Брайан Макклеллан - Blood of Empire

Norrine nodded along, as if this was what she’d expected. The other two powder mages still seemed too shell-shocked to respond. Bo lifted his hand like a schoolchild.

“Yes?” Vlora asked.

“I handed you a very nice army, but it’s still the smallest fighting force by far. The Dynize and the Fatrastans both outnumber us by at least five to one. The Dynize want to kill you. The Fatrastans want to arrest you. Do you plan on fighting them both?”

“If necessary.”

“What does that even mean?” Bo demanded.

Vlora wasn’t entirely certain herself. The Dynize were enemy number one right now – they’d come dangerously close to killing her and her brigade of mercenaries. Fatrasta, though? Lindet’s betrayal at Landfall still stung deeply. Vlora would not – could not – trust them. Which left her on a foreign continent swarming with enemy armies.

“It means destroying the godstone is our only purpose. We’ll go through whoever we have to in order to accomplish that goal.”

Bo exchanged a glance with Nila. After several seconds too long, he said, “Fair enough.”

Vlora tried not to read too much into the hesitation. Taniel’s initial reaction to the godstone had been to study it, and it had taken some insistence to bring him around. Bo was infinitely more curious than Taniel, so she would have to keep a close eye on him. He would never betray her outright, but he was a man rife with ulterior motives.

“You haven’t actually told us how you plan on doing that,” Nila pointed out.

Vlora gave her smile with humor she didn’t feel. “The Adran way.”

“Oh, well that explains everything.”

Vlora ignored the sarcasm. “I just needed to tell the five of you about my… condition. Now that that’s over with, back to business. Bo, I’d like you and Nila to check in with the artillery commander. We’re going to end up in a full-fledged battle at some point in the next few weeks and I want you all coordinated. Mages, I’m going to want one of you on hand at all times. You’ll have to be my sorcery – to tell me anything I should know and, if need be, to protect me. Eight-hour shifts, every day. I’ll let you decide on the rotation. Dismissed.”

The powder mages snapped their salutes and left the tent without another word. Nila followed them, pausing at the flap with a glance back, while Bo remained on the stool in the corner, watching Vlora the way an asylum doctor might watch one of his patients.

“That includes you,” Vlora said to Bo, returning to her cot and picking up Tamas’s journal.

Bo waited until Nila had gone, then said in a soft voice, “You’re sure you’re strong enough for this? We don’t have Taniel anymore. He’s off to Adom knows where, and I’m not sure when he’ll be back.”

“Of course I’m sure.” She was not. Not even close, and she knew it. Just lifting Tamas’s journal brought a tremble to her hand that she could not afford to let her soldiers see. “I have to be.”

“Right,” Bo said flatly. He didn’t believe her. “I’ll be within shouting distance. If you need me…” He exited the tent, his false leg clicking as he went.

Vlora stood with her eyes closed in meditation for several minutes, willing her body to stop its shaking, pushing away the pain. It took all of her focus, and she instinctively reached for her sorcery every few moments, only to feel the pang of loss when it didn’t come within her grasp.

Finally, she let out one trembling breath and fetched her sword from the corner. The blade was practically destroyed from her fight at the Crease; the steel notched, the tip bent, rust destroying what was left. There was still Dynize blood in several of the deepest gouges, and she hadn’t had the energy to give it a proper cleaning. Still, the scabbard was in good shape, so she took the weapon as a cane and stepped out into the still morning air.

They’d set up her tent within spitting distance of the general-staff command center, on a knoll overlooking the Blackguard River Valley. Spread out before her was the army Bo had brought with him from Adro: thirty thousand infantry, eight thousand cavalry, and a full artillery contingent to accompany each brigade. It was, as she’d told her compatriots, the best fighting force on the continent – the best trained, the best outfitted, the best armed.

Across the valley, just on the other side of the small Blackguard River beside a picturesque copse of trees, was the town of Lower Blackguard. Her army had only arrived late last night, so this was the first time she’d set eyes on it herself. Still, she knew the area well by a study of local maps. The town’s population was only around five hundred – it was the center of trade for the local tobacco and cotton plantations – but a city of tents now overflowed the town limits. The Fatrastan flag had been replaced by the black-and-red of the Dynize.

Vlora tore her eyes away from that flag and looked around. Soldiers had frozen in their tracks at the sight of her, staring openly. It was, she reminded herself, the first time they’d seen her out of a litter or her tent since the Crease. She gave the lot of them a cool, dismissive look before turning to Davd, who stood at attention beside the tent.

“Where’s Olem?” she asked.

Davd started. “Uh, he’s still gone, ma’am.”

Vlora peered at Davd. There were bits and pieces missing from the last few weeks. Olem was one of them. She had no memory of being told that he’d ever left. “Where?”

“Escorting the godstone capstone to the Adran fleet, ma’am, as well as the Riflejack wounded.”

“Ah, I remember now.” She didn’t. “Thank you. Let me know the moment he returns.”

Davd looked nervous. “Yes, ma’am. Can I do anything else for you?”

“Tell me where our artillery unit is.”

“This way, ma’am.”

“Lead on.” Vlora began the slow, methodical descent from the vantage of her knoll, leaning heavily on her sword. Davd kept pace with her, glaring at the passing camp followers and saluting soldiers with outward hostility as if their mere presence might upset her. His protectiveness was at once touching and irritating, but Vlora let it pass. If Davd’s glares meant she was spared a few more hours until people started asking her stupid questions, so much the better.

They cut across the slope of the valley, ending up nearly half a mile away at a spot where the ground had been leveled for sixteen beautiful, polished four-pound guns and their crews. A woman in her midfifties with short, brown hair and a thin face strode among them, snapping orders and inspecting the guns. Her name was Colonel Silvia and she was the most experienced artillery officer in the Adran Army.

Vlora’s approach was unnoticed until she was between two of the cannons. A crewman recognized her, snapping a salute and calling out attention. Within the minute, sixteen crews stood at attention beside their guns while their commander saluted, then warmly took Vlora’s hand. “Good to see you up and moving, General.”

“Good to be up and moving. What’s the situation?”

Silvia looked toward the town of Lower Blackguard. “Roughly four thousand metalheads holed up in and around the town. They have a perimeter, but it’s sloppy. We brought in a deserter less than an hour ago – I actually just came from a briefing.”

Vlora lifted her eyebrows. “Oh?”

“Looks like this is the remnants of one of the brigades you and Two-shot gutted at the Crease. They don’t have Privileged or bone-eyes, and only a handful of officers. About half of them are wounded.”

Vlora barely heard anything after the word “Crease.” This was what was left of a brigade sent to execute her, murder her men, and take the portion of godstone they’d brought from Yellow Creek. Flashes of the fight played across her memory, and the ache of her missing sorcery made her weak in the knees.