Брайан Макклеллан - Wrath of Empire

Styke barely managed to throw himself clear. Amrec fell on his side, legs flailing, finally righting himself and charging off before Styke could call to him.

The Dynize dragoon allowed her own horse to regain its balance before turning on a dime and pointing her sword at Styke and digging in her heels. Styke searched for his sword only to see it caught in Amrec’s harness as the beast galloped away. He felt for his knife – remembered throwing it – and began to loudly swear at himself.

The dragoon leapt into a gallop, her sword held to her side as she swooped in toward Styke. He remained on her sword side for as long as he dared, then leapt in front of the charging horse and across to the opposite side. Before the dragoon could change her sword hand, Styke set the foot of his good leg and barreled, shoulder-first, into the soft side of the Dynize horse. Both horse and rider went flying.

The impact knocked the breath from Styke and nearly threw him on his ass. He barely stayed on his feet and ran toward the horse that, still flailing with pain, had his boz knife in its neck. He jerked the knife out, reversed his hold on it, and rammed the blade into the creature’s spine with one quick motion, putting it out of its misery.

A shout of challenge was the only warning he got. The persistent dragoon leapt toward him, sword thrusting, and Styke barely parried the thrust with the blade of his knife. He charged forward, closing the distance, ramming his left fist into the dragoon’s face.

She reeled back but did not fall, driving him off with blind swipes of her sword.

They both froze, staring at each other, giving Styke his first good look at his opponent. She was tall – not as tall as he or Ibana, but nearly so – and she had wide shoulders that reminded him of Valyaine. She was broad-faced with quick eyes and her red hair shorn to a finger’s length. Her teal uniform had orange epaulets, which, Styke assumed, meant she was an officer. Over his shoulder he could hear Jackal urging the rear guard to finish off their Dynize attackers.

The dragoon regarded him for another long moment, her eyes flicking to her fallen cavalry, before suddenly turning and sprinting toward the closest empty saddle. She pulled herself onto horseback with incredible dexterity and was galloping back toward the edge of the forest before Styke could take a dozen steps.

He turned at the sound of a trumpet, watching as the Dynize cavalry disengaged from the Mad Lancers and began to retreat. The lancers, for their part, were obviously badly mauled, and he was not surprised when Ibana did not give the order to follow.

He found the dragoon officer’s horse where he’d shoved it over. The poor creature thrashed in pain with one leg broken and probably several cracked ribs. Styke calmed it as best he could and covered its eyes with one arm before putting it out of its misery.

He found Amrec and went back up the road in search of Ibana.

“That was a timely charge,” he told Jackal as he passed.

Jackal waved back at him. “The spirits wouldn’t forgive me if I allowed you to die charging an enemy army alone.”

Styke found Ibana down in the valley taking stock of their – and the enemy’s – losses. She was on foot, kneeling over a half-dead Dynize dragoon, trying to get the man to talk through a mouthful of blood. She left him be, snorting in disgust, then turned to face Styke.

“Find out where these bastards came from?” Styke asked.

Ibana shook her head. “He’s not talking, nor is anyone still alive. We’ll take a few captives and work on them later. Maybe give them to Ka-poel and see what she can learn.”

“Maybe,” Styke said. He wasn’t thrilled with the idea of handing anyone over to Ka-poel. He wasn’t entirely sure what she could do or how she could do it, but it sounded … protracted. He did not like torture. “That retreat was organized. They weren’t willing to commit everything to the fight, it seems.”

Ibana kicked at a body at her feet. “Damn it. We’ve sent scouts in every direction. How the pit did they sneak up on us like that?”

“Send a few men to follow them,” Styke said. “Not too closely, but …” He glanced back toward the road, then in the direction they had retreated. “They came from the south, but they retreated to the west. Send a few men the way they came, too.”

“Right.” Ibana stalked off, barking orders, while Styke stared down at the poor bastard she’d been interrogating. One of his arms was hanging by skin and he had three stab wounds through his chest. He’d be dead soon enough.

He glanced up to the ridge, where well over a hundred of the new recruits lay dead or dying. He wondered about that Dynize officer. This ambush had felt strange. It had felt … personal. Were those blasted dragonmen behind it? Or was this something else?

Michel was shaken awake by his own violent shivers. He lay on his back, staring up at blackness, a vague discomfort emanating from somewhere around the middle of his body. His first realization was that his entire body was trembling uncontrollably. No amount of effort could cease the shaking.

His second realization was that he could not move. There was not, as far as he could tell, anything keeping him from moving – nothing across his chest or binding his arms. His body simply did not respond to the commands. He could breathe. He could shiver. He could open his eyes and move his head slightly from one side to the other, though he did not know if his vision was dark or if he was merely in a dark room. Only a well of calmness from deep within – one he did not know he possessed – kept him from spiraling into outright terror.

He lay still for several minutes, attempting to get his bearings and gain control of his shivering body. He was unsuccessful in the first, and only mildly successful in the second. The problem, he realized, was that he was lying on something extremely cold. Cold and hard.

He cleared his throat, wondering if he could speak, and heard someone – or something – stir in what sounded like a different room. Footsteps followed, then Michel could feel a presence just out of his peripheral vision. Although he was fairly certain he knew the answer, he spoke anyway: “Am I dead?”

“You are not.”

Michel let out a very soft sigh. The voice belonged to Emerald, which meant that Michel was likely lying on a slab in the bowels of the Landfall City Morgue. It explained the cold, as well as the darkness. It wasn’t his first choice of a place to wake up to, but it certainly wasn’t his last.

As if in answer to his thoughts, the dim light suddenly grew brighter, illuminating the stone ceiling that Michel had been staring at. “How do you feel?” Emerald said, sitting down beside him.

“I’m … not sure. I’m having trouble thinking, and I can barely move. I don’t feel pain. At least, I don’t think I do. My chest is very warm.”

“That is your body attempting to feel pain. I injected a few drops of pure mala directly into your bloodstream.”

“That explains a lot.” Michel had spent his fair share of time on the mala pipe – in between jobs, of course – but he’d never quite felt this kind of sensation. He wasn’t even aware mala could be injected like this.

“It was also several hours ago. If I had done so recently, you would have some trouble opening your eyelids.”

“Right. I’d rather not do this again.” Michel decided that freedom of movement might be preferred, even if it cost him a lot of pain. “How did I get here?”

“You collapsed less than a block from my door. A passerby thought you were dead and reported the body. You’re lucky I was working, or one of my assistants might have just tossed you with the rest of the corpses.”