Blood of Empire

by Brian McClellan

  “Why should I agree to meet with your general?”

  “Mutual respect,” the old woman said, spreading her hands wide.

  “I’ve yet to meet any of your officers who looked at me as any more than a rabid dog waiting to be put down.”

  The pair of messengers exchanged a glance, something passing between them. The man replied, “Mistakes were made.”

  “I’ve splattered your mistakes across the hills of Fatrasta.”

  “A good reason to talk to you rather than fight you, no?” the old woman asked. Her Adran was much better than the man’s. More refined and practiced. An interpreter, maybe? Or someone more important?

  “A good reason for you to talk to me,” Vlora shot back. “Not the other way around.” Beside her, Bo cleared his throat. “What is your advice, Magus Borbador?” Vlora asked sharply, with far more acid in her tone than she’d intended.

  “Never hurts to talk,” Bo said quietly.

  “Doesn’t it? It hurts right now, and I have Dynize blades and bullets to thank for that.”

  The messengers exchanged another glance. The woman nudged her horse forward a few steps. “A gift,” she said, tossing a bundle to Vlora.

  Vlora fumbled the small package but managed to avoid the embarrassment of dropping it. It was a bit of cloth wrapped in twine. She managed to unbind it, and a small piece of metal dropped into her hand. It was a silver powder keg. No, not any silver powder keg. Hers, with initials carved into the back. It still had her blood in the grooves. “How did you get this?” she demanded.

  “A dragoon,” the woman explained. “He cut it off your uniform just before your friends arrived from Adro. He played dead to avoid the slaughter, and then fled. He stumbled into our camp two days ago.”

  “And why give it back?”

  “It’s our custom,” the woman said, using two fingers to frame the small stud in her ear that looked an awful lot like a human tooth, “to take trophies from the dead. We do not take them from the living. General Etepali believed you should have it back.”

  “Did he?”

  “She,” the man corrected.

  Vlora felt the urge to send the silver powder keg back, along with the heads of the two messengers. The thought had barely entered her mind when she shook it off. What kind of response was that? To what end? Was that really the woman she was becoming? “I’ll meet your general,” she snapped. “In my camp. Eight o’clock.”

  “Do you give your word as an Adran officer that she will be unharmed?” the old woman asked.

  Davd urged his horse up in a few quick bounds, bringing it abreast of the messenger’s mounts. “Don’t question my Lady Flint,” he growled.

  The old woman seemed unperturbed. “Your Lady Flint has murdered numerous Dynize officers. My general hopes to keep her own life intact, at least until the actual fighting begins.”

  “Stand down, Davd,” Vlora ordered. The last thing she wanted to do was speak with a Dynize officer. It would come to nothing, of course. The Dynize would not give up their prize of the godstones and Vlora would not give up trying to take them. But a small bit of honor managed to wriggle past the ugliness that had made a home inside her. Tamas himself had pinned this powder keg to her breast. Having it again, even without the sorcery that it represented, was no small thing. “I give my word. I’ll talk to her. But once the fighting starts…” She shrugged.

  “Understood.” The messengers bowed and turned around, trotting back toward the Dynize earthworks.

  Vlora returned to the general staff. Deep in thought, she barely heard someone asking her what had happened, and waved off any other questions. “Set up camp,” she ordered. “I want our own earthworks dug by morning in case of a counterattack. Make sure we secure the coast and have a line of communication with our fleet. Someone find out why Olem hasn’t returned yet. Oh, and set up the general-staff tent. I’m having a guest tonight.”

  CHAPTER 11

  We have to talk,” Styke said.

  He fell to the back of the column, where Ka-poel lagged a dozen paces behind the last of the Mad Lancers, sitting back in her saddle, riding with a tuneless whistle on her lips and a casual eye on passing Dynize. She stopped whistling as he approached and made an open-handed gesture at her left side, her sign for Celine.

  “No,” Styke answered. “Just the two of us. I think I’ve got enough of a grasp of your sign language for a conversation.”

  She pursed her lips, giving him the impression that she already knew what this was about. Over the last couple of days they had made decent headway—according to Orz, they were less than twenty miles from the capital. The men were well rested, their couple of wounded were recovering well, and so far no one had bothered to ask why a group of foreign soldiers was traveling in the company of a dragonman and a bone-eye. Styke was impressed that the ruse had lasted as long as it had, though the logic behind it was sound.

  No one goes out of their way to question authority figures. In Dynize, it seemed that was doubly the case.

  With the current calm, it seemed a good time to get Ka-poel alone and hash out whatever was going on between them, sorcery-wise. Styke let Amrec fall in beside Ka-poel’s horse, matching paces.

  “You’re using your sorcery to protect me.” It wasn’t a question. Ka-poel did not answer, so he went on. “You told me before that you’re not.”

  The flurry of gestures that shot back at him was almost too much for him to follow.

  “Slow down, slow down,” he said.

  She repeated herself slowly. Which do you believe?

  “I believe that you’re protecting me.”

  You say that like it’s a bad thing.

  “I say that like you lied to me.”

  Ka-poel snorted. Lies among friends.

  “Lies among friends is me telling Markus that the cut of his jacket doesn’t make him look like a fat sack of shit. Lies among friends is not you digging your blood-witch hooks deep into my flesh.”

  To protect you. The strength of the gesture emphasized the word “protect.” She continued, I protect my friends. You. Taniel. People who may be in danger from other bone-eyes.

  “How many of those people do you prop up with your sorcery? How many of them can shrug off wounds, fight through crippling pain, react with astonishing strength?”

  Ka-poel narrowed her eyes at him. Only you and Taniel.

  “Right. And that stuff between you and Taniel? I don’t give a shit. You’ve got your own deals. I get that. But me and you…”

  Is this because I’m not sleeping with you like I am Taniel? There was an unmistakable mocking tilt to the gestures.

  “Don’t be a child. I’m mad because Taniel gave you his permission. I did not.”

  And why don’t you want my protection?

  Styke considered his words for a moment. “Because I’m Mad Ben Styke. I may be a bit in love with my own legend, and maybe that’s a fault of mine. But my strength? My resolve? I want those things to be mine. Not a loan from some blood sorcerer. Do you understand what I mean at all?”

  For a moment, Ka-poel looked almost pouty. She turned away, scowling, and took nearly a full minute before finally looking back at him. She gave a small nod. She continued to gesture. Maybe. But you’re a fool for turning down such a gift. I don’t give it lightly, you know.

  “Yeah, but like I said: I didn’t ask for it. You can’t guilt someone into accepting a gift they don’t want.”

  I only give you enough to keep you alive. It doesn’t take much. You’re very strong on your own.

  Styke felt like she was finally listening. Bargaining. Stroking his ego. A small weight left his shoulders, and he realized that he’d been afraid of what would happen if she simply told him that he belonged to her now. But this was not a dialogue between master and slave. He took a deep breath. “All right. Let’s start this over. How does it work?”

  It’s a sort of link between us. I can allow you to feed off the strength of my sorcery, giving you more or cutti
ng you off when you do or do not need it. Once the bond is established, it doesn’t take much effort on my part to keep it going. Giving you too much strength does exhaust me, however. The explanation was so long that Styke had to make her repeat the series of gestures twice before he got it all.

  “So is that why you were so tired after Starlight? Because you gave me so much strength? It seems like you’re only now recovering from it.”

  Ka-poel smirked. No. You drew some energy from me during that fight, but most of it was going to Taniel.

  “I’m guessing he needed it?”

  Our communication isn’t perfect, but I understand he faced down a couple of Dynize brigades.

  Styke was in the middle of drinking from his canteen and spat half of it down the front of him. “By himself?”

  I’m not sure. But he drew enough power from me to do so.

  “He’s really that strong?”

  We’re really that strong, Ka-poel corrected. She seemed to recognize her own arrogance and made a small gesture of humility. It nearly killed us both. Neither of us can repeat that performance. I’ve called him to join me here, actually, though it will take him some time to reach us.

  Taniel’s presence would certainly be helpful, Styke conceded to himself. Even if he had only a fraction of the strength required to fight a couple of Dynize brigades. He dismissed the thought and focused on the present. “Look, I know you think this is necessary. But my strength… it must be my own.”

  Are you sure?

  “I’m sure.”

  A small war played out over Ka-poel’s face. He could practically feel her weighing the options, wondering if she should make the decision for him—or simply lie to him again. Her mouth finally settled into a firm line and her hands flashed. I’ll withdraw my power. But I also don’t want another bone-eye getting a hold of you.

  “So you want to keep a close eye on me?”

  But I won’t do it without your permission.

  There was the bargain. Styke grunted, feeling as if he was still being played somehow. But she had a point. Ka-Sedial was a world away, with no method of leverage, but there might be other bone-eyes in the capital just as capable of taking control of him. Given the choice, he’d rather risk Ka-poel’s sorcery than a stranger’s. “All right. But just a watchful eye. I’m not Taniel. I’m not your champion. I’m just a temporary bodyguard.”

  Ka-poel leaned across the gap and patted him on the cheek. The gesture had all the gentleness of an elderly grandmother, but the moment her fingers touched his skin, he felt an electric shock that traveled from his face to the tips of his fingers and toes. He flinched back, but the feeling was so brief that he thought he had imagined it. A few moments passed, and he squinted his eyes against a sudden headache. He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers, feeling them react just a tiny bit more slowly to his commands. Little aches that he hadn’t realized were there came into focus; from the old, healed-over bullet wounds to the sorcerously stitched stabs and slashes from Starlight.

  The cascade of painful echoes hitting him from every part of his body were at once hateful and welcome. He found himself gasping for breath, eyes burning, while a sense of freedom lifted his heart. He nodded to Ka-poel and realized that he was grinning stupidly.

  You like that? she signed with a cocked eyebrow.

  “It’s not a matter of liking it,” Styke replied. “I know it. I recognize it. This body is mine again.”

  I never…, she began, but let her hands drop. She gestured dismissively, rolling her eyes.

  Their conversation was interrupted as the group ahead of them turned off the road into a large inn complex. The stop was not unexpected, and the place was fairly deserted, so the Lancers dismounted and began to water their horses at a large fountain. Styke pulled away from Ka-poel and attended to Amrec, then made sure that Celine had properly taken care of Margo.

  Watching while Celine brushed down her horse, and giving the occasional pointer, Styke was soon joined by Markus and Zak. “Where’s our local guide?” Styke asked.

  “Requisitioning supplies from the owner of this place,” Zak answered.

  Styke lifted his eyes to the road and watched as some fifteen soldiers marched into the large courtyard of the inn. Most were barely old enough to wear the uniforms, and their morion helmets and breastplates fit poorly. Several had bad sunburns, telling of inexperience when it came to marching all day.

  Keeping one eye on the soldiers, he asked Markus, “Is something wrong?”

  “Just curious if we’re going to be able to scout at some point,” Zak answered for his brother in a low whisper. “I know how little you like going blind into things, and we’ve been riding on the word of that foreigner for the last couple days. We’re sitting ducks all gathered up into one group, with no eyes out front or back.”

  “You’re right, I don’t like it,” Styke answered. Speaking in Palo wasn’t the same as Dynize, but it was close enough that if they were overheard, it might be mistaken for bad Dynize. “But our friend hasn’t lied to us yet. And having either of you ahead or trailing us only makes it all the more likely that you’re stopped and questioned. No, we stay with the dragonman. All of us.”

  The brothers nodded unhappily. “Could Jackal speak to his spirits? Get a lay of the land?” Markus asked with a mix of hesitancy and hope.

  “I haven’t asked him lately. He hasn’t had much luck with the blood witch around. Speaking of which…” Styke looked around for Jackal. His eyes landed on the big round fountain in the center of the courtyard, where the newly arrived soldiers had begun to water their horses and themselves. The soldiers didn’t give Styke and the rest of the Kressians more than a few curious glances—they seemed to write off the naval infantry uniforms without a second thought.

  But Jackal was kneeling beside the fountain, dunking his head in the water, then slicking it off his head and face before repeating the action. Anyone with eyes could see that Jackal wasn’t quite Dynize and it seemed to make the soldiers more than a little curious.

  Three of the Dynize soldiers gathered around him in a loose knot that quickly tightened. Zak and Markus both took a step in their direction, but Styke grabbed them by their shoulders. “Go find Orz,” he told them, then began to walk slowly toward the fountain, acting casual, his hands behind his back instead of in a fist and on his knife like he wanted them. He hoped the situation resolved itself before he even reached the fountain.

  “Where are you from?” he heard one of the guards ask in Dynize.

  Jackal had been learning Dynize along with the rest of the soldiers. But, like the rest, he was in no state to speak openly with a native. He ignored the soldiers and dunked his head again. When he came back up, one of them—a tall woman with head shaved around a single topknot—grabbed him by the shoulder.

  “Where are you from?” she asked again, somewhat more aggressively.

  Jackal smiled at her and tapped his ears, then his throat, and shook his head.

  “What are you, mute?” The woman’s tone took on a mocking edge. The two men with her both laughed at the question, though Styke wondered what could possibly be funny about it. One suddenly snatched Jackal beneath an arm, jerking him to his feet. Jackal spun with the pull, letting himself stumble into the two men and using the motion to disguise that he’d pulled his knife.

  Styke was on them in a few quick strides. He quickly shouldered between Jackal and the three soldiers, looking down on them with a measured calm while he struggled internally not to draw his own weapon.

  The woman took an involuntary step back. Styke put a hand on the chest of one of the men, pushing him gently. Orz had taught him the equivalent expression for “Let me buy you a drink,” so he used it. “You’ve had a long day in the sun,” he suggested in broken Dynize.

  “Is there something wrong?” The sergeant in charge of this crew sidled over to Styke, looking him up and down with one long glance and then turning his attention to the three soldiers. “Well?”
r />   Topknot’s lip curled. “This slave was disrespectful,” she said, gesturing to Jackal. “And this one.” She gestured at Styke. “I want them whipped.”

  Styke felt himself a hairsbreadth from violence. He and Jackal could cut the four of them down without drawing a sweat. The other eleven might be a problem, though. “I apologize,” he said, bowing very slightly at the waist. Orz had said that bows were important here. “This slave cannot speak.”

  “But he can still answer a question!” Topknot’s blood was up.

  “How?” Styke asked, hoping that his inflection said just how obvious the question was. He couldn’t help but wonder at her background. She had to be a noble of some kind, or at least what passed for nobility in Dynize. A bastard of a prominent Household maybe, sent to the infantry to get wise. She couldn’t be more than seventeen, but she had the arrogance of a Kez officer.

  She glared at him, ignoring the question.

  “I’m sorry,” Styke repeated.

  The sergeant didn’t seem all that interested in the spat. He turned to Styke and gave a regretful sigh. “It is within her right. You are slaves.” His face and tone expressed sympathy.

  “I have apologized.” Styke realized that he was gripping the handle of his knife and forced himself to let go. “I think we should take this no further.”

  “I—!”

  Topknot was cut off by the timely arrival of Orz. The dragonman swept into the confrontation smoothly, putting himself between Styke and the sergeant in much the same way as Styke had between Jackal and the soldiers.

  The sergeant’s nostrils flared and the three soldiers immediately retreated several steps. “This property does not belong to you,” Orz said to Topknot in a dangerously low voice.

  The sergeant was white-faced. He backed away, bowing low with every step. “No, there is no problem, Servant of God. My apologies.”