Veiled Empire

by Nathan Garrison

  “Sorry,” Mevon said, not meaning it. He flipped his hand towards Paen to tell him to go on.

  “As I was saying, my family’s distribution warehouse in Mecrithos has dropped supplies for us three days’ south of here. We will meet up with our other armies at the location. And from there, we will be positioned to assault the city itself.”

  Mevon nodded. Jasside had always wanted to see Mecrithos.

  “I’ve also taken the liberty to arrange for, shall we say, covert infiltration?” Paen leaned forward and handed Mevon a sheet of paper. It showed the five gates of Mecrithos, with circles around the outermost entrances. Names of contacts and pass codes were written beneath. “I assume we’ll want to get people inside the walls before we try to take them.”

  “Yes,” Mevon said absently. “Good work.”

  Calla Rymerhin cleared her throat. She had taken over as leader of his casters after the battle. After Jasside had fallen. “I’ve made contact with three different groups from the eastern territory. They are headed this way.”

  “How many?” asked Mevon.

  “Six thousand in all, many defectors from their local military units.”

  More defectors. Without their daeloth masters driving them, many Imperials had switched over, bolstering the revolution. They will be needed.

  Bellanis stepped forward. “The weapons and armor we recovered from our last battle will be sufficient to outfit these new recruits. There was some concern about using Imperial gear for our troops, though. Some said it would get confusing in the thick of fighting, and wanted to make sure we knew how to tell friend from foe.” She smiled, bringing her helmet from around her back. “We think we’ve come up with a satisfying resolution.”

  The entire helmet gleamed, shining in the evening sunlight.

  “Gold paint?” Mevon asked.

  Bellanis nodded. “We were going to use tied golden cloth at first, but thought it might slip off or get sheared during a battle. This, however, will remain unmistakable. Once all helms are complete, we’ll start working on pauldrons and gauntlets, too, if we have enough paint left over.”

  “Good thinking,” said Mevon.

  In truth, they had all been maintaining the army without him since Jasside became . . . lost. And they’d done a fine job of it. Better than he could have. Much better. The truth, as he saw it, was that they didn’t need him at all. It made what he had to do next that much easier.

  Mevon sighed. Loudly. “Anything else to report?” His tone made it clear that if they had anything to say, it had better be important.

  Calla shook her head, already turning to depart. Paen leaned in close and whispered in his ear, “You need to take your mind off things. Find a woman. Any woman. Get it out of your system.” He winked and shuffled off.

  Bellanis lingered. She so pointedly ignored Paen as he left that Mevon knew the boy had something to do with what would come next.

  She smiled at him, a look full of pity, yet laced with an unspoken promise. Going to comfort me in my grief are you? Mevon felt anger rising. At her, at Paen, at the mierothi. He was done with all of it. Still, the army needed her, and he could not afford to drive her away.

  Bellanis took a step forward. Mevon stopped her with a single, firm look. She stiffened. The look in her eyes instantly became a glare.

  “Was there something else you needed?” Mevon asked. Polite, but professional. She was no fool. She knew her chances had become nil.

  She sighed. “She was a good woman. A brilliant caster. But in the end, she was a soldier. Like you. Like me. We all knew the stakes when we started playing this game, her most of all.”

  “I know.”

  She hesitated a moment longer, as if searching for something else to say. Apparently coming up blank, she turned and marched away.

  The sun was nearly set. Mevon made for his tent.

  He pushed through the flap. It was small, not nearly as roomy or ostentatious as the one Gilshamed occupied. He kept nothing in it, normally, but a bedroll and a small sack containing emergency provisions. Those were now pushed to one side. Dominating the cramped space was chest a pace long and half a pace wide and tall. Mevon knelt in front of it, unlatched the lock, and flipped open the lid.

  A gasp rose from inside.

  Mevon inhaled the scent of blood and old sweat and the man’s stale, ragged breath, which was infused with the scents of sage and cinnamon.

  “Come to give me my evening draught, then?” the daeloth spat. “Or is it more questions? Or just torture for its own sake, as you seem to enjoy.”

  Looking down into the eyes of the man who had killed Jasside, Mevon shook his head. “Not tonight.” Mevon knew then that he had made his decision. “Tonight begins our reckoning.”

  He reached down a hand to the daeloth’s throat and squeezed, gripping until long after the thrashing had stopped. He stood, not bothering with the lid.

  Mevon moved to the side of the tent and knelt, rolling up the bedroll. He affixed it to his pack, cinching down the straps to secure it. Food and water were already in the ruck, and he could find more as he needed.

  It seemed quick, but Mevon had always been ready for anything. And for this, he had been ready for a long time. Now that he was sure the army was taken care of, there was nothing holding him back.

  “I am not a leader of men.”

  He sighed. Saying it out loud helped make it real. He had known what he was—had always known. But being thrust into a position of authority, finding himself suddenly among people who shared his blood, a father who had sacrificed so much to find him—all of that had make him forget.

  “I am a killer.”

  The mierothi had forged him into an instrument of death. Even though he now turned his talents against them, nothing could change the fact of his existence. His purpose. His only true usefulness. Playing at leader had gotten too many killed already. Had gotten her killed. Mevon knew, for the good of everyone, he had to stop pretending.

  There was only one thing left. He had only done it once before, and that time was only to ensure it worked.

  Mevon pulled Justice into his hands. Now, more than ever, he realized how true the name was. His fingers and thumbs slid along familiar grooves, finding ten individual notches on the rod. Each a thorn. His fingers squeezed, his hands twisted and pulled.

  His Andun slid apart.

  Mevon folded the two halves together and tied them to his back. He put a cloak over himself, covering it up completely, then shrugged his arms through the straps of his pack.

  He stepped out of his tent. Night had fallen, and no one paid any attention to the hunched figure walking out of the camp alone.

  “IT’S WORKING,” VOREN said to the council members gathered around the war table. He pointed to markers on the map that he had placed indicating Gilshamed’s position. They formed a straight arrow aimed for Mecrithos. “It appears he was trying to head north. We still do not know why, but we do know that he is alone.”

  Rekaj nodded. “Jezrid?”

  “I can confirm Voren’s report. My men have been following him for days, keeping out of sight as you requested.”

  “It’s for their protection,” said Voren.

  “So you’ve said. But he is only one man, and even valynkar have to sleep sometime.”

  “He’s more useful to me alive,” Rekaj said. “When we hang his body from the city walls as their armies approach, whatever spine they may still have will break.”

  Jezrid bowed his head, withdrawing from further argument. The emperor turned to the supreme arcanod. “Give me some good news about our forces.”

  Grezkul stiffened. “We have fewer than I’d like in any position to be a factor. The loss of an entire host was . . . unfortunate. But I am confident the city walls will repel any attack.”

  “How many are stationed there?” Rekaj asked.
>
  “Twenty thousand, along with three hundred and twelve daeloth. We can double both those numbers if we move men away from the inner walls and foot patrols inside the city.”

  “Do it. And add sixty of our kin to your list of assets.”

  “What?”

  The corner of Rekaj’s lip curled up. “I’ve recalled our brethren serving at each of the territory capitals. Those twenty will link with two of the enlightened each and stand the outer city walls.”

  “That will be . . . most helpful,” Grezkul said. “Their darkwatch, too?”

  Rekaj shook his head. “Their guards will augment our own at the palace. A thousand darkwatch should be enough to protect us from anyone thinking to slip in during the chaos.”

  Voren saw what the emperor was doing. Sowing division among even themselves by proclaiming those in this room more valuable than the rest of their kin. He could tell that none of the others liked the notion. It meant that Rekaj alone had the power to decide which of them was worthy of life itself and that falling out of his good graces meant they could become like the rest: expendable.

  I do not know what great purpose you and your god strive for, but shattering the already tenuous unity of your people is most certainly not the best way to go about it.

  Voren smiled to himself, thinking he had discovered another dangerous side effect of absolute power—absolute blindness.

  Rekaj turned to the high regnosist. “I trust your ‘forces’ will soon arrive?”

  “Just in time,” Lekrigar said. “Though I still don’t see the need—” He bit his lip, choking off an argument he’d made before and knew he couldn’t win. “I leave tonight to meet them.”

  “Make sure you hasten their steps. If they miss the battle, I would find it most . . . disappointing. It’s long past time that we tested the effectiveness of your little experiments.”

  Lekrigar fought a scowl. “They wouldn’t miss it. Not even for the world.”

  Truln, standing at Voren’s side, muttered under his breath, “Stop trying to be so clever.”

  “Let’s hope so,” said Rekaj. He turned to the mother phyzari. “Anything to report?”

  Voren realized that she had been quiet, not speaking during the entire meeting so far. She practically jumped when Rekaj called on her.

  “No.” Kitavijj shook her head as if waking from a dream. “I have nothing to say.”

  Rekaj gazed at her sharply for a few beats but said nothing further to her. “Well then, we’ll meet here tomorrow at the same—”

  “Wait!” Truln said, risking a glare from the emperor for the interruption. “Isn’t anyone going to talk about the revolt of plantation workers on the Agoritha plains? Or the sudden and complete drop-off of bandit activity in four out of five territories? And why isn’t there mention of our Hardohl assets?”

  Voren laid a hand on the chronicler’s shoulder. “Questions for another time, I think. Once more pressing issues have been dealt with.”

  “But . . . the Chronicles . . . I need accurate, timely information.”

  “And you’ll get it,” Rekaj said. “But not today.” He looked around the room. “We’ll convene in the morning.”

  Everyone muttered their acknowledgment and began filing out of the room.

  “Voren,” said Rekaj, wagging a finger at him.

  Voren sighed and followed the emperor to the balcony. He shivered as the night air hit him, longing for his bed. Even throughout the night he was required to make a report every toll on Gilshamed’s whereabouts. The disruption of any kind of sleep pattern was beginning to wear on him, and he had learned to savor the few moments of rest he could get. A yawn crept up as his thoughts lingered, and he failed to suppress it.

  Rekaj eyed him sideways, seemingly amused. “In need of rest, Voren?” He chuckled. “Worry not. Soon, Gilshamed will be dead, and this rebellion will be swept away. We’ll all be able to sleep better then and get back to more important matters.”

  “Like conquering the world?”

  Rekaj grinned, revealing his pointed teeth. “So, you figured it out, have you?”

  Voren shrugged. “It was not hard. Especially considering that you wanted me to find out.” Voren studied Rekaj for any sign that he was mistaken. He saw nothing. “The only real mystery is why?”

  “Why I aim to conquer the world? Or why I wished you to know?”

  “Both, actually.”

  Rekaj paused, as if gathering his thoughts. Or, perhaps, just giving Voren time to conjure the worst possible explanation. If so, it worked.

  “Before my communions with Ruul became exercises in silence, he made plain what he expected of me, of all the mierothi. I intend to fulfill his final guidance to us. It is . . . all we have left of him.”

  Voren’s breath caught in his throat as realization dawned. “You actually miss the presence of your god.”

  “Of course. As do you, yes?”

  So that’s why I’ve become your confidant these past few months. You expect that I feel the same about Elos, that we share the same sense of loss. Well, I’ve got news for you, Rekaj—I don’t even remember my god. He doesn’t care about me in the slightest, a sentiment I return.

  Of course, he could not tell Rekaj all this. Not and expect to live much longer. Their recent familiarity was tenuous at best. Voren knew it could all be shattered by a single wrong word.

  Instead, Voren nodded, turning out to view the palace grounds far below them and the city beyond. “I understand,” he said. “So, what was it?”

  “Ruul’s final guidance?”

  “Yes.”

  “It was the same thing he said to us when he first created my people. When he first turned us into what we are today. He guided us in the construction of the first voltensus, then told us to cover the world in them.”

  “The sensor towers? Why?”

  “He said they were needed for our protection. I always took that to mean the protection of the mierothi, but perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps he meant to guard all life on this world.”

  Voren suppressed the urge to scoff. Altruism from the god of darkness? Right.

  Rekaj continued. “He actually apologized about them. About the sacrifices necessary to create them. Can you imagine? A god saying ‘sorry’ like he was answerable to his mere creations?”

  “That must have been . . . confusing.”

  “Indeed.”

  Voren found himself tapping his fingers nervously on the stone railing. It seemed Rekaj was about to get to the point, and Voren was not sure he wanted to hear what was about to be said.

  “I intended to use you, eventually,” Rekaj said. “A bargaining chip with the valynkar. Keeping you and the others alive had its uses, but I knew one day you might become valuable to keep your people from our throats while we fulfilled our purpose.”

  “You wish to avoid conflict? That’s wise, I suppose. After what happened the first time, war between our peoples would likely tear this world apart.”

  “Perhaps. More importantly, it would undo all of Ruul’s work. That, we cannot have.” Rekaj sneered at Voren. “Recent events have given me a new perspective, however. I believe Gilshamed will be far more potent in your place. To that end, we must capture him. Alive.”

  Voren gulped. “I see.”

  “The question then becomes, who will he come for first? You, or me?”

  Voren chortled, expelling the nervous energy within him. “Do you really need to ask that?”

  Rekaj shook his head. “I’ll supply you with fifty darkwatch. When he comes for you, get to your chambers and stay there. The wards will render him impotent, and the guards will apprehend him.”

  “I understand.”

  Voren walked back to his chambers and fell into his bed, exhausted. But his mind would not turn off.

  I understand perfectly, Rekaj. Even now
, even after all my service, I am still . . . expendable.

  Chapter 15

  HARRIDAN CHANT APPEARED in the road ahead of them, a ceaseless grin plastered across his face.

  “Good news?” Draevenus asked.

  “All gathered and awaiting your arrival,” Chant said.

  Draevenus dipped his head. “You have my thanks.”

  “What’s all this about, then?” Angla asked.

  Draevenus turned to his mother, who marched at his side. Her face, pale as all mierothi, was pinched and smooth, with a narrow nose and pointed jaw. It was good to see it again after all these years. “A surprise, mother. You’ll see.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes fell to the dirt ruts paving their way.

  Draevenus smiled at her, but inside he grimaced. The old Angla—the one he knew from childhood and the early days after the transformation—would have risen to his cryptic response, either showing mock delight over the very idea of a surprise or smacking the back of his head for not answering to her satisfaction. She showed none of that now.

  His cleansing had done much to restore her but it could not completely undo fifteen hundred years of rape, poison, and endless pregnancy.

  Draevenus glanced over his shoulder at the three hundred mierothi women walking behind them. It had taken him most of three days to heal them all. The spell was complex, requiring large amounts of concentration and power. He almost thought about asking some of the first ones he had cleansed to help him with the rest but decided against it. None, so far, had even tried to touch their power. He wasn’t sure if they remembered how.

  “You never answered my question, you know,” Angla said.

  Draevenus raised an eyebrow. “Which question would that be?”

  “The first one I asked.”

  He thought back to when she first reawakened, replaying the scene. “Ah. That.” He sighed, trying to think of the best place to start . . .