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

by McClellan, Brian

  “Because they’re taking up positions. The moment we open up on each other, people are going to die. They want to be very certain it’s not them.” Bo leaned back, closing his eyes, hands held out in front of him with one elbow on the marble banister for support. His fingers twitched and moved, tracing tiny patterns in the air.

  “What are you doing?”

  “A few quick wards,” Bo said. “And finding out where they’re all positioned.”

  Nila could feel him tugging at the Else. Whereas her own experiences with sorcery had been torrents of power pulled from the other side, Bo seemed to be threading the Else carefully, using just a trickle of sorcery for his purposes. She couldn’t tell exactly what he was doing with the wards, or even how he was making them, but she marveled at the quick, almost casual precision.

  “Borbador,” Lourie shouted, “why don’t you join the Brudanian cabal and I’ll come up there and we can kill the bloody minister together? You’re wasting your talents, Borbador. You can’t fight a god. Why I—”

  Bo’s fingers twitched and there was a terrifying scream from below them. Silence followed for a moment, and Bo said, “I was also trying to figure out which one was Lourie.”

  “I’ll take that as a no,” Lourie shouted up to them.

  “Damn it,” Bo grunted. “I missed. Run.”

  Tamas struggled to his feet, coughing and choking, thrashing blindly in the dust that filled the air. He briefly spotted his charger running from the wreckage of Sablethorn, following the fleeing crowds of revelers, and checked himself to be sure nothing was broken as a result of being thrown off his horse. He seemed whole, but his head was pounding and his left elbow didn’t want to bend.

  How many had been crushed by the collapse? How many were dead, or trapped beneath the rubble?

  The tower had been leaning ever since the earthquake many months before. Had this been a freak accident? He hoped—he prayed—that it was. But instinct told him it had been arranged by Claremonte and that something else would follow. For now all he could do was regroup and prepare for the worst.

  Tamas pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and tied it around his mouth against the dust. “Olem! Olem! Pit.”

  “Sir, are you all right?” It was General Arbor, emerging from the rubble, a soldier a quarter his age limping along with his help.

  “Fine, fine. Do we know how many are buried?”

  “I think most of us got away in time, though we can’t be sure. Lost my damn teeth!”

  “Glad that’s all you lost. Have you seen Olem?”

  “No.”

  Tamas was suddenly launched from his feet. One moment he was speaking to Arbor and the next moment he was on the ground, his own voice sounding distant as he shouted for a report. He shook his head, ears ringing, trying to figure out what had happened. It felt, and sounded, like a munitions depot had exploded beneath his feet.

  His vision swam and his head pounded, the whole world sounding like a muffled bell. He put his hands on his ears and hid his head, trying to regain his senses. With some effort he got to his feet.

  General Arbor was up already, the body of the infantryman he had been helping crushed beneath a piece of basalt. Arbor’s face was red, and spittle flew as he barked commands that Tamas couldn’t hear. Arbor took him by the elbow and Tamas pointed to his ears. The general nodded.

  “Sir.” The voice seemed small and distant, but Tamas turned to find Olem at his side. The bodyguard was coated in dust and splattered with blood, but it didn’t look like it was his own. “Sir, we’ve got to go! We’re under attack!”

  “Who?”

  Before Olem could answer, Arbor raised his hand and pointed toward the rubble of Sablethorn. Tamas flinched away from a sudden blinding light, and he held up one hand as he tried to see. Slowly, the light faded and resolved itself into a glowing figure a dozen feet above the wreckage. Sorcery swirled around her in white ribbons, and the clothes she wore dissolved beneath her own unveiled power.

  Tamas gaped. Never had he seen anything like this. Not from Adom or from Julene or even from an entire royal cabal working in concert. He didn’t recognize the woman, but he could guess all the same; this was Cheris, Claremonte’s other half, the second face of the god Brude.

  “Get the people back!” Tamas shouted. “Arbor, bring my soldiers into line. I want everything you can give me. Rifles, artillery. Everything!”

  “Sir, we should retreat,” Olem said.

  “Blast your retreating. I fight here and I die here. Get to the brigades waiting outside the city. Tell them to sack Claremonte’s headquarters at the palace. Kill everyone wearing a Brudanian uniform. For pit’s sake, avoid Claremonte himself!”

  “Sir, you can’t—”

  “That’s an order, man. Go!” As Olem sprinted away, Tamas drew his pistol and leveled it at the god, squeezing the trigger. The bullet disappeared into the swirling sorcery and had no visible effect. Tamas threw a powder charge into his mouth and chewed, feeling the power course through his veins.

  The god rotated toward him, her face serene. Tamas drew his other pistol, aiming it at her eye, and pulled the trigger.

  She was gone in the blink of an eye. Tamas stared hard at where she had just been, his pistol still held warily before him. “Where’d she go?”

  “Here,” a voice whispered in his ear.

  He whirled, but he was too slow. A hand like a steel vise closed around his neck and he felt himself lifted in the air, the breath choked from him. He was turned so that he looked into the eyes of the god.

  “I gave you a chance.” Her voice was silky and feminine, but with an echo to it as if spoken inside the immense halls of a cathedral. He could hear the resonance of Claremonte within it. “I did not want this.” Tamas was lifted higher. He grasped at the fingers holding him, but he might as well have tried to pry away the unyielding hands of a marble statue. He struggled with all his strength, the power of ten men flowing through his veins, but it was as nothing to this god.

  Cheris shook him like a doll. “I did not want this,” she repeated. “I wanted to do this the easy way. I would have led Adro to greatness. I would have united the Nine once again, toppled the rest of the monarchies, ushering in a modern era of prosperity and unity. I would have erased all memory of the old gods and created a utopia that Kresimir could never have accomplished.

  “I could have done this all with bloodless revolution. I told myself that the people would choose wisely. That they would unite behind a man like Claremonte. But they didn’t, and now you’ve forced my hand. I will unite the Nine. I will unite the world. Even if I have to kill half the people on this planet to do it.”

  Tamas felt his eyes bulging, his mind screaming from the lack of oxygen. He could feel his own struggles growing weaker. A bullet hit Cheris in the cheek and shattered without leaving a mark, pieces of lead ricocheting into Tamas’s shoulder.

  “You obstinate shit,” Cheris said. “I would have had you lead my armies. What a waste.” He felt her fingers squeeze and he knew any moment his head would pop off his shoulders like the head of a dandelion torn off its stem. He thrashed and tore, and out of the corner of his vision he saw the swinging rifle stock.

  Cheris did not.

  The stock hit her in the side of the face hard enough to shatter the whole length of the weapon. Her head jerked to the side, if only slightly, and she turned to face Vlora with a look of disgust. Tamas was thrown, suddenly able to suck in a breath for only a moment before he hit Vlora and the two of them rolled across the cobbles of the square.

  Tamas gasped, air cutting like knives through his injured windpipe. Vlora scrambled to her feet.

  “Don’t you see that this is just a game to me?” Cheris demanded. “Do you not see how insignificant you are?”

  Andriya, covered in blood and gravel and dust and screaming like a pit-born devil, ran at Cheris with his bayonet fixed. He thrust with enough force to skewer a bull. The blade struck Cheris in the belly, bending like it was m
ade of rubber. Cheris twitched a finger and Andriya’s head exploded, showering Tamas and Vlora in blood. The body stumbled and fell, neck still spurting crimson.

  “Fire!” Arbor’s voice bellowed.

  The crack of two hundred muskets shattered the air, and Cheris turned toward the sudden hail of bullets and faced the ranks of Adran soldiers, as unperturbed as a man walking into a gentle rain. She lifted her hands, and Tamas opened his mouth to scream a warning to Arbor.

  Taniel ran at the goddess with all the speed he could coax out of his body. She turned toward Arbor and the soldiers, and he knew that it would take her but a wink to do the same to them as she’d done to Andriya.

  His fist connected with her chin and he heard an audible crack. The goddess spun fully around from his blow, toppling to her knees. She shrugged off the punch—a punch that might have put down an elephant—and was back on her feet in a moment, her face an expression of shock and outrage.

  So he punched her again.

  Cheris’s head jerked back. She raised a hand, and he felt a sudden pressure build in his ears, but he slapped her hand away and slammed his fist into her gut. She doubled over and he brought his elbow down on her shoulder, dropping her to her knees. He drew his fist back, ready to come down on the base of her spine.

  Her punch to his stomach felt like he’d been hit by the prow of a Brudanian ship of the line. He stumbled, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth as he tried to regain his footing, but her second punch snapped his head back, sending him soaring through the air. It was with great surprise that he found himself still alive, forty feet away from the god. He stumbled to his feet, preparing to run at her again, but he could see that he now had the goddess’s undivided attention.

  She flexed one hand, and Taniel felt as if a steel cage had snapped in place around him. His arms could barely move. His legs wouldn’t respond. The sorcery closed in on him. His bones and muscles protested against the pressure and it took all the strength he could summon to take one step forward.

  Sweat poured off his brow and into his eyes. How was this possible? Not even Kresimir’s magic was this strong against the sorcery Ka-poel had woven into Taniel’s bones. Was Brude really stronger than Kresimir? What if Ka-poel’s wards weren’t powerful enough to hold off this god’s power?

  He took another step forward and felt a scream of agony wrench itself from his lips. His vision blurred. He could feel the sorcery pushing down on him with the force of a mountain, but he knew that he had to end this. It was the only way to get back Ka-poel.

  Suddenly the goddess was in front of him. He swung one fist and she stepped out of the way, catching his arm and slamming the tip of her finger into his shoulder. He groaned and she reached out one hand, grasping his face, and threw him away from her with an angry grunt.

  She raised her hands and leapt into the air. He waited for her to come down upon him with the force of a mortar shell, but she stayed in the air, hovering well above his head. “Your lives are nothing to me. Surrender this battle now or I will lift this entire city into the air and drop it from a hundred miles up. Everything you’ve ever known and loved will die at once and there will be nothing you can do to stop it. Surrender!”

  Taniel bared his teeth and looked toward his father, who was now on his feet, leaning against Vlora.

  “Why don’t you do it, then?” Tamas demanded. “If we’re so insignificant, why do you hesitate to kill us? Go to the pit.”

  The goddess laughed. She spread her arms, and the air began to shimmer. Taniel felt a sudden nausea in the pit of his stomach as his entire body grew weightless. Rubble and paving stones suddenly lifted off the ground. His heart leapt into his throat. There was a groaning, wrenching sound and the earth began to quake. Soldiers were lifted off their feet. Horses panicked and screamed as their hooves left the ground, and an immense cannon rose six feet into the air.

  The goddess suddenly fell to the ground. She landed in a crouch and blinked at the world around her as the rubble and dust all settled back down to where it had once been. There were shouts of relief, and some of pain, as men fell back to the ground.

  “What is this?” Cheris demanded.

  A figure appeared in the haze and the goddess turned to face it. Taniel squinted, trying to make out its identity.

  “You’re dead,” the goddess said.

  The figure was tall and fat, with black hair. One moment he looked like Charlemund and the next like Mihali. His features warped and slid into something vaguely in between. He wore a white apron and a tall hat and stood with his hands on his hips.

  “You’re mistaken,” he said.

  Tamas stumbled over to Adom, his senses still reeling from Cheris’s attack. “I’m glad to see you show up,” he said hoarsely.

  Adom didn’t respond. He raised his chin at Cheris and she sneered back.

  “Get out while I let you leave,” she hissed. “I’ve never been as fond of you as my other half has.”

  “You’ve killed them all,” Adom said sadly. “I went looking for them. All of our brothers and our sisters. Novi and Ishtari and Deliv and all the rest. You’ve managed to lure them all back here and murder them. All right under my nose. Only Kresimir and I are left. And you.”

  The goddess snorted. “Kresimir won’t last the day. I’ll spare you his fate if you stand down now.”

  Adom seemed to consider her threat. He turned to Tamas. “You should go.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “To the palace. Claremonte—Brude—he’s going to kill Kresimir. You can’t let that happen.”

  “But this…”

  “You won’t be any help here. Taniel’s the only one who can hurt her, and Ka-poel will need his help at the palace. If Brude kills Kresimir, he’ll do the same thing he has done with all the rest of my brothers and sisters and absorb a portion of his power. Don’t let that happen.”

  Tamas tore himself away and began to run. He flinched as a wall of the People’s Court suddenly exploded in a shower of plaster and stone and sorcerous fire flared through the hole. “Vlora, get inside. Get the new minister to safety. Taniel, come with me. General Arbor, evacuate the city center! You’re in command here!”

  Tamas turned as he reached the edge of Elections Square and looked back toward the two gods who were now facing off.

  Adom drew a ladle from his apron string and leveled it at the goddess.

  “Get out of my city!”

  CHAPTER

  50

  Nila ran back down the hallway toward the minister’s office, only to stop and dash back to help Bo along. Sorcery enveloped them both and a blast rang in her ears, nearly knocking her off her feet.

  “Caught it in time,” Bo said, sweat beading on his forehead. “Keep moving.”

  The blasts continued. Each time magic came close to incinerating them, she could feel Bo’s threads into the Else suddenly pull his own sorcery into the world as a counter. Marble flooring erupted behind them, spraying shards and dust into the air, knocking holes in the walls and ceiling. Flame and wind buffeted the air around them, but it all bounced harmlessly off of Bo’s shields of air.

  “Wait, wait!” Nila said. “If we go this way, we’ll lead them straight to the minister.”

  “Can’t be helped.” Bo hobbled on ahead, out the back of the office and into the servants’ stairwell. Nila looked down the stairs and could still see the fleeing minister’s staff. Back out in the hallway Brudanian soldiers had gained the landing and were taking up positions in doorways and behind columns.

  Nila stepped away from Bo and leaned into the hallway, stretching out one hand, plucking at the air with the other. Flames shot from her fingers, rolling and snaking through the doorway. A bullet splintered the door frame beside her head, but she didn’t allow it to distract her. She focused on the heat of the flames, dragging sorcery through the Else and into this world.

  She stiffened suddenly as an icy feeling crept up her spine, as if she had suddenly found herself plunged i
nto shadow on a sunny day. “Bo, what just happened to me?” Her fire trickled off, expunged by her sudden doubt, and she dared not move.

  Bo hobbled up beside her, his prosthetic clicking. “Well done,” he said. “You’ve set the building on fire, but I’ll give you points for the effort. That thing you felt was me, by the way. Come on.” He grabbed her by the arm and they made for the back stairwell.

  “What did you do?” she asked as she helped him on the stairs.

  “Quiet,” he whispered. “Trick an old lover taught me. I took a tiny bit of your aura and left it where we were just standing. Leaves a splash of color in the Else that burns like a person and covers our tracks. They’ll see through it quickly, but it might give us time to get behind them.”

  They passed the fourth floor and Nila rushed through the door and into the office beyond, approaching the door to the main hallway. Soldiers stood down the hall, gathered around the main staircase, muskets pointed cautiously upward. Among them was a female Privileged—Lourie, she had no doubt.

  “Now?” she asked.

  “No, down one more floor.”

  “We’ll give up the advantage of height.”

  “I’d rather give up the high ground if it means we’re not trapped. Besides, you set fire to the top floor.”

  They returned to the stairwell and descended to the third floor. Bo approached the servants’ door, sweat now pouring down his face, grimacing with every step on his prosthetic. He’d lost his cane somewhere in the chaos. Nila ran ahead of him and grabbed the door, but was suddenly thrown backward by a burst of sorcery. She slammed into the wall, plaster falling on her shoulders, the breath knocked out of her.

  A man strode through the remains of the door. He wore Privileged gloves and he was big, as big as Colonel Etan. Bo made a warding gesture, which the man seemed to brush away. He grabbed Bo by his wrists and swung him around and into the banister. It cracked beneath Bo’s weight and both men toppled backward and plunged from sight.

  Nila gathered herself off the floor and ran down the steps after them. They lay on the next landing, Bo underneath the behemoth of a Privileged, wrists pinned at his sides. The big Privileged laughed and cracked his forehead against Bo’s nose. Bo screamed with pain.