Veiled Empire Page 2

  He smirked, waiting for realization to dawn on her.

  Instead . . .

  He sank to the ground. Lassitude stole into every muscle, and he crumpled, limp and slack-jawed. The storm vanished like a puff of mist before a gale. Hot bile coated his throat as his stomach emptied. In shame, he even lost hold on his bowels.

  “How?” he tried to say, but failed. All that came out was a pathetic, guttural moan.

  This can’t be possible . . . can’t be. . .

  “The truth,” she said. “It’s not as simple as the mierothi have led you to believe.”

  Ruul’s light, he wanted to kill her! More than anything, more than any desire he had ever felt, he ached to wrap his hands around her throat and watch the light fade from her eyes.

  She held him there, he knew not how long. The moment stretched. Beats became marks. The fetid aroma of his own vomit nearly choked him. He felt like gagging but lacked the strength for it. He was entirely powerless, entirely at her mercy. His hatred for her deepened.

  What are you waiting for?

  To his surprise, no killing blow came. He couldn’t imagine why she would hesitate. As awful as he felt, he was sure he wasn’t dying, yet no answer was forthcoming. Rather—eventually—her breaths became labored, and her arms began shaking. A moment later, they dropped to her sides.

  The spell receded from Mevon, and strength returned at once. He jumped up. Crossed the distance between them in half a beat. Lashed out a fist.

  A single word she had spoken echoed in his mind.

  “Truth.”

  The blow was aimed to crush her face in. He diverted it at the last moment, glancing against her temple instead. She flew several paces and sprawled on the ground, unmoving.

  The battle at large ended quickly. The discipline, coordination, and raw brutality of his Elite proved the victor over numbers. Decisively. His mind barely registered the last vestiges of resistance being cut down without mercy.

  He stood, looking down at the girl.

  And shook.

  GILSHAMED STOOD ON the fortlet’s battlements, studying the stones held in the cradle of his hands.

  A breeze whipped his golden hair across his face, carrying the mingled scents of ash, sweat, and charred flesh. Men milled below him, excited banter drifting up from the victors. Those in chains sat numbly in silence. Casters—those with the strength left to stand—bustled about, administering healing to the wounded and dousing the last of the flames blazing through the barracks. Behind him lay a rolling landscape nestled between two soaring segments of the Godsreach Mountains. Gnarled trees like ancient hands poked up, bending over to grab with short, sharp leaves any who dared pass too close.

  But it was the stones in his hands that consumed his attention.

  One was warm, smooth, and glowed at its center. Solid and strong. Life. The other was cold and brittle and dark. Were he to clench his hand into a fist, it would crumble to flakes and be carried off on the wind. Death.

  The first filled him with elation. Jasside had made it; alive, and now in Mevon’s care. Well, not in his care as such, but at least in his presence. And, for Gilshamed’s purposes, that was enough.

  The second filled him with sorrow. Or, rather, it should have. The hope held in the first, however, pushed out all thoughts of despair. What time did he have to mourn the dead? Death came to all, eventually. Most men could do far worse than to make their death meaningful, to die for a cause greater than oneself.

  And what greater cause could there be than that of freedom?

  Gilshamed snorted. O, great pondering. The favorite pastime of we who linger on, staggering through so many human lifetimes as if they were naught but a candle’s flame—faint illumination, all too quickly snuffed out.

  He sighed, dismissing his pointless cogitations. He had work to do.

  Gilshamed placed the stones back into the pockets of his white robe and gazed at the yard below. A familiar figure strode towards him.

  “Hey! Golden boy!” called the man. “Care to lend a hand? Or are they too busy there beneath your robes?”

  Several of the shepherds barked laughter at this, darting glances back and forth between Gilshamed and the source of the jest. Though they carried naught but a quarterstaff, these men and women—some actual shepherds in truth—had conducted themselves superbly in their first engagement with Imperial forces.

  Gilshamed waved. “Ho, Yandumar. I would not worry overmuch about my hands whilst yours are as filthy as a beggar’s.”

  Yandumar sauntered towards Gilshamed’s perch, the corner of his lips reaching for his ears. Tangled grey locks swung down past the man’s blocky shoulders, and mischief shone in his emerald eyes. A bushy grey beard hung down to the center of his chest. He stood head and neck taller than most men, only two fingers short of Gilshamed’s own height, and carried an arsenal of weapons about his person that jangled with each sure step.

  “Filthy? Ha!” Yandumar held up his hands for inspection. “This is what us mortals call ‘hard work.’ Ever heard of it, old man?”

  “Indeed I have, yet it appears our respective definitions are somewhat disparate.”

  Yandumar was treading a ramp that led up to the wall where Gilshamed was standing. “You call what you do hard? All that silly hand waving? Don’t know as I’d use that word to describe it. Maybe something like—”

  “ ‘Impressive’?”

  “ ‘Ostentatious.’ ”

  “Is that so?” Gilshamed grinned. “Do you even know what that word means?”

  “Eh? Well . . . no. Not really. But I’m sure it fits you perfectly.”

  Yandumar stepped up next to him, and Gilshamed laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. His other arm swept over the pentagonal courtyard, the scene of their first victory. “I think that with results like this, we have earned the right to some measure of pride. How many met their gods today?”

  Yandumar’s visage became grave. “Of our men, only four gave their lives.”

  “And of the garrison?”

  “One. Poor fellow looked fine, so he was passed up for healing. Later, he just dropped dead. Must’ve been some kinda head wound.” He perked up with a crooked smile. “Then we have the daeloth.”

  They both swiveled their heads. Six corpses had been dragged into a line, their forms charred and smoking. Daeloth: half-breed spawn of mierothi. They looked human at first glance, but their mahogany skin and the scales on their backs set them apart. Bred for combat, they utilized both sorcery and martial aptitude to command the empire’s armies and to ensure that no one ever forgot who the true rulers of this shrouded continent were.

  Yandumar growled laughter. “Your tangle with them was . . . uh . . . Oh all right, I’ll say it. It was impressive. Mighty impressive. Shepherds are already saying you smote them bastards like the hand of Elos himself!”

  Gilshamed looked back, remembering the bright yellow lightning forking out from his fingertips, striking down each daeloth in its red-and-black armor, yet leaving the men around them untouched. The power they commanded was feeble, and their skill was a flaccid thing. None had so much as singed him with their counterattacks.

  “Of course,” continued Yandumar, “I don’t suspect they were too difficult an opponent for ya’, eh? You got in plenty of scraps with full mierothi back in your day, after all.”

  Gilshamed looked down; his eyes lost focus on the world around him. “Yes.”

  A key turned in his mind, unlocking a door that now flung wide open. Elos guard me . . . Into this room his inner eye dove, awakening ancient memories that had long lain dormant.

  The War of Rising Night, as it was known to his people, the valynkar, burst forth into a collage of vivid images. Images of fire and blood and war. Images of victory!

  But soon they seemed to melt like fresh paint under rain, becoming something else entirely. Ice
and fear and darkness.

  Defeat.

  Gilshamed quivered as the depth of his failure crashed into him. As remembrance came of allies fallen, hopes crushed . . .

  . . . loves lost . . .

  Gilshamed retreated from the room in his mind and slammed the door. No more, please. I cannot bear it right now.

  “You alright, Gil?”

  The words snapped him back to the present. Over several beats, his eyes regained clarity of his surroundings. The pain from his deeply buried memories faded away like mist before the rising sun, and a smile sprouted on his lips.

  “Fine, Yan. I am fine now. I was merely reminiscing.”

  “Right. I forget how your kind gets sometimes. Makes me glad I’ll never live for thousands of years.”

  Gilshamed nodded, beginning between them a long moment of silence. Over the last six years, he had grown to cherish such times. Yandumar, he suspected, shared in this feeling. With consternation writ plain on his face, Yan finally said, “You about ready to finish this day’s business?”

  Dread welled up inside Gilshamed as he took up the yoke of his next task. “Get everyone outside the walls but ensure the prisoners have an unobstructed view.”

  “Aye.” Yandumar trotted down the ramp, heading towards their troops to begin administering the orders.

  Gilshamed remembered the stones lying nearly forgotten in his robes. “Oh, and Yan,” he called. Yandumar paused and spun back. “I am happy to report success on our other endeavors. Jasside has initiated contact with Mevon.”

  Yandumar appeared thoughtful for a moment but said nothing. He merely nodded before turning away once more.

  In three marks, the yard was cleared. Yandumar corralled the former inhabitants of the fortlet just outside the open gates.

  Gilshamed lifted his eyes to the center of the compound. He had averted his gaze from the structure there up to this point, and had noticed most others doing the same. Something about it just seemed . . . wrong.

  And it was—which was why he had come here to do what must be done.

  The towering needle stabbed the sky, impossibly thin. When looked at directly, it appeared a deep grey, seemingly of harmless stone and lacking in mark or adornment. When viewed in the peripheral . . . a swirling silver mien of chaos, like a black-and-white-tile mural. Only the tiles flickered between colors so fast, they blurred in a dizzying display. The mierothi had outdone themselves in the creation of the voltensus, these towers that monitored all sorcery in the empire. Their dark god Ruul must surely be pleased, for the five constructs served as his eyes and ears. And perhaps . . . something else?

  Time to find out what.

  He had prepared a speech, something inspiring, telling of the valynkar people and how they had been wrongfully banished nearly two millennia ago. How the mierothi, cowering from the world behind the Shroud all this time, had reigned in tyranny long enough. How his return must surely herald their inevitable downfall. How . . .

  But the words fled from his mind as his eyes took in the voltensus. There was something foreboding about the tower, inimical even. As he examined it, he was overcome with the sensation that even as he gazed at it, the tower was studying him, too.

  Is it possible this thing is alive? Even . . . aware?

  He shook himself. No time to waste. He spared a glance for the assembled mass, all of whom were staring back at him. Yandumar stood foremost among them. His face projected an aura of confidence, of faith. Gilshamed drew strength from it. My friend, I am unworthy of you.

  Eying the stone roof of the nearest guard tower, Gilshamed arched his back, flexing muscles that only his people possessed.

  From his spine sprouted wings.

  They shone with a brilliant light, illuminating the stunned faces of all gathered below. Focused now, he launched himself skyward. His ethereal wings fluttered silently and lifted him up to land on top of the guard tower.

  Here, at last, he found his voice but decided to save his grand speech for another day. He simply said, “Bear witness, you privileged few. And remember this day.”

  Retracting his wings, he pivoted to face the voltensus. He swept away his fear and pushed his will into its place. Will, after all, was the true essence of sorcery. The incantations, the waving of hands, the rituals—nothing more than means of focusing one’s will.

  He opened himself to the spirit of Elos, and energized.

  Power flooded into him, sweet yet raging, begging for release. It seemed to emanate both from inside him and from everywhere else all at once. He pitied those who never had the privilege of tasting this pure manifestation of light.

  The voltensus loomed before him. Gilshamed extended both hands towards it and pushed.

  The needle groaned and quivered as his sorcery slammed into it. But it did not topple. Not even close.

  Gilshamed pulled back his power and recharged. He pressed forward again, but delicately, probing. With thin tendrils, he brushed against it, like the tickle of a feather. There had to be a weakness somewhere. Nothing crafted by the hands of men was without flaw . . .

  There you are.

  It was a hairline crack, nothing more than the space between mortals and their gods. It was enough. He honed his power into razors of will and shoved it into the fracture.

  And something pushed back.

  Gilshamed recoiled. It was alive. More than that, it was aware. Aware, and startled by his intrusion. No, not startled. Terrified. He could use that, exploit it. He would not let it get away, not when he was so close.

  He charged forward, pressing against the presence once more. This time he did not pause but forced his way deeper. The entity writhed and raged, but its fear made it weak. Gilshamed sliced and scraped and hammered with his power.

  The being strained, shook, and finally . . .

  The voltensus burst, a million molten fragments careening in all directions.

  The concussion threw Gilshamed from the tower. The dying soul lashed out, striking deeply, seeking to drag Gilshamed down with it into the abyss. Even as he fell, his physical state forgotten, Gilshamed fought with desperation to withstand this assault. He wrestled for control of his own life, his own soul, all against a being with nothing to lose.

  Somehow, he held on.

  With one last scream, like the horrified cries of a legion of tortured children, the entity tore away into death. Gilshamed felt himself immediately revived. Whole, once more.

  And then he slammed into the ground.

  The air fled from his lungs, and darkness closed in around his vision. Hold on . . . just a little longer. This is a moment of triumph. I can’t . . . I won’t. . .

  Pulling on his last reserves, he forced his mind to stay active, his eyes to stay open. He sucked in one breath. Then another.

  Someone was shouting. A face floated in front of his, indistinct. Over time—he knew not how long—his senses sloughed towards coherence once more.

  Yandumar hovered over him, his beard hanging down to tickle Gilshamed’s face. His friend patted him gently and called his name.

  The sky above swirled with strange swaths of darkness. Gilshamed shook his head, thinking them black spots in his vision from the blow to his skull. But no, they lingered still. Ah, darkwisps. Thousands retreated in all directions from the empty husk of the voltensus.

  A chill shot up his spine, and he knew then what the voltensus truly was.

  By Elos! What have the mierothi done? What has Ruul?

  All his careful planning, the years of scouring this continent for knowledge and allies—none of it had prepared him for this.

  “Gil? You all right?”

  Gilshamed blinked up at Yandumar. “Fine,” he croaked. “Just fine. Help me up. Please.”

  Yandumar obliged, hefting him into a standing position with welcome tenderness. “You sure you’re all right? You t
ook a nasty fall there.”

  Gilshamed clung to his companion for balance. “I am well, Yan. Truly. The injuries to my body are the least of my concerns now.”

  Yandumar furrowed his brow and studied him. Slowly, he shook his head. “If you say so.”

  Gilshamed looked over the prisoners. Awe and wonder clung to each rapt visage. A good start. But the voltensus . . .

  “Never again, Yan.” Gilshamed lowered his eyes. “We must revise our plans.”

  “Of course.”

  One voltensus destroyed. It would have to be enough. They had the empire’s attention now and would make use of this opportunity as best they could. Other portions of his grand scheme were in motion, not least of all Jasside’s task. It could still work. It would.

  Ideas floated about, unformed. He left them to stew. There would be time later.

  “Yandumar?”

  “Yes?”

  “Help me to a bed?”

  “Right.”

  VOREN’S BRUSHSTROKES BEAT a steady cadence against the canvas, pausing only to dip into globs of vibrant paint to be renewed in color, in life, in power. Power to translate reality into dream, dream into emotion, and emotion—transcending comprehension—into its own newly expressed reality.

  He sat back on his padded stool, satisfied, for the moment, with his work. He was balanced upon a round ledge that thrust out towards the center of a hemispherical glass window twenty paces in diameter. Through it, he viewed the landscape south of this place: palace, fortress, and—to Voren—prison. It sat at the crown of Mecrithos, the heart of the empire.

  Having mastered the style of perfect representation centuries past, Voren was attempting a new technique. He played both artist and observer, both inspiration and interpretation, soaking in and squeezing out, simultaneously.

  Thus, the western horizon, where the mountains had recently swallowed the sun, became a maelstrom of fire into which jagged boulders wept tears of stone. The eastern sky, faded to night, became needles stabbing through black waves. The ochre plains became a wellspring of blood. The cliffs nearest—just outside the palace grounds, where darkwisps had begun emerging for their nightly revelries—became a web of ghostly chains.