Брайан Макклеллан - Blood of Empire

Michel’s terror reached a crescendo as he ascended the stepladder. Darkness touched the corners of his vision as he fought the compulsion with every ounce of his being. He screamed at himself to stop – to turn and plunge the knife into Sedial’s chest. Instead, he turned on his heel and knelt down beside Ichtracia. He raised the knife.

“Wait,” Sedial said. “It must be coordinated with a sacrifice at the main godstone in Talunlica.” He paused, lips moving silently as if speaking to a voice in his head. Another moment passed. “Ah, yes. We are in position. Go ahead, Michel.”

Tears streamed down Michel’s face as his arms plunged downward. The knife rammed between Ichtracia’s ribs. She let out a muted gasp, body twitching, and he jerked the knife out of her, sagging back onto his knees. He could do nothing but watch her chest as the blood bubbled out of it.

Sedial tsked. “You missed her heart, my boy. I suppose this is your first time. Shall we try again?”

“Please don’t,” Michel whispered as his hands jerked back up, holding the knife above Ichtracia’s chest. He felt a brief breeze on the side of his neck and heard something like a sigh.

“Ah. No need. That was enough blood,” Sedial said happily. “Look.”

Michel was allowed to turn his head toward the godstone. A rectangle had appeared on the stone surface, about the size of a door. It glowed with the same light as the top of the godstone, though greatly muted. Michel suddenly felt hot breath on his ear and could sense that Sedial had stepped onto the altar with him.

“I don’t know what attention I’ll be able to turn toward mortal pleasures once I am a god. But I promise that I’ll make a special point of attending to you. The anguish you have felt these last few moments is nothing.” Another affectionate pat on Michel’s shoulder. “I go into the Else!” Sedial announced to his assistants, straightening his back and squaring his shoulders to the godstone. “Hold this room against any attack until I have returned.”

Without a backward glance, Sedial strode through the glowing door into the godstone.

Styke had to admit that the procession making its way down the main avenue to the emperor’s palace was an impressive one. At its head were the Mad Lancers – nearly four hundred heavy cavalry garbed in ancient armor, the skull-and-lance flag fluttering over their heads. Behind them came the Household heads and their guards. Taking up the rear were the Adran cavalry Styke had borrowed from Flint what felt like years ago, still commanded by Major Gustar. Everyone rode at attention, eyes keen, knowing that they were putting on a show for the palace.

The rest of the Mad Lancers, mostly recruits from their trek across Fatrasta, kept the Dynize mob and their loyalist backers from bothering the procession. Styke could hear the sounds of screaming and carbine shots coming from all around them, and could see fighting across the lake. He tried to ignore it. He had a more important job to do.

Even focusing on that was proving to be a challenge. Styke swayed in his saddle, feeling light-headed from loss of blood. He hadn’t bothered to tell anyone about the wound in his side, and he wondered if that had been a mistake. The whole area screamed with each bounce of the saddle of his borrowed horse, and blood dripped down the side of his armor. He caught a few concerned glances from the Lancers, but no one asked him about the wound.

The group reached the great gates of the palace complex, and Styke raised one gauntlet to halt the column, giving the palace a once-over with a critical eye. It had been built for show rather than to withstand a siege. The walls couldn’t have been more than twenty feet high, the arch above the gate made out of wood instead of stone. Both arch and gate were brightly painted. Styke got the feeling that people weren’t supposed to actually attack the emperor. Something about sacrilege. He didn’t much care.

Above the wall, just a few blocks to his left, rose the godstone. The top of the pillar shone like the sun, causing walls and buildings to cast long shadows and forcing Styke to shade his eyes as he looked up to the silent row of morion-helmed soldiers arrayed on the top of the wall. The soldiers were dressed and armed just like any Dynize infantry or Household guard, but they also wore full face masks painted in the same bright turquoise, yellows, greens, and blues as the palace gate.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Styke said quietly to the Lancer beside him.

Ibana snorted. “Saved your life. Again.”

“That you did.”

She must have heard something in Styke’s voice, because Ibana’s expression softened and she reached over to touch her gauntlet to his. “I’m glad you’re still alive.”

They shared a companionable silence until Etzi joined them at the front of the column, riding out a few paces ahead with his Household standard flying above his horse. He called up to the imperial guard. “The Household Quorum demands an audience with the emperor. Open the gates!”

One of the guards removed his mask and leaned over the wall. “I see only foreigners and traitors. The gates will remain closed. Disperse at once.”

Etzi cast Styke an uncertain glance. Styke said quietly to Ibana, “If they let us in, I want you to figure out exactly how many soldiers are inside and put yourselves between them and Ka-poel.”

“I get the feeling they’re not going to do that,” Ibana replied.

“Then we’re going to gain the palace by force.”

“Still want to know how many guard they have?”

“We can count the corpses later.”

Ibana gave him a toothy grin. Another day, Styke might have returned it. He touched his side and grimaced up at the imperial guard, who was still staring arrogantly back down at Etzi. The Household head hesitated a few moments and cleared his throat.

“You see before you members of the Household Quorum and our allies. We seek a peaceful resolution to what has occurred today. Open the gates so that we may speak to the emperor. No one else has to die.”

The guard captain gestured dismissively. “You’ve had your warning.”

Styke urged his horse up beside Etzi’s. “They’re not going to negotiate.”

“Perhaps if we –”

Ka-poel rode up from the column and flashed a handful of signals at Styke.

They’re just buying time , Styke translated to Etzi. “She says we don’t have hours to spare. We might not have minutes.”

Even now, after all that had occurred, it was clear Etzi was loath to order an attack on the imperial palace. Styke didn’t have the same reservations. He nodded to Ibana, and she lifted her voice. “Open the gates or we will open them for you!”

A musket shot rang out, ricocheting off the cobbles just in front of Etzi’s horse. A warning shot. They shouldn’t have bothered.

“Go!” Styke snapped to Etzi, lowering his visor and putting himself between the wall and Ka-poel.

“No?” Ibana boomed. “You heard ’em, boys! Tear down the gates!”

A number of things happened at once. At Ibana’s order, the Lancers fanned out in front of the gate, each soldier producing a rope and grapple. The imperial guard produced their muskets and opened fire, their bullets whizzing around Styke’s head, pinging off his armor. Ka-poel produced her satchel, flipping it open with one hand and raising the other into the air above it. Tiny wax dolls appeared, floating around her head like wasps. One of the imperial guard suddenly turned on his companion with a bayonet. Another produced a knife and disappeared. The shouting of the officers became desperate screams, and their hail of bullets was reduced to a sprinkle as they attempted to put down their own companions.