Брайан Макклеллан - Wrath of Empire

“Some of you know me from old,” Styke began, shouting to be heard across the field. “Some of you have already ridden under my command at Landfall. And some of you signed on just in the last few days, in which case you will come to know me soon. But for every one of you here today my name is Ben Styke, and I am your new colonel.”

A thousand pairs of eyes watched him silently. Someone in the back cheered, but quickly fell silent.

“I understand that most of you are here for the money, that you followed Lady Flint across the ocean in return for riches, so she is the one who holds your loyalty.” Styke held up a finger. “Flint has given us one mission, and has cut us loose. Your soul belongs to her, but your bodies belong to me. When I tell you to slaughter, you slaughter. When I tell you to burn, you burn. When I say charge, you charge. Anyone who has a problem with that can slink back to her right now and explain that you don’t want to follow orders.”

No one moved.

“Good.” Styke continued. “We will ride hard every day. We will train every day. We will treat our horses with respect. If you fall behind, we will not coddle you – but we will not abandon you, either. You will be taught to keep up. It doesn’t matter whether you are a cuirassier or a dragoon or a lancer, or a farmer, or an accountant. From this day forward, you are a Mad Lancer.

“Mad Lancers are as kind to our allies as we are cruel to our enemies. We take in the broken and we turn them into warriors. We crush those who think themselves invincible. We thrive on the ravages of war. The Mad Lancers protect Fatrasta – even from itself. When all this is over, Lady Flint has assured me that all the survivors will be rich. But mark my words: If you disobey my orders, I will kill you myself.”

Styke took a long moment to enjoy the irony of a man famous for ignoring his superiors expecting unquestioning obedience from his own cavalry, before continuing on in a shout: “Welcome to the Mad Lancers. We ride as brothers and sisters. We die as brothers and sisters. Let’s move out!”

He turned immediately to Ibana and Gustar, noting that Celine had woken up during his speech and was looking around groggily. “How was that?”

“Could have been better,” Ibana said.

“Go to the pit,” Styke told her.

“A bit more violent than my boys are used to,” Gustar commented. “But I like it.”

“They’ll learn,” Styke warned. “We aren’t knights in shining armor. We’re killers.”

“Adrans have few hang-ups about war,” Gustar assured him.

Ibana sighed. “I miss my old armor.” She thumped her Dynize breastplate. “This won’t even stop a good rifle shot.”

“Quit your whining. It’ll turn a sword or a bayonet. Until we can find out where Lindet stashed our armor, this is the best we’ve got.”

Ibana perked up. “We’re going looking for it?”

“It’s on my list,” Styke said. He didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up – he wasn’t entirely certain that Lindet hadn’t destroyed it like she said – but he also had a feeling it was floating around in a Blackhat armory somewhere. If it was on the west coast, he was going to find it. “Get the men moving,” he told Gustar. “We’ll head north two more miles, then cut through the refugee camp and go west. I’d like to skirt them entirely but that would take too long, so we’ll have to be well on our way before Holm has any idea we passed through.”

Gustar snapped a salute and rode off, shouting for the men to form columns.

“We’ve got a lot of new volunteers,” Styke said, looking over the cavalry. “Are you sure you’re going to be able to whip them into shape?”

Ibana scoffed. “You may be an old cripple, but I’m in the prime of my life. If we turned farmers and dockhands into cavalry during the Fatrastan War, we can do it now.” She paused for a moment. “I’m surprised you said yes to this. That eager to be cut loose?”

Styke considered the question for several moments, looking down at Celine, who was content to watch the activity without comment. “The longer we stick around, the more likely it’ll be that Flint and I come to blows. I don’t want that to happen.”

“Sure.”

“But it’s not just that. Flint has sent us west. What’s to the west?”

Ibana shrugged.

Styke held up three fingers. “Bad Tenny Wiles, Valyaine, and Dvory.”

A wicked little smile crossed Ibana’s face.

Styke continued. “I figure there’s a pretty good chance we come across those bastards while we look for this thing for Lady Flint – and I really like the idea of mixing business and revenge.”

Michel spent the next few days after losing his safe house trying to ascertain just how much damage had been done. He left notes for Hendres at preordained drop points, tried to chase down a handful of trusted contacts, and stewed in his own frustration at a small hovel on the edge of Greenfire Depths – the first address on Taniel’s list of resources.

He was just about to give up hope that Hendres had escaped the Dynize when he found a note at one of the drop points. Still alive. Safe house compromised. Meet at 14 Laural Way, 2 p.m. Will wait for two days. Hendres’s neat handwriting was unmistakable.

The meeting spot was in a posh area of Landfall called Middle Heights. Before the invasion, it was the favored locale of the Fatrastan elite. The streets were wide and cobbled, lined with immense townhouses, with every street corner lit by gaslight during the night. There were museums, theaters, and fine restaurants – even Michel’s favorite whorehouse was in Middle Heights, though he could rarely afford it.

Since the invasion, everything had changed. Middle Heights was practically a ghost town. Homes and businesses were boarded up in a vain attempt to prevent looting. Only about one in ten residences was still occupied, and the big public buildings were either guarded by Dynize soldiers or had been taken over by squatters.

Rumor had it that the Dynize planned on moving their own low-level bureaucracy into the mansions of Middle Heights, but so far there was only an average Dynize presence in the area.

Michel headed to the indicated meeting spot an hour early and did a slow walk around the block. Fourteen Laural Way was a big theater – only a few years old, it was the pride of some Brudanian investors, with an immense stone facade decorated by gargoyles and columns. The newspapers spoke much about the mazelike tunnels beneath the main stage with state-of-the-art lever-and-pulley systems that would allow actors to descend from the catwalks or pop up from the floor anywhere onstage.

There was graffiti on the outside walls admonishing the Dynize invaders in Palo, and the tents of homeless squatters covered the immense floor of the columned front portico.

Michel walked through the tents, glancing in at the faces. They were mostly Palo – refugees from the fires in Greenfire Depths – and no one questioned him as he passed. He tried the front door to find it barricaded from inside, then headed around to the alleyways, his eyes sharp for Dynize soldiers, though it soon became clear that he needn’t worry. The Dynize had clearly decided to ignore this place, at least for now.

Michel did a second circuit of the block, eyeing the squatters and checking the windows and roofs of the nearby townhouses before heading back around to the front steps and settling down to wait. Thirty minutes passed, then an hour, and it was almost two thirty before he finally spotted Hendres hurrying down the street toward him.