Брайан Макклеллан - Wrath of Empire

“What the pit is going on?” Willen demanded, looking up at the high towers now firing nonstop toward the ocean. “Who are manning those towers? What the pit are they firing at?”

Styke sawed at the reins, Amrec dancing eagerly beneath him. “Dvory has betrayed us. Those towers are manned by Dynize, and they’re firing at a Fatrastan fleet.”

“You must be joking.” Willen was slack-jawed.

“Serious as pit. I just watched Lindet arrive. Dvory has captured her and now aims to sink her fleet. Unless my guess is wrong, he’ll turn the citadel guns on the Third within moments and …” Styke trailed off, realizing that the citadel guns would only make a dent in the fifty thousand men camped so close. The Third had some cannon and scaling ladders, and though they’d lose thousands, they would still be able to take the citadel. Dvory wasn’t that stupid. He had to have backup somewhere. “Your scouts! Have they reported anything suspicious?”

Willen began to sweat visibly. “One of the outriders just came back with word of a large Dynize force nearby. He didn’t see them, just their trail.”

“How far?” Styke demanded.

“A few miles off.”

“Damn it all, get everything in order. Turn your guns and ladders on the towers and hit them hard and fast.”

“Our generals,” Willen objected, pointing at the citadel. Realization dawned on his face.

“They’ve either betrayed you or been betrayed themselves,” Styke roared. “The colonels are in command now, Willen. Make it count!” He finally loosened his grip on the reins and Amrec was off like a shot, galloping through the camp and out onto the plains within minutes. By the time he reached the Mad Lancers’ camp hidden behind the hills two miles to the south, the entire company had already packed and was on horseback.

Ibana and Gustar met him in the center of the gathered cavalry. “Starlight’s guns are firing,” Ibana called.

Styke answered with a nod. “Either Dvory has betrayed Fatrasta, or the Dynize have tricked everyone. Lindet is in the citadel, either dead or a prisoner, and they are firing on her fleet.”

“Pit.” Ibana gasped. “A shitload has happened in the last few hours.”

“You have no idea. What do our scouts say?”

Gustar cut in. “There’s a Dynize field army lurking out there. We think they screened themselves from us and the Third by circling the Hock.”

“Shit.” Styke wasn’t sure whether not running into that army was a curse or a blessing. “They’re going to smash the Third against the Starlight citadel while the towers pulverize their rear.”

There was a long silence, and Styke listened to the report of cannon fire in the distance. With Lindet captured and the Third destroyed, the Dynize would have free rein through the Hammer. They could surge north, take Redstone and the eastern coast, and Fatrasta was lost.

“Do we help or run?” Ibana asked.

Styke looked from Gustar to Ibana. He could see that they both had just had the same thought as he.

“I wouldn’t mind letting Lindet rot in a Dynize cell,” Ibana mused.

“I can’t disagree,” Gustar grunted.

Styke tried to agree with them. Ten years in the camps. Torture, starvation, and hopelessness. Lindet deserved to reap what she had given him, but Styke also knew that without Lindet, Fatrasta was doomed.

And no matter how much she deserved it, he couldn’t leave his sister to such a fate.

“Ibana, you’re with me,” he said. “Give me twenty of our best fighters. Wrap their carbines in wax cloth and make sure everyone has a good knife. Gustar, the Dynize will either arrive with the storm and attack at night, or first thing in the morning. Either way, I want the Mad Lancers to wait until the Dynize have engaged the Third and then hit them in the flank. Can you lead a night charge, in the rain?”

“That’s suicidal,” Gustar muttered.

“Can you?”

“I can.”

“Good. You have command of the Mad Lancers. Ibana, tell Sunin to take Celine south and get her off the continent if the battle goes badly. Then find me my fighters. And bring me the bone-eye.”

Styke, Ibana, Jackal, Ka-poel, and two dozen of the old core of the Mad Lancers galloped into the camp of the Third Army. Chaos still reigned as a heavy wind blew in from the ocean and the black clouds approached. Outside the curtain wall, officers attempted to form up their companies to face an as-yet-unseen enemy from the mainland, while inside the curtain wall crews attempted to bring their cannons to bear on the citadel towers.

Styke didn’t spot Willen as they rode through, but he did see that the Dynize had finally showed themselves on the citadel walls. Sharpshooters on both sides exchanged fire, while gun crews on the interior towers worked to bring their own artillery to fire point-blank at the soldiers at the foot of the walls. A few courageous officers led charges with ladders, only to be raked by musket fire from above.

He rode past all of this, ignoring the mighty blasts as the citadel cannon opened fire, closing his ears to the screams of the Third as grapeshot fell among them like rain. He leaned into Amrec’s neck, urging him faster, and listened to the pounding of hooves as they skirted the base of the citadel wall.

“Here!” he bellowed, leaping from Amrec as they reached the groundskeeper’s trail at the north end of the citadel. His lancers dismounted, fetching their wrapped carbines, knives, and swords.

Ibana looked uneasily at the base of the citadel. “It’s going to rain soon. It’ll be damned suicide to scale this wall in good weather. Pit, Ben, we haven’t scaled a wall for a decade.”

“We’re not scaling it,” Styke said, wrapping his own carbine tightly and making sure his knife was secured at his waist. “We’re going around and under. The wax cloth isn’t for the rain – it’s for the ocean.”

Ibana took a half step back, her chin rising. “Pit,” she breathed. “You want to fight your way up the inside of a fortified citadel?”

“That’s what I said.”

She looked around at their comrades. “We should have brought everyone.”

“Too many bodies,” Styke replied, throwing his carbine over his shoulder. “Jackal, what do the spirits tell you about what’s inside?”

Jackal pointed at Ka-poel. “She’s too close. I have one gibbering mad spirit sitting on my shoulder telling me we’re all going to join him. The rest have fled.”

“I always knew the dead were useless.” Styke crossed to Ka-poel, lowering himself to one knee so that they were eye to eye. She regarded him coolly, her face placid, and he thought he saw a hint of violence in her eyes. “Can you help us in there?” he asked.

She tapped the machete strapped to her thigh.

“No,” Styke said, taking his knife and stabbing his own palm with the tip of the blade. He put his knife away and dabbed at the blood, holding out his stained fingers to her. “This. Can you help us with this? Protection, strength, speed – can you give me anything?”

Ka-poel hesitated. Slowly, she reached out and touched his bleeding palm. She drew back, pressing the blood to her lips, then gave him a nod.

“Good.”

Styke stepped to the edge of the cliff, looking down the groundskeeper’s path. Ibana joined him. “Are you sure about this?” she asked.

Styke thought of the times they’d charged into enemy cannonades or been unhorsed in the middle of a sea of bayonets. He thought of his old horse, Deshnar, and the power flowing through his muscles as they charged twenty times their number at the Battle of Landfall. He tried to wonder if he’d ever hesitated, if he’d ever shown the weakness that he now felt as he considered fighting his way through a fortress of Dynize.