Veiled Empire Read Free Page B

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