Blood of Empire

by Brian McClellan

  The rest of the Mad Lancers, mostly recruits from their trek across Fatrasta, kept the Dynize mob and their loyalist backers from bothering the procession. Styke could hear the sounds of screaming and carbine shots coming from all around them, and could see fighting across the lake. He tried to ignore it. He had a more important job to do.

  Even focusing on that was proving to be a challenge. Styke swayed in his saddle, feeling light-headed from loss of blood. He hadn’t bothered to tell anyone about the wound in his side, and he wondered if that had been a mistake. The whole area screamed with each bounce of the saddle of his borrowed horse, and blood dripped down the side of his armor. He caught a few concerned glances from the Lancers, but no one asked him about the wound.

  The group reached the great gates of the palace complex, and Styke raised one gauntlet to halt the column, giving the palace a once-over with a critical eye. It had been built for show rather than to withstand a siege. The walls couldn’t have been more than twenty feet high, the arch above the gate made out of wood instead of stone. Both arch and gate were brightly painted. Styke got the feeling that people weren’t supposed to actually attack the emperor. Something about sacrilege. He didn’t much care.

  Above the wall, just a few blocks to his left, rose the godstone. The top of the pillar shone like the sun, causing walls and buildings to cast long shadows and forcing Styke to shade his eyes as he looked up to the silent row of morion-helmed soldiers arrayed on the top of the wall. The soldiers were dressed and armed just like any Dynize infantry or Household guard, but they also wore full face masks painted in the same bright turquoise, yellows, greens, and blues as the palace gate.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Styke said quietly to the Lancer beside him.

  Ibana snorted. “Saved your life. Again.”

  “That you did.”

  She must have heard something in Styke’s voice, because Ibana’s expression softened and she reached over to touch her gauntlet to his. “I’m glad you’re still alive.”

  They shared a companionable silence until Etzi joined them at the front of the column, riding out a few paces ahead with his Household standard flying above his horse. He called up to the imperial guard. “The Household Quorum demands an audience with the emperor. Open the gates!”

  One of the guards removed his mask and leaned over the wall. “I see only foreigners and traitors. The gates will remain closed. Disperse at once.”

  Etzi cast Styke an uncertain glance. Styke said quietly to Ibana, “If they let us in, I want you to figure out exactly how many soldiers are inside and put yourselves between them and Ka-poel.”

  “I get the feeling they’re not going to do that,” Ibana replied.

  “Then we’re going to gain the palace by force.”

  “Still want to know how many guard they have?”

  “We can count the corpses later.”

  Ibana gave him a toothy grin. Another day, Styke might have returned it. He touched his side and grimaced up at the imperial guard, who was still staring arrogantly back down at Etzi. The Household head hesitated a few moments and cleared his throat.

  “You see before you members of the Household Quorum and our allies. We seek a peaceful resolution to what has occurred today. Open the gates so that we may speak to the emperor. No one else has to die.”

  The guard captain gestured dismissively. “You’ve had your warning.”

  Styke urged his horse up beside Etzi’s. “They’re not going to negotiate.”

  “Perhaps if we—”

  Ka-poel rode up from the column and flashed a handful of signals at Styke.

  They’re just buying time, Styke translated to Etzi. “She says we don’t have hours to spare. We might not have minutes.”

  Even now, after all that had occurred, it was clear Etzi was loath to order an attack on the imperial palace. Styke didn’t have the same reservations. He nodded to Ibana, and she lifted her voice. “Open the gates or we will open them for you!”

  A musket shot rang out, ricocheting off the cobbles just in front of Etzi’s horse. A warning shot. They shouldn’t have bothered.

  “Go!” Styke snapped to Etzi, lowering his visor and putting himself between the wall and Ka-poel.

  “No?” Ibana boomed. “You heard ’em, boys! Tear down the gates!”

  A number of things happened at once. At Ibana’s order, the Lancers fanned out in front of the gate, each soldier producing a rope and grapple. The imperial guard produced their muskets and opened fire, their bullets whizzing around Styke’s head, pinging off his armor. Ka-poel produced her satchel, flipping it open with one hand and raising the other into the air above it. Tiny wax dolls appeared, floating around her head like wasps. One of the imperial guard suddenly turned on his companion with a bayonet. Another produced a knife and disappeared. The shouting of the officers became desperate screams, and their hail of bullets was reduced to a sprinkle as they attempted to put down their own companions.

  Dozens of Lancers threw their grapples over the gateway arch. The ropes were secured to saddles and the horses began to strain. Ibana shouted orders. More grapples were added. Styke watched the process silently, listening to the fighting among the guards. He could smell the coppery bite of sorcery now, though he wasn’t sure whether it was coming from Ka-poel or the godstone. He took a few deep breaths, patting the neck of his borrowed horse.

  With a final shout from Ibana, horses working in concert, the Lancers ripped down the arch. One of the doors was torn clear off its hinges, while the other screeched and bent at an angle, still holding on. Styke drew his sword. “Lancers, with me!”

  They thundered into the palace, emerging into a wide parade ground and fanning out. There were at least two companies of imperial guard waiting for them, and even with Ka-poel’s interference, the resistance was brutal. Styke felt the crunch of bodies beneath his horse’s chest armor and swung his sword in a fury as bayonets surrounded him. For a moment he felt he would be overwhelmed, but the sheer weight of the column riding in through the gate pushed back the Dynize and soon he was surrounded by his own men. Horses fell to bayonets, men and animals screaming, as the Mad Lancers took the gate.

  He was suddenly free of the mob, his sword slick, gripping the saddle horn to keep from falling to the ground. The chaos of the battle raged around him. He turned to find Ka-poel at his side. She slapped his armor and gestured emphatically. We have no time! This way! She suddenly charged through the melee, bent over her horse, machete in hand, galloping at speed with seemingly no thought for the danger. Styke had no choice but to follow.

  Instead of heading deeper into the palace, Ka-poel turned and rode parallel to the wall. They ducked beneath an arch, thundered down a long, narrow corridor, and emerged into an enormous garden.

  Ka-poel reined in and dismounted expertly. Styke did the same, holding his side, sword in one hand. The garden was several acres—a pristine little slice of heaven with ponds, streams, decorative trees, flowers, and more. The sound of the fighting, though Styke knew it was close, seemed miles away. His nose twitched at the fragrant smell of sorceries that he could not identify but that presented a subtle undercurrent to the powerful reek of blood.

  The godstone stood in the center of the garden. Vines grew around its base like it was some old ruin, and the place might have been a perfect picture of peace were it not for the dozens of bodies stacked on the far side of the garden. An altar sat before the godstone, covered in blood, one final corpse wearing the gloves of a Privileged sprawled across its center. A light had appeared in the shape of a doorway just above the altar. Ka-poel strode toward that light with purpose.

  “You cannot go that way,” a voice called.

  What Styke had initially taken for a corpse along the far wall suddenly stood up. It was a man in his forties, face and head shaved clean but with the skin and features of a Palo. To Styke’s surprise, the man was at least as tall as him, if not taller. Black tattoos swirled around his wrists, bare chest, and nec
k, and his torso was covered in blood spatter. Even at this distance, even in the shadow of the godstone, the man smelled of sorcery. He watched Ka-poel and Styke through bored, half-lidded eyes.

  “Why do you not obey me?” His voice was a deep rumble. “I am Emperor Janen. I am obeyed.”

  Ka-poel’s hands flashed. Deal with him. Be careful. He is like Taniel.

  “What do you mean he’s like Taniel?” Styke asked.

  Without answering, Ka-poel suddenly broke into a sprint, heading straight for the godstone. Styke swore and did the same. Though they should have beaten the emperor there by twenty paces, he crossed the space in the blink of an eye, one hand outstretched to snatch at Ka-poel. Styke flung his sword overhand and the emperor spun, batting it out of the air as if it were a lazily thrown ball.

  The distraction allowed Styke several more strides, and when the emperor turned to grab Ka-poel, Styke slammed into him from the side. He put every ounce of strength into the tackle, and all the weight of his body and armor behind it. Janen fell beneath him, and they hadn’t even hit the ground before Styke was drawing his knife.

  He barely pulled it halfway from its sheath when he felt a palm connect with his chest. His breath was snatched from him, several of his ribs giving a sickening crack that he felt from his fingertips to his toes. The blow sent him reeling. Janen was on him in an instant, the emperor’s face marred by a mildly annoyed frown. Styke threw a punch with his left hand. Janen grabbed his fist and almost casually gave a squeeze.

  Ensorceled steel bent under the strength. Styke felt a scream wrench itself from his mouth as his hand was crushed inside his gauntlet, pain lancing up his arm and making his knees weak. He fought through it and jabbed with his now-drawn knife, catching the emperor under the ribs. The tip of Styke’s blade had barely pierced the skin when a backhand caught him on the chin. He spun bodily, helpless to catch himself, and landed on his back a dozen feet away, disoriented and in pain.

  Janen strode toward him, wearing that same irritated frown.

  Styke felt three of his teeth loose in his mouth. Blood poured from his lips. In all his life, he had never been manhandled by strength even a tenth of what the emperor had. He knew, in that instant, that he was going to die. Behind Janen, Ka-poel reached the altar and dove headfirst into the glowing light. She disappeared in a wink.

  The emperor inhaled sharply and spun toward the altar. Styke tried to lift himself up, unsure whether Janen could follow Ka-poel through that door. He had to keep the bastard distracted. But how?

  The crack of a gun jolted Styke out of his painful half stupor. Janen jerked, swatting at the back of his head as if stung by a bee. Styke craned his head to look for the source of the shot, hoping to find Ibana or Jackal or, preferably, all of the Mad Lancers together. Instead he saw a man drop from the outer wall and land on his feet as if the fall was nothing.

  “Is she inside?” Taniel demanded, discarding his smoking pistol.

  “She is,” Styke croaked. He spat out one of his teeth.

  “Then you’ve done your part. I’ll deal with Sedial’s creature.” Taniel drew his sword and darted forward.

  CHAPTER 68

  Michel couldn’t remember the last time he really, truly cried. He’d cried in pain before, certainly. He’d wept over the deaths of his friends. But the sobs that wracked his body came out in horrid, anguished yowls, tearing his throat raw. He clutched at Ichtracia, trying to regain control of himself, only half aware of the chaos around him.

  Dragonmen and Privileged ran out of the keep. The doors were closed and barred. Blasts shook the ground beneath them and plaster fell from the keep walls. Hundreds of people shouted in Dynize.

  Michel could not have said how long it had been since Sedial stepped through the portal, but there came a moment when he realized that he was no longer controlled. He held Ichtracia to his chest. He’d shifted onto his knees. The realization of sudden freedom broke through to him like a lightning strike and he wrestled down the sobs and wiped a grimy sleeve across his eyes. He lowered Ichtracia back to the ground, tearing away her vest, pressing his palm to her chest wound to try to stem the flow of blood.

  He’d missed her heart.

  Blood bubbled up through his fingers. He pressed harder, and Ichtracia suddenly gurgled. Her eyes opened wide, the whites turned red from the mala used to drug her. A single bubble of blood appeared on her lips. It popped. Another formed, and he realized she was trying to speak.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” His palm slipped off the wound. He tried to put it back, barely able to see through the hazy mist in his eyes.

  To his shock, Ichtracia shifted in his arms. It was slow, gradual, and he might not have felt it if he didn’t see her hand suddenly fall out of her pocket. She was wearing one of her hidden gloves, still attached to her vest by several strings. The glove was black with blood. She tugged weakly, trying to free the glove, then seemed to give up. Her body sagged. Michel tore the strings and clutched at her hand, pressing the gloved fingers against her own wound. “Come on! You can stop the bleeding!”

  Michel felt a firm hand suddenly grasp him by the shoulder. He was torn away from Ichtracia and turned toward a dragonman, who, staring down at Michel, seemed about to toss him aside. Michel tried to struggle, looking back toward Ichtracia. The other hand fell from her pocket, wearing a glove.

  The tips of Ichtracia’s fingers twitched.

  A roar filled Michel’s ears. Heat pricked at his face like the embers of a fire, and he suddenly found himself unhanded. He wrapped his arms around himself to try to stop his trembling as he was buffeted by unseen forces.

  Within moments, nothing remained of Sedial’s guards. Soldiers, dragonmen, Privileged. At least two dozen people had been turned to ash in an instant. He let out a gasp and dropped back to his knees beside Ichtracia. He patted her cheek, then checked her pulse. He could feel nothing.

  No conscious thought propelled him forward. With a surge of strength, Michel scooped his arms beneath Ichtracia and lifted her to his chest. Slowly, one leg at a time, he got his feet beneath him. He hesitated, only for a moment, staring at the unknown glow of oblivion. In two strides, he stepped through the portal and into the godstone.

  Michel stepped into a deafening silence. He was in a room of gray brick whose dimensions seemed to shift between blinks—the ceiling high, then low; the walls near, then far. Three glowing doors hovered in the air at a constant distance from one another, providing something for Michel’s mind to grasp onto. Equidistant between them was a spot of the blackest black Michel had ever seen. It tugged at his eye, at once revolting and pleasing, hanging suspended above the ground. It couldn’t have been much bigger than an apple.

  Michel took a step forward, trying to think through his disorientation. There was something wrong with this place—something that pressed on the edges of his mind and flickered across his vision, yet he could not place it. It took him several moments to realize that no color existed here, that he could only see black, white, and gray. But that wasn’t what was driving him mad.

  He took another step, trying to remember his purpose. Beneath his feet, the brick felt spongy and loose. He smiled at the sensation, bouncing himself up and down on the balls of his feet. He looked down at Ichtracia’s blood-soaked body. It seemed to weigh nothing. He couldn’t recall why he had brought her here, or why he cared.

  It took several more moments before he realized that they were not alone. Two figures stood on either side of the blackest black. They faced each other, their bodies frozen, their eyes locked. Michel could hear words, slow and muted, as if through a thick wall. He strained to hear them and in the effort of that focus saw their lips moving.

  “You can’t waste it,” Ka-Sedial said.

  A faint flicker of surprise registered in the back of Michel’s head as Ka-poel answered him aloud, “And yet I won’t let you take it.”

  “You have no choice. It cannot be wasted,” Sedial replied.
“We are here. The power must be seized. Neither of us can imagine the consequences of leaving without it.” His frozen body seemed to lean forward ever so slightly. “You don’t have to oppose me, child. This rite of power is older than Kresimir. Blood is meant to be spilled. It is meant to be used. We can share it.” He moved closer to the blackest black.

  A bead of sweat rolled down Ka-poel’s brow and dripped from her chin. “I don’t need more power. I have no use for it.”

  “Everyone has a use for power.” Sedial moved backward a fraction of an inch. “You and I. We split it between us, as Kresimir split the power with his siblings. We can do great things.” He trembled slightly, moving back even more.

  Ka-poel’s eyes suddenly flicked toward Michel. In the flash of an instant his warping reality seemed to stabilize, and he remembered the reason for the tears on his cheeks. “You can’t be here!” Ka-poel told him. “It will kill you!”

  “Your sister,” Michel gasped. “She…” He couldn’t finish, lifting Ichtracia’s body with all his might, offering it toward Ka-poel. There was a flicker of hesitation in her eyes. Ka-Sedial suddenly surged forward, his frozen body stopping within inches of the blackest black. A snarl crept onto his lips, determination straining in his eyes. Something seemed to peel off the tips of Ka-poel’s fingers—a shadow, floating, back and forth like a feather, toward Michel. It landed softly on Ichtracia’s brow.

  “It’s all I can spare,” Ka-poel said, her voice trembling. “You have to go. You will die.”

  “I’ll die with her, then,” Michel said. He could feel his mind slipping again, that momentary control beginning to wane.

  “Let him die,” Sedial rasped. “Let them all die. Break free of your worldly cares. You can be a god, Ka-poel!” The old man’s fingers reached slowly toward the blackest black, as if moving through molasses.