Sins of Empire

by Brian McClellan

  Soldiers and laborers swarmed the area, and several immense cranes had been erected to the north of the monolith, which itself was freestanding, the scaffolding removed, but now looped with hundreds of thick ropes of the kind they used to moor the biggest ships in port. To the north, positioned just beyond the two cranes, was the biggest wagon Michel had ever seen.

  Calling it a wagon might have been an understatement. It was at least eighty feet long, with more sets of thick, wooden wheels than Michel could count, and hundreds of horses being led into position beyond it. The word “land-barge” immediately came to mind, and Michel had never seen anything like it.

  “It sure is something, isn’t it?”

  The voice brought Michel out of his sense of wonder, and he looked down to see Major Cole standing beside his horse. “Back already, sir?” the major asked pleasantly.

  The knot of stress between Michel’s shoulders loosened ever so slightly. Apparently word of his treachery, or his attack on Fidelis Jes this morning, had yet to spread this far out. “It’s quite the operation,” he admitted, climbing down from his horse with less grace than he would have liked. He was quickly joined by Taniel and Ka-poel, the latter of whom Cole looked at with curious suspicion.

  Michel pretended like they didn’t exist and took on his most authoritative air. “You’re really able to move this?”

  “Professor Cressel has actually moved several monoliths this size or bigger,” Cole said, pointing to the balding professor as he ran between cranes, pit, and labor foremen shouting for everyone to be careful. “He claims it’s really quite simple—just a matter of levers and manpower. We have orders to get it moving by this afternoon, so only speed is going to be an issue now.”

  “But you can do it?” Michel asked.

  “Landfall sent us four hundred more men, and Cressel says that’ll do the trick.”

  “Good, good,” Michel said. As he watched, there was a sudden shout, and the top of the monolith wobbled. Michel’s heart leapt into his throat at the sight of something so solid and immense moving, and then it tipped without warning, falling several feet and causing him to gasp, before it came to a sudden stop at a sharp angle. Michel squeezed his eyes closed against a sharp pain, like nails on a chalkboard inside his head. “Kresimir,” he swore, “that’s insane.”

  Cole seemed less impressed. “I thought so, too. Are you all right?”

  The pain was gone as suddenly as it arrived, and Michel couldn’t help but stare at the monolith. “No, no. I’m fine,” Michel said, noting that dozens of soldiers and laborers had touched their ears in pain. He glanced over his shoulder at Taniel and Ka-poel, who stood side by side stoically. Taniel’s jaw was clenched, the veins on his face bulging, and Ka-poel seemed to tremble slightly.

  With the monolith now at an angle, the workers swarmed down into the pit, tightening ropes, while others dug feverishly at the side of the excavation, causing the immense stone pylon to settle further onto its side. Michel could see their plan now with the mention of levers and manpower—they were going to get it at the proper angle and then pull it out of the pit.

  “Major, who is in charge of the transportation?” Michel said, trying to sound casual.

  “I am, sir.”

  “To Dalinport?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “Not anymore,” Michel said. “We’ve got a change of orders.”

  “Sir?” Cole said, turning his attention from the ongoing move entirely over to Michel. “We have everything lined up already. The road is clear, we have checkpoints in place. Our engineers have even smoothed out hills in the road to get this damn contraption along without a hitch.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, but things change. We found out just a few hours ago that the Dynize have designs on this very monolith.”

  “Why?” Cole asked, clearly surprised. “It’s just an old rock.”

  Tell that to everyone who’s been going mad from exposure to it. “I don’t know, but we’ve got to get it as far from the coast as possible. The new plans are to take it across the plain to Herrenglade, where it’ll be loaded onto a barge and pulled upriver.” Michel glanced at Taniel. “I’ve not been told where it’s going from there.”

  Cole looked suspiciously from Michel to Taniel to Ka-poel. “Are you sure, sir?”

  “Quite.” Michel tried not to hold his breath. His whole plan hinged on someone of Cole’s rank not bothering to question the authority of a Gold Rose. Major Cole hadn’t struck him as someone who asked questions, but he’d been wrong about people before.

  “My apologies, sir,” Cole said, “but do you have those orders in writing?”

  Michel removed the Gold Rose from his shirt. “I have those orders in me. You think the grand master would send me down here on such short notice if it wasn’t so damned important?”

  Cole seemed uncertain. He backed away a couple of steps, glancing toward the excavation, and Michel tensed. Cole hadn’t bought it. He’d summon his soldiers, and Michel, Taniel, and Ka-poel would be in a tight spot in moments. One he doubted he would be getting out of, even if the other two did.

  “I’m going to have to send someone to confirm,” Cole said. “The grand master’s office made it clear that this thing is important to them, and I’m not interested in messing it up. No offense meant, sir, but I just can’t change it without written confirmation.”

  Michel tried not to let his panic show on his face. It had almost worked, damn it. “Of course, Major Cole. But don’t say I didn’t warn you if the grand master is furious over the delay.” He looked pointedly toward the smoke rising over Landfall, then turned around sharply, retreating twenty feet from Cole and his soldiers before whispering to Taniel and Ka-poel, “What do we do?”

  Ka-poel lifted the satchel off her shoulder and began digging around inside, a frown on her face, while Taniel stared at the monolith. “That thing is a blight,” Taniel spat.

  “Tell me about it. I felt it when it fell,” Michel said.

  “It’s like a knot of power, just lying out here in the middle of farmland, waiting for someone to come pick it up.”

  “And that someone is Lindet,” Michel said. “We need to either come up with a new plan, or get the pit out of here.”

  Taniel nodded over Michel’s shoulder, and Michel turned to find Major Cole approaching, an unhappy look on his face. “My apologies, Gold Rose,” he said. “I’ve just got word that Dynize have landed farther south along the coast, cutting off our road to Dalinport. We don’t have much time to get this moved, but we’ll have it heading north as quickly as we can. You said it’s bound for Herrenglade?”

  “Yes, Major,” Michel said, trying not to look relieved. He settled on smug. “And it’s best we get moving quickly.”

  “Right,” Cole said, snapping a salute. “We’ll get things moving and I’ll have my men arranged in a rear guard.”

  “How many soldiers do you have here?”

  “About six hundred.”

  Michel glanced at Taniel, who gave a slight shake of his head. If the Dynize knew where the godstone was, and were headed directly here, six hundred men would not be enough. Michel said a silent prayer that the garrison would come out to help them.

  CHAPTER 58

  Styke grunted as his lance smashed through the breastplate of a Dynize soldier and ripped out the back of the soldier’s uniform, dripping blood and gore. He leaned into the lance, trying to drag it free of the soldier’s body, only for the corpse to catch on the belt of another Dynize. Styke let go of the lance with a frustrated shout so that the weight of it wouldn’t knock him out of the saddle.

  Beside him, Ibana’s lance took a Dynize musketman through the eye, tearing the side of his head clean off, and then the Dynize front line was under their hooves.

  The vanguard of the Mad Lancers spread out on the road, the thunder of their hooves almost drowning out the screams of men and horses at the impact of lances against bayonet-ready muskets. They swept forward, mowing down every Dyni
ze that would not leap out of their way, while the Riflejack cuirassiers came on slowly behind, forming a fan that cleared the sides of the road of anyone who’d managed to escape the lancers’ charge.

  Styke drew up on a knoll, trying—but unable—to get a good look at the beach several hundred yards to their left. A thick haze of smoke rose above the sand, and the sound of muskets and carbines exchanging fire drifted over the dunes.

  He had a much better view of the road heading toward Landfall, where several regiments of Dynize soldiers had fallen into line and advanced swiftly into withering fire from the garrison.

  “Do they even see us?” Ibana asked, reining in beside him.

  “They see us,” Styke confirmed, watching as messengers rushed between officers behind the Dynize lines. A few faces glanced back toward him and his lancers. “They just don’t care.”

  “We’ve got cavalry coming up behind them, and they don’t have anyone on horseback.” Ibana leapt from her own horse, picking up a Dynize musket and giving it a quick examination. “These bayonets are not long enough to form an effective pike line against us.”

  “They’re going to try and break the garrison before we can reach them.”

  Ibana stood on her tiptoes to look toward Landfall. “The garrison has gotten reinforcements. They outnumber the Dynize.”

  “And I’ll give you ten-to-one that the Dynize troops are far better trained than the Landfall garrison. How thick are those breastplates?”

  Ibana knocked the butt of the musket she held against the breastplate of a fallen Dynize, then turned it around and ran the bayonet through his neck. “Thick,” she reported. “The angle on the front gives them a good chance of deflecting a musket ball at anything but close range.”

  “Shit.” Styke stood in his stirrups, looking toward the beach. “You notice anything about these assholes?”

  “Other than the fact we’re outnumbered?” Ibana asked.

  “Yeah, other than that. They don’t give a shit. They’re not running.” He turned his horse around and rode back through the carnage to where he’d left his lance in the chest of a Dynize soldier. He dismounted, ripping his lance free, then climbed back into the saddle and rejoined Ibana. “Give the signal to re-form,” he said, sweeping his eyes across the Dynize they’d just crushed. “We surprised two companies and they didn’t so much as waver.”

  “They jumped out of our way,” Ibana said, getting back in her saddle.

  “Yeah, but they didn’t break. What kind of infantry doesn’t break in front of a surprise charge by twice their number in enemy cavalry?”

  “Stupid ones?” Ibana suggested.

  A nearby Riflejack cuirassier looked up from wrapping his blood-soaked arm. “Sir, infantry that doesn’t break wins the day.”

  “Not all the time,” Ibana said.

  “But enough,” Styke responded. He lifted his nose to the air, breathing in deep of powder smoke, getting hints of Privileged and powder mage sorcery like a vintner might test wine. There was something else beneath the more obvious scents, but it was so subtle that his Knack was at a loss to identify the source.

  “That’s the idea,” the cuirassier confirmed. “Riflejacks don’t break. That’s how we win. It was the whole backbone of Field Marshal Tamas’s tactics.”

  Styke could still hear fighting on the beach, and realized that the dragoons might have bitten off more than they could chew. Something was off about this Dynize army, and it wasn’t just their sudden appearance. He felt the urgent need to get to Lady Flint and find out what was happening at the rest of the battle.

  “All right,” Styke said, “the garrison is on their own. Lancers! Carbines at the ready! Sweep down onto the beach and help our dragoons—once we clear the sand, we charge into the rear of the Dynize and keep going toward Landfall.”

  “What do you mean they’re not running?” Vlora demanded.

  “I mean they’re not running,” Buden slurred in Kez, next to impossible to understand with his half tongue.

  Vlora stood up, looking out over the walls of the fort and tracking a Privileged with the sights of her rifle. He was half a mile out, hands raised as he directed sorcery toward the point of the bay where Olem, the garrison, and the Riflejacks fought to hold the shore against the longboats continuously landing in the shallows. She squeezed her trigger, detonating two extra powder charges with her mind and pushing them behind the bullet, willing it to fly longer and farther than any normal flintlock shot.

  The bullet soared in a perfect arc, helped by the nudge of her sorcery, until it slammed into the Privileged’s chest, knocking him into the foaming ocean.

  She lowered her rifle and turned her attention toward the point of the bay. “They don’t have anywhere to run,” she said.

  “No shit,” Buden replied, thrusting one finger forward in a frustrated motion. “But a beach landing is the pit for anyone. Some of them should be running back into the water out of panic. Do you see a single soul turning around?”

  Vlora watched as a longboat disgorged all but a handful of rowers, who immediately began heading back to the distant ships. The soldiers splashed through the shallows, muskets held over their heads, ignoring the continuous fire of Olem’s soldiers with their hold on the beach. They reached dry sand and immediately fell to their knees, producing short, steel shovels from their packs and heaping up fortification in moments.

  “They’re not panicking,” Vlora said.

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

  Vlora turned her head toward the ocean, reaching out tentatively with her senses. The Else felt … confused. There were traces of sorcery everywhere from the attacking Privileged, not unlike streamers left behind by rockets. She could also feel the protective sorcery of the fort and … something else. It was subtle, like the barest hint of a foreign spice on a familiar meal.

  She didn’t know what it was, and that lack of knowledge terrified her.

  There was a sudden clamor in the muster yard below, and a few moments later a familiar form appeared on the top of the wall, shaking off the two privates trying to tell him to keep his head down. Vlora didn’t think anything could have made her smile in the middle of this, but somehow the sight of Vallencian did.

  “Good afternoon, Lady Flint!” the Ice Baron boomed above the cannon fire.

  “Vallencian, I don’t think this is a good time.”

  He pulled himself up, standing well above the protection of the fort’s walls, eyes a little wild from the cannon fire but too proud to admit it. “Nonsense! Lady Flint, I wanted to personally tell you that I’ve forgiven you for what you did to Mama Palo.”

  Vlora closed her eyes, resisting the urge to order her men to drag him bodily down into the safety of the fort. “Thank you, Vallencian,” she said through gritted teeth. “I truly appreciate it. We are, however, fighting a battle here.”

  “It doesn’t look too bad,” Vallencian said, flinching as a cannonball smashed into the base of the fort a few dozen yards away and sent shattered bits of iron flying. A rifleman dropped his weapon, clutching his throat as he tried to scream through a mouthful of blood.

  “It’s bad, Vallencian,” Vlora said firmly. “And it’s not safe. You should leave. Now.”

  Vallencian suddenly lurched toward her, grabbing her by the shoulders. “I have misjudged you, Lady Flint. I was evacuating my people from the city when I saw the uniforms of your men down here, manning the guns, and I could not leave you behind. Tell me what I can do to help with the defense.”

  “Nothing,” Vlora said, waving him off desperately. She didn’t have time for this. “Get out of here. Get your people to safety. I think we can hold the beaches, but I don’t know how persistent the Dynize are going to be.”

  “The tide is going out,” Vallencian noted.

  “So?”

  “So, that means that the longboats will have a harder time reaching shore.”

  “Small gifts,” Vlora responded. Tide or no, the Dynize were stil
l gaining ground.

  “They have a beachhead,” Buden said, garbling the last word so badly she almost didn’t understand him.

  “Vallencian, you are a good man. The best thing you can do is help evacuate your people and get safely out of the city. Get him out of here!” Vlora ordered her soldiers, who pulled Vallencian forcefully from the wall amid a torrent of protests. She couldn’t spare Vallencian another thought. Buden was right. The point of the bay was covered in corpses floating in the shallows, more than she could count, but the Dynize seemed impervious to the deaths of their friends. They continued to leap from their longboats and now had a short fortification of sand a hundred yards long from which to return fire on Olem’s troops.

  “Buden,” she said, “take one of the guns. Give Olem some support.” She looked over her shoulder, eyes searching the smoldering wreckage on the eastern face of the plateau. “Where are our reinforcements?” she murmured. “Where are Lindet’s Blackhats? We need everything we can get down here.”

  She continued to shoot at the Dynize Privileged, forced to get more creative with each shot as they formed hardened barriers of air to protect themselves. She overshot one Privileged, then angled the bullet down with the force of her mind, giving herself a headache in the process. Another she strengthened with half a kit’s worth of powder, using brute strength to punch through the sorcerous shield, the Privileged, and four men behind him.

  The roar of a cannon, much louder than normal, snapped her head around. Buden stood beside one of the big fort guns, steadying himself against one of the gunner crew, eyes narrowed and focused on the point of the bay. Vlora tracked the curve of the cannonball with her advanced senses, feeling the power that Buden had put behind it, and watched as it curved violently around the Dynize sand fortifications and then skipped along the ground, bowling through at least fifty men crouched just out of the waterline.

  The Dynize scrambled to search for the source of the cannon fire, but even that didn’t seem to deter them. More men landed and charged forward to take the places of their dead comrades.