“You might linger a day, if you’re strong.”
“To the pit with that,” Rezi wheezed. “Don’t make me do that.”
Styke scooped his arms beneath Rezi’s back, lifting her as he stood up, and carefully carried her to the cot in the corner of her office. He set her down and looked at her face. Tears streaked down her cheeks, and her teeth clamped in pain. He marveled that she did not scream.
“I love you, Rezi,” he said, bending and place a kiss on her forehead. He kissed both of her eyes, tasting the tears, and then covered her face with a pillow and leaned on it.
He stayed that way for several minutes, until long after any sign of life had passed from her. His own face was soaked with tears, snot ran over his lips, and his jaw hurt from clenching his teeth. The sound of screams outside finally roused him from his reverie, and he forced himself to stand up. He put the pillow beneath Rezi’s head and straightened her hair, then walked to the landing and fetched her boz knife. With one glance backward, he headed out the door.
He emerged into a flickering vision of the very depths of the pit. The darkness was slashed by buildings all over the city going up in flames. Figures dashed between the buildings, someone loudly trying to form a bucket brigade until her shouts were cut off. Somewhere nearby, a child cried. It was nearly impossible to make sense of the scene.
Styke focused on the screaming, striding past the burning general store to the small, neat house beside it. He found a woman kneeling in the dirt, still wearing her night clothes, cradling the body of her husband as she screamed for help. Her name was Mija, and she and her husband had owned the hardware store that now burned mere feet away. Figures dressed in plain clothes but clearly carrying the muskets of Kez soldiers, ignored her pleas while they looted the home and threw the furniture into the street.
One of the soldiers emerged from the house, carrying a screeching toddler by the leg. Mija let out a wail and leapt to her feet, running toward the soldier, who stiff-armed her and held the toddler at arm’s length as one might a chicken intended for slaughter. The soldier drew his belt knife.
Styke remembered Prost’s reputation—and the reputation of his soldiers—and doubled his pace, striding toward the looters. He was close enough to hear another soldier voice her objection, but the soldier with the toddler just shook his head.
“Orders are orders.”
Styke came out of the darkness quick enough that no one had time to react. He caught the toddler by the other leg and rammed Rezi’s boz knife between the ribs of the soldier. He did a half skip toward the soldier who had objected and disemboweled her with a twist of the knife. Mija stared at him, open-mouthed, as he handed her the child.
“Hide,” he ordered, and went inside her house.
He found three more looters and left their corpses where he killed them. He moved on to the next house, then the next, the rage already so hot inside his chest that he could barely feel it. He slaughtered mechanically, efficiently, without remorse or second thoughts. He killed anyone he didn’t recognize, and he stepped over dozens of bodies that he did, trying not to dwell on the fact that he’d wasted too much time in his grief over Rezi.
He lost count of the soldiers he murdered. At some point he took a heavy cuirassier’s sword off one of the bodies and carried that with him as he stalked like death through the night. There was very little fighting—every soldier he happened upon seemed shocked by any real resistance—and it eventually dawned on Styke that something must have happened to the colonial garrison. The lancers would have seen the flames by now and hurried over.
He wondered if Blye and all the others were already dead. He wondered if these bastards had slaughtered Deshnar.
He continued on, working his way as quickly as possible around the city square toward the mayor’s house. He sent the blacksmith’s family running to hide in the darkness, but he was too late to stop the murder of the young cobbler and her husband. He skipped a house already engulfed in flames and crept around the back of the burning mayor’s house to find a small crowd gathered in the garden.
The mayor was a portly, thoughtful man by the name of Dorezen. He and his family stood at the end of a half dozen musket barrels, forced so close to the flames of their own house that the blaze singed their clothes. Dorezen and his wife tried to shelter the five children from the heat, tears streaming down Dorezen’s face as he stared defiantly at the soldiers who held him there.
Major Prost stood just behind his soldiers, watching impassively as the house burned. His hands were clasped behind his back, and it was clear the Privileged had done an excellent job with the healing because he periodically gestured forcefully toward the house, as if directing a symphony only he could hear.
Styke paused at the edge of the light of the flames, examining the group. There were six soldiers, two sergeants, a captain, and Prost himself. The soldiers watched Dorezen grimly, jaws set, with the looks of men who knew that their orders were distasteful but would follow them anyway. Styke had seen those looks a lot during his time on the frontier.
“You cowardly pigs,” Dorezen spat. “There are people dying out there!”
Prost made another gesture toward the flames. “And you’ll join them if you don’t shut your mouth,” he said. Something collapsed inside the home; then the roof fell in and the flames roared so loudly that Styke couldn’t hear what Prost said next. The sound died down after a few moments. “You will be the only survivors,” he said, “and you will tell everyone that you see from this day forward that Fernhollow was destroyed by Palo.”
“That’s insane!” Dorezen said. “No one will believe it!”
“No one is meant to believe it,” Prost responded. “They are meant to look into your eyes as you lie about the fate of your town and see the fear within. They are meant to know what happens when the Crown is humiliated.” He paused. “There will be no other witnesses; no investigation; no one to counter your story. The newspapers will spread the word, and eventually, no matter how much they believe otherwise, people will start to think that maybe it was the Palo who destroyed Fernhollow. And then, who knows? Perhaps we can unite Kez and Fatrastans against the Palo problem.”
“This is your brother’s doing, isn’t it?” Dorezen demanded.
Prost spun, fixing Dorezen with a glare. “It is mine!”
“No, it’s not. You’re not smart enough to grasp political nuance. You’re a sadist and drunk.”
Styke circled the edge of the firelight until Prost and his soldiers’ backs were to him. He crouched down, thoughtful, leaning on the heavy cavalry sword and noticing for the first time a gash across his shoulder, soaking his shirt with blood.
Prost drew himself up, chest puffed, and snarled at Dorezen. “Do you want to join your friends in the fire? I’ll start with your children, if it helps make my point.”
Styke sprang forward, crossing the distance between him and Prost at a run. He snatched up a sergeant first, slashing his throat with a quick savageness with Rezi’s knife and tossed the body aside. The second sergeant died before the first had stopped moving. The captain turned toward Styke, surprise on his face as Styke discarded Rezi’s knife and lopped off the top of the captain’s skull with a two-handed stroke of the heavy cavalry sword.
Styke stepped past Prost, slamming the hilt of the sword across Prost’s face and falling among the infantry. Two were down before the others even knew what was happening, and the surprise allowed Styke to make short work of the rest. Less than a minute later, he stood panting, chest heaving, his arms, face, and jacket coated in blood. One of the infantry had gotten off a shot, the ball skimming Styke’s shoulder, while another had managed to slash him along the ribs with a bayonet.
“Ben,” Dorezen breathed, while his wife led the children away from the fire.
“Sorry I came so late, Mayor.”
“Ben, I…”
Styke recovered himself and shook his head. “Don’t waste your breath. There’s more of these bastards on the other side of town. Loo
ks like he brought most of his company with him. You should get out of here while you still can.”
Dorezen looked down on Prost, who began to moan and squirm, clutching at his face. Styke had never seen Dorezen utter an ill word about anyone until this night, yet the mayor leaned over and spat on Prost’s face before he and his family hurried into the night without a word. Styke knelt down next to Prost while the Kez major attempted to gather his wits, and didn’t move until he heard the sound of hooves in the darkness. He snatched up the cavalry sword and braced himself for a cuirassier charge, only for the familiar sight of lances and sunflower yellow jackets to emerge into the light.
Blye stared down at Prost and the bodies. “Styke, are you all right?”
“Took you long enough,” Styke grunted.
“Fifty of these assholes tried to barricade the doors to the barracks and set the building on fire. We spent the last twenty minutes slaughtering the bastards. Then we saw the flames and came as quickly as we could.”
Prost managed to roll over onto his hands and knees, attempting to stand. Styke grabbed him by the back of the jacket and lifted him one-handed. “Is that all the fighting you assholes learned out on the frontier? Setting buildings on fire and hoping it does your work for you?”
“What do you know about fighting?” Prost croaked, his feet moving in the air. Styke turned him so that they faced each other. Prost lashed out with one fist. Styke caught the blow and broke that wrist, then shook Prost until he stopped screaming.
“You’re a real arrogant son of a bitch, you know that? How many men do you have with you?” Prost clamped his mouth shut. Styke backhanded him hard. “How many?”
“A hundred and sixty!” Prost squealed.
Styke looked up at Blye. “I killed maybe thirty or forty on the way over here.”
“Kresimir,” Blye breathed.
“The rest are still burning down Fernhollow. Get out there and finish them off. Hunt them down like dogs. Go!”
Blye barked an order and the lancers spread out, heading across the town square at a gallop. Within moments, the sound of a carbine blast sliced the air. Then another. They continued intermittently, and the brief sounds of fighting flared up as the rest of the Kez realized that they were no longer alone.
Styke idly carried Prost over to the fire, as close as he could stand, then held Prost face-first toward the flames. Prost cried and thrashed, trying to escape his grip, until Styke took a few steps back and turned him once more so that they faced each other. “Does that feel good, you cowardly prick?” Styke demanded. He threw Prost to the ground, then kicked him in the stomach hard enough to send him hurtling through the air. He fetched Prost, pulling him from the ground by his hair.
Prost blubbered, his neat goatee singed by the flames, his face coated with blood. He cradled one arm. “I’m a monster, Prost,” Styke said. “I know what I am. But I don’t kill kids or burn civilians. I don’t approve of suffering, either, but for you I’ll make an exception.” He leaned forward until their faces were almost touching. “You came to Fernhollow with two hundred men. Where’s the other forty?”
Prost blabbed so incoherently that Styke made him repeat himself twice. “They’re at camp, six miles north of here. Captain Cardin and everyone else who refused to come with us tonight. They will be court-martialed for insubordination when we return to Landfall.”
“They wouldn’t help you burn women and children, and you’ll have them court-martialed?”
“Insubordination!”
“Your brother gave the order, right?”
Prost’s eyes widened. “Yes. Yes! He gave the orders. He said we needed to protect the family name. That we must be feared, or things will get out of hand.”
“He has no idea what getting out of hand actually means,” Styke said, searching the grass for Rezi’s knife. He found it and wiped it on Prost’s jacket. He knelt down beside Prost, staring thoughtfully at the blade, doing his best to hold at bay the fury and grief that threatened to incapacitate him. “Do you really think you’re going to get back to Landfall alive?”
Prost swallowed hard and raised his chin. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Dare?” Styke looked around incredulously at the bodies. “I just killed dozens of Kez soldiers and probably five or six officers. Why the pit would I give a shit about one more?” He sighed, closing his eyes, swallowing that grief. He wouldn’t be able to for much longer, so he needed to get on with things. He held Rezi’s knife up between Prost’s eyes. “Now, would you like me to do this after you’re dead? Or do you want a few more minutes of life?”
“Do what?” Prost tried to scramble backwards. He put weight on his broken wrist and screamed. “I want to live,” he wailed.
“Kind of a stupid answer. But I’ll give you a few more minutes while I work.” He raised the knife and began to hum a lancer’s hymn.
Styke buried Rezi on a hill outside of town, in a spot where the sun came through the willows first thing in the morning. The fires still smoldered all over town, and he stood by the grave for nearly an hour before he walked to the half-burnt barracks and fetched Deshnar from the stables left untouched by the blaze. He brushed Deshnar down, taking his time while he swallowed what was left of his love of this place, and then rode back into the center of Fernhollow.
Ashen-faced citizens stared dumbly at the remnants of their homes. Blye and the mayor attempted to rouse the people to get bodies buried and put out the last of the fires. Styke rode to Tel-islo’s inn, which, ironically, was one of the few places that had survived the raid. Tel-islo stood fearfully in the doorway, blunderbuss in hand, no doubt expecting some reprisal. His wife ran in and out of the door, bringing beer and bread to the wounded.
Blye stood on the stoop of the inn, trying to look like an authority figure and clearly failing. His face was haggard, his eyes red and his shoulders slumped. He told Mija, still cradling her husband’s body, that they needed to bury him soon, then raised his hand in greeting to Styke.
Styke dismounted, tying up Deshnar outside the inn. Blye came close. “These people are shell-shocked. They’ve never seen anything like this.”
“Why would they have?” Styke retorted. He forced himself to remember that Blye was a friend and softened his tone. “It’s never easy the first time. Or the second. You can only get used to it.”
“Some of the men deserted after we slaughtered the Kez last night,” Blye said. “They ran scared. I can’t blame them. There will be consequences for this.”
“I don’t blame them either,” Styke said. “Let them go. Forget they were here.”
“I…” Blye fumbled on his words, scratching his head as he looked down the street at the burnt husk of what had once been a sleepy town. “We were right to fight back, weren’t we? If the Kez come, they’ll court-martial us, but we were just protecting ourselves.”
“We were,” Styke confirmed.
“Then how can . . . ?”
“I wouldn’t worry too much about the morality of this whole thing. Have the Kez ever struck you as moral stewards of Fatrasta?” It was a moment of rare naivety for Blye, but Styke let it pass. Much had changed since last night. He scowled down the road, catching sight of movement. A few moments later, he could make out a large column on horseback. He recognized the yellow jackets of his men, but among them were the green and tan of Kez soldiers and the gleam of breastplates.
“I sent some of our boys to round up Captain Cardin, like you asked,” Blye explained.
Styke waited until the large group—nearly a hundred, including his lancers and Cardin’s cuirassiers—came to a stop in the middle of the road. The lancers were tight-lipped and bleary-eyed, having ridden all night to fetch Cardin. The cuirassiers stared around them like men haunted, and Cardin himself attempted to remain stately while looking like he was on the verge of tears. Citizens stared at the cuirassiers in the deepening silence, and Styke stepped forward before anyone could gather their wits enough to form a mob.
??
?None of you participated in what happened last night,” Styke said loudly, as much for the ears of the citizens as for the cuirassiers. “You all disobeyed your commanding officer because it was the right thing to do. Major Prost has ordered you court-martialed for this offense. Correct?”
The cuirassiers nodded glumly.
“Dismount,” Styke ordered. The cuirassiers looked between them, and more than one hand twitched toward their weapons.
“You heard him!” Cardin croaked. “Dismount!” Cardin was the first to do so, planting his feet at attention and standing beside his horse as if he were up for review. The rest slowly complied. Styke could see the uncertainty in their eyes.
“Weapons and breastplates,” Styke said, pointing to the ground at his feet. “Pile them here.”
No one moved. “Are you going to kill us?” someone called fearfully.
Styke repeated himself. Cardin approached, unbuckling his breastplate and throwing it at Styke’s feet, then his carbine, musket, and sword. A line formed, and one by one each of the cuirassiers followed suit. When they had almost finished, Styke turned to Blye. “Have some of the boys fetch wood from the smoldering buildings. Make me a big damned fire in the square.”
It didn’t take long, and soon the flames licked the branches of the big oak trees, and the cuirassiers stood unarmed and at attention in a single line. The rest of the citizens—those who had not fled completely—gathered on the outskirts of the square. Nearly a thousand pairs of eyes watched, and from the muttering, they weren’t certain whether they were watching an execution or something else.
“Remove your jacket,” Styke told Cardin.
Cardin obeyed without a word. He held it out to Styke, who did not take it.
Cardin looked at Styke, then looked at the fire. He fingered the stars at the lapels, then with a look of disgust he strode over and flung his cavalry jacket into the flames. The rest of the soldiers, clearly realizing that this was not an execution, began to strip off their jackets.
Styke turned his back on the spectacle and found Mayor Dorezen watching from the still-smoldering remnants of his home. “I’m surprised you spared them,” Dorezen said.