Blood of Empire

by Brian McClellan

  Michel’s reality began to unravel. Ichtracia slipped from his fingers, forgotten. His eyes locked on the blackest black. He wanted to walk toward it, but found that he could not. Something seemed to touch his collar. Ichtracia lay in a pool of blood at his feet. She began to recede farther from him, and he reached out to grasp her, but didn’t have the strength to do it. Something—someone—was pulling him backward. He craned in confusion.

  Lady Flint stood just inside the door through which Michel had entered. She didn’t seem bothered by the room, her jaw set and her eyes steady. “You heard the woman,” she told him. “Out.”

  Michel felt himself flung toward the portal and watched helplessly as the room with the blackest black disappeared. He stumbled onto the bloodstained altar in the fortress near Landfall. The room was filled with Adran soldiers, most of them badly wounded. Olem stood between a pair of Privileged as one of them treated a gash in his forehead. Understanding returned, and Michel threw himself back toward the portal, only to slam against rock. He pawed at the warm stone and let out a howl of grief.

  The portal was gone.

  Vlora tossed the spy back into the real world and turned to face the two figures squared off over the blackest black. She walked toward them, finding that the closer she drew, the harder it was to proceed. Halting her advance, she walked around to one side where she could see both faces. Though they looked frozen, like fish on ice, her sorcerous senses screamed, alerting her to the unseen conflict raging between them. Her nostrils burned from powder, her body weak from all those injuries at the Crease.

  “You came,” Ka-poel suddenly said.

  “Chasing him.” Vlora nodded. “I didn’t expect to find you here.” She tried to take a step forward. It felt like stepping into a tub full of honey. “Lost half my army and a bunch of good friends to do it, but I’m here. Wherever here is. The Else?”

  “Yes.”

  Vlora looked around at the strange brick room. There was no source for the light that illuminated them, though the world was swirling with pastels of sorcery. The colors coalesced around Ka-poel and her grandfather until they seemed to become that blackest black. Vlora pointed at it in question.

  “The souls of a million damned,” Ka-poel told her. “Or the sorcerous essence of their blood. Whatever you want to call it—the heart of the godstones. How man becomes god.”

  “Did Kresimir build this?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why isn’t he talking?” Vlora gestured at Ka-Sedial.

  “Because he’s not letting himself be distracted.” Ka-poel fell silent, the frozen expression on her face slowly becoming a scowl. Both she and her grandfather were sweating profusely. Sedial was closer to the blackest black, his fingertips drifting toward it.

  Vlora watched them struggle for a few more moments and stepped back, drew her pistol, and fired.

  “Wait!” Ka-poel’s warning came too slow. The shot echoed through the room. Vlora could see the bullet race toward Ka-Sedial’s head. But as it grew closer, it too slowed, and the bullet came to a stop not an inch from his temple. Ka-poel gave an angry grunt. “Attacking him won’t do any good. We can manipulate this place to a point. That’s why you can’t come closer.”

  Vlora glared at the offending bullet and drew her sword. “You’re certain about that?”

  Ka-poel didn’t answer, but Vlora saw Sedial’s eyes flicker toward her as she began to wade through the honey-like air, her blade extended. She thought she heard a distant rumble, disturbing the silence of the room.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” Sedial suddenly spoke up.

  “Neither should you,” Vlora retorted. She took a hit of powder—too much, more than she should dare in her fragile state—and pushed forward.

  “This is my birthright!” Sedial snapped. “This is my power to take. You have no place here, powder mage. You can look into the Else, but you cannot enter.”

  Vlora felt herself buffeted by… something. Ka-poel moved slightly toward the blackest black, Sedial twitched away from it. Vlora continued to push her weakened body, summoning from the well deep within her—all her anger, her frustration, her determination. She extended her arm, plunging her sword toward Sedial’s throat, like trying to push the blade through the center of a tree. The metal began to bend, and Sedial’s fingers regained their lost ground in his reach for the blackest black.

  “Nobody wants you as their god,” Vlora hissed.

  “No one gets to choose their god,” Sedial said. He suddenly lurched to one side, shaking his head in confusion. His fingers slipped past the blackest black, and the bullet suspended in air continued along its path, whizzing past his ear and smacking into the far wall in a puff of plaster. Vlora’s own body was released, the force of her own momentum carrying her past Sedial. Ka-poel let out a gasp, stumbled, and would have fallen if not caught by an arm. The woman—the corpse—that Michel left on the floor clutched at Ka-poel, holding her up, and waved a blood-soaked gloved hand at Sedial.

  “Ichtracia! You must not manipulate the elements in this place!” Sedial barked.

  Ichtracia raised both her hands. That distant rumble occurred once more, and the Privileged laughed. “That wasn’t me, Grandfather.”

  “It’s the damned powder mage! This place was not built for her kind!” Sedial spun toward Vlora as she picked herself up off the floor. He extended one hand toward her, and she felt herself propelled toward one of the glowing portals. “Help me get her out, and we can share this power! Ichtracia… my Mara. Give me your strength.”

  The Privileged stared back at Sedial for a few moments. “No,” she said softly.

  The rumbling grew louder. A crack formed along one wall, spidering out into many. Sedial looked around desperately, panic in his eyes. “Damn you. It’ll kill us all!” There was a flicker at the edges of Vlora’s awareness, a shadow cast across the far wall in the shape of a tall, fat man with a ladle in one hand and an apron around his belly.

  “Adom?” Vlora asked in the stillness of the moment.

  The figure winked and was gone. The rumblings stopped, and the thick air released Vlora, allowing her to move again.

  Sedial leapt for the blackest of black. Ka-poel was quicker. One hand darted forward, plunging into the sorcerous maelstrom. All around them, the Else began to crumble.

  Michel sat on the edge of the altar, soaked in the blood of Ichtracia and who knew how many other sacrifices, cradling his ruined hand. Adran soldiers rushed around him, officers barking orders, messengers giving reports, while the distant sound of musket fire was occasionally punctuated by the roar of cannons. From what Michel had gathered just listening to the chatter around him, they’d captured the fortress at great cost. The Dynize still outnumbered them, menacing from every direction.

  Olem strode through the middle of it all, a pillar of calm in the chaos, listening to a string of bad news without so much as a blink.

  “Sir, confirmation from the Ninth. General Sabastenien has succumbed to his wounds!”

  “Send a field promotion to his second-in-command,” Olem responded.

  “The Third is buckling on our western flank, they’re requesting reinforcements.”

  “Give them two companies from the Seventh and have them pull back three hundred yards.”

  “Sir, word from Privileged Nila. She’s taken care of that regiment of cavalry trying to cut us off from the north, but she’s burned out bad.”

  “Tell her to retreat, and make sure Magus Borbador knows not to take any offensives. We need him to neutralize any Privileged they have left.”

  “Sir, report from Captain Norrine. Captain Buden is down. Another one of those damned dragonmen.”

  “Is he still alive?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  “Send a medic and a stretcher. Get him out of there. How’s Davd?”

  A medic appeared through the doors of the keep, hands covered in blood, and answered the question with the shake of his head.

  Olem sw
ore. “Listen up, everyone! We’re down to one powder mage and one Privileged. Our field guns are knackered and the Dynize seem pretty pissed off that we’ve captured their damned obelisk. I’m not sure if we can hold this position, but we’re damn well going to try. The good news is our fleet has arrived and shelled the living piss out of everything the Dynize had holding the harbor, which gives us a corridor of retreat and relief. I want all wounded evacuated in that direction. Get to it!”

  The orders were followed within moments, wounded being loaded into stretchers while reinforcements took to the fortress walls with their rifles. Michel watched it all with a dense numbness, wondering if he should follow them toward Landfall. Even getting down from the altar seemed like an impossible task. Maybe it was fitting that he should stay here and die when the Dynize recaptured the fort.

  “Michel!”

  He jumped, realizing that Olem stood directly in front of him. “Huh? Sir?”

  “You’ve lost a lot of blood, soldier. You should get out of here.”

  Michel shook his head and pulled his mangled hand closer to his chest. “I’m not leaving without Ichtracia.”

  “That’s a bold thing to say, but you’re only going to get in the way.”

  “I’m not leaving.”

  “Pit. Well, I’m giving Vlora five more minutes and then requesting volunteers to hold the keep and sending everyone else to fight their way toward the coast. If you want to die with those of us that stay, you’re more than welcome to do so.” Olem abruptly turned and shouted at a messenger, striding away to a flurry of reports.

  Michel lifted his eyes to the godstone, willing that portal to reappear. Only blank stone stared back at him. He felt himself tilting, his head foggy. The practical spy within him formulated a plan to retreat with the Adrans, make use of their medics, then get himself to a hideaway within the catacombs where he could recover through whatever was to follow this battle. He squeezed his eyes shut and scooted off the edge of the altar, gaining his feet. There was no point in remaining. He’d done all he could do.

  A popping sound, like a rifle going off behind his ear, made him jump. He spun back toward the godstone only to see that a great crack had formed, running lengthwise all the way up and down the monument. The whole thing shifted, and half of it looked like it was about to fall but, at the last moment, settled in on its own weight. Michel was so transfixed by the break that he almost missed the two figures who’d appeared on the altar.

  Vlora and Ichtracia leaned against each other, their clothes steaming. Michel felt himself brushed aside as Olem rushed to the altar and helped Vlora down. The two leapt into a conference, and within moments Vlora was ordering a fighting retreat from the godstone. The Adrans began to pick up their things, ready to leave now that their general had returned.

  Michel wanted to rush to Ichtracia, but it was all he could do to stay standing as she came to join him. She was covered in blood, still wearing her gloves, her vest hanging loose to reveal that the great wound he’d given her under Sedial’s influence was healed without a scar. He could tell from the slump of her shoulders that she was in pain, and her eyes still held the redness of a deep mala binge.

  “You look as bad as I feel,” she said.

  “That good?” Michel swayed, seeing darkness at the corners of his vision. “I’m glad you’re back.”

  “Michel?”

  Her voice sounded distant. Michel’s head felt heavy, and he abruptly dropped to his knees, casting about for a soft spot to sit. “I’m just going to lie down for a while,” he told her. “Sorry I stabbed you.”

  CHAPTER 69

  Styke leaned against a tree in the godstone garden and worked to remove his ruined gauntlet. From his teeth to his toes, everything hurt. It was as if he’d been hit by a runaway mule cart, and he still couldn’t quite grasp just how easily the emperor had manhandled him. The supernatural strength was beyond anything he’d ever witnessed.

  Across the garden, at the base of the godstone, Taniel and the emperor tore into each other like two fighting cockerels. The emperor had snatched up his own sword. Both men were obviously trained duelists. Their movements were a blur, their hands darting like hummingbirds, their footwork raising a cloud of dust around them. Even for someone like Styke, who had watched and participated in fights his entire life, it was difficult to tell what, exactly, was happening.

  It was clear, however, that Taniel was not winning. Blood soaked his face and shirt, rivulets of dirty sweat trickling down his neck. The emperor fought with a look of focus, and not a single sword stroke marred his bare chest.

  Styke gasped as the gauntlet finally came off. He dropped it to the ground and examined his hand. His left and ring fingers were likely broken. The other three seemed to work, and the hand itself was undamaged. He discarded the ruined gauntlet, trying to catch his breath, wondering how many ribs were cracked and how much blood he’d lost.

  A shout tore his eyes off the duel and made him peer around the tree against which he’d been resting. A door leading into the palace complex had opened not far from where he’d entered, and a group of soldiers in their imperial garb and lacquered masks emerged from within. There were seven in total, and they froze in wonder at their emperor battling the Kressian stranger.

  Their pause only lasted a few moments. One barked to the others, and they began to jog toward the godstone, loosening swords and checking their pistols. Styke felt his head sag in painful exhaustion.

  Summoning what reserves he could find deep within himself, he limped along behind a screen of bushes, coming up on the line of guardsmen at an angle, reaching them just a few moments before they reached his borrowed horse. He lurched out from behind the bushes and slammed his right gauntlet in between the eyes of their leader, dropping him like a stone, then drew his knife.

  The guardsmen were not dragonmen, but that was where Styke’s fortunes ended. The fall of their leader seemed to barely faze them, and five of them fanned out while the closest to Styke leapt toward him with sword drawn.

  Styke caught the swing on his left vambrace and jabbed with his knife. Even as his counterstroke skidded off the guard’s ceremonial armor and sank into the flesh just below his arm, Styke knew he was moving too slowly. A pistol shot went off to his side, and he felt the rattle of a bullet hitting one of his pauldrons. A quick, shouted exchange took place between the remaining guards as he attempted to pull his blade out of their companion. Someone stepped up to Styke’s side, and before he could react, the butt of a pistol cracked him on the temple.

  The blow would have dropped a lesser man. As it was, Styke stumbled back, stunned, stars floating across his vision. He might have fallen if his back had not come in contact with a tree. He let it take his weight, grateful for the moment of rest, and blinked hard to try to clear his swimming vision.

  A scream issued from somewhere nearby, attracting the attention of his assailants. Styke took the opportunity to spit blood into the face of the closest guard and fall forward among them, knife swinging. It was sloppy work, but he managed to drop two before the other three withdrew. He stumbled after them, knife cutting a graceless arc in the air, grumbling curses at their backs.

  He found another tree to take his weight and turned to look after his retreating opponents, only to discover that he’d gotten mixed up in the melee. He was no longer between them and their emperor, and they’d chosen to leave him to go help their ward.

  The scream, it seemed, had come from the emperor. His face was torn open from brow to chin, a neat, bloody gash cut through his nose and lips. Despite the wound, he seemed to have doubled his efforts, backing a vindicated-looking Taniel toward the corner of the garden.

  Styke’s opponents didn’t reach their emperor. The crack of firearms tore through the air behind Styke, and all three men collapsed in a hail of bullets. Styke whirled, nearly losing his balance, to find a line of dismounted Lancers and Household guards just inside the grotto, their weapons smoking. Ibana emerged into the garden behind
them, followed closely by Etzi.

  Ibana’s measured pace was doubled when she laid eyes on Styke. She jogged over to him, her armor rattling, and ducked beneath his shoulder. “By Adom, Ben, you look like death!”

  “I’m fine.” He tried to wave her off.

  “What the pit happened to your hand?”

  He gestured toward the emperor. “Him.”

  Etzi and his Household guards watched the duel with eyes wide. No one moved to interfere. “The emperor,” Etzi said in an awed whisper, “has been given strength by the bone-eyes. We found one of them just in the main hall, face withered, barely able to stand. The emperor must be drawing power off of them in incredible amounts. Who is that man, and how is he able to fight the might of the imperial cabal?”

  “That,” Styke said, “is Ka-poel’s husband.”

  “Incredible,” Etzi breathed, “but still, he cannot win, not against—”

  Whatever he was about to say was cut off by a crack that cut the air in two. It was as if a cannon had gone off in the garden, and everyone around Styke flinched away from the sound. All eyes were drawn to the godstone. A new crack ran, jagged and splintering, from base to capstone. On the altar, clothes smoking, were two figures.

  Ka-poel stood like an avenging angel, head held high, ignoring the old man on his knees in front of her. She grasped him by the nape of the neck and threw him forward, off the altar, where he gave a pitiful cry and curled up into a ball.

  In that moment Taniel suddenly surged forward, batting aside the emperor’s sword and plunging his own blade two-handed into the emperor’s sternum. The emperor gasped loudly and backpedaled toward the godstone. Somehow, despite two feet of steel through his chest, he remained standing. It wasn’t until he finally turned toward the godstone and his eyes fell upon Ka-poel—and then the old man at his feet—that he finally teetered. Blood dripping from his lips, the emperor of Dynize collapsed.

  “Leave him!” Ka-poel snapped. The sound brought a halt to Etzi and the Household guards, who had begun to rush toward their fallen emperor. It also elicited a look of surprise from Taniel. “Finish destroying the imperial guard,” Ka-poel ordered. She gestured at the old man at her feet. “Then bring him and any survivors to the throne room. We have much to discuss.”