Брайан Макклеллан - Wrath of Empire

“We tried that already, years ago,” Julene said. “We piled several carts’ worth of powder barrels on it and lit the fuse. It didn’t do anything but cause a second landslide that we had to clear away.”

“And we tried it on the godstone in Landfall,” Taniel said.

“So why,” Julene said with more than a hint of disdain, “do you think you can blow it up?”

Vlora remained silent, suddenly feeling overwhelmed and fearful. “We have to try,” she finally said. “If we cannot destroy it, then we’ll haul the thing to the coast, put it on a ship, and sink it to the bottom of the sea.”

“And you expect to be able to do that with Dynize and Fatrastan armies crawling all over the countryside?” Prime demanded.

“With your help we could.”

Julene scoffed again. “Don’t look at us. I’m useless without my hands, and this coward might as well be. He’d rather pick up and run than raise his hands to cause bloodshed.”

Prime’s lip curled, but he did not dispute the claim.

Vlora looked to Taniel for reassurance, but he seemed just as uncertain as she felt. His brow furrowed, he walked to the godstone and ran his gloved fingers along the runes, shuddering visibly. “I should have brought Ka-poel,” she heard him mutter. Louder, he said, “Like Vlora said, we have to try.”

“It’ll be a waste of gunpowder,” Julene stated.

“We’re not using powder,” Vlora responded, heading over to a rock and sitting down where she could watch the entrance to the valley. She ignored the others, taking the time to close her eyes and meditate.

It was almost three hours until a convoy of wagons finally appeared, with Flerring sitting in the foremost one. She said something to Burt’s guards, money changed hands, and she continued on through the pass. Vlora went down to meet her and show her the way to the hidden godstone.

“Get working right away. We’ve got one shot at this, and then, if it doesn’t work, we’ll have to figure out another plan.”

Flerring leaned down from the lip of the wagon. “I’ll get to work,” she said, “but you might want to head into Yellow Creek.”

“Why?”

“Because four hundred Riflejacks just showed up outside the town and Burt is getting mighty nervous.”

Vlora thought of the destruction and the rumors that must be swirling about her fight with the other powder mage. She then considered what Olem would do if he assumed her dead at the hands of a bunch of frontier ruffians. “Get started on the stone,” she shouted into her shoulder, sprinting for her horse. “I’ve got to stop a slaughter.”

Vlora spotted her soldiers from the entrance to Nighttime Vale. They’d taken up a position just on the edge of town, where they’d formed into two imposing ranks. Rifles were still shouldered, which was a good sign, but she knew better than anyone how quickly the Riflejacks could open fire from a ready position.

She wasn’t able to see what they were up against until she was almost upon them. Galloping down the main avenue, she steered her horse through toppled carts across bloody cobbles – the aftermath of the fighting between Jezzy’s and Burt’s gangs – and arrived to find about three hundred hired guns and prospectors strung out across rooftops, shop fronts, and barricaded roads. There were about thirty yards between the Riflejacks and the city’s would-be defenders. The Riflejacks had the numbers and the training, but the defenders held the high defensive positions. If this went south, it would go very poorly for both sides.

Vlora leapt from the saddle and crossed a short barricade to where Burt and Olem stood facing each other in the open space between the two forces. “Wait!”

Olem looked up with a surprised expression that passed quickly to relief and then stoicism. Burt let out a heavy sigh and gestured to Vlora as she arrived.

“See?” Burt said. “I told you she was fine the last time I saw her.”

Vlora remembered lying in the dirt, facedown, after her duel with Nohan. “Fine” seemed like a stretch, but she let it pass. “Stand down,” she ordered. “Both of you.”

Olem regarded Burt with a long, thoughtful look, then swept his gaze across the assembled defenders. “We’ll stand down when they stand down.”

Vlora swore under her breath and turned to Burt. “This doesn’t have to escalate.”

“I’d really rather it not,” Burt replied coolly. “The colonel here was just informing me that he would take apart Yellow Creek stick by stick to find you. I told him that was entirely unnecessary. You and I had a deal.”

“And it still stands, right?” Vlora fixed Burt with a long, hard look.

“It still stands.” Burt gestured to the city. “Thanks to you, and one of Jezzy’s men getting trigger-happy, this town belongs to me.” He scowled at Vlora, taking a step back to examine her shoulder and back. “The last time I saw you, you’d been shot.”

“Shot?” Olem echoed. “I thought you said she was fine?”

“Fine-ish.”

“Long story,” Vlora cut Burt off before he could say anything else. “But everyone needs to back off before one of your men loses their nerve and this turns into a pitched battle. Olem, order the Riflejacks to fall back. Burt, will a half mile be sufficient to cool everyone’s temper?”

“It will.” Burt gave a magnanimous smile. “In the meantime, would you join me for a drink? I think the three of us need to talk. Now.”

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

Vlora took a whiskey from Burt and glanced at Olem, uncertain. They sat around Burt’s desk in the office above his brothel. The building was empty except for the three of them – everyone else putting out fires, sifting through the ashes, or fighting over Jezzy’s unguarded claims. Vlora wondered why Burt wasn’t out there overseeing the whole thing. “Have we met before?”

Burt offered Olem a cigarette and took his own seat, letting out a soft laugh. “We have. About twelve years ago.”

“I only first came to Fatrasta a couple years back,” Vlora said with some confusion.

“That doesn’t mean I haven’t been to Adro.”

Vlora frowned. Palo were quite rare in the Nine. A decade ago they were still considered mysterious savages by polite society. “When?”

“Jilleman University,” Burt said.

Vlora leaned forward, squinting at Burt’s face. She searched her memory for a few moments before locking on to something. “I did meet a Palo. My first year. I don’t remember his name, but …” She trailed off. Occasionally, a wealthy Palo chieftain would send a favored child to the Nine to get a Kressian education. Sometimes a whole tribe would pool their wealth to do the same. Vlora remembered one of the former – a boy, quite young with an optimistic face who’d paraded around in frontier buckskins and spoke Adran with an accent so bad it was laughable. She tried to reconcile that boy with the suave frontier capitalist sitting across from her.

Burt grinned, watching her face. “You do remember!”

“Your name wasn’t Burt. I would have remembered that.”

“No.” Burt looked up as if searching his memory. “I don’t even remember what I went by. Something unpronounceable.”

“So you weren’t really a chieftain’s son?” Vlora asked.

“That, more or less, was true. Most of the details were either foggy or outright lies.”

Olem stood with an unlit cigarette between his fingers. “Why the deception?”

“We’ll get to that,” Burt said, lighting a cigar before tossing Olem a box of matches. “First, you should know that both Lindet and the Dynize know that you’re here, and why you’ve come. Lindet’s Second Field Army was wiped out in three successive battles a couple weeks back, so she’s in no position to send anyone after you. The Dynize, however, have five brigades on your tail. I’m guessing they’ll be here in four days.”