Брайан Макклеллан - Blood of Empire

A popping sound, like a rifle going off behind his ear, made him jump. He spun back toward the godstone only to see that a great crack had formed, running lengthwise all the way up and down the monument. The whole thing shifted, and half of it looked like it was about to fall but, at the last moment, settled in on its own weight. Michel was so transfixed by the break that he almost missed the two figures who’d appeared on the altar.

Vlora and Ichtracia leaned against each other, their clothes steaming. Michel felt himself brushed aside as Olem rushed to the altar and helped Vlora down. The two leapt into a conference, and within moments Vlora was ordering a fighting retreat from the godstone. The Adrans began to pick up their things, ready to leave now that their general had returned.

Michel wanted to rush to Ichtracia, but it was all he could do to stay standing as she came to join him. She was covered in blood, still wearing her gloves, her vest hanging loose to reveal that the great wound he’d given her under Sedial’s influence was healed without a scar. He could tell from the slump of her shoulders that she was in pain, and her eyes still held the redness of a deep mala binge.

“You look as bad as I feel,” she said.

“That good?” Michel swayed, seeing darkness at the corners of his vision. “I’m glad you’re back.”

“Michel?”

Her voice sounded distant. Michel’s head felt heavy, and he abruptly dropped to his knees, casting about for a soft spot to sit. “I’m just going to lie down for a while,” he told her. “Sorry I stabbed you.”

Styke leaned against a tree in the godstone garden and worked to remove his ruined gauntlet. From his teeth to his toes, everything hurt. It was as if he’d been hit by a runaway mule cart, and he still couldn’t quite grasp just how easily the emperor had manhandled him. The supernatural strength was beyond anything he’d ever witnessed.

Across the garden, at the base of the godstone, Taniel and the emperor tore into each other like two fighting cockerels. The emperor had snatched up his own sword. Both men were obviously trained duelists. Their movements were a blur, their hands darting like hummingbirds, their footwork raising a cloud of dust around them. Even for someone like Styke, who had watched and participated in fights his entire life, it was difficult to tell what, exactly, was happening.

It was clear, however, that Taniel was not winning. Blood soaked his face and shirt, rivulets of dirty sweat trickling down his neck. The emperor fought with a look of focus, and not a single sword stroke marred his bare chest.

Styke gasped as the gauntlet finally came off. He dropped it to the ground and examined his hand. His left and ring fingers were likely broken. The other three seemed to work, and the hand itself was undamaged. He discarded the ruined gauntlet, trying to catch his breath, wondering how many ribs were cracked and how much blood he’d lost.

A shout tore his eyes off the duel and made him peer around the tree against which he’d been resting. A door leading into the palace complex had opened not far from where he’d entered, and a group of soldiers in their imperial garb and lacquered masks emerged from within. There were seven in total, and they froze in wonder at their emperor battling the Kressian stranger.

Their pause only lasted a few moments. One barked to the others, and they began to jog toward the godstone, loosening swords and checking their pistols. Styke felt his head sag in painful exhaustion.

Summoning what reserves he could find deep within himself, he limped along behind a screen of bushes, coming up on the line of guardsmen at an angle, reaching them just a few moments before they reached his borrowed horse. He lurched out from behind the bushes and slammed his right gauntlet in between the eyes of their leader, dropping him like a stone, then drew his knife.

The guardsmen were not dragonmen, but that was where Styke’s fortunes ended. The fall of their leader seemed to barely faze them, and five of them fanned out while the closest to Styke leapt toward him with sword drawn.

Styke caught the swing on his left vambrace and jabbed with his knife. Even as his counterstroke skidded off the guard’s ceremonial armor and sank into the flesh just below his arm, Styke knew he was moving too slowly. A pistol shot went off to his side, and he felt the rattle of a bullet hitting one of his pauldrons. A quick, shouted exchange took place between the remaining guards as he attempted to pull his blade out of their companion. Someone stepped up to Styke’s side, and before he could react, the butt of a pistol cracked him on the temple.

The blow would have dropped a lesser man. As it was, Styke stumbled back, stunned, stars floating across his vision. He might have fallen if his back had not come in contact with a tree. He let it take his weight, grateful for the moment of rest, and blinked hard to try to clear his swimming vision.

A scream issued from somewhere nearby, attracting the attention of his assailants. Styke took the opportunity to spit blood into the face of the closest guard and fall forward among them, knife swinging. It was sloppy work, but he managed to drop two before the other three withdrew. He stumbled after them, knife cutting a graceless arc in the air, grumbling curses at their backs.

He found another tree to take his weight and turned to look after his retreating opponents, only to discover that he’d gotten mixed up in the melee. He was no longer between them and their emperor, and they’d chosen to leave him to go help their ward.

The scream, it seemed, had come from the emperor. His face was torn open from brow to chin, a neat, bloody gash cut through his nose and lips. Despite the wound, he seemed to have doubled his efforts, backing a vindicated-looking Taniel toward the corner of the garden.

Styke’s opponents didn’t reach their emperor. The crack of firearms tore through the air behind Styke, and all three men collapsed in a hail of bullets. Styke whirled, nearly losing his balance, to find a line of dismounted Lancers and Household guards just inside the grotto, their weapons smoking. Ibana emerged into the garden behind them, followed closely by Etzi.

Ibana’s measured pace was doubled when she laid eyes on Styke. She jogged over to him, her armor rattling, and ducked beneath his shoulder. “By Adom, Ben, you look like death!”

“I’m fine.” He tried to wave her off.

“What the pit happened to your hand?”

He gestured toward the emperor. “Him.”

Etzi and his Household guards watched the duel with eyes wide. No one moved to interfere. “The emperor,” Etzi said in an awed whisper, “has been given strength by the bone-eyes. We found one of them just in the main hall, face withered, barely able to stand. The emperor must be drawing power off of them in incredible amounts. Who is that man, and how is he able to fight the might of the imperial cabal?”

“That,” Styke said, “is Ka-poel’s husband.”

“Incredible,” Etzi breathed, “but still, he cannot win, not against –”

Whatever he was about to say was cut off by a crack that cut the air in two. It was as if a cannon had gone off in the garden, and everyone around Styke flinched away from the sound. All eyes were drawn to the godstone. A new crack ran, jagged and splintering, from base to capstone. On the altar, clothes smoking, were two figures.

Ka-poel stood like an avenging angel, head held high, ignoring the old man on his knees in front of her. She grasped him by the nape of the neck and threw him forward, off the altar, where he gave a pitiful cry and curled up into a ball.