Брайан Макклеллан - Wrath of Empire

Styke stared at the ground, letting the tip of his knife fall to the dirt and slowly scratching it back and forth to create parallel lines. He knew he should be doing something, but he didn’t know what. Ibana would inform the men. Gustar would leave. The Mad Lancers would carry on.

He tried to tell himself that the godstone had been a long shot anyway. That even if they’d found it, there was no guarantee Ka-poel could dampen its power. That this whole mistake – this misled party, teetering on the edge of the continent – was Ka-poel’s fault.

So why did he feel so strongly like a failure?

He felt a small hand on his arm. Celine took him by the wrist, forcing him to sit up, then moved his arm to one side so she could sit on his knee. He had a hard time meeting her gaze.

“Ka-poel is sorry,” Celine said.

Styke didn’t answer her.

“I don’t think …” Celine trailed off, then took a deep breath. “I don’t think she is certain of herself. She acts confident, but I think she scares herself.”

“In what way?” Styke asked petulantly.

“Her strength. That thing she did to the cuirassiers in the forest –”

Styke looked up sharply, cutting her off. “How did you know about that?”

“She told me. She told me that she has controlled men before – even hundreds at a time – but that she’s never enthralled them like that. She needed answers and took control of them, and she told me that it scared her.”

“Why would she tell you this?” Styke asked, trying to decide if this was some sort of manipulation.

Celine didn’t even have to consider the question. She frowned at Styke as if the answer was obvious. “Because she is lonely. I’m the only one she has to talk to. The soldiers are frightened of her, and you treat her like a tool. Her love is on the other side of the continent, fighting for his life, and she wants to be at his side, where she can protect him.”

Styke thought of their meeting outside of Landfall, when he had accepted the commission in the Riflejacks and had sent out the order to gather the Mad Lancers. He had waited in that small town, wondering if his old comrades would come when he called, and she had appeared. She had smeared his forehead with blood and then vanished on the wind.

He touched his forehead.

Celine didn’t miss the gesture. “She marked you.”

“With her sorcery?”

“In a way. She says she will not try to control you. That she is not sure if she can.”

“Then why did she mark me?”

“As her protector. Like Taniel.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re one of the good ones.”

Styke almost laughed. He shook his head, looking at Celine’s earnest face. “I’m not one of the good ones, my girl. You’ve seen it with your own eyes. I’m no one’s protector.”

“But you protect Fatrasta.”

“That’s different. It’s a continent, an idea, not a person …” He trailed off. “I’m not going to argue semantics with you.”

Celine took his hand in hers. “You protect me. Back in the camps, and since. Sunin says that you would break a mountain over your shoulders to protect me, and I believe her.”

Styke’s eyes were suddenly misty. He dragged his sleeves across his face. “I would.”

“So? Ka-poel is alone. You are all that stands between her and the Dynize. She may be powerful, but she is fragile, too. Halt the sea. Break a mountain. Be her protector, too.” Celine leaned forward and kissed Styke on the cheek, then slid out of his lap and pulled on his hand in the direction of the camp.

Styke stared at the blade of his knife. “We should ride off. Tonight, when everyone is asleep. I can take you to the Nine and build us a house in the mountains and let you be a kid for a few years. This isn’t a place for you.”

“I know,” Celine said seriously. “We can do that when this is over. I want you to teach me about all the horses.”

“Shit,” Styke said, climbing to his feet. The hopelessness still weighed him down, clutching at his muscles like a punch to the gut. He walked hand in hand with Celine, gesturing to Ibana to follow and heading toward where the Riflejacks were in the middle of repacking their gear. Ka-poel stood next to Gustar, holding her slate and bit of chalk. The two glanced up at Styke as he approached. Styke pointed at Ka-poel. “I’m still pissed at you. But I made a promise, and I’ll damn well keep it. Gustar, the only place we’re going to find enough ships to get to Dynize is New Starlight. Tell your men to set up camp. We’ll need a lot of rest if we’re to assault the fortress.”

“It’s almost ready.”

Vlora didn’t acknowledge Flerring, not immediately. She was watching the preparations around the godstone from a safe distance – the other side of Nighttime Vale. She resisted the urge to reply, It took you long enough . Three days had passed since the Riflejacks had arrived and Burt had given her his blessing. Three of the four days that it would take twenty-five thousand Dynize infantry to catch up with them. They had gone well past their threshold of “make a clean escape” and had fallen to “hope the Dynize are sufficiently confused by the destruction of the godstone that we can slip away in the chaos.”

Vlora finally turned her eyes to Flerring to find her vigorously scratching one arm.

“The thing makes my skin itch,” Flerring explained.

“Right. That’s why I’ve kept my distance. Is this going to work?”

“No reason it won’t,” Flerring replied.

“We packed its brother with enough powder to level a city without causing a scratch.”

Flerring snorted. “See, there’s your problem. You just cover it in black powder and light the damn thing, most of the explosive force will be lost going in every direction except toward the item itself. That’s like trying to knock down a wall by throwing the artillery piece at it.” She smiled across the valley toward the godstone, an expression that Vlora imagined had been on her face on more than one occasion while sizing up an enemy general. “No, we’ve used every ounce of blasting oil we had left. We turned it into a gel and applied it to the nooks and crannies. We’ve timed seven different explosions to occur in split-second intervals. This is top science, Vlora. God sorcery can eat my shit.”

“I would rather not invite that kind of hubris,” Vlora replied. Her soldiers were literally lined up outside of town, waiting for the order to head north double time if the godstone was destroyed. If the blasting oil had no effect, her second plan was also ready to be put into motion – all of her engineers standing by with the necessary equipment to lift the godstone onto a series of heavy-duty carts to drag it out of town.

And if that didn’t work? Prime Lektor would bring the mountain down on top of the godstone and then stick around to hide it from the approaching Dynize army.

She had planned for everything – she hoped – and in a few minutes she would know what needed to happen next.

A fear in the back of her head told her that something would go wrong. That the Dynize, whom Olem’s scouts had already spotted, would arrive twelve hours ahead of schedule. Or that the blasting oil would cause some sort of sorcerous backlash that would kill them all. Or that they’d be forced to run with the godstone and the Dynize would be upon them within days, slaughtering her outnumbered men.

“I don’t believe in hubris,” Flerring said, breaking the silence.

Vlora turned and looked at her, staring just long enough for Flerring to become visibly uncomfortable. “Please never say that again.”