Брайан Макклеллан - Blood of Empire

The small group began to murmur thoughtfully among themselves, and he saw the idea take root. He himself wasn’t as convinced. In fact, he was beginning to think this might be one of his stupider ideas. But the important part was pointing the Lancers at a goal and getting them moving. He could deal with complications as they arose.

Styke rolled the map back up, then returned the map tube to Celine. “Keep this safe,” he told her. “And the rest of you… finish inventory and get your horses saddled and ready to move. I want to be off the coast as soon as possible.”

The group threw themselves into action, and Styke headed to give Amrec a once-over before making sure that Celine and Ka-poel’s horses were hale and ready to ride. Less than a half hour passed before he could see the soldiers were ready to leave. He instructed them to haul the longboats farther upstream, and turned when he heard a voice call out his name. It was Celine, standing up on the vantage point he’d used to watch the Seaward slip away earlier.

Styke climbed up to join her and immediately saw the problem. Not far from shore, right around where the Seaward dropped them off, the big Dynize ship of the line had arrived and put down her anchor. The immense deck swarmed with sailors and soldiers, the latter of which were piling into longboats by the dozen. The first boat dropped into the water as Styke watched. Then the second, then the third.

He’d expected one of the frigates to send a small landing party to see what they were up to. But this big ship of the line was sending at least sixty naval infantry. Too many to deal with in a single, savage ambush, and probably better trained than normal sailors. The Mad Lancers needed to get off this coastline immediately.

“Is that bad?” Celine asked.

Styke pushed her gently down toward the waiting Lancers. “Yes,” he said. “That’s very bad.”

Vlora stood with her back to the entrance of her tent, thumbing absently through an old journal that she’d recovered from the bottom of her travel trunk just a few moments ago. At one point, it had been decorated with a rather ornate lock, but that had been dislodged by the jostling of tens of thousands of miles of travel. The black leather cover was well worn, the pages yellow from age and moisture, and the stitched teardrop of Adro barely visible in the center of the cover.

It was Tamas’s journal, a seeming hodgepodge of dated notes and remembrances covering nearly two decades, the pages stuffed with old letters to and from his long-deceased wife. Vlora handled the pages with care, glancing at a few of the dates and letters, most of them written before she was born.

Someone cleared his throat behind her as she crossed her tent to set the journal on her cot, then turned to face the small group that had gathered at her request. Every movement brought pain, and she handled herself with nearly as much care as she did the journal, careful not to show just how badly her body had been mauled. She almost laughed at the efforts. Here she was, with her most trusted friends and companions, and she wouldn’t allow herself to show them her pain. Well, no matter. They’d learn some of it soon enough.

Borbador sat on a stool in the corner of the tent, legs crossed, fingers drumming on his false leg while he puffed casually on an obscenely large pipe that he had to support with one hand just to keep it in his mouth. His face was expressionless, but his eyes had that thoughtful, amused look in them as if he’d just remembered something funny. He’d grown his ruddy beard out since Vlora last saw him, and she decided she preferred the look.

Privileged Nila stood behind Bo, leaning on his shoulder, playing with a strand of his hair, looking vaguely annoyed. Her hair was braided tightly over each shoulder, and she wore one of the crimson dresses that she liked so much. She looked up suddenly, meeting Vlora’s eyes, and Vlora found her own gaze flinching away.

The rest of the party consisted of Vlora’s three powder mages: the dark-haired Davd; the grizzled, highly experienced Norrine; and the quiet Kez ex-noble Buden je Parst. Vlora determined that it had been Bo who cleared his throat, and so let her gaze settle on him for a long moment before running it back across the others.

“Your recovery seems to be coming along nicely,” Nila commented before Vlora could speak.

“You look… better,” Davd offered.

Norrine looked up from cleaning her pistol. “We were worried about you.”

Vlora waved away the encouragement and swallowed a grimace at the twinge that ran down her arm. She looked like a goddamned patchwork doll. Her entire body was covered with scars from the battle at the Crease over five weeks ago. Some of them, the smaller ones, were healing nicely. The rest… not so much. Neither Bo nor Nila specialized in healing sorcery, though they had both studied it in depth. It had taken them four days just to keep Vlora from dying and another five before she could be carried with the army as it traveled. Another whole week had passed before Vlora could walk on her own.

This was the first day she’d called her powder mages in for review; the first day she’d done anything beyond issue marching orders, ride along in a covered litter, or stew in the humid heat of her tent. She swallowed bile and clenched her fists behind her back. “Thank you for the kind words,” she said softly. “But I have something important to discuss with the five of you. Bo already knows.”

Nila looked up sharply, then down at Bo with a cocked eyebrow. “What is it?”

Vlora glanced across the group, swallowed again, cleared her throat, and found that she could not give voice to the thing that had haunted her since the second she regained consciousness. She coughed, tried to meet the eyes of her underlings, and failed. After a few moments, she forced herself to look Norrine in the eye – she was, after all, the most experienced of the mages. She would have to take up most of the slack.

“She can’t use her sorcery,” Bo announced. Vlora shot him a glare, but he continued. “The effort at the Crease has burned her out, made her powder blind.”

All three of Vlora’s mages stared at her. She could tell by their expressions that Norrine was not surprised – she’d probably expected it after seeing the carnage of the battle – but the other two were clearly taken off guard. Davd took a full step back, blinking in disbelief. Buden scowled. Before they could ask questions, she continued where Bo left off.

“This may or may not be permanent.” Who was she kidding? It was possible to recover from powder blindness, but it took time. “You all know the stories, the notes Tamas kept about his students.” She paused to blink away a few tears and take a deep breath. “The most important thing right now is that we continue as we have been. Absolutely no one beyond this room must know. Do you understand?”

There were a few dull nods.

“That goes for you two as well,” Vlora said to Bo and Nila.

“Oh, come now,” Bo objected.

“You are a bit of a gossip, dear,” Nila said thoughtfully to Bo, studying Vlora with an intensity Vlora did not like. “Of course,” she said. “We won’t say a word.”

“Yes, yes,” Bo agreed. He glared at his pipe, then tapped it out against his false leg and stowed it in his jacket pocket. “You’ve been having us march south since you woke up. I assume that means you have a destination and a plan for what to do next?”

On to the next thing. Typical Bo, and Vlora was grateful for it. She had no doubt that she would dwell on the loss of her sorcery every spare moment from now until she died. Any distraction was welcome right now. “Of course. Thanks to you, I am in command of the greatest army on this continent. I intend on taking it to Landfall, where we will relieve the Dynize of their godstone and destroy it.”