It never came.
Draevenus felt the morph. The power no longer writhed outward in all directions. It was, instead, focused. Away from him.
Another power joined the first. This, if not quite its equal, was smarter. And familiar. Vashodia, at last joining the fray. It was exactly the distraction he needed. He resumed his advance.
Step by step, he approached. In half a mark, he rounded a surprisingly intact wall and came, at last, to view his target. The figure glowed like the sun. Draevenus could not even look directly at him for fear of losing his sight.
He paused, readying his daggers in both hands. Gilshamed’s attention, his power, were all focused forward. His back was completely exposed.
It was a mistake ever bringing you into this. A mistake to think we could rely on you. A mistake to believe we could control you.
A mistake that I will now remedy.
Draevenus energized. Stood upright. He kept his head down, not needing to see to pinpoint his target.
Daggers held rigid before him, Draevenus shadow-dashed forward.
Blades sank into flesh. They both tumbled forward, crashing to the ground in a tangled heap. The power sputtered. Died.
Draevenus looked over his target’s shoulder into his sister’s eyes as she withdrew her own sorcery. Beyond her, the two Hardohl, and . . .
No . . . !
. . . Gilshamed, standing protectively over a group of people. And if he were there, then . . .
The scream that erupted from Draevenus’s throat echoed the anguish of generations. And the sound held not a single raindrop before the storm of sorrow wracking his soul.
My friend . . . what could have driven you to this madness?
He quickly withdrew his daggers, knowing it to be pointless. Ever the perfect killer, his blades had struck true. The body slumped to the ground. Motionless.
Voren was dead.
QUAKE’S HOOVES THUNDERED beneath him, tearing up soil as the horse galloped across the field. Yandumar was sure his mount had never moved faster.
He led all eighty-two Elite in a long, single line, dashing westward across the front of the advancing horde. His hope was that the monsters’ animal instinct would prevail over orders, and that they would pursue the nearest targets. It was a desperate move, but the only one he could think of. If it worked, it would allow the rest of his troops the time they needed to make it back to the wall, back to safety.
Yandumar peered over his shoulder.
All of Mevon’s men had gladly volunteered for this, a testament to their dedication. Captain Arozir Torn insisted on bringing up the rear. The fastest of the creatures had closed to within striking distance of him.
A dark lion’s paw swiped for Arozir’s head. He ducked, striking back with his sword. The blade plunged into his opponent’s eye, causing it to scream in fury as it staggered back.
Two more rushed in. Bear jaws closed upon the horse’s rear legs, and the mount crashed to the ground. Arozir leapt from the saddle, just avoiding the thrust of a boar’s tusks. He fell into the creature, slamming his sword home in its chest.
The boar-thing went limp, falling dead atop the captain, pinning him to the ground.
Three more monsters swooped in, devouring both Arozir and the creature he had killed in a flurry of snapping jaws.
Yandumar forced himself to watch, to witness their final moments, to honor their sacrifice, as another of Mevon’s Elite fell. And another. And another. Each man followed the example set by their captain, and took at least one monster with him into death.
Looking past them, Yandumar tingled with mixed dread and hope as the horde swung westward in its entirety. The tactic was working. His allies would live. For a little while longer, anyway.
An old saying came back to him, a favorite of Chant’s. We couldn’t have asked for a better death than this.
Yandumar, now fully prepared to meet his maker, looked forward with a smile. He still remembered old Harridan’s face, could see it right now.
He could see it . . . right now!
A shadow covered the grasses in front of him. Hundreds of figures in dark clothing. Standing foremost among them, Captain Harridan Chant himself.
With a woman—a mierothi—at his side.
His emotions and thoughts were too tangled to make any sense out of them. He slowed Quake and stupidly called out. “Chant?”
The man smiled and waved. Yandumar was sure he was hallucinating.
Then the mierothi woman pressed out a hand, and all other thoughts ceased. Energy crackled at her fingertips. Even Yandumar, who had no sensitivities to magic, withered before the conjuring. A storm cloud of darkness formed at the woman’s calling, then shot out, churning up dirt as it whizzed past him. Yandumar craned his neck to follow it.
The Elite saw it coming, and drove their horses south. The cloud writhed, spitting with vehemence, straight into the charging horde. Beastly screams erupted as darkness engulfed the monsters. Screams that were quickly stifled.
As the storm moved on, Yandumar could see the blood and bone and scattered hides. All that remained of his pursuers. The cloud pulsed, expanded, now covering nearly a klick-wide swath of land. The remaining monsters reeled in all directions to avoid it.
The cloud sought their flesh, and finding it, consumed.
Yandumar turned back as Quake slowed to a halt alongside his old comrade. This close, he could make out the age lines that hadn’t been there the last time he’d seen him. “You real?” Yandumar asked.
Chant smiled. “Real as ever, I’m afraid. Surprised to see me?”
“Glad to see you. Surprised to be alive.” He looked over the crowd. “How the Abyss did you come by this company?”
“Oh, just a deal with a devil. I’ve heard you’re familiar with the concept?”
“Aye.”
He turned back in time to witness the demise of the last of the monstrosities. The cloud, then, broke into pieces, the sections snaking along the ground toward each of the dozen mierothi who had fled in as many directions. Though they shadow-dashed away in spurts of incredible speed, the clouds moved faster, catching up in beats. Death came wherever they touched.
Yandumar sighed. “It’s over.”
“No,” the mierothi woman said. “It has only just begun.”
The storm cloud re-formed. This time it banked toward the milling Imperial army.
Yandumar peered down at her, noticing for the first time her features. He was surprised to find they were familiar to those of another mierothi he knew. “Is that really necessary?”
“They stood with Rekaj. As he has died, so will they.”
Yandumar jumped off Quake and tromped towards her. “But it’s over. Don’t you see? If Rekaj is truly dead, then there’s no need for any more killing. It time to start thinking about mending bridges, not burning them.”
Yandumar could see she wasn’t listening. The Imperial army shivered in panic as the storm cloud neared their lines.
He peered over the crowd. None of the other women were so much as budging. Their power must be linked. And this one woman is the conduit.
His speech rang hollow as he stepped forward, drawing his lone bastard sword.
Harridan moved between them, his own sword held at the ready. “Not another step, Yan.”
Yandumar froze. “This isn’t the way, and you know it.”
“Maybe. But I took a vow to defend Angla. You, of all people, should respect that.”
Angla? Sweet bloody abyss . . . Yandumar was, of course, familiar with daeloth naming patterns, and knew exactly what this woman’s half-breed children would be named. And, by extension, her grandchildren.
He advanced another step. He knew he could not reason with Chant. Even if he convinced him, a vow taken by any son of Ragremos was not something that could be broken. Ever. But Angla
. . . she stood in position to destroy all that he had fought for, the fulfillment of his vows.
Yandumar’s soul twisted in agony as he realized that either he or his old friend could survive this day, but not both.
Idrus dashed up to his side, twin shortswords in hand. “I stand with the Lord-General, uncle,” he called to Harridan. “We all do.” The shuffling of feet announced the arrival of the surviving Elite.
More relics out of memory joined Chant: Shadow, and five others from his old Fist. And behind them, three hundred armed men stalked forward. Yandumar closed his eyes.
God, please, not like this. Forgive me for my sins, and find for us a way out of this scorching mess.
As he opened them once more, he felt Idrus shift his gaze to the right. Yandumar followed, seeing what the ranger had a moment later.
A tiny figure dashing through the grasses. Coming in from behind the mierothi.
He looked again towards Chant. “I said I wished for no more bloodshed. Now, I’ll lead by example.” He thrust the tip of his sword back into its sheath on his back.
The rest of Mevon’s Fist did the same. Chant breathed out heavily. He and the others with him visibly relaxed.
The figure in the grasses sprang forward. A smooth, hairless head revealed itself. Familiar armor and weapons . . . and face.
Ilyem Bahkere reached out, laying a hand on Angla’s shoulder
The thrumming sorcery dissipated, and with it, the battle.
Thank God.
“It’s over,” the Hardohl said firmly. Then, turning to Yandumar, she added. “I’m sorry I did not arrive sooner. Your son showed me the way days ago, but I took too long to act on it.”
My son . . . Yandumar nodded to her respectfully. “You’ll never know how much your arrival means to me. Thank you.”
Yandumar turned, trotting back to Quake and mounting quickly. His obligations here complete, he felt himself being pulled south towards Mecrithos.
Towards Mevon.
He feared, however, that he was already too late.
GILSHAMED BRUSHED THE tangled hair back from Voren’s face as he knelt beside the body. The man had aged since he had last seen him. No longer young. In memory, both recent and ancient, Voren’s visage had always been full of strain and frustration, as if he had something to prove to the world but possessed not the cleverness to pull it off.
Looking upon him now, Gilshamed at last saw a measure of serenity. That only death could grant him such drove an ache of compassion through Gilshamed.
A muffled sob brought his head up. Close enough to touch sat Draevenus.
Names such as Vashodia and Rekaj had been shouted as curses by men and women alike from his armies of old. But the name Draevenus had only been murmured in hushed tones, accompanied by a wary glance around and a shiver up the spine. To see the source of grown men’s nightmares reduced to anguished weeping renewed his own sorrow, his own rage.
He bent down and kissed Voren on the forehead. “May Elos shelter your soul and guide you into paradise.” Even as he said the words, though, he could feel the hollowness of the catechism. Elos had abandoned Voren. Him, and all the rest.
A patter of steps approached from behind him. Gilshamed stood, turning to face her. “Where are my kin?” he demanded.
“So,” Vashodia said, “you’ve surmised that much on your own. Perhaps you’re not as hopeless as I assumed.”
Gilshamed set his jaw and repeated his question.
Vashodia giggled. “Why so demanding? You cannot honestly believe you’re in any position to bargain.”
“They are my blood, my responsibility. You have no right to them.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You speak of responsibility, yet you abandoned the revolution at the first hints of failure.” She sighed. “Not at all how I planned. What a disappointment you turned out to be.”
“How you planned?” Gilshamed closed his eyes, his mind flying through the implications. “Yandumar. You sent him for me.”
“Of course I did. And you were supposed to lead the revolution right up to these palace gates, announcing your victory for the valynkar people. At which point, your own followers would have tried to kill you.” She giggled again. “And if they failed, only then would I have stepped in.”
Gilshamed felt a twinge of guilt, for that had, at one point, been exactly his plan. He shook his head. “This land does not need me. And it certainly does not need you. Now, will you lead me to my kin? Or will I be forced to scour the land for years in search of them?”
“As if I’d allow that.” Vashodia’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t deserve a happy ending.”
“I know,” said Gilshamed. “But they have suffered enough.”
“Perhaps they have. But you . . .” She energized. “ . . . have not.”
Gilshamed pulled in his own power. She had embarrassed him the last time they had fought, but he had learned a thing or two since then. With her darkwisps spent, he would not prove such easy prey.
“Enough!”
Gilshamed turned at the shout. Draevenus stood behind him, eyes full of sorrow and rage.
“Enough,” Draevenus repeated, softer this time. “Sister . . . please . . . no more.”
“We cannot trust him,” Vashodia said.
“That doesn’t matter anymore. He is a member of the Valynkar High Council. If we kill him, they will know. And once the final stage of your plan is complete . . . ?”
She tapped her claws across her chin, contemplating. After several beats, she discharged her power. “Very well.”
Gilshamed, reluctantly, did the same. He peered at Draevenus, nodding with respect. “Thank you, but I do not understand why you show me such kindness.”
“The corruption at the heart of our people has been excised. I look now to the future. To draw the enmity of the valynkar is the last thing I would wish for—enough valynkar blood has been spilled,” he said quietly, looking down at Voren. Straightening, he said, “If the mierothi are to survive, we must make peace.”
Peace? I hardly know the meaning. It will be good, I think, to discover it. Gilshamed exhaled. “Will you show me to them?”
Draevenus glanced past him towards his sister. “Can I borrow one of your bodyguards?”
Vashodia waved, looking bored. “Fine.” The male Hardohl stepped forward.
“Come, Gilshamed,” Draevenus said. “I will lead you to your kin.”
JASSIDE STOOD BEFORE the doors, which were forced open by debris, and stared around in confusion.
She’d sent pulses of energy outward. Hundreds in all directions. Such would have been impossible just a toll ago, but now she could perform the cast without even straining. Wherever they winked out of existence, she knew she would find voids there. She ignored the two that were with Vashodia. Instead, she had followed the trail here.
The pulses sent this way, however, had been . . . strange. Rather than disappear like a popping bubble, they had dissolved like mist before the rising sun. Now, she knew why. It appeared as though a volcano had erupted in this chamber. Nothing here could possibly be alive.
Mevon wasn’t here. But her probing had revealed no other sources in the palace. “Where are you?”
She turned to leave. A spot of sunlight streaming through the collapsed roof glinted off something near her feet. She stopped, bending to inspect it.
Sharp steel. Triangular in shape. Sticking out of the rubble and half-covered in a crust of recently molten stone. There was lettering on it. Her heart skipped a beat.
Shaking, Jasside wiped her hand across the flat of the blade.
YANDUMAR THUNDERED THROUGH the city gates. A cheer arose at his arrival. His bodyguards, now mounted themselves, fell in around him, offering escort up the main avenue of the city.
Crowds grew thick around them. Cries of joy and adulation sounded. Sh
outs of “Lord-General” and “savior.” Some, foolishly, even began chanting “emperor.” Yandumar ignored them all. There was only one title he wished to hear right now.
“Father.”
Nearer the palace, the crowds thinned, and he was able to pick up speed once more. Quake soon outpaced the horses of his guards, and Yandumar rode through the palace gates alone. The gutted husk that once housed the heart of mierothi power stood before him. He vaulted off of his mount, entering without a moment’s hesitation.
His feet sprinted forward of their own accord, pulled by an instinct he dared not ignore. The last time he had felt it had been at the battle of Thorull. There, he had been just in time to save his son, the child of his blood.
As he cut round a corner, he knew this time would be different.
Jasside knelt before an open doorway, scrambling frantically in a pile of debris. Grey soot covered her from foot to head, clinging to the tears that carved rivers down her cheeks. It took him a moment to realize what she was doing.
She was digging.
Yandumar stumbled forward. He stopped over her prostrate form, watching as she paused between each lifted stone, overcome with heaving sobs. He knelt next to her, reaching tenderly for her shoulders.
“What is it, child? What’s wrong?” Even as the words left his lips, he knew he didn’t want to find out.
But also knew he had to.
She shook her head, peering with red-rimmed eyes into his face. She pointed down. Yandumar’s gaze dropped to follow.
There, sticking out from the wreckage, lay the exposed blade of an Andun. Etched into the steel was a single word.
“Justice.”
Yandumar slumped into her. They embraced. His own tears flowed now, joining hers, and between them flooded an ocean of grief.
Chapter 18
VASHODIA HAD MADE the announcement herself. It had been a simple matter to broadcast to the entire city. Less simple—but far more important—to repeat the message within communion to every carrier in the empire. It had been this:
Rekaj’s regime has been purged. The conflict is over. The people have won. All surviving mierothi and daeloth are hereby ordered to extricate themselves from the continent. We meet, in two months’ time, at the Taditali estate in Namerrun to stage our departure.
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