Wrath of Empire

  Ka-poel’s brow furrowed, and she lifted one hand and touched her thumb to her chest. Styke recognized her symbol for “I” and the hesitation that followed it.

  “What is it?” he urged.

  Ka-poel’s hands moved. Celine tilted her head to the side, watching as Ka-poel repeated the short phrase several times in a row. Celine’s face grew concerned, and she glanced quickly at Styke and then back at Ka-poel.

  “What is she saying?” Styke asked, his mouth suddenly dry.

  “It’s … it’s not here,” Celine translated.

  Styke felt a knot form in the pit of his stomach, irritation turning to disbelief, to anger in the flash of an instant. “What do you mean it’s not here?”

  Ka-poel spread her hands. I don’t know.

  Styke grabbed her shoulder, and she suddenly leapt away from him, stumbling through the surf and falling into a defensive stance, her passive face suddenly angry. That coppery scent grew stronger in Styke’s nostrils, and he became very conscious of Celine standing between them.

  “Whoa,” he said gently, reaching out and taking Celine by the hand. He pushed her behind him, jaw tight, then set one hand on the hilt of his boz knife. “Explain.”

  Ka-poel looked from Styke to Jackal and back again, no doubt taking note of the carbine in Jackal’s hands. There was something suddenly feral in her eyes that Styke did not like—that he had not seen before. Her gaze shifted slowly to Celine, and that feral look seemed to fade. She straightened; then her hands flashed, repeating the phrase from a moment ago. Then she continued.

  “It’s not here,” Celine translated. “I was wrong. My … compass was wrong. This godstone is not in Fatrasta.”

  Styke resisted the urge to take a half step closer. “Then where have you been leading us?”

  “Toward the godstone.”

  “You just said it’s not in Fatrasta …” Styke trailed off, realization setting in. He turned toward the western horizon, staring across the ocean in the direction she’d been facing when they reached the beach. “The third godstone is in Dynize?”

  Ka-poel gave a short nod.

  Styke thought of all the soldiers who’d died to get them here—of the lancers who’d fallen, of the new recruits who’d been butchered by a vengeful Dynize cuirassier, and of his own wounds he’d gathered on the journey. He bit his tongue, hard, clamping down on his rage, and considered having Taniel Two-shot come after him if he staved Ka-poel’s head in this very instant.

  “How long have you known?” he managed when he finally allowed himself to speak.

  “I have suspected for a few days.”

  “And you didn’t tell me this back at the cuirassier camp? Or any time since as we rode deeper into enemy territory?”

  Ka-poel’s anger and defiance finally flagged, her gaze falling. “I needed to be sure.”

  “So … what?” Styke raised his hands, then let them fall at his sides again. He paced in the surf. “Your internal compass, this thing that’s been leading as many as two thousand men across a continent at war, is off? By what? A thousand miles?”

  “More like five hundred, I think.”

  Styke scoffed. Five hundred miles. He pointed to the ocean, finally taking that half step forward. “I can’t ride my lancers across an ocean! Unless you’re hiding something beyond that blood magic, I don’t think you can do anything to change that. Can you?” He paused, feeling suddenly lost. All this time, all these lives. For nothing. “Can you?” he whispered.

  Ka-poel shook her head.

  Styke climbed back up the cliffs, leaving Jackal to keep an eye on Celine. By the time he reached the top, his mind was made up, his resolve strengthened. He found Ibana and Gustar waiting for him, while the lancers prepared a camp just beneath the rise of the hill, where they couldn’t be spotted by passing ships.

  “Pack it up,” he said quietly.

  Ibana’s eyebrows rose. “Excuse me?”

  “We’re going back. The blood sorcerer was wrong. The godstone lies beyond the ocean.”

  Both Ibana and Gustar stared at him, working their jaws, coming to terms with this news. “Beyond the ocean?” Gustar asked, rubbing a hand across the stubble on his cheek.

  “That’s what I said, isn’t it?” Styke couldn’t feel anything but anger right now, and he fought the urge to go find Amrec, take Celine, and ride off before anyone could stop him. He wondered if he should just do that—if this dream of a reborn Mad Lancers was just a fool’s errand.

  He shouldered Gustar out of the way, heading toward Amrec. He heard boots behind him, and Ibana say, in a warning tone, “Don’t meddle with him in this mood.”

  Gustar snatched him by the arm a moment later. Styke whirled, his boz knife coming to hand, and snatched Gustar up by the front of his jacket. “Pack,” Styke ordered.

  “Ben,” Ibana warned.

  Styke looked at Ibana, then lowered his eyes to Gustar. The Riflejack met the gaze. He could see resolve there, and questions, and a hint of fear. But Gustar did not shake or shy away. Styke set him down and shoved him, putting up his knife. He took several steps before the hopelessness seized him. It began in his chest like a spike of cold iron and quickly overwhelmed him, until his steps became staggered and he was forced to sit on the closest rock, his head falling into his hands.

  “Pack everything back up,” Styke said again. “Leave the bone-eye. She can find her own way back.”

  Ibana joined Gustar, and the two of them stared down at Styke. He could feel their eyes on his shoulders. “Back where?” Ibana asked.

  Styke gave a half shrug, unwilling to raise his head. He’d seen plenty of men have a breakdown on the field of battle. He’d never experienced one himself, and the very idea of him sitting here fighting back tears, immobilized by hopelessness, almost made him laugh. He was Mad Ben Styke, and a ninety-pound woman leading his army astray had cut him off at the knees.

  He wished Ibana and Gustar would go away.

  “Back to Landfall,” he answered. He gestured at Gustar without looking up. “We’ll deliver you and yours back to Lady Flint. It’s the least I can do.”

  “And then?” Gustar asked.

  “And then we’ll do what we do best. We’ll slaughter our way back and forth across Fatrasta until either the invaders are dead or we are.”

  There was a measured silence. “That sounds … directionless,” Gustar said gently.

  “It worked for us before,” Styke said.

  Ibana sighed, pacing back and forth. Styke knew she would have words for him later, when they were out of earshot of the men. He wasn’t looking forward to it.

  “Well, sir …” Something changed in Gustar’s voice, and Styke glanced up to find him standing at attention. “It’s been a pleasure serving under you. I appreciate the offer, but the Riflejack cavalry will take our leave. Good day, sir.” Gustar snapped a salute and spun on his heel, heading toward his men.

  Styke exchanged a glance with Ibana. “What the pit is he going on about? Gustar! Get back here.”

  Gustar froze. Hesitantly, he returned to Styke, giving him a shallow smile and straightening his jacket where Styke had clutched it. “Yes, sir?”

  Styke put his elbows on his knees, looking up at Gustar, fighting against his despair and shushing the little voice that told him to let Gustar walk away. “Where are you going?”

  “To fulfill our duty, sir.”

  “What duty?”

  “To escort Ka-poel to the godstone, sir. I was given very specific instructions by Lady Flint, and I intend on carrying them out.”

  Styke shook his head in wonderment. “Did you not hear me? The godstone is in Dynize. She can’t lead us to it.”

  “We’ve come this far,” Gustar said, brushing off Styke’s words. “A little bit of ocean between us and our goal will hardly stop the Riflejacks. There aren’t as many of us left as I’d like—five hundred, give or take a few dozen. That’ll make it easier to find enough ships to commandeer to get to Dynize.”


  Styke pointed to the ocean with his knife. “You’re going to commandeer a fleet and head to Dynize? Pit knows what’s waiting for you there!”

  “Not knowing what’s over the next hill doesn’t seem like something that would bother you, sir,” Gustar said, managing to pull it off without the slightest condescension. Styke stared at him, wondering if maybe he had finally been taken by the madness so many had accused him of over the years. Gustar went on. “I’ve got orders, sir. Unless you have any other questions, I’d best go let the lads know that we’re splitting off.”

  Styke waved him off, his feeling of hopelessness fouled by exasperation. He shook his head, and Gustar had gone about a dozen feet before Styke said, “Why?”

  “Because I have orders, sir,” Gustar said without turning.

  “Bugger orders. You Adran pricks don’t follow orders to certain death. Lady Flint isn’t worth that. Nobody is.”

  Gustar stiffened. Slowly, steadily, he returned to Styke and squatted down in front of him, like a man about to explain something to a little child. He said, “Field Marshal Tamas was worth it. Lady Flint—Vlora, as most of us knew her when she was still a girl—she might not be quite there yet, but she will be someday, of that I’m certain.” Gustar paused, as if choosing his words. “Styke, we haven’t ridden across Fatrasta for you, or a blood sorcerer, or even for Lady Flint. We rode across Fatrasta because a god killed Field Marshal Tamas and tried to destroy our country. You may keep the truth of what we’re actually doing here from yours, but I don’t from mine. We faced the father god of them all on the battlefield, and we were nothing but rain in his eyes. Every one of us remembers that, and if we have to throw away our lives on the chance of preventing another piece-of-shit godling from walking this world, we will do so. Not for you, or your damned country, or to help you spread the carnage of your vengeance across the continent. We’ll do it to protect our homes and loved ones. Lady Flint understood that. It’s why she sent us out.”

  Gustar left Styke, returning to his cavalry. Styke watched him go with a frustrated sigh. His eyes went to Ibana, who just shrugged and followed Gustar without a word.

  Styke stared at the ground, letting the tip of his knife fall to the dirt and slowly scratching it back and forth to create parallel lines. He knew he should be doing something, but he didn’t know what. Ibana would inform the men. Gustar would leave. The Mad Lancers would carry on.

  He tried to tell himself that the godstone had been a long shot anyway. That even if they’d found it, there was no guarantee Ka-poel could dampen its power. That this whole mistake—this misled party, teetering on the edge of the continent—was Ka-poel’s fault.

  So why did he feel so strongly like a failure?

  He felt a small hand on his arm. Celine took him by the wrist, forcing him to sit up, then moved his arm to one side so she could sit on his knee. He had a hard time meeting her gaze.

  “Ka-poel is sorry,” Celine said.

  Styke didn’t answer her.

  “I don’t think …” Celine trailed off, then took a deep breath. “I don’t think she is certain of herself. She acts confident, but I think she scares herself.”

  “In what way?” Styke asked petulantly.

  “Her strength. That thing she did to the cuirassiers in the forest—”

  Styke looked up sharply, cutting her off. “How did you know about that?”

  “She told me. She told me that she has controlled men before—even hundreds at a time—but that she’s never enthralled them like that. She needed answers and took control of them, and she told me that it scared her.”

  “Why would she tell you this?” Styke asked, trying to decide if this was some sort of manipulation.

  Celine didn’t even have to consider the question. She frowned at Styke as if the answer was obvious. “Because she is lonely. I’m the only one she has to talk to. The soldiers are frightened of her, and you treat her like a tool. Her love is on the other side of the continent, fighting for his life, and she wants to be at his side, where she can protect him.”

  Styke thought of their meeting outside of Landfall, when he had accepted the commission in the Riflejacks and had sent out the order to gather the Mad Lancers. He had waited in that small town, wondering if his old comrades would come when he called, and she had appeared. She had smeared his forehead with blood and then vanished on the wind.

  He touched his forehead.

  Celine didn’t miss the gesture. “She marked you.”

  “With her sorcery?”

  “In a way. She says she will not try to control you. That she is not sure if she can.”

  “Then why did she mark me?”

  “As her protector. Like Taniel.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because you’re one of the good ones.”

  Styke almost laughed. He shook his head, looking at Celine’s earnest face. “I’m not one of the good ones, my girl. You’ve seen it with your own eyes. I’m no one’s protector.”

  “But you protect Fatrasta.”

  “That’s different. It’s a continent, an idea, not a person …” He trailed off. “I’m not going to argue semantics with you.”

  Celine took his hand in hers. “You protect me. Back in the camps, and since. Sunin says that you would break a mountain over your shoulders to protect me, and I believe her.”

  Styke’s eyes were suddenly misty. He dragged his sleeves across his face. “I would.”

  “So? Ka-poel is alone. You are all that stands between her and the Dynize. She may be powerful, but she is fragile, too. Halt the sea. Break a mountain. Be her protector, too.” Celine leaned forward and kissed Styke on the cheek, then slid out of his lap and pulled on his hand in the direction of the camp.

  Styke stared at the blade of his knife. “We should ride off. Tonight, when everyone is asleep. I can take you to the Nine and build us a house in the mountains and let you be a kid for a few years. This isn’t a place for you.”

  “I know,” Celine said seriously. “We can do that when this is over. I want you to teach me about all the horses.”

  “Shit,” Styke said, climbing to his feet. The hopelessness still weighed him down, clutching at his muscles like a punch to the gut. He walked hand in hand with Celine, gesturing to Ibana to follow and heading toward where the Riflejacks were in the middle of repacking their gear. Ka-poel stood next to Gustar, holding her slate and bit of chalk. The two glanced up at Styke as he approached. Styke pointed at Ka-poel. “I’m still pissed at you. But I made a promise, and I’ll damn well keep it. Gustar, the only place we’re going to find enough ships to get to Dynize is New Starlight. Tell your men to set up camp. We’ll need a lot of rest if we’re to assault the fortress.”

  CHAPTER 58

  It’s almost ready.”

  Vlora didn’t acknowledge Flerring, not immediately. She was watching the preparations around the godstone from a safe distance—the other side of Nighttime Vale. She resisted the urge to reply, It took you long enough. Three days had passed since the Riflejacks had arrived and Burt had given her his blessing. Three of the four days that it would take twenty-five thousand Dynize infantry to catch up with them. They had gone well past their threshold of “make a clean escape” and had fallen to “hope the Dynize are sufficiently confused by the destruction of the godstone that we can slip away in the chaos.”

  Vlora finally turned her eyes to Flerring to find her vigorously scratching one arm.

  “The thing makes my skin itch,” Flerring explained.

  “Right. That’s why I’ve kept my distance. Is this going to work?”

  “No reason it won’t,” Flerring replied.

  “We packed its brother with enough powder to level a city without causing a scratch.”

  Flerring snorted. “See, there’s your problem. You just cover it in black powder and light the damn thing, most of the explosive force will be lost going in every direction except toward the item itself. That’s like trying to knock down a wall by throwi
ng the artillery piece at it.” She smiled across the valley toward the godstone, an expression that Vlora imagined had been on her face on more than one occasion while sizing up an enemy general. “No, we’ve used every ounce of blasting oil we had left. We turned it into a gel and applied it to the nooks and crannies. We’ve timed seven different explosions to occur in split-second intervals. This is top science, Vlora. God sorcery can eat my shit.”

  “I would rather not invite that kind of hubris,” Vlora replied. Her soldiers were literally lined up outside of town, waiting for the order to head north double time if the godstone was destroyed. If the blasting oil had no effect, her second plan was also ready to be put into motion—all of her engineers standing by with the necessary equipment to lift the godstone onto a series of heavy-duty carts to drag it out of town.

  And if that didn’t work? Prime Lektor would bring the mountain down on top of the godstone and then stick around to hide it from the approaching Dynize army.

  She had planned for everything—she hoped—and in a few minutes she would know what needed to happen next.

  A fear in the back of her head told her that something would go wrong. That the Dynize, whom Olem’s scouts had already spotted, would arrive twelve hours ahead of schedule. Or that the blasting oil would cause some sort of sorcerous backlash that would kill them all. Or that they’d be forced to run with the godstone and the Dynize would be upon them within days, slaughtering her outnumbered men.

  “I don’t believe in hubris,” Flerring said, breaking the silence.

  Vlora turned and looked at her, staring just long enough for Flerring to become visibly uncomfortable. “Please never say that again.”

  Her attention was pulled away by the sight of a group coming up from Yellow Creek. She didn’t have to sniff powder to pick out the people in attendance: Taniel, Olem, Burt, Prime Lektor, and Julene, accompanied by several of Flerring’s assistants. They joined Vlora and Flerring within a few minutes, and it quickly became clear that they’d been arguing for some time.