Path of Bones (The Skullborn Trilogy, Book 2)

By Steven Montano

Return to the world of Malzaria in the highly anticipated sequel to the best-selling epic fantasy adventure City of Scars.

Hunted by Empires and crime lords alike, Ijanna Taivorkan and the young warrior Kath Cardrezhej make their north through the dire Bonelands, a twisted wastelands populated by unnatural terrors. Hoping to find the answers to her dark destiny and driven by a need to escape her fate, Ijanna won't rest until she locates the last of the Skullborn.

Azander Dane, fallen Dawn Knight, pursues Ijanna in order to help her as a way for making amends for the crimes of his past. Aided by an exiled giant and gripped by a magical disease that is slowly driving him mad, Dane must brave the dangers of the Phage-controlled city of Kaldrak Iyresin order to reach the Dream Witch in time.

Beset at every turn by evil magic, powerful assassins and dark revelations, Dane and Ijanna will ultimately find themselves in the ruined city of Corinth, where ancient artifacts may hold the key to the world's salavation...or to its untimely doom.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steven Montano
• Release date: Feb 6, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311104793

Steven Montano

I’m Steven Montano, an accountant who thinks he’s a writer, based mainly on the fact that I managed to get a few D&D adventures published roughly 2,000 years ago. I’ve been writing as a hobby for almost 20 years. I’m currently hard at work on the “Blood Skies” project, a post-apocalyptic dark fantasy fiction series. It has magic. And guns. And vampires. Really, what more could you want?

Book preview

Prologue

On the night she was born the air was full with wolf song. It was the first sound she ever heard.

The child heard it again years later as she ran through the forest, alone and afraid. Brambles shook in the chill wind. The path was clear and dark, with only slivers of cold moonlight to show her the way.

The Tree. I have to get to the Tree.

She didn’t have much time. They were coming.

She heard braying hounds and cracking branches. Corpse-fed fires raged beyond the trees. They’d killed all the people she’d ever known, the ones who’d taken care of her in spite of what she was: a freak born of magic. From the moment she’d been old enough to walk they’d told her about the dark destiny they’d foreseen in their shadow mirrors, and the role she was meant to play.

Her throat was raw, and her body ached from pushing herself. She remembered Kayla’s face, Kayla who was the closest thing to a mother she’d ever had. Now Kayla was dead, just like the rest of the dark-cloaked mystics who’d told her what she needed to do. Everything depended on her.

Her breaths were loud as she raced through the forest, and her soft boots kicked up dust and debris. The calls of night birds surrounded her. She tripped and fell, bloodied her lip and scraped her arm, but she couldn’t let that stop her. She had to keep going, or else Kayla and the others would have died for nothing.

Find the Tree, they’d said. Don’t be afraid.

How do I do that, she wondered, when all I’ve ever known is fear?

The forest seemed to have no end. The Ravenwood, they called it, the largest woods in all of Jlantria, so thick and deep it was easy to forget there was a world outside of it. It had been days since the twisted trees had offered her clear view of the sky.

She was a prisoner there. But she was a prisoner no matter where she went.

Wolves called. They were closer than the hounds at her back. She felt she could reach them if she pressed on, if she ignored her pain and fear and just kept running.

So much running. She was ten years old, and it seemed running was all she’d ever done.

The blonde girl didn’t stop. Blood sluiced down her knees where her tunic was torn, and her tears stained a face turned black with forest soot and grime. Bits of dried leaf and twigs were tangled in her hair. The hunters were right behind her.

She sensed the Veil, and its twisted power burned the atmosphere. She didn’t have to run – she could use her magic against her pursuers, but she wasn’t ready to do that. Not yet.

The air in the Ravenwood was dark. She smelled wet leaves and animal musk as she penetrated to the shadowy heart of the forest. Her soft boots sank in the black mud. The bite in the air made her shiver even beneath layers of sweat.

They were getting closer. She couldn’t stop, couldn’t go back. The only way was forward, even though she knew that would lead to her death. Her heart beat so hard it felt like an animal was trying to claw its way out of her chest.

The barking drew closer, and she heard her pursuer’s angry shouts as they loosed their weapons. She couldn’t stop crying even though she knew she had to be brave. All she wanted to do was collapse, but if she did that they’d catch her, and then everything would be over.

You’re meant for great things, Kayla had told her. You’ll change the world.

She kept running. Hurt knifed through her calves, but she knew if she stopped moving she’d never be able to start again. She didn’t turn to see how close they were, didn’t do anything but move deeper into the forest, where the shadows were darkest.

Wolves surrounded her. She didn’t sense their presence until they tore into the men chasing her. She heard growls and teeth, snarls and breaking skin. Agonized cries rang out as canines tore into man-flesh. Blood steamed in the night.

Smoke pushed into her lungs. The forest was burning, but there wasn’t anything she could do about that. She had to keep running.

She went further into the trees, searching for the place where she’d be safe.

Her labored breaths rang heavy in her ears. She was so exhausted she didn’t see the hole until it was too late. The world gave way beneath her as she fell into the pit, and then she was gone.

A girl’s face. An angel of blades. The tree.

"This is only the beginning."

She woke in a dark place. Thick fluid dripped from the ceiling and stuck to her cheek. The air smelled foul, like sweat and bad meat. She heard more drops echo from deeper in the cavern.

The ceiling was made of damp earth, thick with roots and oily stalactites. Pale light shone from the other side of a twisted tower of black wood which bled some phosphorescent substance.

She sat up. The hole back to the surface was far overhead, a natural rent in the rock. She should have been hurt, maybe even dead from that fall, but she’d landed without harm on a bed of moss. She slowly rose to her feet and looked around. The air was quiet and cold and the moisture on her tongue tasted like tears.

She wasn’t alone. There was a presence in the darkness, something cold and unrequited. A hollow soul, just like hers.

Blood hung in the air, the blood of the tree. Its dark skin glistened with musk and dampness, and the fluid that seeped from its broken skin stank of earth rot. She stepped into murky waters, and a cold deeper than death penetrated straight through to her bones.

She sensed the tree weeping. It was afraid, and alone.

This is where I was meant to be, she thought. That realization couldn’t still the icy terror in her heart.

She carefully approached. Power pulsed in that place. The very soil was thick with magic, so deep and ancient it made the air poisonous. Her eyes grew heavy. With each step she felt herself grow more distant, falling into something ancient, something rooted to the past.

Centuries of pain were recorded in the bleeding limbs of that subterranean tree. Kayla and the others had foretold that she’d walk here one day, that she’d come into the presence of this soiled artifact. It had been waiting for her.

She wasn’t sure if she was ready, but she no longer had any choice.

She heard the screams of the men who’d chased her as they were torn apart up on the surface. The wolves had been with her since the beginning, and they’d be with her till the end.

She stepped forward and surrendered herself. She was no longer afraid, even though she knew as she embraced the ancient black roots that she was about to die.

The sun rose to the sound of wolves. It was the last sound she ever heard.

Carastena Vlagoth died, and the Blood Queen was born.

One

Argus Saam’siir watched the sunrise, hoping the sight of a new day would put his mind at ease. As usual, he was sorely disappointed.

The golden dawn drowned Ral Tanneth in molten light. Along the northern shore of the Grey Sea the villagers and hunters had already left their rickety wooden homes and pushed their single-masted fishing vessels out into choppy waters. It was late in the year, but the region hadn’t received a lot of snow, and only a light layer of white covered the land between the sea and the grand capitol of the White Dragon Empire. Rolling hills full with conifers and pines stretched across the countryside. Mountains stood to the north, enormous and craggy peaks which penetrated the clouds, while the massive and dead forest called Ravenwood and the blighted mists of the Heartfang Wastes lay far to the south.

A chill wind scraped against eighty-foot-high stone walls that had never been breached by invaders. Ral Tanneth was made up of imposing towers, fortified keeps and serpentine roads. The sun’s rays fell on pale stone layered with night frost that made the city shine like a frozen star.

Like most Jlantrian cities, Ral Tanneth was tightly divided into districts. Near the enormous main gates stood the Gate Market, an open bazaar populated by hawkers and merchants who sold their wares out of booths or movable carts. Deeper in the city were the Warehouse District, the City Offices and the Temples, all of which circled the Dragon District, a section of the city elevated above the rest on a great disc of solid granite. Buildings were wider and taller there, and the area bespoke of money and power. Noble Jlantrian families made their homes in Dragon District, as did those who were wealthy enough to afford the luxurious manors and great security offered by the presence of the White Fane, a temple-fortress housing the most elite of Empress Azaean’s many capable soldiers.

Ral Tanneth was the largest civilized settlement in the known world, sizable enough to house a hundred thousand people comfortably. Two Allaj Mohrters or four Ebonmarks could be squeezed within Ral Tanneth’s monolithic walls, and the city dwarfed even Blackmoon, an over-populated coastal metropolis which served as the crumbling seat of power for the Empire of Den’nar. The Den’nari were a spiritual people, governed by the laws of the One Goddess in a far more analytical and interpretive fashion than the rigid and militaristic monotheism of the Jlantrian church. Neither Empire had met with a great deal of success maintaining control over their scattered domains since the end of the Rift War, but Jlantria had certainly fared better: Irontear, Savan Karosh, and Tarek Non remained among the mightiest of cities, all firmly held in the White Dragon’s grasp.

It was very important to the Empress that order be maintained, for it was the only bastion of hope in a world rife with chaos.

Argus took a deep breath and let frozen air fill his lungs. He shivered beneath his thick black cloak. A minor enchantment would have fixed that, of course – the Veil had ways of rendering the human body immune to trivialities such as temperature variations – but Argus found such uses of magic frivolous and irresponsible. The Veil was not infinite, and unlike many of his peers Argus strictly adhered to the ideology from which his profession derived its namesake. Veilwardens were meant to watch and protect the source of magic and life, and the best way to do that was by example. It didn’t matter that warming his skin would only deplete the Veil by what was arguably an insignificant amount – the fact remained that all magic drained the Veil’s reserves, and even minor infractions added up over time. It was a lesson the world, and Veilwardens in particular, had yet to truly learn.

He looked out over Ral Tanneth. The central tower of Kai-Ren Thoth, better known as the White Fortress, afforded a breathtaking view, but the castle itself was also a splendor to behold. Kai-Ren Thoth was a daunting structure, a massive bastion of granite bound by thick iron sheets. Great spires and obelisks dotted the base of the citadel, and from his vantage Argus saw battlements, walkways and bridges connecting towers in a confusing web of metal and stone. The fortress was filled with courtyards, rooftop gardens and fortified keeps. Argus saw specks far below that were horses and wagons, carriages, clusters of people so distant they might as well have been insects.

Up there, near what was surely the ceiling of the world, everything seemed so far away. At least for a short time every morning Argus had a place where he could imagine no one would ever find him.

A rippling blast of wind swept over the roof of the tower, and Argus reflexively grabbed the parapet. The proud standard of the White Dragon Empire fluttered behind him. It was getting colder by the day – Jlantria was practically in the grip of winter, and if the head of House Blue was to continue his daily excursion to the top of Kai-Ren Thoth he’d either have to increase his layers of already cumbersome clothing or else take back his stubborn refusal to warm himself with the Veil.

Argus had no desire to end his daily solace. There was a great deal happening, and he needed a few precious moments each morning to clear his head before the day inevitably found him. That had been particularly true over the course of those past few troublesome weeks.

Ebonmark was under Blackhall’s control, at last. That at least was good news, even if the Jlantrian victory in the City of Scars had been costly. Argus had no way of confirming his suspicions that Blackhall, Gess and Slayne were somehow responsible for Wolf Brigade’s untimely demise, but accusations had already started to fly from General Karthas and his supporters, and even with the Black Guild and the Phage removed from the city the campaign had been less than a total success. They still lacked the Bloodheart Stone, the amulet Azaean so coveted, and Toran had been maimed beyond the point where even the Veil could heal him. Argus was happy his old friend would live, but he couldn’t even begin to imagine what that must have been like…every time he thought of Toran his own arm tingled with pain, and he hoped the loss wouldn’t be too hard on Gess’s powerful mind. Argus understood that such injuries often left psychological ramifications that could be just as debilitating as the physical wound.

I should have been there, he thought, not really sure what he would have been able to do. Toran Gess had years of field experience, much more than Argus did. Any Veilwarden has years of experience compared to me.

Thankfully, Toran had succeeded admirably in his own mission. The thar’koon had wound up in Ijanna Taivorkan’s hands, and thanks to the special enchantments he and Argus had placed on the blades they’d be able to track her from halfway across the world. Before long – provided Argus and Toran’s theory was correct – Ijanna would use the thar’koon to try and locate the other Skullborn, which meant she’d lead them directly to Kala. There was still much to be done before they were ready to follow that trail, but the die had finally been cast.

Argus gathered himself. He didn’t feel quite ready to face the day, but it was high time to get on with it. With Toran disabled it fell to him to organize the team that would hunt Ijanna and Kala, and he had to coordinate his efforts with those of the Black Eagles. That had to be done on top of his normal duties as a researcher, diplomat, and adviser, of course, duties he still felt ill-suited to despite the fact that he’d been at his post for over a year.

Everyone still treats me like I’m some sort of child, he thought bitterly. Maybe ending the threat of Kala will finally earn me some respect. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to handle this, but there was little choice now, not unless he wanted one of the other Houses to race in and take away everything he and Toran had spent months planning. You’ve worked too hard, sacrificed too much. Now it falls to you.

He slowly made his way down the lengthy spiral stairs and back into the highest tower of Kai-Ren Thoth. The path through Dragon Tower led to the Imperial suites, where Empress Azaean spent most of her time. Tall windows on one side of the descending passage allowed the light of the new dawn to bathe the ice-colored stone. Argus moved past sealed chambers – guard rooms, guest areas, and the Empress’s seldom-used drawing room – and eventually came to a pair of doors watched over by a small contingent of White Dragon soldiers wearing enameled plate which made them look as ghostly as the castle itself.

The inner halls of Kai-Ren Thoth were draped with red silk, and the immaculately clean corridors were lined with dark wooden tables topped with bowls of figs and berries. Attractive and expensively garbed servants bowed reverently as he passed them by, which made him as uneasy now as it had the day he’d first been appointed as one of the three Veilwarden counsels to the White Dragon. Argus, at twenty-four years of age, was the youngest of the House heads and one of the most influential individuals in the Jlantrian Empire beside The Thirteen, the Empress’s circle of generals and political advisers. Argus’ youth hadn’t exactly ingratiated him to Jlantria’s other authority figures, especially the dour General Karthas, but he tried to tell himself it didn’t bother him that they’d always consider him a clueless novice no matter what he did to prove otherwise.

Unfortunately, most days he just felt like he was in over his head. He was a prodigal mage, and had been selected to the seat over several others who all had much more experience and history with the Veilwarden Houses. Argus considered himself neither ambitious nor deserving of his station, but he also wasn’t so much of a fool as to turn the appointment down. He had a lot to prove, but he found that if he just focused on performing his duties he usually handled himself just fine against Telron Janner and Caa’na Varquan, the heads of Houses Red and White. The Empress seemed to find having someone without political ambitions around refreshing, but more often than not Argus felt like a goat trapped in a lion’s den. There had been times when it had all seemed too much to bear. He didn’t sleep much, and sometimes he was envious of other young men his age who were out traveling and fighting and seeing the world and bedding every whore and harlot in sight, but Argus knew the One Goddess had a higher calling for him.

Be thankful, he told himself. Others would kill to be in your place. The Head of House Blue was an extraordinarily powerful individual, at least on the surface, but politics in Jlantria were an elaborate dance. Little could be done officially without the permission of the other Houses or The Thirteen, so Argus had to master the art of doing things unofficially. Calculated risks, knowing when to omit details from official record, deciding what to tell the Empress and what to leave out…it was all part of a game he was still learning to play, and there were few who wanted him to succeed. Most of the senior Veilwardens in House Blue resented his appointment and envied his position; everyone else just wanted his effectiveness minimized so House Blue wasn’t an obstacle to their own agendas.

Argus made his way down the blanched halls. He had a copy of Leviathan’s Tears, a book of ancient stories by the epic poet Gordair, tucked under his cloak. Gordair had scribed tales based on various creation mythologies and legends gathered from around the world. Argus had stopped by the libraries earlier that morning, since Toran had borrowed his copy – only a scant handful of the books even existed – and he’d been forced to stop long enough to sign off on the new classes for the Academy’s history lessons, which House Blue had taken charge of for the new batch of students brought in on the last Turning Eve. It was the least of Argus’ tasks, and as such seemed just a nuisance.

Argus stopped. A pain buzzed in his brain, a slow-building headache like someone was driving a nail between his eyes. He was suddenly dizzy, and for a moment felt like he was going to collapse.

It was, of course, the Empress’s not-so-gentle summons.

Are you all right, Lord Saam’siir? a serving girl asked, a young and attractive blonde who wore the red armband of a member of the cleaning staff over her pale robes. Argus recalled speaking to her before, but he couldn’t remember what about.

I’ll be fine, Argus said with a shake of his head. Thank you.

He caught himself shaking, stopped, and took a breath. His chest ached with worry.

I should be fearless, he thought. I should bask in this power while I have it, do some good, and beat them all at their own game. It was hard to think positive with the demons of fear clawing their way out of his chest. He’d hoped he’d feel more like a wolf and less like a sheep after being in his position for a time, but he’d been wrong.

Argus hastily carried on down the corridor, his headache gone. He flipped through the pages of Leviathan’s Tears as he went, looking for the story titled The Blight of Dreadrock. The news he had for the White Dragon was nothing she wanted to hear, and the last thing he wanted was to be on the receiving end of her anger. The best defense was to be decisive and strong…two things Argus had trouble with.

Well, you’d better figure it out, he told himself. Because like it or not, this falls to you now.

Argus started the lengthy trek across Kai-Ren Thoth towards the Empress’s inner sanctum.

Two

Empress Llandrix Azaean, the White Dragon of Jlantria, sat in a small chair in a small room. Her flesh was as white as sunlit snow and her raven hair was pulled up in an elaborate bun secured with silver clasps and pins. Her ruby lips shone with an almost unnatural sheen in the soft candlelight, their radiance matched only by the supple crimson coating on her dagger-sharp fingernails.

Azaean sat with her bare legs folded as she wrote with ink and quill. She wasn’t adorned in any of her resplendent gowns of pewter, platinum or plum, nor her intricately snow-laced dress with a neckline like a pearl tide and tresses of lightning gold, or even the crimson battle armor and oversized onyx cape she wore when she’d appeared for her soldiers on the eve of the Battle of Thornmount – artists had captured her in all of those outfits in their stories and portraits, and the clothing had become as immortal as the Empress herself. That morning, Azaean simply wore a loose summer dress of golden silk, cut low with a slit up one side of the skirt to reveal her smooth legs. It was the sort of outfit her father would have told her belonged on a whore, not a noblewoman ordained by the One Goddess to rule the mightiest Empire on Malzaria.

Comments like that were why I so enjoyed destroying you, Father.

She sat in one of the only chambers in Kai-Ren Thoth not suffused with light. Azaean enjoyed the sun as much as anyone else, but she also needed her hovels, little places in her great castle where she could feel like a child again, out of sight and out of mind. Her private study was only one of several chambers she’d altered to resemble the villa she’d grown up in. The room was painted black and furnished with only a large gold rug, a pair of bookcases stuffed with ancient tomes and a desk topped with yellow candles which barely shed enough light for her to read by.

Azaean never left Kai-Ren Thoth – it was her sanctuary as much as it was her great white cage. She enjoyed being waited on by flocks of servants and protected by endless waves of guards, just as she enjoyed her magic, her power and secrets. But the fact remained that she would never leave her castle again, and so she did everything she could to make it a place she wanted to be confined in, right down to the inclusion of her secluded hideaways. The Thirteen, of course, knew that she had her sanctuaries, and they fretted and frowned about them, insisting it was dangerous for her to be secreted away where no one could come to her aid if she was ever in danger.

She dismissed their fears. She had many enemies both within and without her crumbling Empire – to show her face outside of Kai-Ren Thoth would be suicide, but she was safe in her own castle, even when alone. The White Dragon had spent too many years ensuring she’d live forever to allow herself to go unprotected for even a moment. The Thirteen’s concern – feigned or otherwise – amused her, as did the fact that they still acted like they thought her weak and frail even when they all knew how she’d single-handedly ripped the life from her father and his supposedly indestructible Hellknights.

I hope you’re having fun in hell, Father. Save me some wine for when I get there.

In all of her years as Empress of Jlantria, Llandrix Azaean had dealt with many threats to her realm, some mundane and some terrifying. She was a capable and often ruthless monarch, and she’d held the crown longer than most people had even lived.

No one knew her true age. She’d held reign over the Empire for at least 100 years, and she’d been a woman grown when she’d seized the throne from her father. She’d had dozens of lovers but no husband, and since her affairs were kept secret her unmarried status helped reinforce the belief among the people that she was chaste and nearly divine; even the birth of her only child was declared by the Church to be an immaculate conception. Azaean looked like the One Goddess, and Jlantrians took the uncanny resemblance as a sure sign of her holy birthright. Naturally the Empress had manipulated her appearance to resemble that of Corvinia, just as she’d commissioned dozens of pieces of art which depicted the One Goddess’s likeness in such a way that she and Azaean might have been twins.

She sat quietly in her study, feeling the tide of years. She’d lived so long her memories were hazy sometimes, blurred. More and more details slipped away. Her body stayed young, but things happened to the mind that couldn’t be fought, even with an ally as powerful as the Veil.

The Empress was troubled that morning, and if she’d had any confidants she would have shared her concerns with them, but she didn’t. As much as she trusted and even admired some of her closest servants there was danger in revealing too much information to anyone.

Azaean spilled her worries in the form of poems. Over her lengthy reign she’d written thousands of pieces, all safely hidden away in that tiny room in the drawer of the wide oak desk. The poems were simple and silly things with the literary quality of something scribed by an adolescent girl, but each one she wrote gave Llandrix a certain sense of peace, for every completed line represented a troublesome emotion she’d successfully torn away.

It was better that way, she told herself. The Empress needed to be unburdened. There was too much at stake.

Kala was still out there, in hiding, angry and powerful. The young Bloodspeaker had grown more influential than ever before, and she, like all of those who shared her disease, had had her once promising mind corrupted by the taint of dark magic. The Veil soiled the souls of those born with it inside them, made them anathema to the world – only those who chose to yield the Veil willingly after years of disciplined training could ever hope to do so without succumbing to its vile lusts.

Bloodspeakers were a disease, and Azaean would see to it they were purged. She had to destroy them before they destroyed themselves, for they would surely take the rest of the world with them. It wasn’t a new problem, but rather an unending battle. Llandrix had spent years trying to eradicate the Bloodspeaker plague, and the struggle had taken an enormous amount of time and resources. Not everyone understood the gravity of the conflict or why it was so important it be done quickly: the Bloodspeakers were organizing, and their leaders had enough guile and determination that they could do tremendous damage given enough time. Leaders like Malath, and Kala.

Azaean had completely forgotten what she’d been writing about. She looked around the room, bewildered. Her head was pounding. Normally she would have called on the Veil to expel the headache, but she knew, perhaps better than anyone else alive, that the Veil couldn’t heal this hurt, because it was the cause. Not a Veilwarden or Bloodspeaker alive commanded the Veil as effectively as Llandrix – she had, after all, rebuilt the Veilwardens Academy after her narrow-minded brute of a father had torn it down, and in so doing had redefined the foundations for how to Touch the Veil. But what no one knew was that so many years spent exposed to magic’s corruptive influence was slowly killing her.

Her hands fumbled nervously at the desk. She found the compartment which only she could locate. Her stomach lurched, and bile caught in the back of her throat.

Llandrix was near passing out when she finally unstoppered the glass vial – one of several hidden in the desk compartment – and gulped down the crimson-colored contents. Her throat tightened and her body convulsed at the foul taste of the liquid she’d developed, an alchemical concoction made from the blood of Allaji slaves, who held a tighter connection to the Veil’s magic than anyone else.

Her nerves calmed almost instantly. The room shifted from a nauseating cyclone to something stable and dark, and the throbbing in her head slowly faded. She knew the experience had lasted less than a minute, but the pulses of pain resonated deep, and she felt her body wilt in the aftermath. The Veil had tried to draw her in, and the struggle had left her eyes sore and her stomach twisted.

Azaean calmly deposited the empty vial back in the drawer and sealed the desk shut. She sat still and quiet for a long time. The attacks were getting worse, and Llandrix felt the cold touch of fear run down her spine.

It was the Veil’s wrath. The One Goddess did not take well to her blood being manipulated by the hands of mortals, and just as Azaean had reached for the Veil so many times, it was now reaching for her.

She’d built an Empire. She’d never known her mother, so she’d had only her father to look up to, a cruel and lying bastard with dreams of rallying the petty-minded lords of the then-Duchies of Jlantria into a united struggle to overthrow Archduke Cassis. Once that was done he’d planned to kill his allies, as well, so he could seize total power for himself. His plan nearly succeeded, up until the point when Llandrix had finally had enough of his brutalizing her body the way he’d brutalized everything else.

Emperor Kronos Azaean, Sovereign Emperor of Jlantria and First of his Name, was betrayed by a daughter who shared his penchant for vengeance. Llandrix defeated her father’s Hellknights and had him imprisoned, took control of his armies and resources and seized his Empire before he’d ruled it for even a fortnight. In the process she secured the unyielding loyalty of all the Generals and landed nobles he’d planned to betray, and after she let the rapist bastard suffer in a prison cell for a year she marched him onto the newly finished high tower of Kai-Ren Thoth and used the Veil to torture him while he begged for mercy. After a few days she grew bored and threw his grisly remains into the sea.

Her devotion to her people was heralded, and songs were written about her. Her desire to punish her father for his injustices won her the hearts of the Empire, and exposing his intended treachery won her the support of Jlantria’s most powerful military leaders and families. Her mastery of the Veil earned her control of the Veilwardens, and her desire to burn out the evils of the world in Corvinia’s name ensured the loyalty of the One Goddess’s church. Within ten years no one assumed her rule was ordained by anything short of Corvinia herself.

The Empress lashed out at any perceived threat to Jlantrian solidarity, and with each conquest she added new territories and vast sums of accumulated wealth. As time went by Azaean acquired magic and riches and knowledge, and her command of the Veil grew. She came to master a force which would allow her to live forever.

If it doesn’t kill me first.

Llandrix filed away her most recent attempt at poetry – unfinished, as so many of her projects had been as of late – and left the room. There were no doors to her private chambers, just a cutgate cast into the wall with red ink. The portal was attenuated so only she could use it. Ruby light bled across her vision, and for a moment she felt weightless as she passed through a storm of smoke and blood.

She emerged from the light and stepped into a great pale room filled with moisture and light. The marbled chamber was kept warm by the constant spill of magically heated water from angelic stone mouths, and curtains of steam filled the space from floor to ceiling. A pair of servants stood waiting. They’d been blinded when they’d entered her service so they would never see her unclothed.

Azaean disrobed and stepped into the water. She knew very well that Argus Saam’siir waited in the Sanctum – she’d sent her summons, after all – but she intended to make him wait, for such was her right.

She unbound her hair and dipped backwards into the water. The pain she’d battled just minutes before was all but forgotten. Her mind and soul were awash with thoughts of the future. She stretched her arms out and bathed herself – she never allowed anyone to touch her except her lovers – and gazed out the open window, which afforded her a spectacular view of the labyrinthine streets of Ral Tanneth.

It was her city, but it was just one of many, and several had been lost during the Rift War. Some had been devastated, while others had been allowed to go free because her armies no longer had the resources to hold them.

No longer, she thought.

Llandrix was slowly claiming back her Empire. Her control over the Veil grew stronger each day, and before long she’d take revenge on Kala and Malath and every disgusting creature like them. Losing the Bloodheart Stone had been disheartening, but she knew, given patience and time, that it would still be hers.

She wouldn’t stop until she had everything she wanted. It didn’t matter what price had to be paid. There were plenty who she could sacrifice in order to secure her legacy.

Three

Argus paced the outer chamber of the Sanctum. The pale walls were jagged and uneven, as if the entire room had been carved from the heart of a glacier. A tall throne sat at one end of the room, while the other side was occupied by an enormous and irregularly shaped window which offered a breathtaking view of Ral Tanneth. A long table along one wall was covered with odds and ends the Empress had accumulated over the years: bits of jewelry, armor, a heap of silver coins, gold nuggets mined from the Grim Titans. Empress Azaean used the chamber for private meetings, or else when she needed to be available for a select few but chose not to grace the Throne Room with her presence. The air smelled of incense and beauty powders and was nearly silent.

Knights of the Grail Order waited just outside the room, and even their proximity sent a chill down Argus’ spine. The Empress’s honor guards looked no different than any other soldiers of the White Dragon Army, but those with any knowledge of the Order knew better. Most Grail Order knights were well-trained in the arts of assassination, and the senior members had been tempered with specially concocted elixirs which greatly enhanced their vitality and stamina. Of course, an unexplained side effect of that serum also rendered Grail Knights emotionless and excessively violent, but Empress Azaean seemed to prefer them that way, leading some to question whether the side effects had truly been unintentional after all. In any case, the Grail Knights were eerie and dangerous, just like most things altered and twisted by Veilcraft.

The waiting, Argus decided, was the worst. The Empress had a powerful presence, not just because of her command of the Veil – the flow of magic around her was like a wave of volcanic heat – but also due to the very force of her personality, for even without the benefit of sorcery Empress Azaean filled a room like the glow of a star. Her every word radiated authority, and her gaze was enough to turn even the most confident men to ice. Anticipation of meeting with her that morning had kept him from sleeping much, though in all fairness his insomnia was nothing new.

I need to do something about that. Some nightshade elixir might do the trick.

The tall doors to the chamber were thrown open. Grail Knights in white plate held their long-hafted swords at perfect ninety-degree angles ahead of them. Their faces were covered with smiling golden masks, and they moved into the room