Brian McClellan - Return to Honor

Captain Vlora stood the first honor watch over the grave of her fallen comrade.

She could feel the cool breeze of a summer storm blowing away the heat of the day. The small graveyard with its high brick walls cast deep shadows in the moonlight, but a sprinkling of black powder on her tongue gave her catlike vision. Powder mage sorcery enhanced her senses, calmed her nerves, sharpened her reflexes, but right now she just wished it would help her forget.

Vlora wore her dress uniform-dark Adran blues with silver buttons, red trim, and a silver powder-keg pin. Her rifle rested on her shoulder, a pistol and sword at her belt, and arms and shoulders at attention. The breeze tugged at her black hair pulled back in a tight braid.

The gravestone was a marble monolith nearly six feet tall, tapered to be slightly thinner at the top. It bore a stamp in the likeness of her own powder-keg pin and the name Special Commander Sabon .

She felt a grimace cross her face.

Sabon. The man who, nine years ago, had first noticed her as a little orphan girl with an unnatural inclination toward guns, and had directed Field Marshal Tamas to seek her out. The man who had been like an uncle to her-a little distant, like Tamas himself, but always willing to show her a new trick with gunpowder or switch between the roles of friend and superior officer as needed.

She could still remember looking out the window of her carriage and seeing the first shot of the ambush blow Sabon’s brains across the gravel drive of Charlemund’s villa. She could close her eyes and hear the screams of soldiers caught in the initial volley, remember how her heart had thundered in her ears as she fled, dragging a wounded soldier toward cover.

She wished that Charlemund had not been captured. That he was still out there so she could find him and wrap her fingers around his throat and make him suffer for all the lives his betrayal had cost.

She wanted to take the next few weeks to grieve properly for Sabon, but she did not have that luxury. Not with a war on. The most she could do was stand a four-hour vigil at his graveside.

The whine of the iron cemetery gate brought Vlora back to the here and now. She lifted her eyes to find a figure standing just inside the wall. He was a tall man in his sixties with gray hair and a mustache. He wore a uniform that matched hers, save for the golden epaulettes on his shoulders, and he carried a bicorn hat under one arm.

Vlora fought to keep herself outwardly calm. Sabon had been the field marshal’s closest friend, but she expected Tamas to avoid the grave during her watch.

“Good evening, sir,” Vlora said.

Tamas didn’t answer. He came to stand beside the monument, looking down at the mound of earth. He remained in silent contemplation for nearly five minutes, still as any of the obelisks in the graveyard, before he seemed to notice her presence.

“I have work for you, Captain,” he said tersely, without a word of greeting.

Their relationship had been more than strained since the end of her engagement to Tamas’s son. The brusqueness was expected, but it still stung. To have a man she once considered her adoptive father behave so coldly, even in private, kept Vlora up at night.

“Sir?” she asked.

“I’m leaving for the front in the morning,” he said.

“I’ll have my things ready to go,” Vlora said.

“You’re not coming yet.”

Vlora swallowed. She didn’t like the sound of that.

“A Prielight guard escaped the battle at the villa,” Tamas said, glancing down at the grave. “A man named Wohler.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Wohler means to go to the enemy with all of the intelligence that Charlemund gleaned during the meetings of my council, including troop movements and supply records. We’re not entirely sure how much information he has, but we know it has some value. I want you to find him. Capture him. Secure that intelligence and then join me at the front in a week.”

“Are you certain you want me on this, sir?” Vlora had no delusions. She was one of Tamas’s best powder mages, invaluable on the battlefield. To have her hunting spies seemed like a waste of her talents.

Tamas made fists with both hands. She could see him trembling. “Taniel is in a coma. The enemy knocks on our southern gates. I can barely stand the sight of you, yet here I am. Yes , it’s important.”

Vlora avoided meeting his eyes. “Yes, sir. Sir, the ambush at the villa was a week ago. Wohler may already be over the border.”

Tamas visibly brought himself under control. “Our borders are closed, and Wohler is a cautious man. He’ll be waiting for the fighting to start so he can sneak over in the chaos.” Vlora opened her mouth, but Tamas seemed to have anticipated her next question. “It’s important,” he said, “but I can’t spare any more men. You are completely on your own.”

Vlora did some mental math. If he wanted her to join him at the front in a week, that only left her three days to find Wohler. “And if I fail?”

“Then so be it,” Tamas said simply. “The war will go on, and the enemy will have a new advantage.” Tamas turned on his heel and left Vlora alone to finish her watch in the graveyard.

She watched him leave and worked to steady her breathing. Three days until she could head to the front, where she would arrive either with an extra notch on the stock of her rifle or empty-handed.

This mission would give her a chance to clean up after the villa, to give Sabon’s death some kind of meaning. If she read Tamas right-and she had known him for many years-this was an olive branch. Perhaps a test of sorts, a chance to win her way back into his good graces.

She had better not fail.

Vlora could count the number of people she considered friends on one hand. She’d been a loner as a child, and through her teens she’d never really needed anyone but Taniel. It was four in the morning, a full twenty-four hours after receiving her assignment, and she was wishing she had spent a little more time developing other relationships.

She had wasted the entirety of the last day canvassing the city for any sign of Wohler, only to find out the man-like her-had no friends in Adopest. All his known associates had been members of Charlemund’s guard and were either dead or captured, and none of the captives knew where he might have gone to ground. His wife and family lived in Brudania. Vlora had exhausted every lead she could think of.

Which brought her to the officer’s mess in downtown Adopest. The mess was surprisingly busy at this hour of the morning. Most of the officers were shipping to the front within twenty-four hours with their commands. The room was filled with the sound of drunken laughter, heated conversation, and gambling-soldiers enjoying their last hurrah before heading toward the front.

The tables nearest the door went silent as Vlora passed. She tried not to notice, giving a few of the men a thin smile, and headed over to the bar, where the barkeep eyed her silver powder-keg pin before pouring her a beer.

She turned around and leaned against the bar, letting her eyes roam over the large room with its vaulted ceiling, crimson drapes, and white tablecloths. It was lit by half a dozen chandeliers, the fireplaces roaring to take off the chill of the approaching storm.

The occupants of more than one nearby table noticed her gaze and they none-too-subtly pulled in an open seat or even glared back at her, openly hostile.

She told herself that they weren’t worth her time. She had work to do, and nothing was going to distract her from it.

She found the person she was looking for at the other end of the room, sitting at a small table by herself, an open book in her hands. Vlora drained her beer, ordered two more, then threaded her way through the tables.