The Powder Mage Trilogy: Promise of Blood, The Crimson Campaign, The Autumn Republic

by McClellan, Brian

  Adamat couldn’t take his eyes off Lord Claremonte as he finished his speech. He’d worked the crowd perfectly. There weren’t cheers or shouts—no, not even Claremonte would have expected that.

  There were grumbles. Murmurs of discontent. Someone near Adamat told the woman next to him that Claremonte had a point. A rising sense of indignation washed through the assembled masses, and Adamat knew that Claremonte had convinced them. Maybe not all of them. Maybe not now. But the few screams of protest when Claremonte’s Privileged destroyed the Kresim Cathedral had been stifled quickly.

  All up and down the Ad, Brudanian soldiers pushed their longboats up onto the riverbank and disembarked. At quick glance they seemed to be working in teams of about fifteen, each one accompanied by a Privileged. They carried bayoneted muskets and barrels of black powder, and Adamat saw the first team reach a church on the other side of the Ad and begin pushing people away.

  They were preparing it for demolition.

  If Adamat wasn’t so horrified he’d be impressed. Claremonte had arrived with reinforcements and supplies, given a brilliant speech for his ministerial candidacy, and now he was setting about destroying the religious buildings of Adro. He’d taken the horror of the people—the fear of the Brudanians invading the capital—and turned it on its head. Everyone would be so relieved that Claremonte was not pillaging the city that he could do just about anything he wanted.

  Adamat wasn’t a religious man by any stretch, but he wanted to rush to the nearest church and stop the soldiers from destroying it. These were historical icons, some of them close to a thousand years old! He had the feeling that any move to stop the soldiers would see him killed.

  Less than forty paces away, Claremonte’s longboat was pushed onto the bank. Ricard was already hurrying toward it, his assistants and bodyguards following cautiously. Adamat shouted at him to stop.

  A sailor helped Claremonte onto the muddy ground and then up the shore and onto the street.

  Adamat knew from the set of Ricard’s shoulders that he was about to do something stupid.

  “Fell! Grab him!”

  It was too late. Ricard cocked his fist back and punched Claremonte in the nose, dropping him like a sack of potatoes.

  Brudanian soldiers surged forward, and Claremonte’s Privileged raised a gloved hand, fingers held together as if about to snap them. Adamat’s heart leapt into his throat.

  “Stop!” Claremonte climbed to his feet. He laid a calming hand on the Privileged’s arm. “No need for violence,” he said, holding his nose with two fingers.

  “What the pit do you think you’re doing?” Ricard demanded, cocking his arm back as if about to swing again.

  “Doing?” Claremonte said as he tilted his head back to keep his nose from bleeding. “I’m running for First Minister of Adro. You are Ricard Tumblar, I presume?”

  “Yes,” Ricard said icily.

  Claremonte stuck his hand out. “Lord Claremonte. It’s a delight to meet you.”

  “That delight,” Ricard said, “is not shared.”

  “Well, that is too bad.” Claremonte let his hand drop. “I assumed we were friends!”

  “Why would you assume that?”

  “Because,” Claremonte said, “you brought out half the city to greet me and hear my speech. That’s the kind of thing friends do.” Claremonte’s smile had dropped on one side—only slightly, but it now came across as a leer. His eyes swept past Ricard and Fell and over the other union bosses and came to rest on Adamat. The corner of his mouth lifted back into a full smile. “Really,” he said, still speaking to Ricard, “I must thank you for that. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an election to win.”

  Tamas felt the familiar jolt and rocking of a carriage as he fought his way back to consciousness.

  It brought a panic in him. Where was he being taken? Who was driving the carriage? Where were his men?

  Memory of the battle outside of Alvation, of finding Nikslaus’s body, and of trying to stop the explosion of thousands of pounds of gunpowder all came back to Tamas at once.

  He was on his back, and when he opened his eyes, he stared up at the roof of a stagecoach. It was light outside, so he must have been out for some time. The air was cool and thin, and that brought another wave of worry to Tamas’s muddled mind. Was it winter? Had he been out for months?

  His arms wouldn’t move on his command. After fighting down yet more panic, he decided that yes, his arms could move but they were restrained, and it was a struggle just to shift. Had he been taken captive by the Kez?

  The first face that Tamas saw was not one he expected.

  It belonged to an ebony-skinned Deliv man with gray hair curled tight against his scalp. He wore a kelly-green Deliv uniform without epaulets or insignia. The man leaned over Tamas, regarding him contemplatively.

  “Good. You’re awake. The doctors were beginning to think you might be out indefinitely. We’re almost to the summit.”

  Tamas closed his eyes again. Perhaps his mind was too foggy to hear correctly. Had the Deliv said “summit”?

  “Who the bloody pit are you?” Tamas asked. The face seemed familiar in a long-absent way, like a painting seen above a mantelpiece or a figure from his childhood. One of Sabon’s relatives? No, he didn’t look a thing like Sabon.

  The Deliv bowed his head. “I am Deliv.”

  “I said who are you, not where are you from. Bloody fool.” Tamas’s brain pounded inside his skull like a military parade. He flexed his fingers and tested his bonds. Wait. He didn’t have any bonds. Then why couldn’t he move? He lifted his head and looked down at the tight-fitting blanket wrapped around his chest.

  A little wiggling and Tamas was able to pull his arms free. He pushed the blanket aside and sat up.

  He was wearing his spare uniform—at least, he thought it was his spare. This one wasn’t soiled from the battle outside Alvation.

  The carriage came to a stop suddenly, pitching Tamas to one side. The Deliv reached out a hand to steady him. Tamas waved him off.

  “What do you mean, ‘summit’?” he asked.

  The door to the carriage opened to reveal Olem standing outside. He snapped to attention and his face split into a grin at the sight of Tamas.

  “Sir! Glad to see you awake. How is your head?”

  Tamas felt a wave of relief. He was still in the hands of his own men, it seemed, and Olem was still armed. He cast a glance toward the Deliv and stepped out of the carriage.

  “Feels like I was thrown off the top of Sablethorn and landed on my face,” Tamas said.

  He looked to either side and noted they were in the mountains. Well, that explained “the summit.”

  “Are we past the Alvation Mountainwatch?”

  “We’ve passed the first Mountainwatch post, sir.” Olem pointed up the path. “The main Alvation Mountainwatch fortress is up ahead. We’ll spend the night there before resuming the march.”

  Tamas felt emotions flow over him like the surf on a windy day. His legs were already weak, and news that he was already on Adran soil nearly made him fall. He pushed away Olem’s offered hand and began to walk up the path. He thought through the calculations in his head. This time of year the pass would be quite clear and likely dry. They could descend back onto the Adran plains and head toward Surkov’s Alley. They’d be back defending the country in a week and a half of hard march.

  “Sir, you should continue to rest.”

  “I can walk fine,” Tamas said, though his legs had more than a little wobble to them and his head was dizzy. Up ahead, the Alvation Mountainwatch fortress looked tall and imposing. The doors had been thrown open, and Mountainwatchers were cheering at the soldiers marching up the pass. “The fresh air will do me good. Now report. How long have I been out?”

  “Two days, sir.”

  “The battle?”

  “It went…”—Olem hesitated—“well enough.”

  “Our losses?”

  Olem plucked a cigarette from his the curl of his
jacket cuff and stuck it in his mouth without lighting it. “We have less than two thousand men in fighting condition left between the Seventh and the Ninth.”

  “That’s it?” Tamas came to a stop and turned to Olem. He looked back down the path and noted that their baggage train led far beyond his sight. Where had that come from? They’d not had a baggage train in their march north.

  “Gavril?”

  “Recovered by Demasolin.”

  Tamas felt relief wash over him. “My powder mages?”

  “Vidaslav took a bayonet to the stomach. We don’t know if he’ll survive. Leone was killed defending Vlora from a Warden.”

  “And Vlora?” Tamas felt his heart stop.

  “She’s wounded, but alive.”

  Tamas sagged against Olem. It was several moments before he regained his composure and stepped away.

  He noticed that the old man from the carriage was following them up the path.

  “How are we going to make a dent in the Kez army in Adro with just two thousand men?” Tamas asked. He couldn’t help the annoyance in his voice when he jerked his head at the old Deliv and said, “And who the pit is this?”

  Olem took his cigarette out of his mouth and twirled it between his fingers. “Please excuse the field marshal,” he said to the old Deliv. “He’s not in his right mind.”

  The Deliv seemed amused by this. “I hope he gets into his right mind before we go up against the Kez.” He bowed his head. “I am Deliv,” he said, “but you may call me Sulem the Ninth.”

  Sulem the… “Oh. My lord.” Tamas inclined his head, shaking off the urge to drop to one knee. His mouth had gone dry. Sulem IX, king of Deliv, and Tamas had sworn at him for being a bloody fool in the carriage. “I meant no offense. I didn’t realize…”

  “None taken, Field Marshal.” The king raised an eyebrow and glanced toward the ground as if expecting Tamas to kneel, but did not pursue the idea further.

  Tamas didn’t know what to say. How much did the king know? Why was he here, marching along with Tamas and a brand-new baggage train?

  “I’m sorry, my lord,” Tamas said, “but I am very much out of touch. I’m not sure what has gone on in the days while I was out.”

  The king clasped his hands behind his back. “Colonel,” he said to Olem, “do you mind if I give your report?”

  “Not at all, Your Eminence.”

  “Shall we?” the king asked, extending his arm toward the fortress rising above them.

  “Yes,” Tamas said.

  They continued walking up the mountain road, past the remnants of Tamas’s cavalry, with Olem trailing a few feet behind.

  The Deliv king said, “Let me tell you how things have come from my side, and then later you can finish your conversation with Colonel Olem. I came to Alvation expecting an Adran army, but instead found two. The day after your battle with Duke Nikslaus’s troops was a little confusing, but between my generals and your Colonel Olem and Colonel Arbor, everything got sorted out.” Sulem paused for a moment.

  “I’m sorry for Alvation, my lord,” Tamas said.

  “Sorry? What for? You saved a Deliv city, Tamas. I am greatly in your debt.”

  “The gunpowder?”

  “You and your powder mages stopped it before too much damage could be dealt. There were casualties, of course, but the city remains and with it a debt of gratitude.”

  “I see”—Tamas glanced over his shoulder at the baggage train—“that you’ve supplied us for our journey. For that, I am grateful.”

  There was a twinkle in Sulem’s eye, and for the first time since the carriage, a smile crept onto the old king’s face. “Supplies and more,” he said.

  “More?”

  “Field Marshal,” Sulem said, “this is the vanguard. We’re coming over the mountains with fifty thousand men. There would be more if I hadn’t sent the better part of my army down the Great Northern Road into Kez. You have my soldiers at your service, and I intend to see you through this war. The kind of treachery plotted by Nikslaus and Ipille does not befit a brother king.” Sulem’s smile disappeared, his voice gaining a dangerous edge. “You may have sent Manhouch to the guillotine, and I do not approve, but Ipille made an attack upon my people.”

  Fifty thousand Deliv troops! That, Tamas knew, could send the Kez reeling. Tamas felt his heart soar. This would turn the tide of the war. Adro had more than just a chance now, they had an ally.

  For the first time in weeks his step was light. He neared the Alvation Mountainwatch feeling as if a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

  There was a clamor on the walls of the Mountainwatch fortress, and a horseman suddenly burst through the gate at a reckless speed. The messenger saw Tamas and sawed at the reins, bringing his mount to a stop in a spray of gravel. The man leapt from horseback.

  “Sir,” he said. His cheeks were red, frost-burned from navigating the cold heights at great speeds, and his hand trembled as he saluted.

  “Breathe, soldier,” Tamas said.

  “Sir,” the messenger gasped, “we have word from one of our posts on the eastern side of the mountains. Adopest, sir. It’s burning.”

  EPILOGUE

  Privileged Borbador stood on the front step of a medium-sized house in the Adran suburbs and wondered when the last time was that he’d asked someone for help. It wasn’t something most Privileged were accustomed to doing. They either did everything themselves or they gave orders.

  An explosion rocked the evening air, causing Bo to flinch. Another church. Those Brudanian bastards had been demolishing religious buildings all over the city. They’d dragged priests out into the street and beat them to death in public, and the Adran people had just stood by and watched it all happen. They were too shell-shocked by the war, too relieved that the Brudanians hadn’t sacked the city, to do anything to stop it.

  Some had even joined in.

  Bo didn’t like the Kresim Church very much, but he hated the idea of standing by and watching while a foreign army destroyed the cultural icons of the city. He’d been in the crowd, watching while they tore down the Kresim Cathedral. He’d listened to Claremonte’s speech and seen the Trading Company army come onshore, unopposed by people who should have been defending their city.

  It made Bo nervous for the Trading Company Privileged to be in the city. He’d spent every day since their arrival going to great lengths to avoid them. At best, they’d try to press him into service, thinking he had no allegiances left to Adro. At worse, they’d see him as a loose end and do their best to kill him.

  Bo might have thrown his all at them the day they arrived, sinking several of the ships—maybe even killing Claremonte—before being put down by the Brudanian Privileged. But he was finished with other people’s crusades. He had his own problems to worry about now.

  A friend and brother to save.

  The sound of children’s laughter reached him from inside the house. It almost made him pause. Almost.

  Bo rapped on the door. The laughter stopped.

  “Stay here, children,” a nervous voice commanded. Floorboards creaked as someone came down the front hall of the house. Bo’s third eye told him it was the very Knacked he was coming to see. He could sense someone peering through the eyehole at him, and then a deadbolt was turned. The door opened a crack.

  “Privileged Borbador,” Adamat said.

  Bo bowed his head. “Inspector Adamat.”

  Adamat’s eyes searched the street, slightly wild, as if looking for a trap. “To what do I owe the pleasure? I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

  “I brought gifts,” Bo said, indicating the paper-wrapped packages beneath his arms. “May I come in?”

  Adamat scanned the street once more. Conflict raged across his face. He was a nervous man these days, it seemed. Bo could relate.

  And nobody wanted to invite a Privileged into their home.

  “Love,” a woman’s voice came, “who is it?”

  “Privileged Borbador.”

/>   The door opened the rest of the way and Bo saw Faye standing in the hallway. She looked somewhat better than that day in Vetas’s manor. She’d gotten some sleep, and though Bo guessed from the red in the corner of her eyes that she’d been crying recently, she hid it well.

  “Privileged,” Faye said, “please come in.”

  Bo brought his bundle of packages inside with him and deposited them in the living room. “Call me Bo,” he said. “I brought gifts for your family.”

  “You shouldn’t have,” Faye said, giving him a gracious smile.

  Adamat looked less pleased with the idea. There was a wariness in his eyes. He didn’t trust Bo.

  Bo couldn’t exactly blame him for that.

  “Did you feel it?” Bo asked.

  Adamat seemed taken aback. “Feel what?”

  “It would have been an unexplained shock,” Bo said. “Like being alone in a room and a cold glass of water thrown in your face.”

  Adamat slowly shook his head. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Strange, Bo thought, that Knacked couldn’t sense it when a god died. Mihali—Adom reborn—had been murdered six days ago. It wasn’t the same as when Taniel had shot Kresimir in the eye, though. This had felt more… permanent.

  “Nothing,” Bo said. “No need to worry yourselves over it.”

  “We were just having dinner,” Faye said, giving her husband a warning look. “Would you join us?”

  “Thank you, but no. I was hoping to talk to your husband alone.”

  Adamat cleared his throat. “Faye can hear anything I would,” he said.

  Bo could tell at a glance that Faye wasn’t going to leave the room. So much for divide and conquer. He wondered if he should have brought Nila and Jakob inside with him. Bo had asked them to wait in the carriage, but now he thought their presence might have helped put Adamat at ease.

  He still wasn’t sure what he was going to do with that girl. She was a Privileged, it seemed. A Privileged who didn’t need gloves. Bo didn’t think that she understood the gravity of what she really was. No Privileged in all the Nine could touch the Else without gloves. Not even the Predeii.