Брайан Макклеллан - The Mad Lancers

Sirod himself wore one of those suits of armor – though only the breastplate, hastily buckled, and the helmet with the visor up. Sirod’s eyes were wide, his expression one of sneering anger, as if he was offended by the very act of having to defend himself.

Sirod began to crank faster. Styke put one hand on the crossbow bolt but thought better of pulling it out himself. The pain was intense, the muscles of his breast and shoulder crying out with the slightest move. He shook his head, tears streaming down his face, and gave a groan as he stepped forward.

Click, click.

Styke took another step, more painful than the last, then another, then another, until he had halved the distance between himself and Sirod. The crossbow string clicked into place, and Sirod fumbled with a bolt. Styke took a sharp breath, pain lancing through his body, and dashed forward, swinging his sword with his remaining strength.

The sword slammed into Sirod’s breastplate, enough power behind the fine steel to cleave through ancient armor. Instead of shearing through, however, the weapon bounced off the breastplate as if it were an anvil, the clang of the metal on metal ringing through the hall.

Sirod dropped the crossbow, stumbling backward from the force of the blow.

Styke struck again and again, slamming the sword against Sirod’s armor until he could barely lift it, then stumbling forward and colliding with Sirod. Styke fell, twisting to land on one shoulder and letting out a gasp of pain. He watched Sirod wobble, then crash to the floor beside him.

“Enchanted armor?” Styke asked, considering the metallic smell of sorcery that permeated the building.

“You’ll never cut it,” Sirod exclaimed, climbing to his feet and heading toward the display of weapons on the wall.

Styke managed to swing his sword around in a final arc, neatly severing the tendon of Sirod’s right foot. The governor screamed, slumping to the floor midstep. He continued to wail as Styke laboriously lifted himself to his knees and crawled over. Using Sirod’s breastplate as a crutch, he got back to his feet.

“You shouldn’t have burnt down Fernhollow,” Styke told him.

Sirod looked more angry than hurt. He hyperventilated, spittle on his lips. “Why aren’t you dead?”

“I get asked that a lot.” Styke stepped over the governor, his big legs straddling the man. He took Sirod’s helmet between his hands and lifted it so that they looked eye to eye. “You’re a piece of shit. Do you know that? Do you have any idea?”

“I,” Sirod screamed, spittle flying from his lips, “am the governor of Landfall, and you will unhand me!”

Styke jerked his hands in a circular motion, twisting Sirod’s head around so that he was staring at the back of the enchanted helmet. The body beneath him spasmed once and then slumped. “Enchanted armor or not,” he said, rapping the helmet with his knuckles, “all men die.”

“I’ve heard of this place,” Jackal told Styke a few minutes later, looking around the museum’s vaultlike armory with a kind of casual examination that did not suggest Styke was bleeding out slowly from a crossbow wound a few feet away.

Styke grunted, hand on his heart, just below the bolt, keeping pressure on the area and hoping it didn’t pull out anything vital when he finally removed the damned thing. He stared at Sirod’s body, which was still wearing the armor, and wondered how long it would take to strip the armor and impale Sirod on one of his own stupid collections of pikes. He could leave the body just outside the museum, where everyone could see it.

Right now, that seemed like a lot of work.

“This is cavalry armor, you know,” Jackal told Styke.

Styke was surprised Jackal could tell. “Yeah, I know.” He scowled at a nearby set, examining the fine lines, wondering when it had been made and enchanted. Modern Privileged, he understood, could still accomplish such things but almost always thought of enchantment as beneath them. It simply wasn’t worth their valuable time. The fact that these enchantments were still potent meant that they had been done by a powerful Privileged.

“Give me that breastplate.”

Jackal took a few moments to unbuckle the breastplate from Sirod’s corpse, then brought it to Styke. It hurt even to lift his hands, but Styke took the plate and examined it. Not even a scratch. This, he decided, could be useful.

The sound of boots on stone floors turned his head. He reached for his sword but gave up when he saw a familiar face in a sunflower-yellow cavalry jacket appear in the doorway. It was one of his lancers, a soldier named Petyr, and he skidded to a halt at the sight of the carnage.

“Report,” Styke managed.

“Sir, heavy losses, but we think we’ve cleared out most of the governor’s bodyguard. We can’t find the governor or his Privileged anywhere, but…” he trailed off, looking at the body with the turned-around head. “Is that Sirod?”

“Yeah. Round up whoever is left. We want to get out of here before the whole Landfall garrison comes after us.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Find me some horngum. This hurts a damned lot.”

“Immediately, sir. I might have some in my saddlebags.”

“Good. Oh, and search the grounds for wagons. We’re going to steal everything we can get our hands on. Start with this armor.”

“Blye is dead.”

Styke sat on a stump, two days after killing Sirod and about two dozen miles northwest of the governor’s mansion. Wagons filled with treasures and supplies lined the road, quickly being unloaded onto a number of keelboats that his lancers had managed to commandeer from a nearby town. For two days he hadn’t heard word of a small group that had gotten separated during a fight with the governor’s bodyguards.

Jackal stood next to him, his expression placid as he gave the news. Styke had sent him looking for Blye and the thirty-odd men who’d disappeared.

“Any survivors?” Styke asked hopefully, a hand on his chest, trying to ignore the pain of the bolt wound Sirod had given him. He’d been chewing on horngum and rubbing it in the wounds, which dulled the pain enough to ride. Barely.

“I don’t think so. A few of us are unaccounted for, so they may have managed to get away from the fighting. We can only hope they’ll find us later.”

Us. Four days together, and Jackal already considered himself one of Styke’s lancers. Damned kid couldn’t even ride a horse yet. Styke chuckled, shaking his head before turning to darker thoughts. Captain Blye was a friend – not terribly close, but enough that Styke considered him so. He was a good officer and solid in a scrap. He would be missed.

“Where’s Cardin?” Styke asked.

Jackal frowned. “I’m not sure. A few of his boys said they saw him take off to the east to lead away some of Sirod’s bodyguard. He may still be alive.”

Styke needed a new second-in-command. Cardin, still practically a stranger, wasn’t his first choice. But if he was still alive, he was probably Styke’s only choice. At least for now. “See if you can find him.” He pressed a hand against his chest, his next breath causing all the muscles along his left side to sting. The damned wound had finally stopped bleeding, but it would take a long time to heal. “How many do we have left?” he asked Jackal.

“Eighty-two. Seventeen of them are wounded, but they can all ride.”

Styke looked at the keelboats, where the first of the horses were finally being loaded up. “No riding necessary for a while – not till that last stretch to Redstone. It’ll give them a chance to heal up.” And, hopefully, keep them ahead of any pursuit out of Landfall.

Styke put his chin on his fist, leaning forward on the stump and drifting into his own thoughts as the men continued to load the keelboats. He wondered if it was worth all of this trouble – if perhaps he should just disband the group and head off into the sunset. He could disappear into the mountains, or head north and sign up with the Wings of Adom and get a mercenary posting in Gurla. That wouldn’t be a bad life.