Брайан Макклеллан - Wrath of Empire

“You’re making a lot of demands for a mercenary.”

“You didn’t hear what I just said. I have a mercenary army, but I represent Adro in this matter. And you have a look on your face that seems awfully uncertain for someone hoping for my help. I’m ready to go home right now, Taniel. Take it or leave it.”

Taniel looked to Ka-poel, and the two shared a long, silent gaze. “Taken,” Taniel said with finality.

Vlora swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. She wished she had a few days to sleep on the decision. She wished she had a bigger, healthier army. And she wished she didn’t feel like events were about to spiral out of her control.

“What are you going to do about these armies we’re pinned between?” Taniel asked.

“Olem,” Vlora said, “when is dawn?”

“Two hours or so.”

“And what will the weather be like?”

“We’ve had a chilly night. Same as last night, and yesterday morning we had a thick fog until ten. I don’t see things being different today.”

Vlora took the pins out of her maps and began to roll them up carefully. “Get everyone moving. I want us on track to be gone within two hours.”

“And you think the Fatrastans and Dynize are just going to let you leave?” Taniel asked flatly. “I understand both are looking for your head.”

“Fog will give us a head start,” Vlora said. “The rest … well, I have an idea. Olem, I want to see Styke, Gustar, and my senior officer corps. Vallencian, too. I think he crossed the river, so you’ll have to do that quietly. Now, get out of here so I can write some letters.”

Dawn was almost upon them, and Vlora stood by her horse and watched as the rest of her camp vanished before her eyes. Soldiers finished packing their kit, officers kept things orderly, and quartermasters examined the wagons of supplies they’d managed to bring over from the Fatrastan camp followers in the darkness.

The fog Olem had predicted was thinner than she would have liked. It would mask their movements, but for only so long – within hours both the Dynize and Fatrastans would know that she’d given them the slip. The question Vlora needed answered most of all was whether they would turn their focus on one another, or whether either general was dogmatic enough to come for her.

A familiar figure appeared through the gloom, torch held high over his head, the scrap of bearskin still clinging to his shoulders. Vallencian Habbabberden, known more widely as the Ice Baron, was nothing short of a walking miracle. He’d saved the Battle of Landfall by riding his merchant ships out on the tide to crash into and sow chaos among the Dynize fleet. Somehow, he’d managed to swim back to shore against the currents and recover from half drowning, only to be on his feet again to help with the evacuation of the city. He’d spent every moment since then as a whirlwind through the refugee camp, redistributing supplies, breaking up fights, tending to the sick, and organizing former small-time politicians into a genuine leadership for the refugees.

Vallencian had grown gaunt since they’d first met in Landfall a couple of months ago. He’d lost weight, his hair had grayed at the edges and remained uncombed, and his face seemed fixed by a frustrated scowl.

“You’re leaving,” he said brusquely.

“We are.”

“Does General Holm know? I’ve been a guest of hers for the last day and she is very intent on presenting you to Lindet.”

Vlora produced a letter she had written less than an hour ago and offered it to Vallencian. “She will when you give her this letter.”

Vallencian stared down his nose at the paper and did not reach for it. After a long moment’s consideration, he said in a low voice, “Don’t leave me with them.”

“Excuse me?” Vlora was shocked to hear genuine dismay in his tone. “Are they mistreating you?”

“Quite the opposite. Holm has assigned me an entourage. I think she’s having me watched. I had to pretend I needed a shit just to sneak out of my tent when your summons came. They’re making me sleep in a real bed. And these damned refugees are trying to elect me as mayor of this moving city we have gathered.”

Despite her frayed nerves, Vlora had to stifle a smile. “I can’t think of anyone better suited.”

“I could name a dozen in a single breath. Probably a hundred if you give me the chance to think.” Vallencian paced, gesturing as he spoke. “These refugees don’t need a mayor, and Holm has no intention of allowing it. They’ll be split up and sent to whatever towns and cities can take them, as quickly as can be managed. I have no interest in being the general’s guest and I have no interest in being bullied into a position of leadership.”

“I thought you had taken well to helping …”

Vallencian stopped his pacing long enough to shake a thick finger beneath her nose. “ Helping! ” he exclaimed. “Not leading. I’m a reluctant businessman at best. I will not be a politician.”

“You’re very good with people,” Vlora ventured. “They could use your help, at least until this refugee camp has been dissolved.”

“Absolutely not. I will come with you, Lady Flint.”

Vlora resisted the urge to point out he hadn’t been invited. “You won’t stay with them? At least for a few weeks?”

“No.”

“Even if I request it personally?”

Vallencian came to a stop and turned toward her cautiously. “Why would you want me to stay with them? Are you trying to get rid of me?”

Vlora could think of nothing more pleasurable or frustrating than the idea of having Vallencian along on Taniel’s mission. “I swear I am not. I know that you have done much for me – you damned well ended the Battle of Landfall – but I need a personal favor.”

“I sacrificed my ships for Fatrasta,” Vallencian declared. “I would not humble myself to claim a favor for such an act. In fact, I intend on charging Lindet for those ships, and the revenue I’ve lost from their destruction.”

“Reluctant businessman indeed,” Vlora murmured. “Vallencian, I have about seven hundred men who are too wounded to march. I have discharged them from the company so they won’t be treated as enemy combatants, but I need someone to care for them – to advocate for them – and if need be, to protect them.”

Vallencian drew himself up, chest puffing out. “And you would trust me with such a task?”

“If it’s not too …”

“Too much? It would be an honor!”

Vlora saw the movement too late. “Vallencian, don’t … hug me.” She found herself crushed against his broad chest, then thrust back at arm’s length like a father examining his daughter on her wedding day. His face was red, his lips pressed in a tight line.

“Please don’t cry,” Vlora said.

“I won’t.” Vallencian’s voice cracked, and he dabbed at the corners of his eyes with his bearskin. Vlora tried to reconcile the avenging angel piloting burning ships into the enemy fleet with the man standing before her on the edge of tears. “I won’t,” he said with more confidence. “But I will have you know that I accept this task, and I will take it very seriously. Your wounded soldiers will not be neglected or used as bargaining chips or in any way mistreated while I still live.”

Vlora wondered if there was a more genuine man in the entire world, and had no doubt that he would do as promised. “Some will die from their wounds,” she said quietly. “Some will be cripples for life. Hopefully more will recover fully. You can send them on to New Adopest to take a ship home where they can claim their pension. If they are hale, they can come find me.”

“You’re not going back to Adro?” Vallencian’s eyes narrowed curiously.