Брайан Макклеллан - Wrath of Empire

The last two words made Vlora want to punch him really hard. Instead, she forced a smile on her face. “And what are you doing in my room?”

“Recruiting,” the one called Dorner said in a deep growl. “You’re unaligned, and nobody in this town with a sword is allowed to be unaligned.”

“And which one of these clubs do you idiots belong to?” Vlora asked. She leaned back against the door, slumping casually, her hands within easy reach of both her weapons.

Dorner drew himself up. “We’re Jezzy’s Shovels, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll sign up with us tonight.”

“What Dorner means,” the man leaning on the wall said, “is that Jezzy pays the best, and she’s not a greasy Palo. We’ll pay a hundred a week for your sword and we’ll give you a place to bunk.”

Vlora pretended to consider. “Not interested,” she finally said.

Dorner loomed closer. “Excuse me?”

“I said I’m not interested. I came up here for some easy work guarding a mine or a caravan. This city is hot as a powder barrel over a fire and I’m not interested in getting into some stupid turf war.”

“Listen, bitch,” Dorner growled, “you’re either with us or against us. You can –”

Vlora’s palm hit him beneath the chin, snapping his neck back and spraying her face with blood. He stumbled back, crimson pouring out of his mouth. He spat half his tongue onto the floor and immediately began to scream, pawing at his face.

The man by the window rounded the bed, drawing a cudgel, but even without a powder trance Vlora was faster. She punched him hard in the gut, doubling him over, then slammed his head against the wall hard enough to put him out cold. In the same motion she drew her pistol, pointing it at the man leaning against the wall. His hand fell away from his sword.

“You tell your boss,” Vlora said, “that I’m not interested in playing in a turf war. I don’t give a shit about your sides, and I’d like to be left alone until I see fit to check out of this fine establishment. Is that civilized enough for you?”

The man raised his hands, palms out. “I get it, I get it.”

“You were polite, so I’m not gonna smash your face in. Take your asshole friends and get out.”

The man pushed his now tongueless companion out the door, leaving so quickly that they forgot their third member lying unconscious on the floor. Vlora stared down at the prone figure and sighed, putting her pistol back in her belt. She reached down and took him by the hair, dragging him out the door and down the hall, then down the stairs while the entire great hall watched in silence.

Taniel sat in the corner, head in his hands, while Vlora dragged the body up to the manager’s podium. The squirrelly little man stared at her, eyes wide. “Is … is … is … there something I can do for you, ma’am?” he stuttered.

“You can leave this guy somewhere until he wakes up,” Vlora said. “He shouldn’t be out more than a minute or two. Send someone up to my room with fresh linens and to clean the blood and the bit of tongue off my floor.” Vlora took a handkerchief out of her pocket and wiped the red spatter off her face.

“Did you say ‘tongue’?”

“I did. And if you’d be so kind as to not sell my comings and goings to the town big bosses, I’ll be kind enough not to feed you your own toes. Good night.”

Styke pored over a map by the light of a single oil lantern while the camp around him settled into the silence of an army at rest. They were several miles north of Granalia and he’d finally gotten the chance to wash the blood from his skin and clothes, but the dragonman ambush was still fresh in his mind.

If the Mad Lancers had not arrived, those dragonmen would have killed him, Celine, and Ka-poel no matter how hard he fought. While he’d never particularly feared death, he knew from experience that dragonmen had no problem with harming children, and the idea that they would murder Celine without a second thought made him sick to his stomach. It was a disquieting feeling, fueling an indignant rage that kept him from being able to sleep.

The flaps of his tent were thrown back, breaking him out of his meditation, and Ibana’s face appeared in the opening. “Have a minute?” she asked.

Styke joined her by the coals of the fire, map still in hand. “You should sleep,” he said.

“Too much to do. You?”

“Harder to sleep since the labor camps.” Styke tapped one finger on the back of his Lancers’ ring and changed the subject. “How did your ride go? Doesn’t look like you saw any action.” It was the first time they’d had a chance to talk since their arrival had saved him from the dragonmen, and he needed to catch up.

“We didn’t,” Ibana confirmed. “We saw three armies – two Fatrastan and one Dynize – and a dozen scouting parties. But we managed to steer clear of any trouble. One thing of note: Lindet’s armies are stripping the land. Every town between here and Landfall that hasn’t been looted by the Dynize is being hit by Fatrastans. They’re taking harvests, emptying granaries, stealing wagons, weapons, and animals. Anything of use to the war effort is being swept up.”

“Conscription?”

“Everyone healthy between fourteen and sixty.”

“Pit.” Styke didn’t like the idea of conscription. Forcing someone to fight didn’t make them a warrior. But beyond his personal ideals, the fact that Lindet had already turned to conscription meant that she was worried about this war. “Next time you see soldiers stealing from Fatrastan citizens, string them up.”

Ibana’s eyebrows rose.

“What’s the point in fighting for people who will starve before winter?”

Ibana responded, “Lindet would argue that every resource left behind is one the Dynize will snatch up.”

“Then Lindet damn well needs to guard her citizens better.” Styke had a small sense of understanding: The Dynize landing all along the coast meant Lindet had to pick her battles. This was as bad or worse than the Revolution. But that didn’t make it right. “You’re recruiting?”

“Anyone who is strong enough to ride and hold a lance.”

“They know what we’re really up to?”

“They know that they’ll be left behind if they don’t follow orders. We added about a hundred and fifty to our numbers since you left to deal with Tenny Wiles.”

“Good enough, I suppose,” Styke said.

Ibana watched him sidelong. “How did that go, by the way?”

“It went well.”

Ibana opened her mouth as if to ask further, but something in Styke’s tone must have warned her away. She took the map, rolling it out on her lap. “We’ve got some news from our scouts.”

“Yeah?”

She paused, looking Styke in the eye. “Do you really believe Jackal and his muttering about spirits?”

“What does that have to do with our scouts?”

“Just answer the question.”

“I have more evidence to believe him than not,” Styke replied.

“Well, I don’t. It’s a lot of horseshit.”

“Then why do you ask?”

She hesitated again, clearly frustrated. “Because he was right.” She drew her finger along the map. “The coasts are in flames. Every major city and most of the small ones are either captured or under siege. Little Starland is definitely gone, just like Jackal told us a week ago. Swinshire is captured, too.”

“Shit,” Styke said. Swinshire was on one of two major routes from the center of Fatrasta out onto the sliver of land on the west coast they called the Hammer. They’d planned on swinging through Swinshire to pick up news, a day of rest, some recruitment, and a major resupply before their final push toward whatever awaited them near the godstone.