Blood of the Emperor (31 page)

The room was actually a small rotunda with a peaked ceiling.
There were, as per its design, only two chairs in the room each of which faced the other. K’yeran heard the door she had just stepped through close. She glanced at it and was satisfied. The door had vanished, sealing the room for their conversation.

The room was designed to allow only two elves within its confines at a time. Once the door sealed, what was said between those within the Hall of the Duets would remain between them so long as they held one another’s confidence.

Which, K’yeran mused to herself, was seldom very long.

Ghenetar Praetus Betjarian rose from his chair. He was wearing a cloak over a simple tunic, the only embellishment being the symbol of his House embroidered in gold at the neckline. He wore sandals rather than his usual boots and a pair of riding breeches. Everything from the crown of his elongated head to his feet was dulled by a fine layer of dust. “Inquisitor K’yeran Tsi-M’harul, you are late.”

“So are you, Betjarian,” she replied as she moved to her seat. “Are you not supposed to be waging some war far away from here?”

“I am,” Betjarian replied, sitting down once more on the opposing chair, a momentary thin veil of dust falling from him. “I have two Legions of mine stuck in this town until I can get the rest of my forces up from Zhadras. This whole nonsense about trouble in the eastern Wells has the Occuran nervous. They said it was a temporary problem but it has been three days since they’ve closed off the northern routes. They say they will not be able to operate both the north and south folds until they can sort the problem out so they won’t open the north folds again until the rest of my warriors arrive through the south.”

“When will that be, Praetus?” K’yeran asked casually. Information was her stock in trade. One never knew when it could be useful.

“Tomorrow by noon they tell me.” The Praetus shrugged. “We can start moving my last two Legions out of the city then but that will take us a full extra day. It’s terribly frustrating. Do you have any word from Xhu’chan? You were attached to his command for a reason, as I recall.”

“Yes,” K’yeran replied with an enigmatic smile. “He is taking the two Legions even farther north and with some haste. He believes he has an opportunity to discover this Army of the Drakis Rebellion and
secure the honor of defeating him on behalf of your command and your Order.”

Betjarian shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“Does that not please you?” K’yeran asked.

“Half of my Legions sitting in this city while the rest of the army rushes north without us?” the Praetus frowned. “No, I am not pleased!”

“You think his force is in danger, then,” K’yeran asked. “The warriors under his command are of the same type and strength as the army that this rebel army destroyed.”

“The fall of those Legions was because the Aether channels were disrupted,” Betjarian said with a casual and dismissive wave of his hand.

“Perhaps as the Aether is now being disrupted in the east?” K’yeran suggested.

“The Occuran do not think so—although why I should take council from
that
lot is a mystery,” the Praetus said as much to himself as to K’yeran. “The Legions fell before the rebels because their Devotions were interrupted. When the Devotions failed among the Impress Warriors the Legions dissolved into chaos. We’ve taken steps in the last month to deal with this sort of thing; Devotions altars that function specifically for the Legions and can maintain Devotions for almost ten weeks should there be a disruption in the flow of Aether. We won’t lose control of our warriors like that again.”

“Then relax, Betjarian,” K’yeran said with an easy smile. “You and your Legions may yet find your war. In the meantime, you are in Tjarlas the Beautiful for tonight. Take a bath and find something clean to wear. You can move your armies northward tomorrow.”

“It was not part of the plan,” the Praetus frowned.

“Nothing
ever
goes as planned,” K’yeran said, giving the Praetus her best, sharp-toothed smile.

T
HE
T
IDE

Dawning

T
HEY ROSE UP OUT OF THE PLAINS with the dawn.

Word had gone out to each Legion of the Army of the Prophet through the night with orders and objectives for each. Drakis had re-formed the army into ten Legions utilizing the god names of the Encampment for each. While each was called a Legion, by elven standards they were terribly under strength; each one being comprised of just over three thousand warriors compared to a full strength Rhonas Legion of eight thousand. These ten “Legions” had shifted up and down the Rills during the night to form three army groups. Group North was commanded by Belag and comprised of three Legions: Jurusta, Quabet, and Elucia. Their objective was to assault the Northreach Gate and secure it as soon as the Aether Well was inverted.

Group South was under Hegral’s command. They were to mirror Group North’s actions, flanking the city wall on the south side and move against the Emperor’s Gate. Also like Group North, they were three Legions in strength: Abratias, Heritsania, and Aremthis.

Center Group, under Gradek’s command, was the largest of the three. Comprised of four Legions—Aegrain, Khorithan, Tyra, and Pythus—their task was to lay siege to the Old East Wall of the city and breach it when possible. More importantly, they were to draw any remaining garrison troops to the wall so as to leave the way clear for the dragons to assault the center of the city.

Each of the Legions was made up of manticorian warriors in the lead elements with mixed troops behind. Each was supported by three Aether Mages—all that could be spared.

It was a fine plan. Every warrior who marched up the ravines out of the Rills that morning knew it as they formed up on the steppes. Properly arranged, they marched forward toward the city in the morning light. The Rhonas Army, they believed, was three days’ north of their position with only the city garrison left to stop them. They could already taste the victory on their lips.

Over thirty-two thousand warriors set out across the flatlands toward the city.

Jugar stood next to his dragon atop a small rise.

Before him was set the entire vista in the morning light. The shining towers of Tjarlas lay across the flatlands at the foot of his mountains.

His mountains.

The dwarf’s eyes shifted over the spectacle before him. Eight thousand or so warriors of the Army of Drakis marching as one across the flats so that they might tarnish that jewel of an elven city forever. It was a superb moment.

You are the last king of the dwarves,
Jugar thought to himself.
How can you question what you have resolved to do with your every breath?

The dragon could not hear his thoughts and, not for the first time, Jugar was glad.

All of this because of a naïve Bolter slave.

The truth was that Drakis had been a gift from the gods though Jugar had not recognized it at first. When the dwarf had emerged from the treasure hole beneath his throne, Jugar had latched on to the human more out of desperation than out of cunning. Yet the pieces had fit so well with the myths he knew about the humans and their ridiculous prophecy that he had not only been able to save his own skin but had come to realize that he could use this man as his best weapon to exact vengeance on the elves.

Not just the elves, he thought as he watched the troops marching westward in a great line toward the city. Vengeance on all of them. Vengeance on the manticores who sold their honor out to the elves and dwarven sovereignty with it. Vengeance on the chimerians and their reclusive queen hiding behind their silent forests. Vengeance on humanity for failing to stop the elves when they had the chance. All of them had conspired in their own selfish ways against the Nine Thrones under the mountain. But the dwarves survived deep in the roots of the world. And when the world was in ruins and tearing itself apart, the dwarven nation would emerge and have the last word over all the other races.

The old world was teetering on the point of a needle in a delicate balance that Jugar had worked hard to achieve. All the pieces were in place. All he had to do was tip it in the right direction and it would all start crashing down. It would set in motion the collapse of the Rhonas Empire as well as the destruction of the rebellion. Order would leave the world above and only the dwarves of Aerkan would remain to pick up the pieces.

A tear came to Jugar’s eye. It was such a beautiful vision.

Jugar saw the three dragons of the other riders approaching his hilltop flying low over the Rills from the southeast.

A moment of doubt entered his mind. Drakis had been a gloriously fortunate accident and the dwarf had no love for the humans as a whole, but he had come to feel some fellowship with the human he had so thoroughly deluded over the past few months. He felt no real connection to the Sondau clanswoman and that chimerian Ethis was certainly not to be trusted but Braun…

Braun was a strange case indeed. The human as often as not infuriated Jugar with his knowledge of a force of magic which the dwarf had never supposed to exist. Their relationship was a rock-strewn road at best, yet there was something of a kinship between them; a bond forged in the magic which they were both struggling to understand. That Braun’s and the dwarf’s objectives were at complete odds—the human to master it and the dwarf’s to destroy it—had led them on parallel courses. The dwarf grudgingly admitted that he had come to feel an appreciation and something like a brotherhood toward his nemesis.

“No going back now,” the dwarf muttered to himself through a frown. “For my kingdom and for my people. That’s all that matters.”

The dwarf grabbed the harness around the dragon’s neck and pulled himself up, swinging his leg over and settling into the saddle harness. He laid his hand against the dragon’s neck and urged him into the air to join the others in flight.

Ghenetar Praetus Betjarian eased into the steaming bath with a sigh.

The Vash Barracks maintained a modest but well-appointed avatria adjacent to the barracks for the use of visiting members of the Imperial Court. It not currently being in use, the Praetus decided that he should occupy the suite of rooms for the single night of his stay. It featured an impressive bed and a parlor of sufficient size that he was able to meet with his command staff without descending from the floating structure. It held a library and a private Devotions altar, both of which Betjarian availed himself.

But it was the private bath that beckoned him the most. His aide saw to it that the oversized pool was filled with properly warmed water and a number of scraping implements of assorted sizes and shapes. Betjarian was an old campaigner for his military Order and he suspected that the onerous realities of the road ahead would make such luxuries as a cleansing bath only a fond memory in the weeks to come.

All the more reason to avail himself of it now. There were hours left in the day before he could finally lead his Legions northward out of the city. Plenty of time for one last scraping of the skin and to let the hot water relieve the aching in his joints.