Брайан Макклеллан - Blood of Empire

“The souls of a million damned,” Ka-poel told her. “Or the sorcerous essence of their blood. Whatever you want to call it – the heart of the godstones. How man becomes god.”

“Did Kresimir build this?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why isn’t he talking?” Vlora gestured at Ka-Sedial.

“Because he’s not letting himself be distracted.” Ka-poel fell silent, the frozen expression on her face slowly becoming a scowl. Both she and her grandfather were sweating profusely. Sedial was closer to the blackest black, his fingertips drifting toward it.

Vlora watched them struggle for a few more moments and stepped back, drew her pistol, and fired.

“Wait!” Ka-poel’s warning came too slow. The shot echoed through the room. Vlora could see the bullet race toward Ka-Sedial’s head. But as it grew closer, it too slowed, and the bullet came to a stop not an inch from his temple. Ka-poel gave an angry grunt. “Attacking him won’t do any good. We can manipulate this place to a point. That’s why you can’t come closer.”

Vlora glared at the offending bullet and drew her sword. “You’re certain about that?”

Ka-poel didn’t answer, but Vlora saw Sedial’s eyes flicker toward her as she began to wade through the honey-like air, her blade extended. She thought she heard a distant rumble, disturbing the silence of the room.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Sedial suddenly spoke up.

“Neither should you,” Vlora retorted. She took a hit of powder – too much, more than she should dare in her fragile state – and pushed forward.

“This is my birthright!” Sedial snapped. “This is my power to take. You have no place here, powder mage. You can look into the Else, but you cannot enter.”

Vlora felt herself buffeted by… something. Ka-poel moved slightly toward the blackest black, Sedial twitched away from it. Vlora continued to push her weakened body, summoning from the well deep within her – all her anger, her frustration, her determination. She extended her arm, plunging her sword toward Sedial’s throat, like trying to push the blade through the center of a tree. The metal began to bend, and Sedial’s fingers regained their lost ground in his reach for the blackest black.

“Nobody wants you as their god,” Vlora hissed.

“No one gets to choose their god,” Sedial said. He suddenly lurched to one side, shaking his head in confusion. His fingers slipped past the blackest black, and the bullet suspended in air continued along its path, whizzing past his ear and smacking into the far wall in a puff of plaster. Vlora’s own body was released, the force of her own momentum carrying her past Sedial. Ka-poel let out a gasp, stumbled, and would have fallen if not caught by an arm. The woman – the corpse – that Michel left on the floor clutched at Ka-poel, holding her up, and waved a blood-soaked gloved hand at Sedial.

“Ichtracia! You must not manipulate the elements in this place!” Sedial barked.

Ichtracia raised both her hands. That distant rumble occurred once more, and the Privileged laughed. “That wasn’t me, Grandfather.”

“It’s the damned powder mage! This place was not built for her kind!” Sedial spun toward Vlora as she picked herself up off the floor. He extended one hand toward her, and she felt herself propelled toward one of the glowing portals. “Help me get her out, and we can share this power! Ichtracia… my Mara. Give me your strength.”

The Privileged stared back at Sedial for a few moments. “No,” she said softly.

The rumbling grew louder. A crack formed along one wall, spidering out into many. Sedial looked around desperately, panic in his eyes. “Damn you. It’ll kill us all!” There was a flicker at the edges of Vlora’s awareness, a shadow cast across the far wall in the shape of a tall, fat man with a ladle in one hand and an apron around his belly.

“Adom?” Vlora asked in the stillness of the moment.

The figure winked and was gone. The rumblings stopped, and the thick air released Vlora, allowing her to move again.

Sedial leapt for the blackest of black. Ka-poel was quicker. One hand darted forward, plunging into the sorcerous maelstrom. All around them, the Else began to crumble.

Michel sat on the edge of the altar, soaked in the blood of Ichtracia and who knew how many other sacrifices, cradling his ruined hand. Adran soldiers rushed around him, officers barking orders, messengers giving reports, while the distant sound of musket fire was occasionally punctuated by the roar of cannons. From what Michel had gathered just listening to the chatter around him, they’d captured the fortress at great cost. The Dynize still outnumbered them, menacing from every direction.

Olem strode through the middle of it all, a pillar of calm in the chaos, listening to a string of bad news without so much as a blink.

“Sir, confirmation from the Ninth. General Sabastenien has succumbed to his wounds!”

“Send a field promotion to his second-in-command,” Olem responded.

“The Third is buckling on our western flank, they’re requesting reinforcements.”

“Give them two companies from the Seventh and have them pull back three hundred yards.”

“Sir, word from Privileged Nila. She’s taken care of that regiment of cavalry trying to cut us off from the north, but she’s burned out bad.”

“Tell her to retreat, and make sure Magus Borbador knows not to take any offensives. We need him to neutralize any Privileged they have left.”

“Sir, report from Captain Norrine. Captain Buden is down. Another one of those damned dragonmen.”

“Is he still alive?”

“She didn’t say.”

“Send a medic and a stretcher. Get him out of there. How’s Davd?”

A medic appeared through the doors of the keep, hands covered in blood, and answered the question with the shake of his head.

Olem swore. “Listen up, everyone! We’re down to one powder mage and one Privileged. Our field guns are knackered and the Dynize seem pretty pissed off that we’ve captured their damned obelisk. I’m not sure if we can hold this position, but we’re damn well going to try. The good news is our fleet has arrived and shelled the living piss out of everything the Dynize had holding the harbor, which gives us a corridor of retreat and relief. I want all wounded evacuated in that direction. Get to it!”

The orders were followed within moments, wounded being loaded into stretchers while reinforcements took to the fortress walls with their rifles. Michel watched it all with a dense numbness, wondering if he should follow them toward Landfall. Even getting down from the altar seemed like an impossible task. Maybe it was fitting that he should stay here and die when the Dynize recaptured the fort.

“Michel!”

He jumped, realizing that Olem stood directly in front of him. “Huh? Sir?”

“You’ve lost a lot of blood, soldier. You should get out of here.”

Michel shook his head and pulled his mangled hand closer to his chest. “I’m not leaving without Ichtracia.”

“That’s a bold thing to say, but you’re only going to get in the way.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“Pit. Well, I’m giving Vlora five more minutes and then requesting volunteers to hold the keep and sending everyone else to fight their way toward the coast. If you want to die with those of us that stay, you’re more than welcome to do so.” Olem abruptly turned and shouted at a messenger, striding away to a flurry of reports.

Michel lifted his eyes to the godstone, willing that portal to reappear. Only blank stone stared back at him. He felt himself tilting, his head foggy. The practical spy within him formulated a plan to retreat with the Adrans, make use of their medics, then get himself to a hideaway within the catacombs where he could recover through whatever was to follow this battle. He squeezed his eyes shut and scooted off the edge of the altar, gaining his feet. There was no point in remaining. He’d done all he could do.