Him.
Voren gulped, struggling in vain to repress this memory hardest of all.
Gilshamed, the Bold. He gathered together the nations of this land and led them in battle against the rising tide of the mierothi hordes.
But in the end, he failed. The entire mierothi population, cut down to just under a thousand by a century of war, chained their sorcery in ritual sacrifice. The resulting conflagration, which later became known as the Cataclysm, pushed the very soil half a league into the air and erected the Shroud. Through it, none could enter, and none could leave.
“There was much turmoil during their lives,” Voren said carefully. “I, for one, am thankful that such times are long past us.”
“Are they now?” Rekaj said. Then, shoulders slumping, he added in a whisper, “Will they ever be?”
Voren, though careful to let nothing show on his face, let a smile loose in his mind.
Details would come, but now, at least, he could surmise the shape of the change taking place. Some new conflict in the empire. And if it put the mierothi into such states of fretting, it must be serious indeed.
Upheaval meant opportunity for renegotiation. Great upheaval? Change he dared not speak and scarce hoped to dream flicked across Voren’s thoughts, like smooth, round stones skipping over the surface of a still pond. He had to clamp down hard on a rising bubble of longing and—dare he even think it?—ambition.
Voren sensed malevolent regard and glanced once more at the emperor. Their eyes met. Voren shivered as if struck by winter’s wind, the full weight of the malice behind Rekaj’s gaze now focused on him alone.
“Is there . . . is there anything else . . . any other way I can be of assistance to you?” said Voren.
“Oh, indeed you can.”
The emperor stepped lightly towards the door.
“A new Hardohl recruit was discovered recently. One of our phyzari out in the western territory found and birthed the infant though she was unable to save the poor mother, of course.”
Voren shivered again. “Of course.”
Rekaj pulled open the door. “The girl will be here in a week. Your escort comes the day before.”
“The blessing will be . . . prepared, as usual. In this, as always, I am your faithful servant.”
The emperor smirked but said nothing. Then, he left.
Voren sank to his knees, then toppled forward to press his hands into the slick floor. Salty tears smacked the tiles between his shaking fingers.
“Abyss take you, Rekaj.”
Now, at least, he knew why the emperor had insisted on dredging up history. Not merely to stoke the memory but to remind him of failure.
Voren’s failure.
And . . . his choice.
For soon, Voren would come face-to-face with their haunting echoes.
Chapter 3
“M AKE WAY , YA ’ flea-ridden gutter scum! Get outta the road! Can’t y’all see we got a scorchin’ Fist coming through?”
The sergeant in charge of the gate watch continued shouting as Mevon cantered towards him. Six soldiers with crossbows patrolled the gatehouse wall, and an equal number were on the ground, pushing with the shafts of their halberds at those citizens deemed too slow in evacuating the roadway. Their full-bodied chain mail jingled beneath orange-and yellow-striped tabards, which bore the oak-tree crest of the Thorull city guard. Mevon whistled once; Quake lifted his bridle-free head and drew to a halt alongside the sergeant.
“Evenin’, Hardohl.” The sergeant raised his right fist to eye level. Mevon returned the salute. “What can I do for ya’?”
Mevon spared a glance to ensure his Fist had begun filing under the archway. “You can start, sergeant, by telling me where the rest of your watch is.”
The sergeant huffed, then threw his arms out in a helpless gesture. “With, uh, respect ’n’ all that, where the bloody abyss have you been?”
“Doing my job. Now answer the question.”
“You mean you ain’t heard?”
“Obviously not.”
The sergeant exhaled, whistling in
Voren gulped, struggling in vain to repress this memory hardest of all.
Gilshamed, the Bold. He gathered together the nations of this land and led them in battle against the rising tide of the mierothi hordes.
But in the end, he failed. The entire mierothi population, cut down to just under a thousand by a century of war, chained their sorcery in ritual sacrifice. The resulting conflagration, which later became known as the Cataclysm, pushed the very soil half a league into the air and erected the Shroud. Through it, none could enter, and none could leave.
“There was much turmoil during their lives,” Voren said carefully. “I, for one, am thankful that such times are long past us.”
“Are they now?” Rekaj said. Then, shoulders slumping, he added in a whisper, “Will they ever be?”
Voren, though careful to let nothing show on his face, let a smile loose in his mind.
Details would come, but now, at least, he could surmise the shape of the change taking place. Some new conflict in the empire. And if it put the mierothi into such states of fretting, it must be serious indeed.
Upheaval meant opportunity for renegotiation. Great upheaval? Change he dared not speak and scarce hoped to dream flicked across Voren’s thoughts, like smooth, round stones skipping over the surface of a still pond. He had to clamp down hard on a rising bubble of longing and—dare he even think it?—ambition.
Voren sensed malevolent regard and glanced once more at the emperor. Their eyes met. Voren shivered as if struck by winter’s wind, the full weight of the malice behind Rekaj’s gaze now focused on him alone.
“Is there . . . is there anything else . . . any other way I can be of assistance to you?” said Voren.
“Oh, indeed you can.”
The emperor stepped lightly towards the door.
“A new Hardohl recruit was discovered recently. One of our phyzari out in the western territory found and birthed the infant though she was unable to save the poor mother, of course.”
Voren shivered again. “Of course.”
Rekaj pulled open the door. “The girl will be here in a week. Your escort comes the day before.”
“The blessing will be . . . prepared, as usual. In this, as always, I am your faithful servant.”
The emperor smirked but said nothing. Then, he left.
Voren sank to his knees, then toppled forward to press his hands into the slick floor. Salty tears smacked the tiles between his shaking fingers.
“Abyss take you, Rekaj.”
Now, at least, he knew why the emperor had insisted on dredging up history. Not merely to stoke the memory but to remind him of failure.
Voren’s failure.
And . . . his choice.
For soon, Voren would come face-to-face with their haunting echoes.
Chapter 3
“M AKE WAY , YA ’ flea-ridden gutter scum! Get outta the road! Can’t y’all see we got a scorchin’ Fist coming through?”
The sergeant in charge of the gate watch continued shouting as Mevon cantered towards him. Six soldiers with crossbows patrolled the gatehouse wall, and an equal number were on the ground, pushing with the shafts of their halberds at those citizens deemed too slow in evacuating the roadway. Their full-bodied chain mail jingled beneath orange-and yellow-striped tabards, which bore the oak-tree crest of the Thorull city guard. Mevon whistled once; Quake lifted his bridle-free head and drew to a halt alongside the sergeant.
“Evenin’, Hardohl.” The sergeant raised his right fist to eye level. Mevon returned the salute. “What can I do for ya’?”
Mevon spared a glance to ensure his Fist had begun filing under the archway. “You can start, sergeant, by telling me where the rest of your watch is.”
The sergeant huffed, then threw his arms out in a helpless gesture. “With, uh, respect ’n’ all that, where the bloody abyss have you been?”
“Doing my job. Now answer the question.”
“You mean you ain’t heard?”
“Obviously not.”
The sergeant exhaled, whistling in
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