Брайан Макклеллан - Sins of Empire

“I don’t want to be with Olem. I want to be with you.”

Styke reached the palisade and slapped his hand against the base. It was hard, firm. Might as well be iron. “Well,” he said to the ghostly apparition of Celine. “That’s too damn bad. I’m here forever, and you’re out there.”

“I’ll get you out.”

Styke raised his head, looking over his shoulder. The apparition was gone, but the voice he’d just heard sounded so real. He could feel tears in his eyes, and wondered if this was what it was like to go mad. He heard a yell somewhere inside the camp, and smiled softly as the alarm went off almost instantly. They’d find him any moment, and then…

Something warm touched his hand. It was so sudden and startling that he jerked away, gasping at the pain of the sudden movement. He peered at the base of the palisade, noticing a break in the thick wooden slats. Through the murk he thought he could see a tiny face. He blinked, cursing his eyes, then lowered his head to the cool dirt.

Brains, he decided, could play cruel jokes on their owners.

“Ben!”

Styke’s head came up again. A tiny hand grasped his, tugging on his fingers.

“Ben, wake up!”

“Celine?”

“You don’t look so good, Ben.”

Son of a bitch. It wasn’t a fever playing tricks on him. “Celine, you have to get away from here. They’re searching the perimeter right now, and if you don’t get out of here they’ll find you and they’ll –”

“Don’t worry,” Celine said, patting Styke’s hand through the gap. “I brought friends.”

Styke let out something halfway between a gasp and a laugh. “I don’t have any friends, Celine. Get out of here.”

“You do,” Celine insisted. “And they’re not very happy.”

Styke heard a shout, and then a sudden crash farther down the camp palisade. The shouts escalated, and then pistol shots rang out, punctuated by the blast of blunderbusses and carbines. Celine was suddenly gone, and Styke reached forward weakly, grasping for her hand.

“He’s down here!” he heard her shout. “On the other side of the fence!”

Styke listened, confused, to the clash of steel and the cries of the wounded. It was over in moments, and then hooves thundered toward him. He rolled onto his back, squinting at the hazy figures in the darkness. Who would possibly come for him? Was it Tampo? Was it Lady Flint?

Figures flung themselves off their horses and Styke felt himself lifted by strong but gentle hands, his back pressed against the base of the camp palisade. Torches were thrust in his face.

“Pit,” a man’s voice said, “he’s pale as a ghost.”

“Lost too much blood,” another responded.

“Pit, would you look at him? I hardly recognize him.”

“The blood should make it easier,” someone else quipped.

Styke couldn’t get his head around the voices – they were at once foreign and familiar, like a child’s lullaby from the distant corners of his memory – and the sudden light of the torches blinded him. He tried to pull back as someone suddenly knelt in front of him and he could make out the unmistakable, runed gloves of a Privileged sorcerer.

Someone stood behind the sorcerer, silhouetted in the torchlight, pistol pressed against the base of the sorcerer’s head.

“You have no idea who you’re dealing with,” the Privileged hissed.

Behind him, the silhouette responded in a husky female voice. “We’ve been over this. I don’t give a shit. Heal him, now. Any funny business and I’ll clear your sinuses with a bullet.”

“Look at him,” the Privileged demanded. “This could take hours, and the process might kill him.”

“I’ve got all the time in the world,” the silhouette responded. “And you better hope it doesn’t.”

Styke took a ragged breath. He recognized that voice. Like the others, it was as if from a distant memory – but this one had haunted his dreams for ten long years. He felt tears running down his cheeks, his hands trembling. His eyes began to adjust to the torchlight, and he began to recognize faces standing in a semicircle around him.

Little Gamble. Ferlisia. Sunin. Chraston. Jackal.

Ibana ja Fles.

Ibana half-turned to the others, the pistol aimed at the head of the Privileged unwavering. “What the pit are you assholes waiting for? Set the inmates loose. Torch the admin buildings.”

“The guards are held up in their bunkhouse,” Ferlisia said.

Ibana grabbed Ferlisia by the collar, pulling her close. “Do you see what they’ve done to Ben? Our colonel? You set the guardhouse on fire, and shoot anyone who tries to escape. Shoot ’em in the legs and throw them back in. Pit-damned Blackhats have declared war on the Mad Lancers. They should have known better.”

Styke jumped at the gentle touch of gloved fingers and felt his arm lifted to the light of the torch by the Privileged. The Privileged examined him clinically, then said quietly, “This is going to hurt. A lot.”

The last thing Styke remembered was a blinding white light.

“This is it?” Meln-Dun asked.

Vlora cocked an eyebrow at him as he stood in the doorway of the small pub back room she and a handful of chosen men had occupied on the rim of Greenfire Depths. There was some noise from the street outside, but for the most part things were quiet, peaceful. The Palo looked nonplussed, and she could see him counting the small group over and over again in his head until he finally turned to her with a pained expression. “This is not enough men.”

There was a pregnant silence, only interrupted by the sound of Norrine dragging a whetstone across the blade of her sword. The scraping sound repeated twice before Vlora pointed to the man on her left. He was twenty-three and looked significantly younger with black hair and not a strand of beard on his chin. He was dressed just like her in dark green travel clothes, brown boots, high-collared shirt, and a slightly floppy tricorn that did well to hide his face. He carried a blunderbuss, nervously tapping the flared end against his boot.

“This is Davd. He was a drummer boy during the Adran-Kez War. Eleven years with the Riflejacks.” She thrust a thumb to the woman on her right. “This is Norrine. She’s been with the Adran Army for forty-two years. She was trained by Field Marshal Tamas himself.” Norrine was an older woman with dirty-blond hair and an elfin-like face. She was nearly to her sixties, but a tight physical regimen made her look fifteen years younger. She continued to sharpen her sword, smirking at the fourth member of their group. Vlora introduced him. “Buden je Parst is Kez. Doesn’t speak a word of Adran so don’t bother. And Olem,” Vlora finished, slapping Olem on the knee, “you’ve met.”

Buden grinned at Meln-Dun, revealed six missing teeth. He was missing most of his tongue, too, but he preferred not to draw attention to that. Meln-Dun’s pained expression deepened. “I understand your men are experienced,” he said slowly, “but the Yellow Hall is guarded by the best the Palo have to offer. If the Dynize are there as I fear, there may even be dragonmen. You should take no fewer than two companies.”

“Two companies,” Vlora responded, “will just draw attention and slow us down. We’re not going in there for a fight. We’re there to smash in the door and bring in Mama Palo.”

“Even still…”

Olem snorted. “Don’t let her lead you on. This is the Riflejacks’ dirty secret. Everyone in this room but you and me is a powder mage.”