Blood of Empire

by Brian McClellan

  “Yes, ma’am,” came the chorus of answers.

  She nodded for them to continue their planning, and turned forward in the saddle, ready to sink back into her own malaise. Every strategy she reached for, every plan she began to grasp, seemed to fall apart before she could fully get her head around it. Her mind kept turning to how much easier this would be with Olem at her side—a thought that made her feel angry and guilty all at once. She brought her head up and scanned the horizon for a distraction—any distraction—from her own brain.

  Her eyes fell on a row occurring about a hundred yards away on the other side of the marching column. It was too far for her to make out the details of what was going on, but it seemed that at least a dozen of her cavalry were attempting to corner someone on horseback. One of her cavalry finally broke away, riding across the column and coming to join her.

  “What’s going on, soldier?” she asked, nodding in the direction of the row.

  “Sorry, ma’am. Wouldn’t normally bring this to you, but there’s some kind of incident with a local.”

  “What kind of incident?”

  “It’s a Palo, ma’am. Claims he knows you. Claims he has important intelligence for you.”

  Vlora scowled. “And why didn’t you send him to me?”

  “Well, he’s a Palo, ma’am.”

  “And what difference does that make?”

  The cavalryman opened his mouth, closed it again, and looked deeply uncomfortable. “I thought we didn’t have any allies among the natives, ma’am.”

  Vlora grit her teeth and reminded herself that these soldiers were freshly arrived from the Nine, where Palo were still considered a backward curiosity. “Bring him here,” she ordered. “Wait, did this Palo give you a name?”

  “Calls himself Burt, I think.”

  “Brown Bear Burt?” Vlora asked, feeling her mind shed some of her exhaustion. “Never mind, take me to him. Now!”

  She followed the cavalryman across the column to find Brown Bear Burt in the center of a knot of cavalry. He had a pistol in one hand, his boz knife in the other, and was gripping the reins with his teeth while he brandished both at the cavalry. He was sweaty, dusty, and worn, with a bloodstain on the left sleeve of his riding jacket. His horse looked worse than he did, favoring one leg and swaying badly.

  “Lady Flint!” Vlora’s accompanying cavalryman announced loudly.

  Vlora rode into the group. “What the damned pit is the meaning of this?” she demanded. “This man is my friend and a guest, and you will treat him as such! You, summon a medic. You, get him a fresh horse. Jump, god damn it!” The knot of cavalry scattered to the wind, leaving Vlora alone with Burt.

  Burt spat his reins out of his mouth and let out a litany of curses in several different languages as he holstered his pistol and knife. “Your boys are seriously protective of you,” he finally said.

  “I’m sorry, they—”

  Burt waved away the apology. “Disheveled-looking foreigner armed to the teeth and demanding to see your commanding officer? Probably for the best.” He squinted and blinked at her. “You look like you got run over by a herd of cattle. What the pit happened to you?”

  “Long story. Why are you here, Burt? I thought you were taking the trunk of the godstone up to the Palo Nation.”

  Burt took a deep breath and stripped off his jacket, taking a good look at his arm. “Grazed,” he muttered. “Hurts like the pit.” The wound was recent.

  “That’s not from my men, is it?” Vlora asked.

  “No, no. Damned Dynize. They get itchy when you refuse to stop for their questions. I was escorting the godstone up north. But a whole lot happened after you left Yellow Creek.”

  Vlora felt like a stiff wind might knock her off her horse at this point, and she could see the storm clouds in Burt’s eyes that heralded a whole lot of bad news. She gripped her saddle horn. “There wasn’t much left of Yellow Creek last I saw it.”

  “And there’s nothing left now.” Burt spat into the dirt. “A few days after you left, a whole Dynize brigade rolled in. I’d left a few of my boys behind to keep an eye on things and they came and got me when the Dynize arrived.”

  “Looking for the godstone?”

  “That’s what we thought at first. They put the whole town to the sword. Butchered everyone. Men, women, children. Anyone they couldn’t catch they chased into the mountains. Then they brought in a handful of Privileged and began work on that scree slope below where Little Flerring busted up the godstone.”

  Vlora stared at Burt, horrified. “Why?”

  “They pulled something else out of the mountainside.” Burt sniffed. “Something hidden way down below the godstone.”

  “Hidden?” Vlora echoed.

  “Buried,” Burt corrected. “Probably not on purpose.”

  “What was it?”

  “Big old block of stone. Flat, like a mighty table. It looks just like the godstone, and I suspect that it’s a pedestal of some kind.”

  Vlora ran her hands through her hair. The capstone was now with her fleet, and everyone who knew anything about it—Prime Lektor and Julene, specifically—were there protecting the damned thing. The root of the godstone had gone with Burt. So what was this new piece that the Dynize had found? If it was truly a pedestal, it might be integral to the godstone as a whole. She looked around for a messenger. “I need to talk to Prime,” she muttered.

  “That Privileged from Yellow Creek?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I have a damned mind to hold his feet to the fire to find out if there’s something we—all of us—missed.” Burt seemed to push away his exhaustion, his face hardening. “Whatever it was, the Dynize killed a lot of my friends to hide it.”

  Vlora searched her saddlebags and produced a canteen of rum, handing it to Burt. He took a swig, sputtered, and spat. “Kresimir on a cracker, I thought that was water.” Once he’d recovered, he took a more measured sip and handed the canteen back, wiping his face with his jacket. “Thanks, I needed that.”

  “So what happened to the stone they pulled out of the mountain-side?” Vlora asked.

  “They headed south,” Burt replied. “I was halfway across the Ironhooks when I got the message. Sent the rest of the godstone on to my people and grabbed what men I could and headed back. They were gone by the time we reached Yellow Creek—they dragged their prize to the Hadshaw and loaded it onto a keelboat. Made it about a hundred and fifty miles before we caught up to them.”

  “You chased a Dynize brigade with a handful of irregulars?”

  Burt eyeballed her. “You think I’m gonna let them get away with killing my friends? Of course we did. Managed to butcher a handful of them at a joint in the river, killed three of their Privileged, but lost a lot of my own boys.”

  “Three Privileged,” Vlora said flatly.

  “Yeah, three of the bastards. I subscribe to the Ben Styke theory of killing sorcerers: Hit them hard and hit them fast. Kill them before they can put their gloves on. Palo Nation irregulars are the best guerrilla fighters in the world, Flint.” He made a few motions as if drawing a map in the air. “We managed to get ahead of them and sink the keelboat hauling that pedestal, but like I said, we took a bad hit. What irregulars I have left are back there right now, harassing the shit out of the Dynize to keep them from recovering their prize. I’ve sent for backup, but when I found out you had an entire army over here, I thought you might be closer.”

  “Shit,” Vlora said quietly, her mind racing. She pictured a map of the region in her head. “If you sank their keelboat about a hundred and fifty miles south of Yellow Creek, that means they’re… almost dead west of us right now.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’ve got two Dynize field armies between me and them.”

  Burt grimaced, touching his arm. “I did notice that.”

  One of Vlora’s soldiers returned with a medic. Vlora and Burt both dismounted, letting the medic clean and stitch Burt’s wound while another soldier b
rought him a new horse and went about switching saddles and bags between the two animals. “Don’t let that limp fool ya,” Burt told the soldier, “she’s still good to go. I want her back, so don’t go shooting her for the afternoon stew. Ow.” The medic pulled on the stitches and tied off a knot. Vlora dismissed her, leaving the two of them alone again.

  “I’m not sure what I can do,” Vlora said hesitantly.

  “I’m not, either,” Burt replied. “If I didn’t need the help, I wouldn’t ask for it. Whatever it is the Dynize got their hands on, they wanted it pretty bad, and that means I want to take it away.”

  “I don’t disagree.” Vlora felt the beginning of a plan forming in the back of her head. “When did you sink that keelboat?”

  “About eight days ago.”

  “And how much longer do you think you can keep them occupied?”

  “Maybe another week or two, if we’re lucky. They’re damned persistent and they’ve got readier access to their friends. I won’t be surprised if they already have a couple more brigades heading up river to help them.”

  “No,” Vlora said thoughtfully. “Me neither.” Her mind was working overtime now, spinning through a hundred different possibilities. This was an opportunity to get ahead of the Dynize, to take away another vital piece of their sorcerous puzzle. She waved down one of her messengers. “Send word to the general staff,” she ordered. “Tell them that we’re going to bring the column up right against the Dynize camp.”

  The messenger blinked in surprise. “Tonight, ma’am?”

  “Yes, tonight. I want us camped on their front door, so close we can throw rocks at each other. Have my powder mages find the enemy Privileged immediately, and tell Bo and Nila I’ll have separate orders for them.” She paused, chewing over her half-formed plan. “Oh, and send someone to fetch Colonel Silvia. I want to know how many flares our artillery have.”

  CHAPTER 21

  You’re really not worried about being recognized?” Styke asked as they left the Kressian Inn. As if to answer him, Orz stopped just outside the gate and threw a light scarf over his shoulders, flipping it up to shade his face from the sun—and hide his tattoos. He gazed thoughtfully back at Styke for a few moments, his mind clearly elsewhere, before answering.

  “Not worried, no,” Orz said, tapping the shawl. “This is a precaution. I suspect everyone who might recognize me is fighting in Fatrasta.”

  “And if not?” Styke asked.

  “If not, I still have this.” Orz produced a card from his pocket and handed it to Styke. It had a broken seal of black wax stamped with three stars, and inside was a very official-looking letter. Both the envelope and the paper inside were made of heavy, waxed paper, which explained how it survived Orz’s stowaway. “This is my letter of pardon from Ka-Sedial,” Orz explained. “If something happens to me, I want you to recover it from my corpse. It’s not as good as having me with you in person, but it might get you past checkpoints and awkward questions.”

  Styke glanced over the card thoughtfully and handed it back. This felt like some kind of a trap—an opportunity for him to turn on Orz, steal the letter, and use it to get him to his destination. “You trust me to know about this?”

  Orz shrugged. “I have no reason not to. I’ve been watching you for weeks, remember? Trailing you for much longer. You’re a killer, but you’re not an assassin.”

  Styke snorted. “I suppose that’s a compliment.”

  “It is,” Orz replied. His gaze swiveled to Ka-poel and Celine. “You, bone-eye, walk with me in front. Girl, stay with Styke and walk a few paces behind us.” He headed down the street without further explanation. Ka-poel scurried to keep up with him. Styke took Celine by the hand, frowning at the dragonman’s back, and followed.

  The first thing that struck Styke as they headed into the middle of the city was the stares. No one seemed to do it openly, but out of the corners of his eyes he caught passersby glancing curiously in his direction, lifting eyebrows or even outright ogling. As soon as he turned his head, everyone seemed to continue on with their day as if he weren’t there.

  He tried to ignore them, focusing his attention instead on Orz and Ka-poel. They walked side-by-side like old friends, and he could hear Orz speaking to her in a low voice. Ka-poel’s hands moved in response, but as they were in front of her, Styke couldn’t see her replies. It seemed curious to him that Orz had requested Celine to come along but didn’t bother to have her translate. Had he picked up on Ka-poel’s sign language so quickly?

  A deeply unsettling thought struck him—if Ka-poel had broken Sedial’s hold over Orz, she might have had some sort of connection with the dragonman ever since. In which case, how the pit did she not know that he was a stowaway on the Seaward? Or did she know? And if so, why hadn’t she said anything?

  The thought swam around inside his head, and he argued with himself over possibilities and motivations. He grew increasingly frustrated with the train of thought, doubly so because he knew that if he asked her outright, he couldn’t expect a straight answer.

  “Ben, why are you squeezing me so hard?”

  Styke looked down at Celine, who was actively attempting to extricate her hand from his. He let go and she almost fell, shooting him a glare. “Sorry,” he told her. “I was thinking about something.”

  “You’re thinking too hard,” Celine said pointedly. “You’re scaring people.”

  Styke glanced around and noted that an approaching Dynize woman took a sharp turn at an intersection the moment their eyes met. She hurried away, leaving Styke to attempt to peel the scowl off his own face.

  “You wouldn’t be a very good actor,” Celine told him.

  “Eh?”

  She pursed her lips and began to skip along at his side, seemingly no worse the wear from his squeezing her hand. “You can’t hide your thoughts. ‘An open face,’ my da used to say. Read you like a book.”

  “I would have turned your dad inside out if we met on the street,” Styke shot back, somewhat more aggressively than he’d meant to.

  Celine giggled. “Nah, he would have avoided you bad. He would have read you and taken a different street.”

  “Smarter than I’ve given him credit for.”

  “Maybe,” Celine said with a tiny shrug, “or maybe not. Thing is, we’re far from home and you need to act more like you belong if we’re gonna get back.” The words were heavy and thoughtful, but her tone was as light as any child’s, as if she didn’t really understand the weight of them.

  “Where the pit are you getting that kind of talk?” Styke asked. “You’re too young for it.”

  “Sunin. Ka-poel. The Lancers.” Celine continued to skip. “They know you’re doing your best, but they’re a little bit worried.”

  “Worried about what?”

  Celine stopped suddenly, for just a couple of beats, then ran to catch up. She wore an expression as if she’d just figured out that relaying this kind of gossip to their officer made her a snitch. “Nothing,” she said evasively.

  “Spill it,” Styke told her.

  She pulled another, more comical face, then continued. “It’s like I just said.”

  “And you’re going to elaborate.”

  “That you can get us out of this,” she said in a quick rush. “It’s not the fighting that worries them—they know you’re the biggest and meanest and that you’ll always carve a path through the enemy to get them home. But we’re not in a spot that you can fight us out of. You’ve got to be meek, and they don’t think you can do it.”

  Styke chewed on the inside of his cheek. His first response was anger, tinged with indignation. His soldiers had lost faith in him? But he quickly moved past that and forced himself to listen—to really listen—to those words. Celine sounded as if she were parroting them straight from one of the older Lancers. Probably Sunin. That old shithead. “What do you mean, ‘meek’?”

  “Like this,” Celine said, gesturing around them. “We’re walking behind Orz, but you still look lik
e you’re in charge. But you’re supposed to be pretending to be a slave.” Styke gestured for her to talk more quietly, and she went on in a softer voice. “You’re supposed to be a slave, but you don’t act like it.”

  “And how am I supposed to do that? It’s not like I can help my size.”

  “No, but you can help your posture. Your expression.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Hunch your shoulders,” Celine suggested. “Don’t scowl at everyone. Don’t make eye contact. You remember what it was like to be at the labor camp?”

  Styke let out a little involuntary growl. “Yes.”

  “Act like that.”

  “I’m not going to be a slave again.”

  “But you can pretend to be one to save all our lives.”

  “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with a little squirt like you.”

  Celine fixed him with a serious look. “I remember the camps,” she said solemnly. “And I remember when my da went on benders and I had to fend for myself in the streets. I remember what it’s like to have to stay unnoticed.”

  There was something in that youthful solemnity that finally broke through to Styke. He looked away, lifting his eyes to the skyline of Talunlica—an unfamiliar skyline, in an unfamiliar city, in an unfamiliar country.

  He knew the Lancers talked among themselves. That’s what soldiers did. But for the last week they’d followed orders to the letter, without showing an ounce of hesitation, and not once had they let their own doubt spill over to where he could see it. He’d given them a plan to see through and they’d follow it. He rubbed the back of his head. He missed Ibana. He needed someone on hand who would tell him when he was being an idiot, tell him when his orders went beyond foolhardy to suicidal. Because maybe that’s all this jaunt was.

  “You’re a good kid,” he finally said.

  Celine grinned up at him. “I thought you said I was a pre… preco—”