Wrath of Empire

by Brian McClellan

  The problem, she found, was that Olem was a far more popular person with the soldiers than she was. They respected her, for certain, but they loved Olem. And that made what she had to do next especially difficult. It took her a few minutes to discover a pair of faces up near the vanguard, and she dismounted and walked over to the two men lying a little off on their own from the main column. One was smaller, with a narrow face and thoughtful eyes, while the second was well over six feet tall and had the languid manner of a mastiff lying in the sun.

  The two friends were former boxers who’d joined up with her during the Kez Civil War. She’d used them for dirty side jobs on more than one occasion. “Boys,” she said, standing above them.

  The big one, Pugh, squinted at Vlora from under his hat and then leapt to his feet with a snapped salute, kicking his companion, Dez, sharply in the ribs as he did so. “Ma’am!”

  Vlora waited until they were both standing. “At ease, soldiers. I need a favor.”

  “Anything for you, ma’am,” Dez responded.

  “Anything?”

  “You set up Pugh’s mama with that good job in Adopest and you made sure my little brother didn’t fall in with the gangs. That’s worth a lot, ma’am.”

  Vlora gave them a tired smile. “First, I want you to answer a question with complete honesty. I will not hold any answer you give me against you in any way.”

  “Of course, ma’am,” Pugh said.

  “If I and Colonel Olem were both standing in front of you and gave you conflicting orders, whose would you obey?”

  The eyes of both men widened. Pugh swallowed hard. “Ma’am?”

  “Honest answers.”

  “I …” Dez said, “I suppose it would be yours, ma’am.”

  “You suppose.”

  “It would be, ma’am,” he said firmly. Pugh echoed the sentiment.

  “Good. Get some rope and meet me up on that ridge. Right there behind that boulder.”

  Vlora leaned against the boulder and watched as Olem, Dez, and Pugh together walked up the road toward her. She wondered whether this was a mistake, and forced herself to dismiss the notion. Sometimes, a thing had to be done to preserve lives. She wiped a few tears from the corners of her eyes and forced a gentle smile onto her face as the men reached her.

  Olem was already concerned. She could see it in his eyes, though he didn’t want to show it in front of the other two. “What’s going on?” he asked her.

  She jerked her head to the side, indicating the three men follow her behind the boulder, out of the sight of eyes of the army below them. Once they were secluded, she said, “Pugh, I would appreciate it if you would disarm and restrain Colonel Olem.”

  “What …” Olem managed, before Pugh slipped behind him and wrapped Olem in a bear hug that pinned Olem’s arms to his chest. Dez jumped forward and took Olem’s pistol, sword, and knife, before returning to Vlora’s side. Despite their compliance, both men looked more than a little startled by the order, and clearly expected an explanation. “What’s going on?” Olem asked through clenched teeth, his eyes full of anger and hurt.

  Vlora took a shaky breath. “This is what’s going on: In five minutes, Colonel Heracich is going to give the order to move out. He’ll remain in command for the next two days, while Pugh and Dez quietly trundle you along with instructions not to let you out of their sight or allow you to speak with anyone. At the end of those two days, you will be released, and Heracich will relinquish command of the Riflejacks to you.”

  Olem began to struggle. “What the pit do you mean by all of this?”

  “I mean …” Vlora heard her voice crack and turned away, unable to face Olem while she spoke. “I’m going to stay and defend the Crease,” she said.

  “What, on your own?”

  “Yes, on my own.” She glanced over to find Olem’s eyes wide with shock. Pugh’s mouth hung open. “It should give the Riflejacks time to get a lead on their pursuers.”

  Olem suddenly jerked backward, slamming his head into Pugh’s chin. The big soldier reeled back, releasing him for long enough that Olem leapt for the road, clearly intent on heading back to the army to forestall this order. Dez tackled his legs, and he and Pugh dragged him kicking and struggling back behind the rock. Together they began to bind Olem. Dez stuffed a rag into his mouth.

  Vlora squatted next to Olem as he was restrained, unable to help the tears that ran down her face as he glared at her. “I’m sorry,” she told him. “I’m not going to let anyone else die for my ambitions—for my mistakes. Not the Riflejacks, and certainly not you. I know you’re going to be angry. Please don’t take it out on Pugh and Dez, or Heracich. They’re only following my orders.” She wanted to say a thousand things, but her stomach clenched so badly she thought she might vomit if she continued to speak. “I love you, Olem.” She leaned forward, kissing him on the forehead, then stepped away.

  “Keep him quiet until the army has made it twenty or thirty miles,” she told Pugh and Dez. “And definitely don’t say anything to my mages. If they ask questions, refer them to Heracich.” She nodded at them, forcing a smile. “Thanks, boys. I hope I’ll be alive to pay you back.”

  Olem was bound at their feet, his face red and streaked with tears. The two soldiers straightened and snapped salutes. “I wish it hadn’t come to this, ma’am,” Pugh said.

  “So do I,” Vlora answered.

  “It’s been an honor to serve under you,” Dez said. “I know every man in the brigade would say the same. We’ll never forget you.”

  “I appreciate it. Now, get him out of here before I lose my nerve.”

  CHAPTER 64

  Michel followed the footsteps in the dust as the tunnel plummeted deeper into the ground. It passed through several more chambers, with no indication that anyone had stopped in any of them. At one point, Michel consulted his maps to see that he was within arm’s length of the chamber labeled MARA on his map. He hesitated, peering at the dark doorway, wondering if an empty room thousands of years old would hold any secrets of value to his real mission here in Landfall.

  “On the way back,” he whispered to himself, and continued on with his escort.

  He could sense the excitement of the soldiers. It was as if they’d been reinvigorated by the idea of catching je Tura, and they bit their lips and fingered their weapons. Occasionally one of them would joke about what they’d do to je Tura when they caught him.

  They entered a new chamber—one narrower but significantly longer than the others, with walls lined with alcoves and carved tables. The momentum of his escort was suddenly seized by something that Michel caught sight of just a few moments later.

  One of the alcoves had a bedroll in it. Michel approached cautiously, lantern held high, peering into the darkness. His heart suddenly hammered in his chest, and he imagined je Tura himself popping out from the very stone to stick a sword through Michel’s belly. Beside the alcove he found a small seaman’s chest, a lantern, several tins of spare oil, and a long, round leather tube that he immediately recognized as a map carrier.

  He swallowed as he poked at the bedroll, his fingers uncovering the shine of steel.

  “Can we be certain this is his hiding spot?” Tenik asked him quietly.

  “Search down the hall,” Michel ordered the soldiers. “Check the side passages. Don’t go so far that you can’t see the light of each other’s lanterns, and stay in pairs.”

  Tenik drew his pistol. “You think he’s here now?”

  Michel lifted the bedroll to reveal, tucked to the back of the alcove, an old broadsword. It looked like something out of a museum, with two red gemstones fitted into a silver-etched hilt. The weapon was almost as long as Michel was tall. “Rumors have it that je Tura carries this damn thing everywhere. Rumors aren’t necessarily true, but he might be nearby.” He stopped, noticing that Tenik was peering at something in the darkness. “What is it?”

  “Are any of our escort behind us?”

  “I don’t think so, why?”
>
  “Because I swear I just saw a light in …” Tenik trailed off, and Michel heard a very distinctive noise that he’d heard on more than one occasion: the hiss of a quick-burning fuse, zipping through the darkness toward him.

  “Everyone down!” Michel bellowed, shoving Tenik farther into the chamber and leaping toward the fuse, dropping his lantern as he attempted to stamp out the fiery little worm. It shot between his legs, and Michel whirled, jumped forward with foot extended, and slammed his head directly into the rock wall. He teetered and then tripped just as a blast erupted from the ceiling of the chamber.

  Michel lay on the floor, ears ringing, a white flash of light embedded in his vision no matter how much he tried to blink it away. He moved one arm, then the other, hoping that nothing was broken and not entirely certain that he wasn’t half-buried in a thousand tons of rock. “Tenik!” he called, his own voice seemingly small and far away.

  Something stirred in the darkness. He felt it more than he heard or saw it, and he searched blindly for either his pistol or his lantern. There was a sound—again, as if from a great distance—and then a lantern flared to light. He blinked, trying to discern the light of the lantern from the light etched into his vision. It took him a moment to get his bearings; he lay against the wall of the tunnel, half-behind a stone table that seemed to have at least somewhat protected him from the blast. To his right was the string that led back the way he’d come. To his left was a pile of rubble from the collapsed ceiling of the chamber.

  Michel finally looked up into the light, still half-dazed, only to realize that the lantern wasn’t being held by either Tenik or one of the soldiers. The face behind it was old and grizzled, a Kressian face with black hair streaked with gray, pockmarked cheeks, and high-arched eyebrows that looked like they were locked in permanent surprise. The man grinned down at Michel, lips moving, and a voice from a mile away said, “My, my, aren’t you a surprise.”

  “Val je Tura?” Michel asked, suppressing a groan. His recent gunshot wound hurt badly. He wondered if he’d torn open the stitches.

  Je Tura walked over to the alcove and retrieved his sword. He drew it from the scabbard and lay it across his shoulder. The tip scraped the wall behind him. He sat down on one of the stone tables, head tilted to the side. “You’ve sussed me out. Are you that traitor spy, or just an unlucky Kressian conscript who just happens to have his very own escort of soldiers?”

  “Would you believe me if I told you it was the second?” Michel still attempted to blink away the light of the explosion. He continued to feel through the rubble, looking for his own lantern, or his pistol, or some damned thing to defend himself with.

  “I would not,” je Tura answered. “I got a pretty good description of you from Hendres, and you about match the bill.”

  “How is Hendres?”

  “Doing very well. Disappointed that you’re still alive.”

  “I imagine she is.”

  “She won’t be disappointed for long.” Je Tura swung his sword off his shoulder. He was leaner than Michel would have guessed from the stories, though he was remarkably short for someone with his kind of presence. Michel thought he heard a groan from somewhere in the rubble, and je Tura squinted toward his handiwork. “The second charge didn’t go off,” he said. “Not sure if I got any of your friends. But it’ll take ’em a while to dig through, and by that time I’ll be long gone.”

  Michel’s hand wrapped around a rock about the size of his fist. As je Tura stepped toward him, he hurled the rock with all his strength. It soared over je Tura’s shoulder, bounced off the wall, and rolled into the dark.

  Je Tura laughed. “Is that the best you’ve got, turncoat?”

  Michel reached for another rock, but his hand touched smooth, polished wood. “No,” he said, pulling his pistol out of the rubble. “This is.”

  The blast took je Tura full in the chest. Je Tura jerked back, staring down at Michel in disgust, then stumbling to one side. He dropped his sword with a clatter, then fell beside it.

  It took Michel over a minute to get to his feet, ears still ringing. Nothing seemed broken, but his whole damned body hurt. It took him well over a minute more to reload the pistol with trembling hands and step over to je Tura. He claimed the other’s lantern and kicked the sword away from his hand.

  Je Tura looked up at him balefully, clutching his chest, jaw clenched, not making a sound. Michel raised his pistol and aimed it at je Tura’s head.

  “Why’d you betray us?” je Tura demanded.

  “You say that like I was ever one of you,” Michel responded, his voice quiet lest someone on the other side of that pile of rubble overhear. “Don’t get high and mighty with me, je Tura. You’ve been bombing public spaces for a month now. Killing children. Civilians. You’re a piece of shit.”

  “You haven’t seen what I’ve seen.”

  Michel considered pulling the trigger, not giving je Tura the satisfaction of a few last words. But his interest was piqued. “What have you seen?”

  “You know about the godstone?”

  “What of it?”

  “You know what they’re doing to try to get it working?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Well, civilians isn’t even the start of it.” Je Tura shifted, and Michel watched carefully to be sure he wasn’t reaching for a weapon. He continued. “Blood sacrifices, turncoat. They’re marching prisoners and orphans and every damn person they think won’t be missed over to that great big obelisk and slitting their throats. They hang them like pigs to bleed every drop onto the surface and their Privileged and bone-eyes stand around. They chant and they wave their hands and they rub the blood all over the stone.”

  The hair on the back of Michel’s neck stood on end. “Why should I believe you?”

  “You didn’t know, did you? I can see it from your face. These are the people you signed on with, turncoat. You think they call those foxhead magicians ‘blood sorcerers’ because they like the name?” je Tura laughed, sputtered, and coughed up blood.

  “Are you the last one?” Michel demanded. “Is anyone else down here?”

  Je Tura grinned at him, and Michel heard someone call his name through that rubble. “Go to the pit,” je Tura told him.

  “You first.”

  The echo of the shot made the ringing in Michel’s ears worse. He checked to make sure je Tura was definitely dead, and went to the rubble where he noted a small space that revealed a bit of light coming through from the other side. “Is everyone all right?” he called.

  “Tenik’s in bad shape,” someone answered. “The rest of us are fine. Je Tura?”

  “He’s dead.” Michel looked at his hands, scraped and bloody, and wondered if he’d even be able to walk out of here. “Look, you need to stay put. I can’t dig you out on my own. I’m going to head up and send down diggers and a surgeon. We’ll have you out of there in an hour.” He squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to think of Tenik buried beneath that rubble, body broken from the blast that collapsed the tunnel. “Shit, I’ll have them send a Privileged. Hold tight!”

  Michel hurried back up the tunnel as fast as he could manage, holding je Tura’s lantern and following the string. He paused a few chambers over, looking toward the dark room labeled MARA on his map, then looking back toward his trapped escort. Swearing under his breath, he ran down that side passage and into MARA, where he held his lantern up high.

  At first, the room seemed completely insignificant. It was neither the largest nor the most interesting of the chambers he’d searched. It was completely empty, perfectly spherical, and there was no adornment but torch recesses in the wall and a single stone slab in the center of the room. He almost turned and left, but something compelled him to step over to that slab. He peered at the dusty stone, noting a narrow indentation that ran around the outside of the slab and then spilled out at the end. It reminded him of the marble slabs in Emerald’s morgue—the way they were designed to catch blood and funnel it to the feet of the body, wher
e it could be cleaned up easily.

  This did not look like a morgue.

  With a final glance around, Michel rushed to the chamber where his escort had made their detour, then followed his maps toward the closest exit, praying that he wouldn’t run into any more iron grates along the way. He managed to make it to the surface within twenty minutes, and within another ten he was at Yaret’s headquarters. He babbled instructions, calling for Yaret to help Tenik, and then collapsed into a chair across from a table covered in the maps of the catacombs.

  A whirlwind of activity followed. Teams of soldiers headed directly into the chapel catacombs, while others went to find the spot where Michel had surfaced. A Privileged was sent for. Michel remained numb, his mind barely working, his eyes still seeing the flash of the explosion and his ears still ringing.

  It was several minutes before he realized that Yaret was watching him. “Je Tura is dead,” he reported.

  “You already told us,” Yaret said gently.

  “Oh. I forgot.” Michel scowled, thinking of that chamber with the morgue slab that definitely wasn’t a morgue slab.

  “We’ll get him out of there as quickly as possible. You did well coming to us instead of trying to dig them out yourself.”

  “I …” Michel didn’t know what else to say, surprised at how distraught he was over Tenik’s possible death. “I have a question. Tenik said you know Old Dynize.”

  “A bit,” Yaret said, clearly caught off guard.

  “Do you know the word ‘Mara’?”

  “ ‘Mara,’ ‘Mara,’” Yaret muttered. “Oh, yes. It’s the word for sacrifice.”

  “Could it be a room for sacrifice, too?”

  “I suppose it could, yes. Why do you ask?”

  Michel pushed himself to his feet. His valise of maps was still slung over his shoulder, but he couldn’t organize the thought or energy to drop it. A thousand little pieces—information, half suspicions, and loose ends—suddenly clicked together in his brain. He thought of the godstone and of je Tura’s claim of blood sacrifice, and what little he knew of Ka-poel’s childhood. “I have to go.”