Blood of Empire

by Brian McClellan

  “Should I be looking for anything in particular?” Ichtracia asked.

  Michel shook his head slowly. “I’m not even sure myself. Things out of the ordinary, maybe?”

  “I don’t know what constitutes ordinary on a coast like this.”

  Michel didn’t answer. He was beginning to suspect that he’d taken this expedition as a way to get out of the city more than anything else. What did he hope to find out here? A trail, like he’d said, but the most likely trail led right to the barge landing that he could now see about a mile to their south. Not too much longer and they’d have to turn back. That landing was likely heavily guarded. He didn’t want to risk talking his way past those guards, not with Ichtracia in tow.

  They proceeded another half mile before he dug in his paddle and turned them around, heading back north. The pleasant feeling was gone now, replaced by frustration. Had he just wasted an entire afternoon paddling up and down the coast? His mood began to sink further, and he was just beginning to lose his concentration when Ichtracia spoke up.

  “You see something in those rocks there?”

  He followed her outstretched finger toward one of the rocky outcroppings. There was nothing out of the ordinary about this one—it had a small gravel beach at its base, upon which the trunk of one of those giant trees from up north had washed. As a child he used to love those giant trunks. He would climb all over them, inspect their roots for caught treasures, and pretend they were his mighty ship run ashore.

  “Nothing,” Michel answered her.

  “There’s a kid hiding behind the roots.”

  Michel watched carefully for several minutes. Finally, he saw a little flash of color and a movement. “Okay, I see it. Two kids, looks like.” He pulled in his paddle, letting them drift, and considered their options. They’d seen relatively few people along the shore between here and Landfall. It would be smart to walk all the way back, question everyone as they went, but those long stretches of marsh made such an endeavor difficult.

  “They’re awfully far from the nearest fishing village,” Michel said, looking up and down the coast. They were, it seemed, trapped on that outcropping by the marsh. “They might be local, though. We can go ask if they’ve seen anything out of the ordinary.”

  He turned the canoe toward shore. By the time they reached it, both of the children had disappeared. Michel looked around the empty little beach and up toward the rocks, hesitant to go looking through that tangle. He pushed the canoe farther onto the beach. “Stay here,” he told Ichtracia. “I don’t want a couple of damned kids getting the drop on us and stealing our canoe.”

  “They’d do that?”

  “It’s what I would have done for fun at that age,” he said over his shoulder. He headed up the beach, around the ocean-worn tree trunk, and began to climb the rocks. He got to the top and looked around. They were, indeed, trapped on the outcropping, surrounded by marsh. He couldn’t see any kids, and he couldn’t see any likely path that they would have taken to get here.

  He could see the godstone from here. It was a couple of miles away, rising from the plain like a twig thrust into a sandbar. Around it swarmed a small city, constructed entirely by the Dynize since they arrived. There were laborers, soldiers, scientists, Privileged, and bone-eyes. The walls of a mighty fortress, as of yet unfinished and covered in scaffolding, surrounded the monolith itself.

  The very idea that that thing was active and usable, bathed in the blood of thousands, made him want to look away—to spill the content of his stomach into the rocks. He wasn’t sure whether it was the sorcery of the stone or just his own horrible knowledge, but the whole horizon seemed to pulse with dark purpose. He shuddered and turned back toward the beach.

  Only to come face-to-face with an old Palo man, bent and gray.

  Michel almost tumbled from his perch in surprise. The old man held a driftwood branch over his head, as if preparing to swing. His clothes were torn and weather-beaten, his beard and hair unkempt and unwashed. He seemed as surprised that Michel had turned around as Michel was that he was there, making a oop noise.

  “Were you just about to hit me with that?” Michel demanded.

  The old man brandished the stick. “Give us your canoe,” he said.

  Michel eyeballed the makeshift weapon. The old man’s arms trembled so hard that it almost fell from his hands just hanging there, and he doubted it could be swung with any strength. Michel raised one hand toward the old man and another toward the beach, where Ichtracia could no doubt see that something was happening. He didn’t want her to do anything rash, not out in the open like this.

  “Whoa there,” Michel said gently. “Hey old-timer, can I help you with something?”

  “You can give us your canoe.” Despite his trembling limbs, the man’s voice was strong.

  “So you can go where?” Michel asked. “It doesn’t look like you’re fit for rowing anything.”

  The old man tried to brandish the stick again, but finally let out a defeated sigh and let the weapon slip from his fingers. Michel gave him another quick appraisal. He was whip-thin, the gauntness of his face speaking of malnutrition. Michel wondered how long he’d been out here. Was he a hermit? A shipwrecked sailor? Did he have something to do with the godstone? It was the final thought that sharpened Michel’s curiosity.

  “Who is ‘we’?” Michel asked.

  The old man wilted to the ground. “No one,” he said, waving Michel off. “Just me. Go on, get out of here.”

  Something about this was very strange. Michel took a cautious look around, remembering the small figures he’d seen from the water. Two children. Alone, he had just written them off as local kids playing on the shore, much as he would have when he was a child. But with this old man… “Do you need help?”

  The old man didn’t look up.

  Michel continued, “If you need help getting back to Landfall, I don’t mind rowing you to the city. But I’m not gonna let you strand me and my friend here.” He tried to read the old man, to get a feel for who and what he was. Mad? He didn’t seem mad. Just half-starved. “Look, I’ll make you a deal. I’m trying to find out if there’s anything strange about that new citadel over there. You help me…” He trailed off, because when he gestured toward the godstone, the old man flinched. Not a small flinch, either. He might as well have cowered. Michel’s breath caught in his throat.

  An elderly Palo man and a couple of children. The unwanted, the uncared-for.

  Michel crouched down, staring intently at the old man. “Do you know something about that place?”

  “No,” the old man growled. “Nothing. Now, go.”

  It was an obvious lie. Michel continued on in a gentle, firm voice. “How long have you been here?”

  No answer.

  “Are you from Greenfire Depths?”

  Still no answer.

  Michel looked around for any sign of the kids. He thought he saw a bit of red hair poking up behind a nearby rock. It moved. He didn’t give any indication that he’d seen it, keeping one eye on the man and one on the rocks. “I’m from the Depths. I’m trying to find out about people who went missing there. I think some of them were taken to the new Dynize citadel.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” The old man was a terrible liar. He was also clearly terrified. Michel caught sight of a tattoo on his wrinkled skin: the roots of a cypress tree on his upper arm. Michel knew the mark—it belonged to a large contingent of Palo soldiers who’d fought for Fatrastan independence.

  Michel pursed his lips and spoke in a strong, confident tone. “I am a Son of the Red Hand, and you have no need to fear me, brother.”

  The old man looked up sharply. His whole body convulsed and shuddered, and he suddenly sprang forward. Michel caught him in surprise, and soon found himself holding an old man who wept against his shoulder. “A friend!” the old man cried. “By my life, a friend!”

  It took some time to calm the old man. The children were coaxed from their hiding
spot—three of them, all looking as ragged as the old man, but none nearly as starved. They gathered around Michel, touching his clothes and his hair. He recognized the parlance of the street urchins of Greenfire Depths and replied to them with their own vernacular. They clapped and laughed, and asked when they could go home.

  Michel struggled to maintain his professionalism. He would get them back to the Depths, of course. But he had to know their story. He prodded the old man twice before it all came pouring out in short, staccato bursts.

  “Soldiers gathered us up. At least, I think they were soldiers. Armed Palo, carrying Dynize muskets. I was pulled from my tenement late at night, threatened into silence. They took us to the docks. Old people, like me. Kids. So many kids.” The old man spoke between deep breaths, every moment threatening to burst into tears again. “Keelboats. Down the river. Down the coast. Marched us to the citadel. To that… thing. The Dynize, once they had us, kept us placid with talk of food. Spoke of service to a higher cause. Religion. Gods. I didn’t understand any of it. I’ve heard promises before, you see.” He tapped the tattoo on his arm. “I snuck off when I could. Got lost. Then I saw them… the bodies. It was the smell that got me first, and then the sight. Within the citadel. A mass grave. Bloodless corpses.”

  The man began to shake and shudder. Michel put a hand on his shoulder to calm him. Several more minutes passed before he could speak again.

  “I saw them bloodlet a child. A child, damn it! Slit her little throat like she was an animal to put in the stew, then dashed her brains against the base of the monolith. I fled. Managed to gather these three. I don’t think anyone even noticed. There were so many of us, and the night was dark and the soldiers sleepy. We left through a drainage ditch in the citadel wall. But… but I got lost in the dark. Led them across the marsh. It wasn’t until morning that I realized I’d trapped us on this forsaken rock.”

  “Why didn’t you head back to the city?” Michel asked.

  “Fear,” the old man replied unashamedly. “Fear of the snakes and the bottomless marsh. Fear of the Dynize. Fear that we’d be rounded up the moment we returned.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  The old man looked at the oldest of the children, who held up one hand, fingers splayed.

  “Five weeks. We survived off fish we caught with our hands. There’s a little cave down under these rocks. Big enough to keep us out of the rain and sun.”

  Michel looked around the group. He didn’t let himself react to this story. He couldn’t afford to. He had to harden himself. This was a horror, but he had a job to do. He looked toward the beach, wondering how long he’d been gone, only to find Ichtracia standing less than ten paces from them. The fury on her face told him that she’d heard enough. He took a long, calming breath and turned back to the old man.

  “Do you still have any fight in you?”

  The old man looked down at his own trembling hands. This time, there was shame in his eyes.

  “Not that kind of fighting,” Michel said reassuringly. “A different kind. I want you to come back to the Depths with me. Meet Mama Palo. Tell your story.”

  “To who?”

  “To everyone.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Vlora watched an approaching column with no small amount of trepidation, knowing that if she’d still had her sorcery, she could spend this time closely studying the faces of the men and women, gaining an early edge on her political enemies. Instead, she was left to stew in her impatience, while her mood grew darker with every passing moment.

  Her army had stopped for the night, and she could smell the smoke from fires as company cooks began to turn rations into something vaguely resembling dinner. She’d been told she would enjoy venison herself—a bit of meat shot by one of the camp followers and sold to the general-staff chef. She doubted she would actually enjoy it. Everything seemed to taste of ash these days, even after her recent realizations.

  One of her first duties as a commanding officer receiving politicians was to invite them to dinner. Vlora had no intention of doing so, and decided she would have to get her pleasure from the petty snub.

  “That’s almost two thousand soldiers,” Bo said. Nila was off aiding the wounded, but Bo had elected to join Vlora. General Sabastenien was here as well. No one else had bothered. Delia Snowbound was not popular among any of the soldiery, and less so among the senior officers. Even under the best of circumstances Vlora herself had trouble dealing with Delia without losing her temper. It was not even close to the best of circumstances.

  “The High Provosts,” Vlora spat. Even at this distance she recognized the flags flying above the infantry column. One of them was the classic crimson with the mountains and teardrop. The one below it was small but no less bold—a contrasting military blue with the same exact emblem, but an added chevron below the teardrop. The High Provosts were a wing of the military police created after the Adran-Kez War as a sort of royal guard for the new ministerial government. Delia Snowbound and her allies had managed to gain control of the High Provosts and turn them into a check on the military leadership of the country. It had been the High Provosts who oversaw the disbanding of much of the Adran Army.

  Delia herself was insult enough. But the presence of two thousand High Provosts was a slap to Vlora’s face and a clear statement of Delia’s intentions—she wasn’t just here to make sure that Vlora played nice in a foreign war. She was here to remove Vlora from power.

  Vlora couldn’t let Delia get the better of her. Not now. She had to remain calm.

  Bo glanced in her direction and did a double take. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m practicing a pleasant smile,” Vlora told him.

  “You look like you’re about to chew your own leg off.”

  “That’s why I’m practicing.”

  “Maybe just not smile at all. Try total neutrality.”

  Vlora rubbed at her jaw, trying to work some of the tension out of it. “How about now?”

  “You look constipated.”

  “Sabastenien?” She turned to her general.

  Sabastenien cleared his throat, seemed about to say something, then think better of it.

  “He agrees with me,” Bo said confidently. “Just relax. This won’t be that bad.”

  “Two thousand High Provosts and Delia Snowbound. How could it possibly be worse?”

  “Four thousand High Provosts?” Sabastenien suggested.

  “You’re not helping.” Vlora leaned back in her saddle, attempting to loosen the knot between her shoulders. The column continued their approach, and she noticed that hundreds of her soldiers had turned out to the edge of camp to watch. She had a pang of fear. High Provosts were paid better than the regular army, and their numbers had been heavily recruited from the surviving scions of the old noble families who’d been exterminated by Tamas and their sympathizers. She worried that she wouldn’t have to do or say a damned thing for her soldiers to turn on the provosts.

  Anything they did on their own initiative would reflect poorly on her.

  The column finally reached the edge of camp and came to a stop. A small group detached itself from the main body and rode up the hill toward Vlora. She recognized both Delia and the man at her side. Delia was a tall, slim woman with hawkish features and an overbearing air, her nose turned up and her lips fixed in something close to a permanent sneer. Her long blond hair trailed all the way down across her horse’s back. She wore a riding jacket and pants as if she’d turned out for a fox hunt rather than to join a military expedition.

  The man’s name was Valeer, and what he lacked in height—being only an inch or two taller than Vlora herself—he made up for in arrogance. He’d inherited the High Provosts from their original commander and done his very best to turn them into Delia’s private little army. He wore the blue-and-crimson uniform of a High Provost, with an epaulet on his left shoulder.

  The pair looked every bit the part of the old aristocracy, and the presentation was, Vlora understo
od, absolutely deliberate.

  “Provost Marshal Valeer,” Vlora called as the two approached. “To what do we owe the honor?”

  Neither of them answered until they’d ridden up close to Vlora and her companions. Valeer eyeballed both Bo and Sabastenien before turning to Vlora. “A military crisis,” he said.

  “Lady Flint,” Delia greeted with a nod.

  Vlora ignored the clear implication from Valeer and returned Delia’s nod. “Lady Snowbound. What an auspicious visit.”

  Delia looked around. “You had warning of our arrival?”

  “We did.”

  “Then where is the rest of the general staff?”

  “Having dinner, I believe.”

  “We should join them.”

  “Should we?” Vlora asked. Her voice cracked. Beside her, Bo cleared his throat. “Pardon me,” Vlora continued, pressing a hand to her chest and coughing. “I mean to say, I’d rather not interrupt anyone’s dinner. They are dining with their troops tonight.”

  “I see.” Delia cast a long look at Bo. He smiled back at her.

  “Lady Snowbound, is there something I can do for you?” Vlora asked in her most neutral tone. Even to her it sounded defensive. “We only found out about your impending arrival yesterday morning and—”

  “Lady Flint,” Delia cut her off. “Marshal Valeer and I have come to relieve you of your command. I would rather have told you the news formally, in front of the general staff, but there you have it.”

  “In front of witnesses, you mean?” Vlora asked lightly.

  Delia ignored her. “We’ve been instructed to send you, Magus Borbador, and Privileged Nila back to Adro to answer to the governing council. They turned a blind eye to your brigade of mercenaries, but you are still a sitting member of the Adran Republic Cabal and an Adran general, and the fact that you’re now leading a field army across a foreign continent puts our entire web of international relationships in peril. Once you are gone, Valeer and I will remain behind and attempt to sort out this war that you and Borbador seem to have thrown us into.”