Брайан Макклеллан - Wrath of Empire

The engagement with the Dynize dragoons had left the Mad Lancers badly mauled. Unwilling to chance another fight, Styke and Ibana agreed to retrace their steps along the coast for two days until, late in the evening, they spotted Fatrastan flags on the horizon.

Styke sat slumped in the saddle, tired as pit and feeling like he’d been kicked in the head by a warhorse. He turned his eyes to the eastern horizon, where he could see the edge of a Fatrastan camp. Their flags waved in the breeze, torches flickering to life as the sun went down. Styke watched the distant approach of one of his scouts.

“I think I’m a hypocrite,” he said, giving voice to something he’d been considering for several days.

Ibana looked sidelong at him. “What kind of nonsense is this?”

He shrugged. “I came to the realization that I’m a hypocrite,” he said with more confidence. He’d been thinking about what Valyaine had said, sorting through his own memories of the War for Independence all that time ago and realizing that maybe that treacherous bastard was right – maybe Styke was looking at his own participation in the war through the rosy lenses of the past. “I’ve always known I was a killer, a monster. But I never thought of myself as a hypocrite.”

“And this is bothering you more than murder?” Ibana asked.

“Yeah. Yeah, I think it is.”

“You’re a strange man, Ben Styke.” Ibana spurred her horse, riding out to meet the scout.

Styke exchanged a look with Jackal. The Palo bannerman shrugged. Styke sighed and rode out after Ibana, meeting the scout on a nearby hill. It was Ferlisia, one of the longest-standing members of the lancers. She snapped a salute.

“Did you talk to them?” Styke asked.

“Just briefly,” Ferlisia reported. “It’s the Third Army.”

Styke nodded to himself. When he’d decided to pull back after that fight with the Dynize, he’d figured they would have to head all the way back to Bellport to find some relief. He hadn’t expected to find the Third Army already out on the Hammer. They must have marched straight past Bellport without stopping.

Styke had a glimmer of suspicion that they’d been sent after the lancers but dismissed the notion. Lindet wouldn’t send a field army of infantry to chase a highly mobile cavalry force.

She would, however, send them to secure the godstone.

Regardless, the Mad Lancers needed somewhere to lie low. “I’ll go see if they’ll let us lick our wounds inside their pickets,” he said, lifting his reins.

Both Ibana and Ferlisia looked alarmed. “Sir, the commanding officer is –”

Styke waved Ferlisia off. “I know who it is. Dvory. That’s why I’m going to ask myself.”

“That’s not a great idea,” Ibana said in a low voice.

Styke looked over his shoulder at his column of lancers. They’d lost nearly half their number to death or wounds in the Dynize ambush. They didn’t have healing Privileged or proper surgeons to deal with the wounded. They’d done so well and come so far, only to be blindsided by a superior cavalry force. Styke did not want to meet that force again without taking some time to recover.

“If Dvory betrayed you once, he’ll do it again,” Ibana said.

“Perhaps. He might not know I’ve been killing his old conspirators, though.”

“He’ll have passed through Bellport. There’s no way he won’t have gotten word from Valyaine. You damn well should have killed Valyaine when you had the chance.”

“Yeah, I know.” Styke wasn’t thrilled about the idea of marching in there to ask for help from someone who’d betrayed him. But his meditations over hypocrisy the last few days had given him a more optimistic outlook than he’d expected. “Look, if those dragoons snuck up on us once, they can do it again. We need to recover, and this saves us having to go all the way back to Bellport. We get inside their pickets and we’ll be safe until we can regroup.”

Ibana pursed her lips, clearly wanting to argue.

Styke forestalled it with a raised hand. “I’ll deal with Dvory. If I’m not back in two hours, head south and try to throw them off your trail.”

He began to ride toward the camp without explaining himself further and tried to gather his thoughts. He wondered if maybe he’d known all along that he was a hypocrite, and that’s what had truly kept him from killing Tenny Wiles. He wondered if maybe being broken by the labor camps had been a blessing to everyone around him, rather than the blow against the brave Mad Lancers that he’d always considered it.

He frowned into the setting sun at one point, only to see a small group of figures sitting on the horizon less than two miles away. They were all on horseback – four of them, if his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him.

Those goddamn dragonmen, still plaguing his trail. Another good reason to spend a few days hugging a field army.

He was pulled from his contemplations by the sound of a horse whinny behind him. He turned in his saddle, a rebuke on his lips to send Celine back to the lancers.

But it wasn’t Celine. It was Ka-poel.

Of course it was.

He waited for her to catch up, trying to figure out what he could say to send her away. Going to see Dvory was already a dangerous gamble. A wild card like Ka-poel might make things worse. But she’d already made it abundantly clear that he couldn’t leave her behind.

“I think,” he told her as she arrived, “that some dysfunction in the back of my brain silently tells me that I’m invincible.” He wasn’t sure why he shared the thought, but he continued. “Maybe I’ve had it my whole life. Maybe it was surviving the firing squad. Maybe it wasn’t until more recently, when I survived that fight with Fidelis Jes. Or maybe it was something you put in my head with your damned blood sorcery. I don’t really care, but I have the feeling that it’s going to get me killed.”

Ka-poel stopped beside him, watching him through half-lidded eyes.

“I was watching that sign language you’re teaching Celine,” he said. “I hadn’t realized it before, but it looks like a jumble of Palo war signals and something else.”

Ka-poel smiled coolly at him and nodded.

Styke felt pleased to have remembered as well as he did. He hadn’t seen Palo war signals for over ten years, and even then he’d only picked up on the very basics while he was in the Tristan Basin. “Did Ibana tell you what I’m doing?” he asked.

Ka-poel made a series of gestures.

Styke shook his head. “I said I recognized it. Not that I understand it.”

She pointed at him, then mimed hanging from a noose. You’re trying to get yourself killed.

“I wouldn’t say I’m trying,” Styke said. He had a sudden worry that maybe he was trying to get himself killed and he didn’t even know it. He’d always chalked his own courage up to a lack of fear, but maybe it wasn’t so simple. “I’m not trying,” he insisted. “We need surgeons and protection while we put ourselves back together. But Dvory might try to kill me. If he does, I intend on taking him with me. You probably should go back to Ibana until I sort this out.”

Ka-poel pursed her lips and tilted her head. That , Styke understood. “Suit yourself.”

Ka-poel put her slate away as they rode up to the sentries. One of them stepped forward, eyeing Styke and his horse. “State your name, rank, and business.”

“I need to see your quartermaster,” he said. “Then I need to see General Dvory.”