harridan said, patting him on the shoulder. “Ain’t none of us got any love for the empire. Not after what happened to Yandumar.”
“I take it you know what awaits us then?”
“Verge,” Shadow said. “I’ve been scouting. Can’t see inside, but we’ve been able to piece together what goes on there.”
Draevenus sighed. “Then you understand why I must stop it.”
Everyone seated around the fire nodded in unison.
He turned an incredulous gaze on Chant. “Are you sure it was my sister that sent you?” Vashodia knew what went on at Verge. Knew but, unlike him, did not seem to care. Despite her efforts to seem indifferent, it seemed she had found a part of her that cared after all. Enough, at least, to send him help.
“Like I told you before,” said Harridan. “She asked us. We agreed.”
Draevenus smiled. Knowing her, it had taken a great deal of humility to stoop to actually asking for help, even if it was not for herself.
And he was glad for it. More so than anyone could possibly realize. This was not merely extra soldiers to assault a fortified objective. Draevenus was confident he could have been successful on his own. But there likely would be collateral damage. Deaths he could not prevent.
Maybe now, he could.
And more importantly, he would not now be forced to return to the place he had been so many centuries ago. A place where he didn’t hesitate to act, to kill without mercy or pause, to throw all thought for the consequences aside and accomplish the mission, no matter the cost. A place where the very mention of his name brought his enemies to their knees with fear.
A place where he despised himself.
Even if you don’t care about Verge, you cared enough about me to save me from the self that I hate. For that, dear sister, I love you.
And on the heels of that thought, another.
Just as you save me, someday I will save you from yourself. From what you have become. Even if you don’t hate it now, fear it now, and even if you never thank me, I will see the darkness within you turned to light.
He turned again to Chant. “Now then, let us discuss how best to assault Verge and free those trapped within.”
YANDUMAR LIFTED HIS head from his hands. He looked to the six men in front of him.
The fastest riders. He’d asked Idrus to send them, with spare mounts, to each of the nearest six cities. They had a simple objective. Now they had returned, and their reports were exactly as Yandumar had predicted.
Exactly as I feared.
“All the garrisons?” he asked again. “All empty?”
One by one, the scouts nodded. Again.
There was only one reason that the empire would leave the cities without even so much as a token guard left behind.
“They know,” Yandumar said. “Somehow, those scorching mierothi know where our main forces are.”
He looked south. Mevon was down there, somewhere, and so was Gilshamed. His son and his best friend. In danger.
Because of me.
“Mount up!” he ordered. The men around him jumped at the harshness of the command. Even the three captains. “Our allies are in need of our help.”
He boarded Quake, and they headed south. All thoughts of stealth were abandoned in favor of speed, even so far as to ride on the roads. They made excellent time.
But Yandumar knew that it wouldn’t be fast enough.
“What are we doing here, Gilshamed?”
Gilshamed glanced at Orbrahn. He’d grown tired of the boy’s insolence. “We are here to complete the objectives of the revolution. To liberate this land.”
Orbrahn looked from him to the city walls, just visible in the distance. “The plan was to make for Mecrithos. That’s where our allies are expecting us. This?” He waved a hand in disgust. “This is a distraction we can’t afford.”
“Mecrithos is still a week distant. We’ve been idle for too long. The people need to know that we still fight for them.”
“This is foolhardy, and you know it. Our position will be compromised.”
Gilshamed smiled. “Not entirely.”
“Is that why you had us steer west around that lake, rather than east, which made far more sense?”
Is that all you caught? For the past week, whenever they came to a possible split in their path, Gilshamed had been guiding them west every time. “Even if they pinpoint us, they’ll have no idea where we are headed next.”
“But this is—”
“Enough!” Gilshamed looked down on the boy. His rage must have been showing, for Orbrahn gulped and backed up a few steps. He said no more.
Gilshamed turned to several Elite, those not part of Mevon’s Fist that had become troop leaders for his forces. “I will disable the forces at the gate myself. Once it is open, lead everyone through.”
They exchanged glances. You made your choice already. Do not think to defy me now. “Aye,” they said at last.
Gilshamed nodded. He unfurled his wings and ascended into the air alone.
He flew along the treetops, keeping the city’s main gate in the center of his vision. It felt good to once again be doing something. Taking from those that had taken everything from him. They deserved the fate he had in store for them, and Gilshamed deserved to be the one to deliver it.
The gatehouse passed beneath him. He turned around in midair, energizing, and came at it from inside the city. He sent a blast of power that knocked the gate from its hinges and collapsed the sides of the guardhouse in a shower of crumbling stone and mortar. As he reveled in the destruction, he noticed something strange.
He saw no bodies.
Where are the guards?
He looked around. The streets were abandoned. Not a soul was in sight.
Something i
s not right. . .
Nearly panicking, he hurled himself back towards his army. It was only then that the clamor of battle reached his ears.
“HERE,” MEVON SAID, his hand outstretched. “I picked these for you.”
Jasside smiled at him. She reached to grab the makeshift bouquet of wildflowers. “Thank you, Mevon.”
“They grow along the cliffs here,” he said, pointing to the deep ravine alongside which they traveled. “I’ve never seen them anywhere else in the empire.”
“That was very thou—”
The flowers slipped from her hands and fell, scattering back down the cliffs on a gust of wind. Mevon looked into her eyes.
They had gone black.
He waited.
A mark later, she came out of it, blinking and trembling. “What is it?” he asked.
“From the scouts,” she said, breathing heavily. “Imperial formation dead ahead. We ran right into them.”
Mevon closed his eyes. If my rangers were here, this never would have happened.
But they weren’t. He was on his own. And he would have to make all the decisions.
“What else did they say? Enemy strength? Disposition?”
Jasside shook her head. “I don’t have any numbers, but it seems they were marching across our line of advance. They’re just as surprised as we are.”
Mevon nodded. He knew surprise. Knew how to use it. He turned to the sergeants acting as his commanders. “All forces advance forward. Strike hard and don’t let up. We’ll only get one shot at this.”
Fear showed on their faces. None moved.
“We either take them down here, or we face them again outside the walls of Mecrithos. Now move!”
They moved.
Mevon ran forward. Time to do battle once more.
He smiled—glad to know that some things never changed—and unleashed the storm.
“STATUS!” GILSHAMED SHOUTED as he landed among his commanders.
“It’s a pitched fight but numbers seem even,” said one of the Elite. “Our casters are linked in trios and are keeping the daeloth at bay so far.”
“That’s the good news,” another said. “Their formations are more cohesive than ours. Our lines are slowly giving way before them.”
Gilshamed nodded. How had the Imperials found them? How had they approached unseen? These questions would have to wait. “Press the attack,” he ordered. “I’ll give you the push we need.” He looked to the sky and flew once more.
He advanced quickly forward, keeping low until he heard the clash of bodies, the ring of steel, the cries of pain, smelled the blood and sweat and fear. Balls of blue flame and arcs of purple lightning danced back and forth as the casters dueled, and hails of arrows fell down upon both sides. Death clung in the air.
He had reached the front lines.
He rose, casting a blaze of light forward. This blinded the enemy and announced his presence to his allies. In a moment, the slow advance of the Imperials reversed direction.
A dozen spells launched in his direction. Rather than form a shield and waste energy, he dove forward to avoid them, and cast his own spells—raging red fireballs the size of a wagon—back at each daeloth he could see. One by one they exploded, consuming each half-breed and any other nearby soldiers in flesh-melting heat.
He rose higher once more, gaining a clear view of the entire breadth of the battle. As he had when the Hardohl and their Elite had raided them at the start of winter, he dashed here and there, guarding his allies by sending his sorcery where the enemy was strongest. But this time, his opponents did not have magic-deadening armor, nor a lifetime of experience fighting casters to aid them. This time, Gilshamed rained fire down from above, and none withstood his fury.
Not since the War of Rising Night had he felt this alive. Not since then had his potential been fully realized. It was, quite simply, glorious.
With the daeloth decimated and the Imperial lines in shambles, Gilshamed smiled to himself and withdrew to gather his strength.
As he turned back, his eyes fell upon the city once more. He watched, heart skipping a beat, as rank after rank of Imperial soldiers marched out of the city he had thought was empty.
LIKE A CHARGING bull, Mevon slammed into the Imperial platoon. Bones crunched beneath his shoulder, and three ranks collapsed outwards, their falling bodies rippling from the point of impact.
Mevon vaulted over them as his troops moved in, hacking and stabbing at the downed figures. Mevon moved on. He had more important targets.
He felt sorcery on all sides. As spells flew in every direction, the chaos of battle left him dizzy trying to sort out where his presence would be most influential. It didn’t help that both forces were in disarray. But even as he spun Justice to strike at any that came near, he was able to focus his concentration on a knot of casting in the distance.
Too far south. Can’t be ours.
He smiled and began pushing through the press of Imperial soldiers, few of whom had the courage to stand against him. Those who did, he cut down without slowing.
The tingling sensation intensified as he closed the distance, and he began to gauge where the castings were coming from. A low hill rested in front of him, a hundred paces away. He could see spells flying towards his troops from just on the other side.
All the daeloth clustered together? I don’t recall that being anywhere in the Imperial tactics book.
It didn’t matter, though. Mevon would make them pay for the mistake.
He crested the hill at a speed that would make a gazelle seem slow and took in the scene below him in an instant.
Threescore figures adorned in the armor of the daeloth stood facing north, to Mevon’s left. Their hands intermittently thrust forward, releasing some sorcery aimed for the lines of Mevon’s troops. He saw the counterspells from his own casters strike back. Often, two spells would meet in midair and annihilate each other in a concussive blast.
Without hesitation, Mevon spun into their midst. His Andun drank deep from a dozen souls before anyone could so much as react.
The farthest daeloth spun towards him and jumped back. Those nearest turned to face him.
Mevon saw now what he hadn’t on the hill. Their faces were pale. They wore the armor of the daeloth, but most of them were just as human as he.
Which is when bodies slammed into him from behind. Steel bit into him in what felt like a dozen different places. Pain blazed in his legs, shoulders, arms, and back.
With a scream of rage, he spun. Six daeloth lost their grips on daggers sticking out of Mevon and skidded along the ground, now slick with his blood. Their eyes widened as Mevon chopped at them savagely. None managed more than a single scrambling step of retreat before Mevon cut them down.
Must’ve followed me up the hill, shadow-dashed in as I became occupied with the decoys. How could I have been so careless?
But the decoys were still soldiers, and they were still a threat. At the commands from the few daeloth that were still hiding on the far side, they drew swords and converged.
Mevon arched his back, then bowed it quickly. All but one of the blades popped out of his body. The last was lodged deep, and he could feel it tearing at the lining of his lung. He coughed, spitting up more blood than air.
Mevon staggered backwards up the hill, fending off half a score sword thrusts in a matter of beats. So thirsty. The loss of blood had weakened him. His blessings burned as they began to reknit his damaged body, but not even they could restore everything.
He slashed sideways, cutting three men through the eyes. He punched left with Justice, impaling two men, even as he ducked, allowing several blades to pass overhead. He swung his legs out to knock down two more. They toppled, taking four more behind them to the ground, and Mevon danced across their forms with spinning blades.
The move exhausted him, th
ough, and he had to retreat once more to catch his breath.
Even weary as he was, he still noticed the surviving daeloth moving into flanking positions. When they tried dashing in, this time he was ready for them.
They came in pairs. The first, jumping in from opposite sides, collided with each end of his blades. Their bodies were moving so fast that they met in the middle of his Andun and stuck there.
More came. Mevon abandoned Justice and met them with fists and elbows and feet, driving their dashing forms from the sky with a crunch of bones and a spray of blood.
He drew his own daggers from his belt and whirled among the remaining soldiers. He ignored the pain, the fatigue, the thirst, and let the storm finish the fight.
His last enemy fell. Mevon collapsed upon the hilltop. He reached behind and pried the dagger from his back, and, after half a mark, was able to take a breath without spraying blood.
He drained his waterskin. Then, he counted the bodies. What he found disturbed him.
Not enough. Not nearly enough. He looked around the battlefield but could not see or feel any more daeloth.
Where are they?
ANOTHER WAVE OF dark sorcery, like a molten river, screamed up towards Gilshamed. He didn’t have the time to dodge. He threw all the power he had into his shield. The spell struck the barrier—popping it like a bubble—and bounced away. The force drove Gilshamed towards the ground.
Abyss take those daeloth! They had been ready for him this time, harmonizing in groups of at least a dozen. They had less control of their soldiers that way, but their raw, combined power was too much for Gilshamed to overcome alone.
He crashed down, landing on the backs of his own soldiers. Hands reached to help him to his feet. He shouted some words of encouragement to everyone within earshot, then took off toward his commanders.
Before his ejection from the sky, he had been able to glean the enemy’s disposition. He would deliver his orders, catch his breath, and get back to the fighting. The enemy had surprised him by quickly reacting to a hopeless situation—namely, Gilshamed himself—but he knew of ways to punish them for their new arrangement of troops.
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