Wrath of Empire

by Brian McClellan

  Finish the job, he told himself silently. Have it done and be gone. He thought of Agoston’s blood and squeezed his eyes shut.

  “You don’t have to do it, Ben,” Tenny whispered.

  “Oh, shut up.” Styke carried Tenny across the room and threw him out the big bay window.

  Glass shattered, and Tenny’s scream was undercut by a shrill one from the closet. Styke whirled as the closet opened, and a woman in her early twenties burst forth. Two young children hid among the clothes inside, frightened, staring at Styke—a crippled giant of a man with a fighting knife as long as a sword. The woman looked from him to the window and took a step back, her eyes rolling like those of a frightened horse.

  “Stay here,” Styke ordered. He strode into the hall to find a crowd of worried servants. Shoving them aside, he headed downstairs and out to the side of the house, where he found Tenny lying on the lawn among broken glass and fragments of a windowsill. Tenny’s eyes were closed, his arm bent beneath him and obviously broken, but his chest rose and fell. He gnashed his teeth against the pain, trying to move.

  Tenny’s eyes shot open as Styke approached. “Why are you still alive?” he whispered between gritted teeth.

  Styke squatted beside him, knife loose in his hand. Above them both, the woman stood at the window, wailing. “Because none of the gods have invented anything to kill me yet,” he replied. “Don’t pretend this is a surprise. You knew who and what I was when you decided to sell me to Fidelis Jes.” He tapped the tip of his knife against Tenny’s collarbone.

  Tenny trembled, but Styke could tell that it was from pain, and no longer fear. He could see the acceptance of a dead man in Tenny’s eyes. “Gut me,” Tenny said. “Flay me. Do what you need to do. I deserve it. But leave these people out of it. Don’t do it in the sight of my wife and children. I know who and what you are, Colonel, and I know you are better than that.”

  Styke glanced up at the window again. The woman had disappeared, and only servants stared down at him. He could still hear her wailing. He wondered if begging had ever stalled the blade of the old Ben Styke—if the invocation of a wife and children had ever kept him from a bloody deed. If it had, it was a long time ago.

  He felt eyes on him, and glanced over his shoulder to find Celine standing by the corner of the house. She still clutched Amrec’s reins, and the big horse nibbled at the grass without a care in the world. Stone-faced, Celine watched Styke, eyeing the knife in his hand and the man at his feet. Ka-poel stood behind her with an appraising look in her eye.

  “Finish it, Styke,” Tenny said. “Don’t make me linger. It’s not your style. Drag me into those woods over there. Finish the job. Just don’t do it in front of them.”

  Styke frowned at Celine. The girl’s head was cocked to the side as if she were watching a butcher about to cut up a side of beef. He felt conflicted, that war between his lust for vengeance and the sickness brought on by killing his own men. Celine scowled at him, clearly finding something amiss.

  Styke bowed his head. Tenny deserved to die, no question about that. But Styke couldn’t help but hesitate. He took a deep breath, let out a sigh, and tapped Tenny’s collarbone with the tip of his knife again.

  “Get that arm set and wrapped,” he heard himself say softly as he stood. “The Dynize are close by. If you leave by sundown, you might outrun their scouts. The river valley is choked with refugees, so you’ll want to go southwest.”

  “What are you doing?” Tenny gasped. He tried to sit up, voice dripping with suspicion.

  “I’m not gonna skin an old comrade in front of his own household. Even if you deserve it. Get out of here, Tenny. Change your name. You should probably leave the country. If Ibana ever finds you, she’ll turn you into a rug.” Styke sheathed his knife and headed back to Celine. He took Amrec’s reins.

  “I thought you were gonna skin him,” Celine said.

  “Nobody likes a bloodthirsty little git,” Styke said, swinging into the saddle. Celine climbed up in front of him.

  “I’m not bloodthirsty,” she protested. “I was just curious. Why didn’t you kill him?”

  Styke took her by the shoulder. He searched her eyes for eagerness or disappointment. Finding neither, he flipped the reins. “Hardest thing a soldier can do is leave the killing behind him. Tenny didn’t sell me out for money or power. He sold me out for a better life. Shitty thing to do, but he went somewhere he couldn’t hear the hooves and the cannons and became a good husband to a fat little country girl. He did what I should have done twenty-five years ago.”

  “So you’re just gonna let him go?”

  “I’m just gonna let him go,” Styke confirmed. The rage still burned in his chest, but that queasiness was now gone. “I’ve got plenty of killing to do. One less mark on my knife handle won’t make a difference. Just don’t tell Ibana.”

  CHAPTER 18

  The rolling plains of southern Fatrasta turned into the foothills of the Ironhook Mountains as Vlora and Taniel rode north ahead of the army. They followed the banks of the Hadshaw for nearly three hundred miles, pushing themselves and their spare horses hard before cutting west and heading into the mountains.

  The roads became narrower, climbing steep hills and crossing deep ravines over bridges that became increasingly untrustworthy. Farmsteads gave way to forests of towering pines as they left behind the regular villages.

  Progress grew slower and slower as the terrain sharpened. The depth of the forest gave Vlora a sense of foreboding. More than swamps of the Tristan Basin, this land felt as if it were on the edge of civilization, isolated and wild, a place where she could scream for ten miles of road and no one would hear her. They bought supplies from the infrequent logging camps and express depots, and it took them almost seven days to reach the outskirts of Yellow Creek.

  The county limits were marked by a flatboard nailed to a stick, written in charcoal, and guarded by a rough-cut log tower with two men armed with rifles. The guards watched them approach, but did not hail them or comment on their passing.

  Vlora turned in her saddle to look back at them as she passed. “Not much of a guard post.”

  “They aren’t looking for Kressians,” Taniel said.

  This should have surprised Vlora. “Palo?”

  “Definitely Palo. Kressians out here stick together—they have to, or the Palo war parties will pick them apart.”

  “I didn’t know there still were aggressive tribes this close to the coast. We’re just a few hundred miles from Landfall.”

  Taniel looked up to watch a circling buzzard. “There are a handful of independent tribes on this side of the Ironhook, but they all have treaties with Lindet in order to ensure their survival. The problem is expeditions from the other side of the mountains.”

  “Then why was that guard post way down here? Why wasn’t it up in the mountains?”

  Taniel grinned at her. “You ever try to explain the difference between groups of Palo to the average Fatrastan?”

  “No.”

  “That kind of nuance is lost on most people. A Palo is a Palo, regardless of where they come from. If Palo from across the mountains attack the trade routes to and from Yellow Creek, the townspeople just assume it was one of the neighboring tribes.” Taniel tapped the side of his head. “People desperate enough to come out here to settle the frontier don’t always have the best critical-thinking skills. It’s easier to shoot first and ask questions later.”

  Vlora spotted a cabin at the top of a nearby gully—the first sign of settlement she’d seen in twenty miles. A few minutes later, she spotted another one. “Damn near getting crowded now,” she muttered to herself. “So these Palo coming across the mountains … are they from the Palo Nation?”

  “Almost certainly.”

  “I thought you said they were different. More civilized.”

  Taniel considered this for a moment. “The Palo Nation is complicated. They have no interest in having what happened to the southern Palo happen to them. So they sit be
hind the mountains and send raids. They scout, they kill and steal. They do what’s expected of them, because they don’t want Lindet to suspect that they are anything more than an upstart tribe.”

  “Then, what are they?”

  Taniel looked at her seriously. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Try me.”

  “They’re a republic.”

  Vlora scoffed. “You’re joking.”

  “Not at all.”

  “A bona fide republic?”

  Taniel nodded, and Vlora found herself struggling with the idea. She’d fought the Palo up in the Tristan Basin. They weren’t stupid by any means, but their tribal societies didn’t have room for a concept like republicanism. They lived year to year, fighting among themselves, in a place where survival of the strongest was the rule. She’d always considered advanced forms of government a “civilized” luxury.

  “How do you know?” she asked.

  “I lived with them for a while.” He pulled off his glove, showing her the reddened skin of his right hand. “Who do you think funds the Red Hand?”

  “I assumed it was leftists in Landfall.”

  “Some of it, sure. But the Palo Nation loves having Lindet run around after freedom fighters instead of pushing closer to their territory.”

  “Does she have any idea about any of this?”

  “Honestly, I can say that this is one of the few things Lindet doesn’t actually know.”

  Vlora imagined the look on Lindet’s face when she found out that there was a literal Palo Nation just on the other side of the Ironhooks. “Aren’t there explorers?”

  “Plenty. But Kressians don’t last long beyond the Ironhooks.”

  “Oh? Then how did you?”

  Taniel’s face soured. “I was with Ka-poel, for one. For another …” He trailed off.

  “Yeah?”

  “I had to murder a small army in self-defense to get them to leave me alone.”

  Vlora quickly dropped that line of questioning. Her attention shifted to the larger number of paths diverging off the main road into the forest, and then a small family they passed driving a wagon the opposite direction. The one wagon became two, then four, then ten. It was the most traffic they’d seen since leaving the Riflejacks behind.

  “There’s a lot of Palo,” she commented to Taniel, watching a woman pass by with a yoke over her shoulders, suspending two pails of water.

  “They’re good labor.”

  “I thought you said the Kressian settlers don’t like Palo.”

  “They don’t like sharing an address or a drink with them. They do like how hard they work.”

  “How the pit are those guards back there supposed to tell the difference between a good Palo and a bad Palo?”

  “The way they’re dressed,” Taniel said. He tugged at the front of his buckskin jacket. “If they’re dressed like me, they’re bad.” He pointed to her jacket and tricorn hat. “If they’re dressed like you, they’re good.”

  “That’s stupid.”

  “Like I said, no time for critical thinking on the frontier.”

  They finally reached the outskirts of town—a muddy track that suddenly turned muddier and led under an enormous wooden sign that said WELCOME TO YELLOW CREEK. The canyon opened up into a large valley a couple of miles across, clear-cut and organized, and filled with wooden buildings of all sorts—hardware stores, whorehouses, banks, letter-writing services, cobblers, and everything in between.

  The town itself was dense and claustrophobic, trash and shit trod underfoot and filling Vlora’s nostrils with a vile stench. The scenery around them, however, was gorgeous. Mountains rose in every direction, shooting up from the pine-forested foothills to bare rock that towered impossibly high into a ribbon of clouds.

  “I miss Adro,” Taniel said quietly.

  Vlora turned toward him sharply, but his face was impassive. “So do I,” she said.

  They rode deeper into the town in companionable silence, and Vlora realized that she would be shocked if the town housed fewer than ten thousand people. Not a proper city, certainly, but a veritable metropolis this far out on the frontier. “This is much bigger than I expected,” she said over the din of the traffic.

  Taniel’s eyebrows rose. “I’ll admit, I’m a little surprised. I’ve never been in a gold-rush town bigger than a few hundred people. There must be a damn huge amount of gold in these mountains.” He raised his hand. “This’ll do.”

  Vlora followed him across the street to a large building on the corner of an intersection. Large letters over the roof proclaimed HOTEL while a sign beside the door said VACANCIES. NO PALO. NO GURLISH. Vlora nearly objected, before realizing that every proper-looking building on the street had a similar sign. Some rejected Kez. Others rejected Stren or Rosveleans. There was even one that said in bold letters ADRANS NOT ADMITTED.

  “I see this is a happy, inclusive place,” she commented, tying her horse to a hitching post. “I thought you said the Kressians stick together.”

  Taniel looked uncertain for the first time since the Dynize had arrived. “It’s been a while since I’ve been up this direction. It seems old hatreds are cropping back up.”

  Vlora bit back a comment about Taniel not knowing as much as he thought he knew. She was still uncertain about his ulterior motives in this whole endeavor, but she did trust him. There was no reason to upset him if she didn’t have to.

  The hotel great room was two stories, highlighting a winding staircase and a row of rooms that looked down from the balcony above them with hallways going off to the side. Most of the main area was taken up with a bar and tables. At this hour they were empty but for a pair of drunks bemoaning some awful fate over in the corner.

  Vlora and Taniel were greeted by a wormy little man in a faded purple jacket and flatcap. He called to them from behind a podium that said in block letters HOTEL MANAGER. He said something quickly in Brudanian.

  “We need two rooms,” Vlora told him.

  The manager switched to Adran. “Two rooms will be tight, I’m afraid. The city is very crowded right now and most of the guests are doubling or even quadrupling up!” He followed the sentence with a simpering laugh.

  Vlora looked at Taniel, who just shrugged at her, and decided she had no interest in sharing a bed—no matter how platonic—with an ex-lover. “How much?” she asked.

  “Forty for the week. Sixty includes lunch and dinner. Drinks are extra.”

  Vlora plunked a handful of large coins on the podium, sorting through them carelessly and then sliding two across to the manager. “Two rooms.” She slid another two across to him.

  The manager licked his lips. “I think we’ve just had a vacancy.”

  “Good.”

  The manager hurried away, and Vlora turned to look across the great room. It wasn’t much, but it would be home for the next couple of weeks. Taniel slid up next to her, leaning in so that only she could hear him.

  “You haven’t really learned subtlety, have you?” he asked.

  She felt her already dubious mood sour. “I’m a goddamn Adran general. I don’t do subtlety.”

  “You’re not an Adran general here,” Taniel said. “We’ve got to stay low until we find this thing. You saw those postal relays on the highway. Word could reach Lindet about our presence within a week. The notes I found in her personal library indicated she was already snooping around in this neck of the woods, so she doubtlessly has spies in the city. The Dynize might, too.”

  Vlora grunted. As much as she hated to admit it, Taniel was right. Their whole purpose here—coming without her army—was to get in and get out without being detected by enemy agents. Handing the manager enough money to buy a horse just to get an extra hotel room was probably ill-advised.

  The manager returned with their keys and a pallid smile. “If there’s anything else I can do for you, please let me know.” His eyes ran across Vlora and Taniel’s weapons; then he leaned across the podium conspiratorially. “You�
�ll do well here, I think.”

  Vlora, whose attention had wandered from the dislikable man, turned to him sharply. “What do you mean by that?”

  The manager recoiled. “I mean, with the troubles brewing. You’re soldiers of fortune, aren’t you? Mercenaries?”

  Taniel didn’t look any happier than Vlora. “What kind of trouble?” he asked.

  “The Picks and the Shovels,” the manager explained. “I assumed you came because of the newspaper advertisements.”

  “Happenstance, actually,” Vlora assured him. She looked at Taniel, then continued on cautiously. “We just thought we’d find work guarding some caravans or mines.”

  “A happy coincidence, in your line of work,” the manager said with the tone of voice that implied he expected a large tip. “Trouble’s been heating up the last few months. There’s two groups in town that own most of the big mines around here, and they’ve been trying to buy each other out. The Picks own most of the eastern side of the valley.” He waved vaguely over his shoulder. “And the Shovels own the west side. Their big bosses have been bringing in more and more muscle to try and make a point. If one of them doesn’t agree to sell, it’ll be bloodshed by the end of the month.”

  Vlora prayed they’d be gone by then. The last thing she needed was their presence being complicated with a war over prospecting rights. She thought back to the Palo in the Tristan Basin and then in Greenfire Depths, and realized local politics had been plaguing her entire time in Fatrasta.

  She plastered a thankful smile on her face and palmed a five-krana coin, shaking the manager’s hand. “Have those rooms cleaned out by supper. Fresh linen, and flip the mattresses.” She retreated to the front stoop of the hotel, feeling suddenly claustrophobic. The pungent smell of the mining town didn’t help, but turning her face to the sun allowed her to breathe more easily. A few minutes passed before Taniel joined her.

  “You’re getting posh in your old age.”