Брайан Макклеллан - Blood of Empire

Bo gave the map a cursory glance and leaned back in his camp chair. “Hm.”

It took Vlora a moment to register how little interest he actually had in what she’d just explained, and another to realize why. “You already knew all that, didn’t you?”

“You sound just like him, you know.”

“Who?” she demanded.

Bo rummaged in his pockets until he produced his comically oversized pipe and a match. He didn’t answer until he’d puffed it to life. “Tamas.”

A little tickle went up Vlora’s spine. She snorted the thought away. “I sound like any competent general, you mean?” She gestured at the dirty map. “You already knew all this.”

“Of course.”

“Then why the pit did you make me explain it?”

Bo smirked.

“Well?”

“Just making sure you still have it .”

Vlora was genuinely angry now. She climbed to her feet, leveraging herself up with her sword. “Why the pit wouldn’t I have it? Just because I’m practically an invalid doesn’t mean I can’t think anymore. I lost my sorcery, not my brain!” The last few words tumbled out far louder than she’d meant them to, and she immediately looked around to see who could have heard them. Only Davd was close enough, and he was studiously looking elsewhere.

She knuckled her back, pulling at some half-healed muscle in her arm in the process. Being angry, she decided, hurt like the pit. “Damn you,” she said to Bo.

He shrugged. “I handed an army to a woman who, for the last few weeks, couldn’t even move without help. I needed to be sure I didn’t make a mistake.”

“Thanks for the confidence,” she spat.

Bo’s eyes narrowed, and she saw his mask of indifference split momentarily. “Don’t confuse my brotherly love for you for stupidity. I wouldn’t have handed you this army in the first place if I didn’t think you would be able to lead it.”

“Oh, stop it.” Vlora felt her anger wane. “This army was meant for Taniel. Don’t tell me you weren’t surprised to hear that he didn’t actually want to lead it.”

Bo rolled his eyes and settled back in his chair, puffing steadily on his pipe. The tobacco was pleasant, with a distinct cherry scent – not nearly as harsh as Olem’s cigarettes. Vlora pulled back into herself, nostrils full of smoke, ears filled with the report of artillery, eye on Lower Blackguard, and wondered when Olem would return.

A little after five o’clock, a lone soldier with a plain steel breastplate left the Dynize camp, walking slowly with hands held in the air, shouting something that was lost beneath the din of the bombardment. He collapsed when he reached the Adran lines.

A few minutes later, a messenger approached Vlora. The young woman snapped a salute. “General Flint, ma’am, there’s a Dynize soldier here offering unconditional surrender.”

“A common soldier?” Vlora asked.

“Yes, ma’am. I was told your orders were to accept surrender only from a sergeant or infantryman.”

That ugly thing writhing in her belly almost put words in her mouth, and Vlora had to bite her tongue hard to resist the urge to order the bombardment to go on all night. “Right. I did. Tell Colonel Silvia to cease fire. Order the Third to march down and take possession of Lower Blackguard. I want a full report of the town and the Dynize prisoners by nightfall. Dismissed.”

The messenger had been gone for a few minutes before Bo cleared his throat. “You almost continued the bombardment, didn’t you? I could see it in your eyes.”

“Shut up,” Vlora snapped, getting to her feet. She could feel Bo’s gaze on her back as she slowly made her way back to her tent, retrieving Tamas’s journal before heading to the general-staff headquarters. The pain of making herself walk such a distance was dragging at her by the time she reached the command tent, and she had to straighten her shoulders and adjust her collar before she nodded to Davd to throw the tent flap open.

As she stepped inside, the chatter of discussion died within moments. All eyes turned toward her. The big tent was full of officers and their aides – brigadier generals, colonels, majors. Most of them had already swung by earlier in the day to offer their platitudes, but they still seemed shocked to see her here.

“Good afternoon,” she said softly. She looked around to see if the commander of the Third was present, and was glad when he wasn’t. She wanted him to oversee the surrender of the Dynize camp personally. “I know many of you are waiting for orders,” she continued, “and that you’re all curious what we’re doing on foreign soil in the middle of a war that isn’t ours.

“Rumors may have reached you about the artifact of great power that the Dynize possess and that the Fatrastans wish to steal back. The rumors are true. I have seen the artifact myself, and we are in possession of the capstone of its counterpart. A third artifact is still unaccounted for. According to our intelligence, if the Dynize leader is able to possess all three of these so-called godstones, he will have the sorcerous ability to make himself or his emperor into a new god.

“I will tell you right now: We are not here to win a war for either the Dynize or the Fatrastans. We are here to take the Landfall godstone from our enemies and destroy it, after which we will withdraw and these sons of bitches can kill each other to their hearts’ content. Understood?”

There was a round of nods. One of the colonels in the back raised a hand. Vlora ignored it.

“Thank you all for coming so far on the word – and krana – of Magus Borbador.” She allowed herself a smirk, and gave a moment for the few chuckles to die down. “Thank you for giving me the opportunity to lead you all in battle once again. The Dynize in Lower Blackguard have surrendered. We’re finished here, and I’m simply waiting on my scouts before I plot our next move. I’d like to review the troops in an hour, if you please. That is all.”

Vlora ignored a storm of questions as she cut through the middle of the room and searched for a seat in the far corner, where she sank down in relief and opened Tamas’s journal, reading with ears deaf to the rest of the world. Only when a messenger approached, informing her that the troops were assembled, did she close the journal and return to her feet, limping along with the book tucked under her arm.

She stepped outside and her breath immediately caught in her throat.

The valley below the command tent was filled with soldiers standing at attention in perfect, still silence. Nearly forty thousand sets of eyes stared directly at her, unblinking, unwavering. She couldn’t help but wonder what Bo had promised these men and women to get them to come all the way across the ocean and leap into a war, and whether her reputation had swayed any of them to come.

She dismissed the thought immediately. Bo must have promised them a fortune. He certainly had the money.

Distantly, a voice called out, “Field Army, salute!”

There was booming answer of “Hut!” and the snap of forty thousand arms. Vlora watched in awe, trying to remember if she’d ever been in command of so many troops at once.

“Looks pretty good, doesn’t it?” Bo asked, emerging from behind the command tent.

Vlora managed a nod.

“You know, technically you should be addressed as Field Marshal.”

Vlora considered it. She fought momentarily with her terrible subconscious, which rather liked the sound of Field Marshal Flint. “ ‘General’ will do for now,” she told Bo. She stepped past him, walking the few dozen paces to where the general staff stood assembled nearby. She was barely able to tear her eyes off the army before her as she approached, and a line from Tamas’s journal struck her.