The Mad Lancers: A Powder Mage Novella

by Brian McClellan

  It took two mighty blows of Deshnar’s steel-shod hooves to splinter the door, and Styke dismounted once again to use his sword to clear the remaining fragments. He stepped inside, looking for Sirod.

  The bastard was alone now.

  The museum had been built to replicate the ancient keeps of the Nine, and nowhere was that more apparent than in the front entry. The walls were thick stone, the ceilings fourteen feet high, and full suits of armor paraded along the length of the hallway like a king’s guard waiting at attention. The area was lit by gas lamps that had been crafted in bronze to resemble torch sconces. Styke had the distinct impression that this was what an architect thought a keep looked like, rather than an actual replica.

  Styke continued down to the first door, glancing inside to find a long hall, lit similarly, with twenty-foot ceilings and walls covered in art. Pedestals with ancient busts marked the spots between each piece, and the shadows played long behind them. The hall appeared to end in thirty yards, so he moved on to the next doorway.

  The second hall had a different motif—something distinctly more foreign, with ancient stone slabs and a dozen sarcophagi lining each wall. There were even bones on low platforms, and the room seemed to smell of sand. Styke moved on, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other to keep from stumbling, feeling his strength ebb with each step.

  Room after room continued, each of them decorated with the art and artifacts from a different country. After that first room and a couple of pieces of art that Styke recognized from visiting the Landfall museum a decade ago, nothing was familiar. It was foreign to him, strange and exotic, and he wondered why such a collection would catch the imagination of any man. Ego, he supposed.

  The whole place smelled of sorcery to him—a biting, metallic flavor that reminded him of a Palo bone-eye he’d met on the frontier, though not exactly the same. It grew stronger as he proceeded.

  He heard a crash from the second-to-last room in the long hall and stalked toward it, sword at the ready He put his back to the wall just outside the door, listening for further sound. There was an odd noise—a crack, followed by number of fast clicks. Styke stepped into the doorway and raised his sword.

  A string thrummed, and something struck Styke full in the chest, producing a meaty thwap at it impacted. He staggered back several steps and looked down, the breath knocked out of him, and stared at the short, feathered bolt sticking out of his chest just an inch or two above his heart.

  He looked up, blinking through tears, pushing away the pain, to find Sirod cranking a winch on an old crossbow. The smell of that metallic sorcery filled Styke’s nostrils, and he saw that the room behind Sirod was filled with suits of ancient armor displayed on mannequins, and that the walls were decorated with literally thousands of weapons.

  Sirod himself wore one of those suits of armor—though only the breastplate, hastily buckled, and the helmet with the visor up. Sirod’s eyes were wide, his expression one of sneering anger, as if he was offended by the very act of having to defend himself.

  Sirod began to crank faster. Styke put one hand on the crossbow bolt but thought better of pulling it out himself. The pain was intense, the muscles of his breast and shoulder crying out with the slightest move. He shook his head, tears streaming down his face, and gave a groan as he stepped forward.

  Click, click.

  Styke took another step, more painful than the last, then another, then another, until he had halved the distance between himself and Sirod. The crossbow string clicked into place, and Sirod fumbled with a bolt. Styke took a sharp breath, pain lancing through his body, and dashed forward, swinging his sword with his remaining strength.

  The sword slammed into Sirod’s breastplate, enough power behind the fine steel to cleave through ancient armor. Instead of shearing through, however, the weapon bounced off the breastplate as if it were an anvil, the clang of the metal on metal ringing through the hall.

  Sirod dropped the crossbow, stumbling backward from the force of the blow.

  Styke struck again and again, slamming the sword against Sirod’s armor until he could barely lift it, then stumbling forward and colliding with Sirod. Styke fell, twisting to land on one shoulder and letting out a gasp of pain. He watched Sirod wobble, then crash to the floor beside him.

  “Enchanted armor?” Styke asked, considering the metallic smell of sorcery that permeated the building.

  “You’ll never cut it,” Sirod exclaimed, climbing to his feet and heading toward the display of weapons on the wall.

  Styke managed to swing his sword around in a final arc, neatly severing the tendon of Sirod’s right foot. The governor screamed, slumping to the floor midstep. He continued to wail as Styke laboriously lifted himself to his knees and crawled over. Using Sirod’s breastplate as a crutch, he got back to his feet.

  “You shouldn’t have burnt down Fernhollow,” Styke told him.

  Sirod looked more angry than hurt. He hyperventilated, spittle on his lips. “Why aren’t you dead?”

  “I get asked that a lot.” Styke stepped over the governor, his big legs straddling the man. He took Sirod’s helmet between his hands and lifted it so that they looked eye to eye. “You’re a piece of shit. Do you know that? Do you have any idea?”

  “I,” Sirod screamed, spittle flying from his lips, “am the governor of Landfall, and you will unhand me!”

  Styke jerked his hands in a circular motion, twisting Sirod’s head around so that he was staring at the back of the enchanted helmet. The body beneath him spasmed once and then slumped. “Enchanted armor or not,” he said, rapping the helmet with his knuckles, “all men die.”

  “I’ve heard of this place,” Jackal told Styke a few minutes later, looking around the museum’s vaultlike armory with a kind of casual examination that did not suggest Styke was bleeding out slowly from a crossbow wound a few feet away.

  Styke grunted, hand on his heart, just below the bolt, keeping pressure on the area and hoping it didn’t pull out anything vital when he finally removed the damned thing. He stared at Sirod’s body, which was still wearing the armor, and wondered how long it would take to strip the armor and impale Sirod on one of his own stupid collections of pikes. He could leave the body just outside the museum, where everyone could see it.

  Right now, that seemed like a lot of work.

  “This is cavalry armor, you know,” Jackal told Styke.

  Styke was surprised Jackal could tell. “Yeah, I know.” He scowled at a nearby set, examining the fine lines, wondering when it had been made and enchanted. Modern Privileged, he understood, could still accomplish such things but almost always thought of enchantment as beneath them. It simply wasn’t worth their valuable time. The fact that these enchantments were still potent meant that they had been done by a powerful Privileged.

  “Give me that breastplate.”

  Jackal took a few moments to unbuckle the breastplate from Sirod’s corpse, then brought it to Styke. It hurt even to lift his hands, but Styke took the plate and examined it. Not even a scratch. This, he decided, could be useful.

  The sound of boots on stone floors turned his head. He reached for his sword but gave up when he saw a familiar face in a sunflower-yellow cavalry jacket appear in the doorway. It was one of his lancers, a soldier named Petyr, and he skidded to a halt at the sight of the carnage.

  “Report,” Styke managed.

  “Sir, heavy losses, but we think we’ve cleared out most of the governor’s bodyguard. We can’t find the governor or his Privileged anywhere, but…” he trailed off, looking at the body with the turned-around head. “Is that Sirod?”

  “Yeah. Round up whoever is left. We want to get out of here before the whole Landfall garrison comes after us.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Find me some horngum. This hurts a damned lot.”

  “Immediately, sir. I might have some in my saddlebags.”

  “Good. Oh, and search the grounds for wagons. We’re going to steal everything we c
an get our hands on. Start with this armor.”

  “Blye is dead.”

  Styke sat on a stump, two days after killing Sirod and about two dozen miles northwest of the governor’s mansion. Wagons filled with treasures and supplies lined the road, quickly being unloaded onto a number of keelboats that his lancers had managed to commandeer from a nearby town. For two days he hadn’t heard word of a small group that had gotten separated during a fight with the governor’s bodyguards.

  Jackal stood next to him, his expression placid as he gave the news. Styke had sent him looking for Blye and the thirty-odd men who’d disappeared.

  “Any survivors?” Styke asked hopefully, a hand on his chest, trying to ignore the pain of the bolt wound Sirod had given him. He’d been chewing on horngum and rubbing it in the wounds, which dulled the pain enough to ride. Barely.

  “I don’t think so. A few of us are unaccounted for, so they may have managed to get away from the fighting. We can only hope they’ll find us later.”

  Us. Four days together, and Jackal already considered himself one of Styke’s lancers. Damned kid couldn’t even ride a horse yet. Styke chuckled, shaking his head before turning to darker thoughts. Captain Blye was a friend—not terribly close, but enough that Styke considered him so. He was a good officer and solid in a scrap. He would be missed.

  “Where’s Cardin?” Styke asked.

  Jackal frowned. “I’m not sure. A few of his boys said they saw him take off to the east to lead away some of Sirod’s bodyguard. He may still be alive.”

  Styke needed a new second-in-command. Cardin, still practically a stranger, wasn’t his first choice. But if he was still alive, he was probably Styke’s only choice. At least for now. “See if you can find him.” He pressed a hand against his chest, his next breath causing all the muscles along his left side to sting. The damned wound had finally stopped bleeding, but it would take a long time to heal. “How many do we have left?” he asked Jackal.

  “Eighty-two. Seventeen of them are wounded, but they can all ride.”

  Styke looked at the keelboats, where the first of the horses were finally being loaded up. “No riding necessary for a while—not till that last stretch to Redstone. It’ll give them a chance to heal up.” And, hopefully, keep them ahead of any pursuit out of Landfall.

  Styke put his chin on his fist, leaning forward on the stump and drifting into his own thoughts as the men continued to load the keelboats. He wondered if it was worth all of this trouble—if perhaps he should just disband the group and head off into the sunset. He could disappear into the mountains, or head north and sign up with the Wings of Adom and get a mercenary posting in Gurla. That wouldn’t be a bad life.

  But wondering made no difference. He might as well wish he’d never gotten out of bed the morning Prost had decided to beat Tel-islo. And he’d already made up his mind about what to do next. He still had obligations on this continent.

  “Riders on the road!” someone shouted.

  Styke climbed to his feet as soldiers abandoned their loading work and grabbed swords or carbines, climbing up onto the high ground on the opposite side of the road. Styke fetched his own carbine from Deshnar’s saddle and waited, watching.

  A rider soon appeared on the horizon. He stopped just on the crest of a hill and turned in the road. A few moments later, he was joined by more riders, and Styke felt his stomach turn as dozens joined them. He glanced toward the keelboats—only half-loaded—and realized that they wouldn’t be able to make much of a fight.

  “Launch those three boats,” he said, gesturing as he painfully climbed into Deshnar’s saddle. “Everyone whose horse isn’t on the boats, get ready to ford the river. Go!”

  The men scrambled to do his bidding, and Styke let Deshnar walk a few dozen feet toward the riders. He shaded his eyes against the sun, trying to determine the color of their uniforms. His curiosity was answered as the group began to move once again, coming toward them down the road, and he was soon able to make out a mix of sunflower yellow jackets and tan and green. They came on slowly, cautiously.

  Three keelboats launched, and the remaining thirty or so lancers were mounted beside the road, ready to head into the water if they needed to make a run for it. Styke held up his hand, signaling them to wait, trying to read the strangers’ body language. It was clear they weren’t in a hurry.

  At fifty yards, he recognized their commanding officer. She wore the uniform of a colonial and carried a lance much like his own. She slumped in the saddle lazily, yet couldn’t conceal her great height—a little taller than Rezi, if Styke remembered right. She had strong hands; square, powerful shoulders; and a bemused, sour expression as she signaled a halt to her men and rode out ahead of them to meet Styke.

  Styke’s grip tightened on his carbine as he examined the woman. It had been well over two years since they’d last met, and he had the scars from the night they’d spent together. He still hadn’t decided whether that was a good memory or a bad one.

  “Captain Fles,” he said, nodding.

  “Are we that formal now, Ben?”

  Styke snorted. “How are you, Ibana?”

  Ibana tugged off one riding glove and examined her fingernails. “I’ve been better. Some asshole in Landfall gave me two hundred lancers and ordered me to track down and kill an old lover. You? You look like shit.”

  “I’ve had better weeks,” Styke acknowledged.

  “I heard they killed Rezi.”

  Styke stiffened, trying to determine where that line of thought was going to lead.

  “I always liked Rezi,” Ibana said, her forehead wrinkling. “She was good for you.” Styke would have expected a note of bitterness in that statement, but there was no trace of any. He decided not to respond to that.

  “So,” he said, clearing his throat, “two hundred lancers. What took you so long to find me?”

  Ibana sucked on her teeth, glancing over her shoulder at the cavalry that filled the road behind her. None of them looked terribly eager for a fight. “We, uh, got lost. Might have dawdled a bit. You know. That sort of thing.”

  “I appreciate that,” Styke said, feeling a little more certain about things, but still cautious. “But you seem to have caught up with us.”

  “Heard you were heading this direction. Hard not to follow up on that.”

  “And now you’re here.”

  “And now we’re here,” Ibana echoed.

  There was a long, thoughtful silence. Styke glanced over his shoulder at his own beat-up group of lancers, then examined the faces of hers. He spotted many old acquaintances, comrades, and even some friends. In fact, now that he looked carefully, he realized that he recognized most of the people with her. “You didn’t handpick your search party, did you?”

  “I might have,” Ibana smirked.

  “A revolution has started in Redstone. We’re heading that way. I could use a few more men, and a new second-in-command. They killed Blye.”

  Ibana grunted. “Sad about Blye. Another good one.”

  “There will be a lot more good ones in the ground before this is over.”

  Ibana tilted her head to the side, then turned one last time in the saddle, sweeping her gaze across the group behind her. “Major Styke, sir, I think we’re going to need more keelboats.”

  “Get looking,” Styke ordered, a grin spreading across his face. “And give me your fastest rider with a spare horse. I want to send word to Lindet that we’re bringing her some cavalry.”

  Ibana turned her horse around. “You heard the man!” she bellowed. “We need more keelboats! Ferlisia, track down a spare mount and get your ass up here!” She nudged her mount toward Styke’s, and soon they were sitting side by side, watching as the fresh company of lancers fell out to help finish loading the keelboats, and groups headed upstream and downstream to find more. The transition had been almost instantaneous, two groups forming into one, and Ibana sitting beside him felt as natural as the saddle beneath him. “Do you have a name for this com
pany?” she asked.

  “I haven’t come up with a good one.” Styke felt a weight lift from his shoulders. Ibana was a damned good officer, and she had picked a fantastic group of lancers. If Styke had been forced to fight them, he would have been hard-pressed—even at full strength.

  “You hear what they’re calling you in Landfall?” she asked.

  “Didn’t know they were calling me anything.”

  “Oh, you’re the talk of the whole damned town now, my friend. When I left, word was already going around that a giant had staved in the head of Sirod’s personal Privileged and twisted off Sirod’s head.”

  “I didn’t twist his head off. Just around.”

  “They’re calling you Mad Ben Styke.”

  Styke couldn’t help but laugh at the double meaning. “Crazy or furious?”

  “Both.”

  “I like it.” He paused, considering the men working together by the river. “Mad Ben Styke,” he muttered. “Mad Ben Styke’s Mad Lancers. How’s that?”

  “I’ll get someone working on a banner.”

  For more in the Powder Mage Universe:

  Promise of Blood

  The Powder Mage Trilogy

  Orbit, April 2013

  The Crimson Campaign

  The Powder Mage Trilogy

  Orbit, May 2014

  The Autumn Republic

  The Powder Mage Trilogy

  Orbit, February 2015

  Sins of Empire

  Gods of Blood and Powder

  Orbit, March 2017

  Forsworn

  A Powder Mage Novella

  January 2014

  Servant of the Crown

  A Powder Mage Novella

  June 2014

  Murder at the Kinnen Hotel

  A Powder Mage Novella

  November 2014

  In the Field Marshal’s Shadow

  Stories from the Powder Mage Universe

  November 2015