Brian McCLELLAN - Promise of Blood

Tamas was running out of powder. Charlemund was getting away.

Nikslaus brushed his nose with one of his gloved hands, giving Tamas a moment to whirl a handful of bullets at Olem’s assailants. The bullets went through eyes and mouths, dropping the men instantly. Olem lunged forward, leaping the downed bodies, and took off after Charlemund.

Nikslaus brushed his nose again.

Tamas grinned. “Allergies?”

Nikslaus took a step back. Tamas leaned on his cane, hobbled a step forward. Nikslaus gritted his teeth, stepped back. Tamas clicked the tip of his cane on the marble.

Nikslaus’s fingers twirled and jumped. Sweat began to trickle down his brow as Tamas sent more bullets at him. Each bullet careened away, deflected. Tamas was running out of powder. He sucked in a raw breath, the smell of spent powder sending his blood pumping. The powder trance was a deep one.

Nikslaus flung his hand in a wild gesture and uttered a hoarse cry.

Tamas yelled out as he tumbled to the floor, his concentration broken. He stared at the two halves of his cane, then up at Nikslaus. The Privileged advanced and stood above him. He held his fingers just so, as if he was about to snap them. His shirt was soaked with sweat, his hair wild. He looked down at Tamas. “You old fool.”

“You win,” Tamas said, lighting a touch of powder.

Nikslaus screamed. He stumbled back, clutching his left hand. He slammed into the column with Charlemund’s bust. The bust clattered to the floor, shattering a marble tile, and Nikslaus tripped over the column and fell to the ground.

Tamas got to his hands and knees, ignoring the pain in his leg. He used the longer piece of his cane to leverage himself onto one foot. He hopped over to Nikslaus. He lit some powder. Nikslaus screamed again as a bullet laced through his right hand, tearing the arcane symbols on his Privileged’s glove. Nikslaus stared at his hands, matching bullet holes through the palms of each. The white gloves were covered in blood, obscuring the remaining runes.

“Now you know what it’s like to have your power taken from you,” Tamas said. He drew his sword and knelt down beside Nikslaus. He took one of the sorcerer’s hands in his and pulled off the glove. Nikslaus whimpered.

“Those are some delicate fingers,” Tamas said.

Adamat reined in his hired mount at the front gate of the villa. His horse tossed its head, sides lathered from the long gallop. Adamat wiped sweat from his forehead and patted the creature’s flank. He could also see the very top of the villa, and the carriages rumbling toward it.

“The arch-diocel isn’t taking visitors.” These were Tamas’s men; soldiers in their dark-blue uniforms, lapels stained silver. One of them gestured to Adamat with his bayoneted rifle. “Go on,” he said. “Read your newspaper tomorrow.”

Adamat rested just a moment to get his breath, his mount prancing beneath him.

“You don’t look like you ride much,” the soldier said with a lopsided smile.

“I don’t,” Adamat snapped. “I have to warn Field Marshal Tamas.”

The soldier’s easy manner disappeared. He stepped close, while his partner circled around to Adamat’s other side.

“Listen,” Adamat said as his horse shied away from the soldier. He sawed at the reins. “I’m Adamat, the field marshal’s investigator. Tamas is walking into a trap.”

The soldier gave Adamat a hard look. “I’ve heard the name passed around,” he said slowly. “Go on. Don’t make an idiot of yourself.”

Adamat nodded desperately, still breathing hard. He’d not ridden like this since he was at the university.

The gate was pushed open and Adamat urged his mount through. They were on the cobblestone drive, and he kneed the poor animal into a gallop. He bent down next to the creature’s neck, white-knuckled grip on the reins. The carriages were to the house now, circled around the fountain in front of the villa.

Rifle shots rang out, startling the horse. It missed a step and stumbled, pitching sidelong into a ditch. Adamat cried out as he was thrown. He cleared the ditch completely, hitting the ground hard, and rolled. A vineyard post arrested his roll. He got to his hands and knees, clutching a pain in his side.

“Rosvel’s ass!” There was blood on his hand from some minor cut. He wiped it on his coat, pulling himself up and checking his chest and sides. No broken bones, but some mighty bruises. His mount lay on its side in the ditch, flanks heaving. “You won’t be getting me any farther, will you?”

The shots continued. Shouts followed. He was too late. Vetas’s man had already warned the arch-diocel. Adamat closed his eyes. What could he do? This was his fault. He had no rifle – just a pistol and a sword. He returned to the drive, eyes cast up toward the house. A carriage had overturned, soldiers had scattered to the vineyard, exchanging fire with unknown assailants. No muzzle flashes or powder smoke from the house. What were Tamas’s men shooting at? He shook his head. Air rifles, of course. Damn it.

Adamat went back over the ditch and into the vineyard at a run. He gave the house a wide berth, cutting through the vineyards and then back behind a stable. He glimpsed blue coats here and there, soldiers crouched in cover. The rifle shots were becoming too few and far between. It did not bode well.

He leapt a course of firewood and nearly landed on one of Tamas’s soldiers. The man swung his rifle toward Adamat, almost sticking him with the bayonet. He was a young man, unseasoned and more than a little wide-eyed. “Name!” he demanded, voice quavering.

“Get that out of my face.” Adamat grabbed the rifle by the barrel, shoving it away. “I’m Adamat. Does Tamas have the whole property covered?”

The soldier regarded him warily. His hands were shaking. He’d probably never seen live fire before, outside of his drills.

Adamat grabbed the soldier by the front of his uniform. “You hear those shots? They’ve been ambushed in the front. It’s got to be a distraction. Charlemund will use that cover to escape.”

The soldier hesitated. “I don’t trust you,” he said slowly.

“Holy pit, look!” Adamat pointed toward the house.

The soldier whirled. Adamat brought his elbow down hard on the boy’s neck. “Sorry,” he said, taking the rifle. He pushed the boy’s unconscious form up against the firewood stack and looked about, trying to spot more of Tamas’s soldiers. He caught sight of one near the edge of the house, creeping about toward the front – more concerned about his comrades in the firefight than with anyone escaping out the back.

“Damn it, I’m going to be doing this alone.” He ran, half crouching, until he was fully behind the villa. He stopped behind a shed and listened. The shots had stopped. He ducked around the shed for a look. The back of the villa was an open portico, a sun garden with large parasols and awnings for shade. There was a thin gravel maintenance drive. A single-horsed carriage waited in the drive, with a familiar, miserable-looking driver. Tamas checked for guards – there were none. He ran forward.

“Siemone,” he said. The driver looked up. The young priest had a stricken look about his face – he was disturbed enough that he forgot to avoid looking Adamat full in the face. For a moment.

“What are you doing here?” Siemone said, averting his eyes. “Get out, before the arch-diocel sees you.”

“You’re helping him escape,” Adamat said. He grabbed the horse by the bridle.

“I have to,” Siemone said. He clutched the reins tight.