Brian McCLELLAN - The Crimson Campaign

The crowd was utterly silent now. Adamat heard someone drop a coin, and he cursed himself for waiting with bated breath for Claremonte’s next words.

“For what this country needs now is hope. And for that, I have brought with me nine thousand of Brudania’s finest soldiers to throw in with the Adran army and push back the Kez aggressors.” He threw his hand back toward the line of Trading Company ships waiting in the river. “I have brought cannon, and rifles, and supplies. I have brought food, and money. I bring treasures from the four corners of the world, all of which will be put toward the war effort against the Kez.”

“I do this freely. I ask no thanks, nor hold back any of my wealth on reservation. I only ask that you consider me a worthy candidate for the coming election.”

Adamat noticed that other longboats were being lowered now. These ones were filled with Brudanian soldiers, and they were free once they hit the water and began rowing toward the riverbank. Claremonte’s own longboat had drawn anchor and was slowly drifting closer to the amphitheater.

“My countrymen,” Claremonte continued in the silence that followed, “this country needs change. This is a forward-thinking nation! A place of intellectual and industrial prowess. In my ministerial duties, I will continue to support that change and push us forward into the coming century. We will forget the old ways. The superstitions. The foolishness.

“Gods – what have they done for you?” He shook his head. “Nothing. These rumors you’ve heard about Kresimir and Adom returning? They are true! But know this; we will not tolerate them. They have no place in this world of ours, and I mean to show them that.

“We may be mortal, but we are fierce and we are proud, and even the gods will tremble at this mighty nation of Adro.

“It starts today, my friends. Our new world.”

The final word seemed barely a whisper, but Adamat felt his heart hammering in his chest. Something was happening. What was Claremonte about to do? What could he possibly be…? Adamat brought the looking glass in his hands, hitherto forgotten, back to his eye and focused on Claremonte.

Claremonte turned to a woman at his shoulder. The woman raised her hands to reveal white gloves covered in crimson runes – a Privileged.

Adamat read the inaudible words on Claremonte’s lips: “Bring it down.”

Sorcery cut through the clear sky, eliciting a gasp of terror from the assembled crowds. White lightning, like knives flashing, cut through the air above the amphitheater and smashed into the Kresim Cathedral. Dust billowed in great clouds above the immense building as invisible blades sliced clean through the stone façade.

An invisible fist smashed into the dome of the cathedral, and all at once the building collapsed in on itself. People ran from the falling stonework, screaming in terror, but the destruction was contained by sorcery, and to Adamat’s eyes it looked as if no one was harmed.

When the dust had settled, Adamat turned his eyes back on Claremonte. Once again the man stepped to the prow of the boat to address the crowd. He raised his arms.

“This is only the beginning, my brothers and sisters. This world. We will take it back!”

Tamas’s first bullet would have taken Nikslaus through the eye if a Warden hadn’t flung the Privileged aside. The bullet slammed into the Warden’s shoulder, making him jerk. The twisted creature drew his sword and bounded up the stairs toward Tamas.

Tamas drew his sword and charged the Warden. The creature bellowed a challenge, and Tamas answered with a silent snarl. Their swords clashed loudly once, twice, and then Tamas was inside the Warden’s guard. He grabbed the Warden by the neck, feeling the strength of the powder coursing through him, and tossed it off the hallway balcony to the foyer below.

Nikslaus had rolled down the stairs and picked himself off the marble floors. One of his gloves had come off – Tamas paused at that. No, the whole hand had come off.

He had been wearing false hands. A ruse to fool his own soldiers into thinking he could still do sorcery? Perhaps. Tamas didn’t care as he flew down the stairs three at a time.

Nikslaus fled toward the front door, gesturing wildly at Tamas and screaming at his men, “Kill him!”

The air was already bitter with the scent of black powder. Tamas felt a surge of energy, and an explosion tore through the Kez soldiers as Vlora ignited their powder.

Soldiers came at him with swords drawn. Nikslaus was smart enough to keep some of his soldiers without powder, it seemed. Tamas caught a thrust with the tip of his sword, flipping it to the side and ramming his own sword into the soldier’s chest. He kept moving forward. Nikslaus backed away from him, face painted with terror.

A knife spun past Tamas’s face and clattered against the marble banister behind him. He spun toward its owner, a Warden, and grunted as the creature hit him with the force of a charging bull.

Tamas felt himself lifted into the air and then slammed into the banister. It cracked from the force of the blow, sending him and the Warden tumbling over the edge of the stairs and a short drop to the floor.

He felt the creature’s fingers close on his throat. Tamas grasped it by the wrist and slammed his other palm into the Warden’s elbow. The creature’s arm snapped, bending ninety degrees the wrong way. Tamas grabbed the Warden by the lapels and kicked, flipping it off of him.

By the time Tamas had gotten back to his feet, the room was filled with soldiers. Most of them were dead or dying, shot by a mage or blown to bits by their own powder horns, but there were still enough of the Kez to get in the way.

Tamas spotted Nikslaus as he fled down a side hallway.

“Pit!” Tamas swore. He lurched to his feet only to fall again. The Warden with the broken arm had grabbed Tamas’s leg. It swung a knife at Tamas.

Tamas jerked his leg out of the Warden’s grip, and its knife slammed into the marble floor. The beast surged forward, and Tamas deflected the knife with the guard of his sword. He pummeled the Warden’s face with his hilt, then danced back out of range of another knife thrust.

The creature got to its feet.

And came crashing down again as Andriya leapt from the upstairs hallway and landed behind it, bayonet ramming through its skull and brain.

“Well,” Andriya said, running toward the Kez infantry, “go kill the duke!”

Tamas dashed toward the hallway where Nikslaus had disappeared. It was a long hall, perhaps a hundred yards into another wing of the manor. Tamas opened his third eye, fighting off the dizziness, and searched for signs of Wardens or the Privileged.

A soldier leapt out of a side room with a shout. Tamas closed his third eye, reeling back as he felt a sword slice cleanly along the side of his stomach. He fended off another thrust and drew his second pistol, firing from the hip. The shot took the Kez soldier in the chest. The man lurched forward, then tried to step back. A look of surprise crossed his face as he fell to the ground.

Tamas left him where he was and sprinted along the hallway. The pain of his bad leg throbbed like the beat of a drum and the cut along his side stung in the open air. He slowed as he rounded the corner at the end of the hallway, only to find another hall leading off a hundred paces long.

No sign of Nikslaus.

“Sir!” Vlora came up beside him, breathing hard.

“He came this way,” he said.

She nodded and trotted out ahead of him.

Vlora was about fifteen paces ahead of him when a Warden burst out of the cover of a doorway and slammed into her. His momentum took them both across the hallway and out of sight, into another room.

“Vlora!” Tamas ran forward, only to stop when a voice called out.