Blood of Empire

by Brian McClellan

  “Your recovery seems to be coming along nicely,” Nila commented before Vlora could speak.

  “You look… better,” Davd offered.

  Norrine looked up from cleaning her pistol. “We were worried about you.”

  Vlora waved away the encouragement and swallowed a grimace at the twinge that ran down her arm. She looked like a goddamned patchwork doll. Her entire body was covered with scars from the battle at the Crease over five weeks ago. Some of them, the smaller ones, were healing nicely. The rest… not so much. Neither Bo nor Nila specialized in healing sorcery, though they had both studied it in depth. It had taken them four days just to keep Vlora from dying and another five before she could be carried with the army as it traveled. Another whole week had passed before Vlora could walk on her own.

  This was the first day she’d called her powder mages in for review; the first day she’d done anything beyond issue marching orders, ride along in a covered litter, or stew in the humid heat of her tent. She swallowed bile and clenched her fists behind her back. “Thank you for the kind words,” she said softly. “But I have something important to discuss with the five of you. Bo already knows.”

  Nila looked up sharply, then down at Bo with a cocked eyebrow. “What is it?”

  Vlora glanced across the group, swallowed again, cleared her throat, and found that she could not give voice to the thing that had haunted her since the second she regained consciousness. She coughed, tried to meet the eyes of her underlings, and failed. After a few moments, she forced herself to look Norrine in the eye—she was, after all, the most experienced of the mages. She would have to take up most of the slack.

  “She can’t use her sorcery,” Bo announced. Vlora shot him a glare, but he continued. “The effort at the Crease has burned her out, made her powder blind.”

  All three of Vlora’s mages stared at her. She could tell by their expressions that Norrine was not surprised—she’d probably expected it after seeing the carnage of the battle—but the other two were clearly taken off guard. Davd took a full step back, blinking in disbelief. Buden scowled. Before they could ask questions, she continued where Bo left off.

  “This may or may not be permanent.” Who was she kidding? It was possible to recover from powder blindness, but it took time. “You all know the stories, the notes Tamas kept about his students.” She paused to blink away a few tears and take a deep breath. “The most important thing right now is that we continue as we have been. Absolutely no one beyond this room must know. Do you understand?”

  There were a few dull nods.

  “That goes for you two as well,” Vlora said to Bo and Nila.

  “Oh, come now,” Bo objected.

  “You are a bit of a gossip, dear,” Nila said thoughtfully to Bo, studying Vlora with an intensity Vlora did not like. “Of course,” she said. “We won’t say a word.”

  “Yes, yes,” Bo agreed. He glared at his pipe, then tapped it out against his false leg and stowed it in his jacket pocket. “You’ve been having us march south since you woke up. I assume that means you have a destination and a plan for what to do next?”

  On to the next thing. Typical Bo, and Vlora was grateful for it. She had no doubt that she would dwell on the loss of her sorcery every spare moment from now until she died. Any distraction was welcome right now. “Of course. Thanks to you, I am in command of the greatest army on this continent. I intend on taking it to Landfall, where we will relieve the Dynize of their godstone and destroy it.”

  Norrine nodded along, as if this was what she’d expected. The other two powder mages still seemed too shell-shocked to respond. Bo lifted his hand like a schoolchild.

  “Yes?” Vlora asked.

  “I handed you a very nice army, but it’s still the smallest fighting force by far. The Dynize and the Fatrastans both outnumber us by at least five to one. The Dynize want to kill you. The Fatrastans want to arrest you. Do you plan on fighting them both?”

  “If necessary.”

  “What does that even mean?” Bo demanded.

  Vlora wasn’t entirely certain herself. The Dynize were enemy number one right now—they’d come dangerously close to killing her and her brigade of mercenaries. Fatrasta, though? Lindet’s betrayal at Landfall still stung deeply. Vlora would not—could not—trust them. Which left her on a foreign continent swarming with enemy armies.

  “It means destroying the godstone is our only purpose. We’ll go through whoever we have to in order to accomplish that goal.”

  Bo exchanged a glance with Nila. After several seconds too long, he said, “Fair enough.”

  Vlora tried not to read too much into the hesitation. Taniel’s initial reaction to the godstone had been to study it, and it had taken some insistence to bring him around. Bo was infinitely more curious than Taniel, so she would have to keep a close eye on him. He would never betray her outright, but he was a man rife with ulterior motives.

  “You haven’t actually told us how you plan on doing that,” Nila pointed out.

  Vlora gave her smile with humor she didn’t feel. “The Adran way.”

  “Oh, well that explains everything.”

  Vlora ignored the sarcasm. “I just needed to tell the five of you about my… condition. Now that that’s over with, back to business. Bo, I’d like you and Nila to check in with the artillery commander. We’re going to end up in a full-fledged battle at some point in the next few weeks and I want you all coordinated. Mages, I’m going to want one of you on hand at all times. You’ll have to be my sorcery—to tell me anything I should know and, if need be, to protect me. Eight-hour shifts, every day. I’ll let you decide on the rotation. Dismissed.”

  The powder mages snapped their salutes and left the tent without another word. Nila followed them, pausing at the flap with a glance back, while Bo remained on the stool in the corner, watching Vlora the way an asylum doctor might watch one of his patients.

  “That includes you,” Vlora said to Bo, returning to her cot and picking up Tamas’s journal.

  Bo waited until Nila had gone, then said in a soft voice, “You’re sure you’re strong enough for this? We don’t have Taniel anymore. He’s off to Adom knows where, and I’m not sure when he’ll be back.”

  “Of course I’m sure.” She was not. Not even close, and she knew it. Just lifting Tamas’s journal brought a tremble to her hand that she could not afford to let her soldiers see. “I have to be.”

  “Right,” Bo said flatly. He didn’t believe her. “I’ll be within shouting distance. If you need me…” He exited the tent, his false leg clicking as he went.

  Vlora stood with her eyes closed in meditation for several minutes, willing her body to stop its shaking, pushing away the pain. It took all of her focus, and she instinctively reached for her sorcery every few moments, only to feel the pang of loss when it didn’t come within her grasp.

  Finally, she let out one trembling breath and fetched her sword from the corner. The blade was practically destroyed from her fight at the Crease; the steel notched, the tip bent, rust destroying what was left. There was still Dynize blood in several of the deepest gouges, and she hadn’t had the energy to give it a proper cleaning. Still, the scabbard was in good shape, so she took the weapon as a cane and stepped out into the still morning air.

  They’d set up her tent within spitting distance of the general-staff command center, on a knoll overlooking the Blackguard River Valley. Spread out before her was the army Bo had brought with him from Adro: thirty thousand infantry, eight thousand cavalry, and a full artillery contingent to accompany each brigade. It was, as she’d told her compatriots, the best fighting force on the continent—the best trained, the best outfitted, the best armed.

  Across the valley, just on the other side of the small Blackguard River beside a picturesque copse of trees, was the town of Lower Blackguard. Her army had only arrived late last night, so this was the first time she’d set eyes on it herself. Still, she knew the area well by a study of local maps. The town
’s population was only around five hundred—it was the center of trade for the local tobacco and cotton plantations—but a city of tents now overflowed the town limits. The Fatrastan flag had been replaced by the black-and-red of the Dynize.

  Vlora tore her eyes away from that flag and looked around. Soldiers had frozen in their tracks at the sight of her, staring openly. It was, she reminded herself, the first time they’d seen her out of a litter or her tent since the Crease. She gave the lot of them a cool, dismissive look before turning to Davd, who stood at attention beside the tent.

  “Where’s Olem?” she asked.

  Davd started. “Uh, he’s still gone, ma’am.”

  Vlora peered at Davd. There were bits and pieces missing from the last few weeks. Olem was one of them. She had no memory of being told that he’d ever left. “Where?”

  “Escorting the godstone capstone to the Adran fleet, ma’am, as well as the Riflejack wounded.”

  “Ah, I remember now.” She didn’t. “Thank you. Let me know the moment he returns.”

  Davd looked nervous. “Yes, ma’am. Can I do anything else for you?”

  “Tell me where our artillery unit is.”

  “This way, ma’am.”

  “Lead on.” Vlora began the slow, methodical descent from the vantage of her knoll, leaning heavily on her sword. Davd kept pace with her, glaring at the passing camp followers and saluting soldiers with outward hostility as if their mere presence might upset her. His protectiveness was at once touching and irritating, but Vlora let it pass. If Davd’s glares meant she was spared a few more hours until people started asking her stupid questions, so much the better.

  They cut across the slope of the valley, ending up nearly half a mile away at a spot where the ground had been leveled for sixteen beautiful, polished four-pound guns and their crews. A woman in her midfifties with short, brown hair and a thin face strode among them, snapping orders and inspecting the guns. Her name was Colonel Silvia and she was the most experienced artillery officer in the Adran Army.

  Vlora’s approach was unnoticed until she was between two of the cannons. A crewman recognized her, snapping a salute and calling out attention. Within the minute, sixteen crews stood at attention beside their guns while their commander saluted, then warmly took Vlora’s hand. “Good to see you up and moving, General.”

  “Good to be up and moving. What’s the situation?”

  Silvia looked toward the town of Lower Blackguard. “Roughly four thousand metalheads holed up in and around the town. They have a perimeter, but it’s sloppy. We brought in a deserter less than an hour ago—I actually just came from a briefing.”

  Vlora lifted her eyebrows. “Oh?”

  “Looks like this is the remnants of one of the brigades you and Two-shot gutted at the Crease. They don’t have Privileged or bone-eyes, and only a handful of officers. About half of them are wounded.”

  Vlora barely heard anything after the word “Crease.” This was what was left of a brigade sent to execute her, murder her men, and take the portion of godstone they’d brought from Yellow Creek. Flashes of the fight played across her memory, and the ache of her missing sorcery made her weak in the knees.

  “Do we know what they have planned?”

  “The deserter said they have orders to hold for reinforcements. I imagine if we give them a proper encirclement, they’ll surrender by this time tomorrow.”

  Something ugly reared its head inside Vlora at that moment. Her lip curled involuntarily, and she couldn’t help but think of the doggedness with which the Dynize had pursued her, of the betrayals of the Fatrastans, of the losses both personal and professional that she had suffered since the Dynize arrived at Landfall.

  “Colonel, I want your battery to bombard the town into submission.”

  Silvia looked uncertain. “Shouldn’t we demand their surrender first?”

  “I think they’ll get the message.”

  “And civilians from the town?”

  Fatrastans. Betrayers. Enemies. “Try not to hit too many of them,” Vlora said coldly. “Davd.”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Get Norrine and Buden. Kill every officer you see. I won’t accept a surrender from any officer with an equivalent rank of master sergeant or above.”

  Davd swallowed hard. “Should we let them know that?”

  “As I said, they’ll get the message.” Vlora turned away, gesturing for them to carry out their orders. That ugly thing was now rooted firmly in her breast, and she felt like she was watching someone else order the butchering of an enemy brigade. She tried to dig her way out of this fresh-found fury—and was unsuccessful.

  “Where are you going, ma’am?” Silvia asked.

  “To find a good place from which to watch.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Vlora spent the day watching the heavy bombardment of Lower Blackguard. Throughout the morning and afternoon, more gun crews trickled in from the various brigades. They flattened sections of the hillside, brought in their guns and artillery, and joined Colonel Silvia in the relentless attack.

  Word must have spread that Vlora had emerged from her tent, because a steady stream of messengers and well-wishing officers had cropped up by noon. She listened to their platitudes and reports, taking them all in with the same cool nod, and sat in her camp chair with her pitted sword across her lap. It felt good to let the sun play on her face after so long cooped up, and the report of the guns gave her a feeling of warmth that bordered on frightening.

  The first white flag emerged from Lower Blackguard at about two in the afternoon. Vlora could tell by the lacquered breastplate that it was an officer, and the woman didn’t make it halfway to Vlora’s lines before she fell to a gunshot from one of Vlora’s mages. The second white flag came out an hour later and met the same fate.

  Just after that second one died, Vlora spotted Nila picking her way through the camp. The Privileged approached the artillery battery, where she spoke with Silvia and several of the gun crews, but did not add her sorcery to the bombardment. Vlora watched her cautiously, wondering how long it would take for Nila to approach and question her methods.

  “You’re shooting their messengers before they can surrender,” a voice noted.

  Vlora started and cursed under her breath. She’d been so focused on Nila that she hadn’t heard Bo approach from behind. He had a collapsible camp chair over one shoulder and unfolded it, plopping down beside Vlora and letting out a pleased sigh as he unhooked his false leg and began to fiddle with the ankle mechanism.

  “I swear that thing only makes noise when you want it to,” Vlora accused.

  Bo smiled but didn’t look up from his leg. “You’re punishing them,” he said with a nod across the valley.

  “If you want to call it that, sure,” Vlora responded. She felt suddenly surly, uninterested in listening to any sort of reproach from anyone—even the adopted brother who’d helped save her life. She began preparing for an argument, cataloging Bo’s past atrocities, ready to accuse the Privileged of doing anything and everything for his own ends.

  She was surprised when he simply gave a small shrug. “Could be useful. But is it a great idea to shoot messengers under a white flag?”

  She opened her mouth, closed it, and felt that ugly anger stir in her belly. “They would do the same to me without hesitation.”

  “You’re certain of that?” Bo asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Ah.” Bo finally worked a bit of grit out of the ankle mechanism of his false leg and hooked it back to his knee. “Then, carry on!”

  “I’m glad you approve.”

  Bo glanced across the valley, but he had that distant look in his eyes as if he had already moved on to other, more important thoughts. Vlora tried to read anything deeper from his expression but was unsuccessful. She sighed and looked over her shoulder to where Davd sat on the hillside some ten feet behind her—far enough to give her some room but close enough to come quickly if needed. Davd was smoking a cigarette
, and Vlora wondered when he had started. She opened her mouth to ask Bo if he’d seen Olem, only to remember that Olem was still gone. His absence caused her to ache as badly as did the rest of her body. She wished he had not left.

  “What’s the state of Fatrasta between here and Landfall?” Bo asked.

  Vlora pulled her eyes away from the bombardment. “You mean you’ve been here for over a month and you don’t have your spy network in place? I assumed you’d know everything before I did.”

  “Don’t be silly. I know most things before you do, not everything. But your soldiers are particularly loyal right now, what with their general sacrificing herself for their comrades and then rising from the ashes. It’s hard to get much out of them.”

  Vlora snorted. “That’s reassuring.” She let her gaze linger on a group of Adran privates watching her from a distance of about twenty yards. She couldn’t read their faces, not without a powder trance, but something about them left her unsettled. She tried to put them out of her mind and leaned forward in her chair, using her sword to scratch a bit of bare earth out of the grassland and then drawing in it. “Here’s the coast,” she said, making a line. “Here’s us, and here’s Landfall.” They’d started out at the Crease, about three hundred miles north of Landfall. The army had managed to cover roughly half of that distance while Vlora recuperated.

  She stabbed another dot into the ground. “The Adran fleet is shadowing our flank, dealing with any Dynize ships so that nothing lands behind us and making sure we’re well supplied.”

  “And the enemy?” Bo asked.

  “Field armies here, here, and here,” Vlora answered. “All Dynize. The Fatrastans have been beaten badly, but they’re not out of the fight. Rumor has it they’ve got at least four hundred thousand men fielded down here.” She drew a circle around the area to the northwest of Landfall. “Mostly conscripts. They’re better armed than the Dynize, but they don’t have the discipline or sorcery. Lindet’s a wily one, though, so I won’t count her beat until I see her head on a spike.”