Blood of Empire

by Brian McClellan

  Four days ago, just when they were nearing Dynize, an immense gale had scattered his fleet. Dozens of transports and their heavily armed escorts had been caught up in the storm. When it finally passed, the Seaward had found itself all alone and blown a couple hundred miles north of their rendezvous point on the Dynize shore. Styke had no way of knowing how many of the ships had been lost, or how badly they’d been dispersed. He didn’t know if half of his Lancers had drowned, or been dashed against the shore, or if his entire army of twenty-five hundred cavalry had already landed and was waiting impatiently for him to arrive.

  Regardless, the Seaward sailed south at speed, hoping to make up for lost time and avoid any Dynize warships along the way.

  A shout brought his attention back up to the mainmast, where a boy in the crow’s nest waved desperately toward the aftcastle. There was a sudden commotion, and the sailors sent Celine scampering down the rigging as their fun was replaced by an air of seriousness. The watchman gave another shout and pointed to the southern horizon, but the sound was lost on the wind.

  Styke put away his knife and whetstone, climbed reluctantly to his feet, and headed across the forecastle, down the main deck, and up to the aftcastle where Captain Bonnie stood staring pensively through her looking glass to the southeast. Bonnie was an old seadog; a piece of shoe leather in tattered pants and a tricorn hat, her skin so dark from the sun she might have been Deliv for all Styke knew. He sidled up beside her and waited for her report. They were soon joined by Jackal and Celine. The Palo Lancer mussed Celine’s hair and got a jab in the ribs for his effort, then gave Styke a very serious nod.

  “You get anything new out of those spirits of yours?” Styke said just loudly enough to be heard over the wind.

  “No,” Jackal reported, glancing down toward the first mate’s cabin below them, where Ka-poel was resting. “They still won’t come near the ship, not with her hanging about. I almost coaxed one to me yesterday—there are the spirits of Dynize sailors this close to shore, and they seem less scared of her, but…” He trailed off with a shrug.

  Styke opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by Bonnie. “Here,” she said, thrusting the looking glass into his hands. “Directly southeast, ahead of us, you’ll see a point on the horizon.”

  He put the glass to his eye. It didn’t take long to find the point she’d referenced. Three points, actually; three sets of sails, all of them black with an arc of red stars across the center. “Dynize ships,” he said.

  “Very astute,” Bonnie responded with a snort. “Any idea what they are?” He gave her a flat look until she cleared her throat and continued. “Two frigates escorting one of those big monstrosities the Dynize call a ship of the line. Trios like that have been sweeping the ocean ever since the Dynize invaded. We call them the three-headed serpent.”

  “Have they seen us?”

  “They have much higher masts than the Seaward, so I’d be shocked if they haven’t—and if not, they will any minute.”

  Styke felt his stomach lurch as he considered the possibilities. Their little transport was barely armed. He hadn’t chosen it for his own vessel because of size or power, but rather because Bonnie was the most experienced captain in the commandeered fleet and knew the Dynize shore better than anyone else. “Shit,” he said.

  “Shit indeed.” She raised the looking glass to her eye for another few moments. “They’re already headed in this direction.” She paused, furrowing her brow. “Ah. The frigates are beginning to split off. They’ve definitely seen us, and they’re already preparing to widen the net. Probably hoping to get out far on our portside before we notice them.” She half turned toward the first mate and barked loudly, “Bring her around to starboard!”

  A flurry of commotion followed as sailors scampered to adjust the sails. Styke felt a growing alarm. “We’re turning around?” he demanded.

  “Yes, we’re turning around,” Bonnie replied acidly. “And don’t try to wave that knife in my face, because that won’t help shit. You may be Mad Ben Styke but I’m Perfectly Sane Bonnie. I can outrun those frigates without too much of a problem, but if I try to slip past them, they’ll turn us into driftwood.”

  Styke wondered if she’d rehearsed that speech for just such an occasion. He glared toward the south, doing sums in his head. “And your plan is…?”

  “My plan is to run away north until they can’t see us anymore. Then we’ll cut far, far east and come back around to reach the rendezvous. With any luck, they’ll assume they chased us off and continue patrolling the coastline.”

  “And how long will that take?”

  Bonnie shrugged. “Depends on the wind, the weather, and if we run into any more patrols. Fifteen days? Ten, if we’re lucky. Twenty or thirty or more if we’re not. We might even have to go resupply at Starlight.”

  Styke grit his teeth and shared a long look with Jackal. Twenty more days until they met back up with Ibana and the rest. Twenty days behind schedule. What a goddamned disaster. He briefly considered how badly it would go if he did wave his knife under Bonnie’s nose. He might have a reputation, but her sailors outnumbered his Lancers three to one and he needed those sailors to get him to shore. The last thing he needed was to spark a mutiny against his commandeered authority.

  The ship creaked as it came around, putting the Dynize vessels behind them and the shore on their portside. Sailors shouted and scrambled, accomplishing the maneuver in an impressively short period of time.

  Styke’s mind jumped to the old maps in Bonnie’s cabin. They were the most up-to-date maps of Dynize available, which meant that the coastlines were all accurate, but inland hadn’t been seen for over a hundred years. That shouldn’t make a difference, not for his purposes. “Find us a place to put to shore,” he said.

  “Excuse me?” Bonnie’s head jerked toward him, a look of disbelief on her face.

  “You heard me. Get us as close as you can to the shore and weigh anchor. I want both your cranes put up and plopping my horses into the ocean. Give us three longboats and all our supplies, then you can run from those frigates to your heart’s content and head straight back to Starlight.”

  “You’re insane.”

  Styke tapped his knife. “Find us a beach where I can swim twenty-five horses ashore without getting them all killed.”

  “Don’t you need us to get back to Fatrasta?”

  “Not if I can meet up with the rest of the fleet.”

  “And you’ll do that going overland?”

  Styke grinned at her.

  Hesitantly, Bonnie turned her eye to the shore and gave a weary sigh. “I think we might be near a place. I’ll give the order. Tell your men to be ready to go in an hour. This will be the fastest landing you’ve ever experienced.” Bonnie strode away, barking orders, and Styke turned back to Jackal.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Jackal asked.

  “Not in the slightest,” Styke responded. “But I’d rather cut through a hundred miles of swampy wilderness than sit on this goddamned ship for another three weeks while Ibana twiddles her thumbs.”

  “And if Ibana never made it to the rendezvous?”

  “Then this will be the smallest invasion ever.” Styke knelt down, putting his arm around Celine. “How well do you remember all that shit your dad taught you?”

  Celine gave him a suspicious glance. “I thought you told me I’d never need to steal again.”

  “You don’t want to?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Good. Because I need you to pilfer all of Bonnie’s maps of Dynize.”

  Celine scowled. “If she catches me, she’ll throw me over the side.”

  “We’re about to do something really stupid, and those maps are gonna be the only way to accomplish it. Besides, we’re all going overboard anyway.”

  Celine considered this for a moment, then gave him a wicked little grin that he swore she learned from Ka-poel. “Okay, I’ll do it. But not until we’re about to jump into the lo
ngboats. That’ll be the best way to make a clean getaway.”

  “Smart girl. Now, go wake up Ka-poel. Tell her she’s home.”

  Styke stood on a rocky outcropping and watched as the Seaward disappeared around a nearby bend, heading north at full sail just out of gun range of the nearest of the two pursuing Dynize frigates. It would be close, but Captain Bonnie had been confident she could still make a clean getaway. The Dynize frigate fired off a single shot from a small bow gun, but Styke watched it splash into the ocean, well short of its target. Waiting until the Seaward was completely out of sight, he climbed down from his outcropping and headed down to the stream outlet, where his men were unloading the longboats.

  “Report,” he said to Jackal, splashing into the water and eyeballing a long-snouted swamp dragon half-submerged a little way upstream.

  “Everyone made it safely ashore,” Jackal responded. He sucked gently on his teeth. “One of the spare horses broke a leg coming around that reef. Had to put him down.”

  “Just the one?” Styke had heard the beast screaming, and the gunshot that put it out of its misery.

  “Just the one,” Jackal confirmed.

  “That’s better than I expected.” He groaned inwardly. They had five extra horses, and more than a hundred miles of wilderness to cross with them. Facing difficult terrain, swamp dragons, big snakes, and whatever the pit else this blasted continent would throw at them, he expected to lose plenty more before they could meet up with Ibana. But having his feet on firm ground again felt good. At least he was in control of his own fate again. “Everyone has their armor?”

  “They do. Markus has loaded up Amrec. Sunin is helping Celine get Margo saddled.”

  “Saddles stay dry?

  A nod. “Sunin dropped her carbine. I had to give her one of the extras.”

  Styke rolled his eyes. “Why is she so old?”

  “I think…”

  “It was a rhetorical question.” He looked around until he found Ka-poel and Celine sitting on the opposite bank of the inlet, then waded over to them. Even after two weeks of rest, Ka-poel looked thin and strung out, but her eyes were alert. She flashed a series of signs, most of which Styke followed. He let Celine translate anyway.

  This looks like the Tristan Basin.

  “It does, doesn’t it?” Styke felt something fly into his mouth and quickly spat it out. “Same shitty trees and bugs and snakes and…” He trailed off, spotting the eyes of another swamp dragon watching them from forty feet upstream. “Swamp dragons look a little different, though. Keep your eyes out for them. Some of the bigger ones won’t hesitate to snap at a man, and may even go for a horse.”

  Ka-poel rolled her eyes. I know, Celine translated the next gesture.

  “Right. You grew up in that shithole, didn’t you?” Styke glanced at the surrounding terrain. Despite the similarities, it was actually quite different from the Tristan Basin over in Fatrasta. While the Basin was very flat with thick, almost impassable flora, this swamp was littered with rocky outcroppings that ranged from boulders a few feet high to violent spines of rock that thrust above the mighty cypress trees. They hadn’t even started their trip to the interior yet, but he could already tell that the rivers would be deeper, the lowlands unpredictable, and the terrain difficult for horses. “Just keep your eyes out for swamp dragons,” he reiterated before turning back and wading to the longboats.

  He cleared his throat loudly and gestured for the men to gather around, giving them a long, hard stare as they secured their horses, set aside inventory, and came to join him. He took a deep breath. Twenty men. Over a hundred miles of unpredictable swamp. This was going to be terrible.

  “All right, here’s the plan. Some of you might have already heard—we made landfall because our alternative was running with Captain Bonnie all the way back to Starlight and trying, from there, to rendezvous with Ibana.” He gestured to Celine. “Bring me those maps,” and then continued speaking to the Lancers, “Dropping us here means we have a chance to cut across the interior a damned lot faster than three weeks.”

  Someone coughed.

  “Who was that?” Styke demanded. “Zac? Speak up.”

  Zac coughed again and looked around sheepishly. The scout tried to find some sort of backup from his brother, but Markus just shook his head. “Uh, Ben,” Zac finally said. “Is this what the whole wilderness looks like?”

  “As far as I know, yes.”

  “There isn’t a damned way we’re going to make it a hundred miles much faster than twenty days, not in this terrain.”

  Styke took the waxed leather map tube Celine stole from Captain Bonnie and popped the cap, then rummaged through the maps inside until he found the one he wanted. He spread it gently on the lip of the longboat, and everyone shifted to crowd around him. It was a map of a region in the northeast of Dynize called the Jagged Fens. “We’re here,” he said, pointing to a nondescript little inlet. “The rendezvous is here.” He tapped on another spot. On the map, the distance seemed negligible, but Zac was right; it would be impossible in these conditions. “You see this?”

  A few of the men leaned forward to squint at the paper. “Is that a road?” Markus asked.

  “It’s a coastal highway cutting through the Fens.”

  “This map is a century old,” Jackal pointed out quietly. “Is the road even there anymore?”

  It better be, Styke thought. This plan had sounded less crazy in his head back aboard the Seaward. Aloud, he said, “I don’t see why it wouldn’t be. We’re just a couple miles to the east. I figure we can get there by morning. Once we’re on packed dirt, we’ll be able to ride hard to meet up with the rest of the Lancers. There are a handful of small towns between us and them. Worst case, we throw on our armor and ride through.”

  The small group began to murmur thoughtfully among themselves, and he saw the idea take root. He himself wasn’t as convinced. In fact, he was beginning to think this might be one of his stupider ideas. But the important part was pointing the Lancers at a goal and getting them moving. He could deal with complications as they arose.

  Styke rolled the map back up, then returned the map tube to Celine. “Keep this safe,” he told her. “And the rest of you… finish inventory and get your horses saddled and ready to move. I want to be off the coast as soon as possible.”

  The group threw themselves into action, and Styke headed to give Amrec a once-over before making sure that Celine and Ka-poel’s horses were hale and ready to ride. Less than a half hour passed before he could see the soldiers were ready to leave. He instructed them to haul the longboats farther upstream, and turned when he heard a voice call out his name. It was Celine, standing up on the vantage point he’d used to watch the Seaward slip away earlier.

  Styke climbed up to join her and immediately saw the problem. Not far from shore, right around where the Seaward dropped them off, the big Dynize ship of the line had arrived and put down her anchor. The immense deck swarmed with sailors and soldiers, the latter of which were piling into longboats by the dozen. The first boat dropped into the water as Styke watched. Then the second, then the third.

  He’d expected one of the frigates to send a small landing party to see what they were up to. But this big ship of the line was sending at least sixty naval infantry. Too many to deal with in a single, savage ambush, and probably better trained than normal sailors. The Mad Lancers needed to get off this coastline immediately.

  “Is that bad?” Celine asked.

  Styke pushed her gently down toward the waiting Lancers. “Yes,” he said. “That’s very bad.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Vlora stood with her back to the entrance of her tent, thumbing absently through an old journal that she’d recovered from the bottom of her travel trunk just a few moments ago. At one point, it had been decorated with a rather ornate lock, but that had been dislodged by the jostling of tens of thousands of miles of travel. The black leather cover was well worn, the pages yellow from age and moisture, and the stitched t
eardrop of Adro barely visible in the center of the cover.

  It was Tamas’s journal, a seeming hodgepodge of dated notes and remembrances covering nearly two decades, the pages stuffed with old letters to and from his long-deceased wife. Vlora handled the pages with care, glancing at a few of the dates and letters, most of them written before she was born.

  Someone cleared his throat behind her as she crossed her tent to set the journal on her cot, then turned to face the small group that had gathered at her request. Every movement brought pain, and she handled herself with nearly as much care as she did the journal, careful not to show just how badly her body had been mauled. She almost laughed at the efforts. Here she was, with her most trusted friends and companions, and she wouldn’t allow herself to show them her pain. Well, no matter. They’d learn some of it soon enough.

  Borbador sat on a stool in the corner of the tent, legs crossed, fingers drumming on his false leg while he puffed casually on an obscenely large pipe that he had to support with one hand just to keep it in his mouth. His face was expressionless, but his eyes had that thoughtful, amused look in them as if he’d just remembered something funny. He’d grown his ruddy beard out since Vlora last saw him, and she decided she preferred the look.

  Privileged Nila stood behind Bo, leaning on his shoulder, playing with a strand of his hair, looking vaguely annoyed. Her hair was braided tightly over each shoulder, and she wore one of the crimson dresses that she liked so much. She looked up suddenly, meeting Vlora’s eyes, and Vlora found her own gaze flinching away.

  The rest of the party consisted of Vlora’s three powder mages: the dark-haired Davd; the grizzled, highly experienced Norrine; and the quiet Kez ex-noble Buden je Parst. Vlora determined that it had been Bo who cleared his throat, and so let her gaze settle on him for a long moment before running it back across the others.