Брайан Макклеллан - Blood of Empire

Dozens of Lancers threw their grapples over the gateway arch. The ropes were secured to saddles and the horses began to strain. Ibana shouted orders. More grapples were added. Styke watched the process silently, listening to the fighting among the guards. He could smell the coppery bite of sorcery now, though he wasn’t sure whether it was coming from Ka-poel or the godstone. He took a few deep breaths, patting the neck of his borrowed horse.

With a final shout from Ibana, horses working in concert, the Lancers ripped down the arch. One of the doors was torn clear off its hinges, while the other screeched and bent at an angle, still holding on. Styke drew his sword. “Lancers, with me!”

They thundered into the palace, emerging into a wide parade ground and fanning out. There were at least two companies of imperial guard waiting for them, and even with Ka-poel’s interference, the resistance was brutal. Styke felt the crunch of bodies beneath his horse’s chest armor and swung his sword in a fury as bayonets surrounded him. For a moment he felt he would be overwhelmed, but the sheer weight of the column riding in through the gate pushed back the Dynize and soon he was surrounded by his own men. Horses fell to bayonets, men and animals screaming, as the Mad Lancers took the gate.

He was suddenly free of the mob, his sword slick, gripping the saddle horn to keep from falling to the ground. The chaos of the battle raged around him. He turned to find Ka-poel at his side. She slapped his armor and gestured emphatically. We have no time! This way! She suddenly charged through the melee, bent over her horse, machete in hand, galloping at speed with seemingly no thought for the danger. Styke had no choice but to follow.

Instead of heading deeper into the palace, Ka-poel turned and rode parallel to the wall. They ducked beneath an arch, thundered down a long, narrow corridor, and emerged into an enormous garden.

Ka-poel reined in and dismounted expertly. Styke did the same, holding his side, sword in one hand. The garden was several acres – a pristine little slice of heaven with ponds, streams, decorative trees, flowers, and more. The sound of the fighting, though Styke knew it was close, seemed miles away. His nose twitched at the fragrant smell of sorceries that he could not identify but that presented a subtle undercurrent to the powerful reek of blood.

The godstone stood in the center of the garden. Vines grew around its base like it was some old ruin, and the place might have been a perfect picture of peace were it not for the dozens of bodies stacked on the far side of the garden. An altar sat before the godstone, covered in blood, one final corpse wearing the gloves of a Privileged sprawled across its center. A light had appeared in the shape of a doorway just above the altar. Ka-poel strode toward that light with purpose.

“You cannot go that way,” a voice called.

What Styke had initially taken for a corpse along the far wall suddenly stood up. It was a man in his forties, face and head shaved clean but with the skin and features of a Palo. To Styke’s surprise, the man was at least as tall as him, if not taller. Black tattoos swirled around his wrists, bare chest, and neck, and his torso was covered in blood spatter. Even at this distance, even in the shadow of the godstone, the man smelled of sorcery. He watched Ka-poel and Styke through bored, half-lidded eyes.

“Why do you not obey me?” His voice was a deep rumble. “I am Emperor Janen. I am obeyed.”

Ka-poel’s hands flashed. Deal with him. Be careful. He is like Taniel.

“What do you mean he’s like Taniel?” Styke asked.

Without answering, Ka-poel suddenly broke into a sprint, heading straight for the godstone. Styke swore and did the same. Though they should have beaten the emperor there by twenty paces, he crossed the space in the blink of an eye, one hand outstretched to snatch at Ka-poel. Styke flung his sword overhand and the emperor spun, batting it out of the air as if it were a lazily thrown ball.

The distraction allowed Styke several more strides, and when the emperor turned to grab Ka-poel, Styke slammed into him from the side. He put every ounce of strength into the tackle, and all the weight of his body and armor behind it. Janen fell beneath him, and they hadn’t even hit the ground before Styke was drawing his knife.

He barely pulled it halfway from its sheath when he felt a palm connect with his chest. His breath was snatched from him, several of his ribs giving a sickening crack that he felt from his fingertips to his toes. The blow sent him reeling. Janen was on him in an instant, the emperor’s face marred by a mildly annoyed frown. Styke threw a punch with his left hand. Janen grabbed his fist and almost casually gave a squeeze.

Ensorceled steel bent under the strength. Styke felt a scream wrench itself from his mouth as his hand was crushed inside his gauntlet, pain lancing up his arm and making his knees weak. He fought through it and jabbed with his now-drawn knife, catching the emperor under the ribs. The tip of Styke’s blade had barely pierced the skin when a backhand caught him on the chin. He spun bodily, helpless to catch himself, and landed on his back a dozen feet away, disoriented and in pain.

Janen strode toward him, wearing that same irritated frown.

Styke felt three of his teeth loose in his mouth. Blood poured from his lips. In all his life, he had never been manhandled by strength even a tenth of what the emperor had. He knew, in that instant, that he was going to die. Behind Janen, Ka-poel reached the altar and dove headfirst into the glowing light. She disappeared in a wink.

The emperor inhaled sharply and spun toward the altar. Styke tried to lift himself up, unsure whether Janen could follow Ka-poel through that door. He had to keep the bastard distracted. But how?

The crack of a gun jolted Styke out of his painful half stupor. Janen jerked, swatting at the back of his head as if stung by a bee. Styke craned his head to look for the source of the shot, hoping to find Ibana or Jackal or, preferably, all of the Mad Lancers together. Instead he saw a man drop from the outer wall and land on his feet as if the fall was nothing.

“Is she inside?” Taniel demanded, discarding his smoking pistol.

“She is,” Styke croaked. He spat out one of his teeth.

“Then you’ve done your part. I’ll deal with Sedial’s creature.” Taniel drew his sword and darted forward.

Michel couldn’t remember the last time he really, truly cried. He’d cried in pain before, certainly. He’d wept over the deaths of his friends. But the sobs that wracked his body came out in horrid, anguished yowls, tearing his throat raw. He clutched at Ichtracia, trying to regain control of himself, only half aware of the chaos around him.

Dragonmen and Privileged ran out of the keep. The doors were closed and barred. Blasts shook the ground beneath them and plaster fell from the keep walls. Hundreds of people shouted in Dynize.

Michel could not have said how long it had been since Sedial stepped through the portal, but there came a moment when he realized that he was no longer controlled. He held Ichtracia to his chest. He’d shifted onto his knees. The realization of sudden freedom broke through to him like a lightning strike and he wrestled down the sobs and wiped a grimy sleeve across his eyes. He lowered Ichtracia back to the ground, tearing away her vest, pressing his palm to her chest wound to try to stem the flow of blood.

He’d missed her heart.

Blood bubbled up through his fingers. He pressed harder, and Ichtracia suddenly gurgled. Her eyes opened wide, the whites turned red from the mala used to drug her. A single bubble of blood appeared on her lips. It popped. Another formed, and he realized she was trying to speak.