Брайан Макклеллан - Wrath of Empire

“Finish it, Styke,” Tenny said. “Don’t make me linger. It’s not your style. Drag me into those woods over there. Finish the job. Just don’t do it in front of them.”

Styke frowned at Celine. The girl’s head was cocked to the side as if she were watching a butcher about to cut up a side of beef. He felt conflicted, that war between his lust for vengeance and the sickness brought on by killing his own men. Celine scowled at him, clearly finding something amiss.

Styke bowed his head. Tenny deserved to die, no question about that. But Styke couldn’t help but hesitate. He took a deep breath, let out a sigh, and tapped Tenny’s collarbone with the tip of his knife again.

“Get that arm set and wrapped,” he heard himself say softly as he stood. “The Dynize are close by. If you leave by sundown, you might outrun their scouts. The river valley is choked with refugees, so you’ll want to go southwest.”

“What are you doing?” Tenny gasped. He tried to sit up, voice dripping with suspicion.

“I’m not gonna skin an old comrade in front of his own household. Even if you deserve it. Get out of here, Tenny. Change your name. You should probably leave the country. If Ibana ever finds you, she’ll turn you into a rug.” Styke sheathed his knife and headed back to Celine. He took Amrec’s reins.

“I thought you were gonna skin him,” Celine said.

“Nobody likes a bloodthirsty little git,” Styke said, swinging into the saddle. Celine climbed up in front of him.

“I’m not bloodthirsty,” she protested. “I was just curious. Why didn’t you kill him?”

Styke took her by the shoulder. He searched her eyes for eagerness or disappointment. Finding neither, he flipped the reins. “Hardest thing a soldier can do is leave the killing behind him. Tenny didn’t sell me out for money or power. He sold me out for a better life. Shitty thing to do, but he went somewhere he couldn’t hear the hooves and the cannons and became a good husband to a fat little country girl. He did what I should have done twenty-five years ago.”

“So you’re just gonna let him go?”

“I’m just gonna let him go,” Styke confirmed. The rage still burned in his chest, but that queasiness was now gone. “I’ve got plenty of killing to do. One less mark on my knife handle won’t make a difference. Just don’t tell Ibana.”

The rolling plains of southern Fatrasta turned into the foothills of the Ironhook Mountains as Vlora and Taniel rode north ahead of the army. They followed the banks of the Hadshaw for nearly three hundred miles, pushing themselves and their spare horses hard before cutting west and heading into the mountains.

The roads became narrower, climbing steep hills and crossing deep ravines over bridges that became increasingly untrustworthy. Farmsteads gave way to forests of towering pines as they left behind the regular villages.

Progress grew slower and slower as the terrain sharpened. The depth of the forest gave Vlora a sense of foreboding. More than swamps of the Tristan Basin, this land felt as if it were on the edge of civilization, isolated and wild, a place where she could scream for ten miles of road and no one would hear her. They bought supplies from the infrequent logging camps and express depots, and it took them almost seven days to reach the outskirts of Yellow Creek.

The county limits were marked by a flatboard nailed to a stick, written in charcoal, and guarded by a rough-cut log tower with two men armed with rifles. The guards watched them approach, but did not hail them or comment on their passing.

Vlora turned in her saddle to look back at them as she passed. “Not much of a guard post.”

“They aren’t looking for Kressians,” Taniel said.

This should have surprised Vlora. “Palo?”

“Definitely Palo. Kressians out here stick together – they have to, or the Palo war parties will pick them apart.”

“I didn’t know there still were aggressive tribes this close to the coast. We’re just a few hundred miles from Landfall.”

Taniel looked up to watch a circling buzzard. “There are a handful of independent tribes on this side of the Ironhook, but they all have treaties with Lindet in order to ensure their survival. The problem is expeditions from the other side of the mountains.”

“Then why was that guard post way down here? Why wasn’t it up in the mountains?”

Taniel grinned at her. “You ever try to explain the difference between groups of Palo to the average Fatrastan?”

“No.”

“That kind of nuance is lost on most people. A Palo is a Palo, regardless of where they come from. If Palo from across the mountains attack the trade routes to and from Yellow Creek, the townspeople just assume it was one of the neighboring tribes.” Taniel tapped the side of his head. “People desperate enough to come out here to settle the frontier don’t always have the best critical-thinking skills. It’s easier to shoot first and ask questions later.”

Vlora spotted a cabin at the top of a nearby gully – the first sign of settlement she’d seen in twenty miles. A few minutes later, she spotted another one. “Damn near getting crowded now,” she muttered to herself. “So these Palo coming across the mountains … are they from the Palo Nation?”

“Almost certainly.”

“I thought you said they were different. More civilized.”

Taniel considered this for a moment. “The Palo Nation is complicated. They have no interest in having what happened to the southern Palo happen to them. So they sit behind the mountains and send raids. They scout, they kill and steal. They do what’s expected of them, because they don’t want Lindet to suspect that they are anything more than an upstart tribe.”

“Then, what are they?”

Taniel looked at her seriously. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

“They’re a republic.”

Vlora scoffed. “You’re joking.”

“Not at all.”

“A bona fide republic?”

Taniel nodded, and Vlora found herself struggling with the idea. She’d fought the Palo up in the Tristan Basin. They weren’t stupid by any means, but their tribal societies didn’t have room for a concept like republicanism. They lived year to year, fighting among themselves, in a place where survival of the strongest was the rule. She’d always considered advanced forms of government a “civilized” luxury.

“How do you know?” she asked.

“I lived with them for a while.” He pulled off his glove, showing her the reddened skin of his right hand. “Who do you think funds the Red Hand?”

“I assumed it was leftists in Landfall.”

“Some of it, sure. But the Palo Nation loves having Lindet run around after freedom fighters instead of pushing closer to their territory.”

“Does she have any idea about any of this?”

“Honestly, I can say that this is one of the few things Lindet doesn’t actually know.”

Vlora imagined the look on Lindet’s face when she found out that there was a literal Palo Nation just on the other side of the Ironhooks. “Aren’t there explorers?”

“Plenty. But Kressians don’t last long beyond the Ironhooks.”

“Oh? Then how did you?”

Taniel’s face soured. “I was with Ka-poel, for one. For another …” He trailed off.

“Yeah?”

“I had to murder a small army in self-defense to get them to leave me alone.”

Vlora quickly dropped that line of questioning. Her attention shifted to the larger number of paths diverging off the main road into the forest, and then a small family they passed driving a wagon the opposite direction. The one wagon became two, then four, then ten. It was the most traffic they’d seen since leaving the Riflejacks behind.