Veiled Empire by Nathan Garrison

His usually regal posture sagged in a mirror of Yandumar’s own, and his leather-wrapped feet kicked absently at a clump of grass. Yandumar noted these details and more, his mind grasping at everything, anything, trying to keep busy so he wouldn’t think. There are things I haven’t told you. . .
    He sat up, stretching his back to a satisfying ripple of vertebrae. “Still, we’re not gods. We can only do our best and . . . pray.”
    Gilshamed drew a sharp breath, snapping back into the present. “True, I suppose. Does the God of your people lend strength to such endeavors?”
    “Yes. At least, I’d like to think so. As long as our intentions remain pure.” In truth, he didn’t know. So much was lost. He and his kin, the people of the old nation of Ragremos, did their best to live according to the teachings of the First Creator, fragmented though the scriptures were. It was not always easy deciphering truth from the scattered passages. Oh, the vows we have taken. . .
    But they tried, and prayed that trying was . . . enough.
    “Would you two shut up already?”
    The woman’s voice broke his thoughts. Both he and Gilshamed jerked their heads up to face the speaker, who sat across the pit of flames. Her throaty laughter accompanied the shhkkt sound of her whetstone as it sharpened her favored daggers.
    Gilshamed addressed her. “This may be the last moment of peace we have for quite some time, Slick Ren. Let us spend it as we may.”
    Slick Ren slid the blade into a sheath situated crosswise under her breasts and drew its twin. Her curve-hugging leather attire, the shade of blood, held a score of daggers of various sizes and purposes. Both her plump lips and her slicked-back hair matched the hue, though the latter held a streak of grey—the only indication of her forty-two years of age.
    “You go right on and do that,” she said as she set to work sharpening the new blade. “While we sensible folk actually prepare.”
    The bandit queen of the Rashunem Hills had a point. Yandumar, however, had no desire to conduct such prebattle rituals. Usually, he would. Not this time. He planned to fight, but did not wish his edges to cut too deeply.
    Gilshamed turned towards his tent, and Yandumar followed with his gaze. “As you can see,” said Gilshamed, “my own preparations are under way.” As he spoke, a man passed through the golden flaps towing a cart, flanked by another pair who carried shovels. Before the entrance folded closed, Yandumar spied another dozen men working inside.
    “Risky business, that,” Slick Ren said. “Better hope it pays off.”
    “You’re not backing out now, are you?” Yandumar asked.
    She fixed her icy eyes on him, smiling. “Our kingdom was founded on risky plays. I have every confidence that this game will be no different. We’d not be involved otherwise. Isn’t that right, Derthon?”
    Mention of his name brought her brother’s gaze up. He sat cross-legged at her side, silent, as always. They both had their share of brains and brawn, but when it came to voicing thoughts, he let her take permanent lead. Yandumar had never heard him speak. He wasn’t sure if the man could.
    Derthon nodded once, then bent his eyes down again. He returned to rubbing an oiled cloth across his sword, a sleek, curving, single-edged work of art. The blade was impossibly sharp and never dulled, enchanted, most likely. The man wore no clothes, at least not what normal people would consider clothing, but his entire body was wrapped in linen bandaging. Beneath, Yandumar did not know what would be found.
    “I am glad to hear it,” said Gilshamed. “We all stand to gain much from this. Though some”—his eyes flicked to Yandumar—“more than others.”
    “So long as we get around to killing some of them mierothi bastards,” Slick Ren said, “I’ll help you fetch lost pups from wells all you want.”
    Yandumar jumped up, glaring down on her. “That’s not what this is about.”
    “Tell