Blood of Empire

by Brian McClellan

  Even Etzi was surprised by the declaration. “We should gather our forces,” he said. “We can risk an hour or two to bring more Household heads and soldiers to our cause.”

  No, Ka-poel gestured. We cannot. Sedial has begun the ritual to wake the godstones. If we do not go now, it will be too late.

  Styke heard a shout from Etzi’s front gate and, within a few moments, the hammering of running feet. It was Maetle who burst into the meeting, shoving aside one of the Household head guards. “Meln-Etzi, Meln-Sika, Ka-poel! Something is happening to the godstone! The whole city glows red!”

  While the others fell into confusion, Styke turned to Ka-poel. Her face grew determined, and she gestured to one side so that only he could see what she said.

  Get me to the godstone. These fools have no idea what is about to happen. If I do not challenge Ka-Sedial now, there will be no challenge.

  CHAPTER 66

  Michel and Davd took a long, circuitous route through the coastal marshes and approached the fortress from the east. It took them more time than he would have liked, and it quickly became clear that the powder mage was impatient over how slowly Michel was moving. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he should just give Davd some vague instructions and let him loose—but he knew this was his only chance of reaching Ichtracia. Artillery and sorcery crackled over a smoke-filled battlefield to their northwest as the Adran and Dynize war machines slammed into each other with a violence that Michel could feel in his bones even at a distance. The setting sun played through it all, turning the horizon a brilliant, black-tinged orange for the space of a few minutes.

  Once they’d left the coastal marshes, they proceeded through a rubble field and ramshackle tent village full of frightened Palo laborers hunkering down to weather the distant battle and Landfall riots. Davd quickly captured a Dynize uniform jacket for himself, which he wore over his Adran blues. Michel expected martial law in the laborer village, but there appeared to be no one of consequence—whatever common soldiery still occupied the place kept their eyes glued to the battle. Michel and his companion passed unnoticed.

  The fortress quickly loomed above them. It was a sprawling thing, far larger—and far less complete—than Michel had guessed. Much of the eastern wall was still covered in scaffolding, the lower stone blocks covered in a finishing mortar while many of the upper blocks had yet to be put in place. The area at the base of the wall was a mess of cranes, carts, tools, and stone.

  Survivor had described his exit through the base of an incomplete well where a natural spring drained from the area. It took a moment’s examination to find that the area had been walled in during the time since—a great culvert now drained into the old streambed. It was big enough to crawl through, but protected by thick iron bars.

  “That’s not going to work,” Michel muttered to himself, squinting at the scaffolding along the wall. “That was our way in,” he told Davd, “but it’s been bricked up.”

  “I can climb that scaffolding.”

  “I was thinking the same thing.”

  The powder mage frowned at the top of the wall. “You don’t need to come any farther. We’re here. I’ll find the son of a bitch.”

  “No,” Michel said, almost too quickly. “I’m coming.”

  The words had barely left his mouth when Davd snatched him by the front of his shirt and threw him down behind a discarded stone block. Michel didn’t even have the chance to voice an objection before a sudden crack split his ears. The very earth seemed to rumble. For a moment, Michel thought that it had started to rain heavily—only to realize that tiny pieces of stone were falling all around them in a fine hail. He put his hands over his head, listening to the disconcerting sound and staring at Davd.

  “Flint’s pushing hard!” Davd shouted, pointing above them. Michel looked up to see that one of the gun towers less than fifty paces to their north had suddenly ceased to exist. A jagged stone remnant, wreathed in smoke and crackling with lightning, was all that remained. “If Nila is close enough to do that, the army is nearby!” Michel stared at Davd, trying to figure out why he was shouting, only to realize that the sound seemed distant and muddled. His ears rang.

  “Are we still going in?” he shouted back.

  “They might still stop her,” Davd replied, regaining his footing and heading to the scaffolding. “You need to stay here. I can’t wait for you.”

  Michel watched helplessly as Davd took a deep breath from something in his pocket, swung his rifle onto his back, and leapt onto the scaffolding. The leap seemed effortless but must have been six feet, and he scrambled up the scaffolding like a spider. He was at the top of the incomplete wall within moments, leaving Michel behind.

  “Well, there goes my distraction.” Michel swore under his breath and followed the powder mage. His ascent proved painfully slow, as his own lack of sorcery—and his ruined hand—kept him from making the leaps and quick judgment that Davd had displayed. Michel worked methodically, finding the ladders and safest routes, gaining each level with only a pause to listen to his ringing ears in an attempt to judge the distance of the armies clashing beyond the northern wall of the fortress.

  Another explosion shook the scaffolding dangerously. Michel clung to the stone facade with all his might until the shaking had passed. He had no ability to judge whether the explosion had been sorcery or artillery.

  He was just climbing through a gap left between two big stone blocks at the top when a sudden brilliance caught him off guard. The sun had almost completely set, leaving most of the fortress shrouded in darkness, and for a moment he thought that the Dynize had begun firing flares. He squinted toward the sky, trying to find the source.

  A thrill of fear went through him when he realized that the godstone had begun to glow. The triangular cap at the top bathed the battlefield in a yellow light as if a second sun had suddenly appeared. The fear almost sent Michel scrambling back to the dubious safety of the scaffolding, but he forced himself to roll off the wall and onto the unfinished battlements. He dropped into a crouch, squinting against the light of the godstone, and attempted to get his bearings.

  The fortress was easily as big as the capital building up in Landfall, sprawling and cavernous, but it became immediately clear that the builders had put all of their effort into the walls and gun towers. The inside was little more than a pit filled with the detritus of construction—scaffolding, cranes, stone. Michel could see everything from his hiding spot. The big fortress doors were kitty-corner from his position, flanked by high gun towers. The area swarmed with soldiers, running up and down wooden ramps carrying ammunition up to the guns. While the fortress floor was a flurry of activity, everyone who wasn’t focused on the defense was staring, dumbfounded, up at the godstone.

  No one had noticed Michel. At least for the moment.

  The godstone itself was protected by an inner keep that appeared to be finished. The high stone walls were clear of scaffolding; the mighty doors stood open and were heavily guarded. Even glancing in that direction gave Michel a dark sense of unease, though the glances he threw in that direction revealed that bodies were being carried out of the keep—an alarming number of them.

  Something else caught his attention: a relatively small pyramid, a single piece of stone, sitting off to one side of the courtyard. Nobody appeared to pay it much mind, but it glowed with a less powerful crimson light, pulsing in time with the top of the godstone. This, he realized, must be the capstone that Flint had mentioned.

  He hurried along the battlements parallel to the keep, toward the back of the fortress, his eyes on a ramp that would get him down to the main floor. There were a handful of buildings there—two long barracks, and a half-dozen smaller units, all made of wood. If Ichtracia was to be found, he had no doubt she was in one of those. He paused occasionally to watch for guards, taking advantage of the deep shadows thrown by the pulsating godstone to hide behind construction materials.

  It was during one of these pauses that he spotted Davd. The po
wder mage had made it all the way around to the opposite side of the fortress, clearly heading toward an unfinished tower that would give him the best vantage point. Davd sprinted across the battlements, carving his way through a small group of Dynize soldiers, catching them unaware.

  Michel watched his progress until one of the Dynize spotted him. An alarm was raised quickly despite the overwhelming thunder of the artillery, and a great deal of attention shifted to Davd. The attention, he realized, was both a boon and a bane. It would allow Michel to sneak through more easily, but it may just have ruined their shot at killing Sedial before this could get any worse.

  “Good luck,” he wished the powder mage, and descended from the wall toward the barracks below.

  He was about halfway down when his head began to hurt. It was a stabbing pain, like the worst kind of hangover, and it made him stumble and nearly plummet from the ramps. He caught himself on the building, rubbing furiously at his temples. For the briefest moment, he couldn’t remember where he was. The confusion passed and he forced himself back to his feet, taking the descent with more caution.

  The ramp turned at an alcove that led into a hallway in the outer wall. Michel paused, watching for guards, and then turned down the ramp. Or, at least, that’s what he’d intended to do.

  Instead, he continued forward, walking down the hallway at a leisurely pace. The rest of his body still seemed to obey him—his head still turned, his arms worked—everything but his legs. Confusion grew to irritation, and then to concern, and then to panic all in the space of a dozen steps. His adrenaline kicked into overdrive as he fought with his own body, trying to get himself to turn around.

  It was in vain. He continued down the hall guided by the light of the godstone until the hallway turned with the angle of the wall. He was presented with a door on his right, flanked by a pair of Dynize dragonmen. The two glanced at Michel curiously, and he tried to scramble backward, only to find that even his arms wouldn’t obey him anymore.

  “He’s here to see me,” a voice called from within. Michel felt himself seized with fear as he finally realized what was happening. His body began to sweat and shake uncontrollably, and he strolled right between the two dragonmen and through the door.

  It was a small room—meant to be a guard post, perhaps, or maybe an officer’s bedroom. It was occupied by a writing desk and a single stool, the latter of which was positioned beside a slit of a window that overlooked the inner fortress. Ka-Sedial sat on the stool, smiling pleasantly, head craned as he watched something that only he could see. Ichtracia sat on the floor behind him. She was still wearing the same vest and pants she’d had on four days ago. She was covered in bruises, her face a bloody mess, the left cheek marred by a burn scar that extended from her temple down the side of her neck. She wore a strange yoke—a wooden beam that ran behind her neck and held both of her arms up where her hands could be seen clearly. Each individual finger was locked separately in a tiny vise.

  “Hello, Michel,” Sedial said pleasantly, turning away from the window. “You may have noticed that Ka-poel is no longer protecting you.” Michel’s eyes darted to the writing desk, where a vial of blood sat beside a purple, withered finger. His blood. His finger. His terror escalated beyond the ability for rational thought.

  At his name, Ichtracia’s head rolled and her eyes flickered. A bit of drool trickled out of the corner of her mouth.

  “She’s quite drugged,” Sedial said. “Helpless as a babe.” He brushed his fingertips across Ichtracia’s forehead, then briefly touched the yoke behind her shoulders. “The brace is just an extra precaution. What’s wrong, Michel? I’ve left you your ability to speak. No witty reply? No desperate plea to release Ichtracia?” Sedial grimaced, as if realizing how petty he sounded, and glanced back out the window. “I have to admit, when you popped back into the periphery of my senses, I was more than a little surprised that you were coming here. Well, maybe it shouldn’t have been a surprise. You’re an arrogant little spy. The powder mage was a surprise… but my dragonmen will deal with him soon.”

  Sedial slapped his knees happily and stood up, knuckling his back like an old man preparing for a walk in the park. “It’s almost time, my boy! You’re going to have a great honor, you know.” He grasped a leather cord, tugging it gently until Ichtracia shifted onto her knees and then climbed, awkwardly, to her feet. Her eyes were red and unfocused, and Michel felt his chest tightening with fear and anger at the sight of someone so strong brought so low. He suddenly turned without giving his body instructions to do so, and followed as Sedial led Ichtracia out into the hall.

  “You seem to be in a very good mood for someone who’s about to be crushed by the Adran Army,” Michel said as they walked down the hall. It was the best jab he could muster, but it had no strength to it. His voice was dull. Defeated.

  Sedial didn’t respond, heading out onto the ramp and descending to the inner fortress, Ichtracia following in a stupor, and Michel unable to do anything but tag along behind. He could sense the dragonmen take up position behind him, but when he tried to turn his head, he found that he could not. He prayed for the crack of Davd’s rifle and a magical bullet splitting Sedial’s skull. It didn’t come.

  “We’ve caught up so much over the last few days, she and I,” Sedial said over his shoulder, giving a little tug to Ichtracia’s leash. “She says you’re in love with her. Is that true?”

  Michel bit down on his tongue until a pressure deep inside his belly forced him to speak. “I don’t know.” A well of emotion followed the words and, if he’d been allowed, he might have begun to sob.

  Sedial looked a little disappointed. “She’s fairly confident. You must at least care if you’ve come to try and fetch her. Ah, well. ‘Care’ is good enough for my purposes.” They rounded the inner keep that housed the godstone and paused beside the big doors while soldiers carried out another corpse, then proceeded inside. Unlike the rest of the fortress, the keep was pristine and orderly. There was no rubble or equipment. The floors and walls were polished white marble. There was nothing inside except the godstone and twenty or so attendants. A wide, bloody altar lay at the base of the obelisk.

  Michel fought Sedial’s hold harder, calling out for Ka-poel in his mind. There was no answer.

  Sedial stopped in front of the altar, a little frown on his face, blood pooling around his sandals. A blast shattered the air, and one of the gun towers fell silent. “They… you,” he said to Michel, “all think me a monster. It’s so strange to me. All I’m trying to do is impose order, and yet my enemies swarm like locusts.” He gave a little sigh. “It won’t matter in a few minutes. Up you go!” He prodded Ichtracia, forcing her up a little stepladder onto the blood-soaked altar. Michel thought he saw a flicker in her eyes and a twitch in her shoulders. He silently willed her to fight.

  Instead, she lowered herself to her knees. One of the dragonmen climbed up beside her and carefully removed the yoke holding her arms and hands, then pushed her gently onto her back.

  “She thought,” Sedial said as he watched the proceeding, “that I needed her blood to unlock Ka-poel’s hold on the godstone. I did need blood, quite a lot of it, but what I needed her for? Well, my granddaughter is no ordinary sacrifice. To open the godstone to me, the blood needs power. She has it in spades. She, Michel, is going to help me change the world. It’s a good death. Unlike yours.” He patted Michel affectionately on the shoulder and handed him a knife. “Up you go.”

  Michel’s terror reached a crescendo as he ascended the stepladder. Darkness touched the corners of his vision as he fought the compulsion with every ounce of his being. He screamed at himself to stop—to turn and plunge the knife into Sedial’s chest. Instead, he turned on his heel and knelt down beside Ichtracia. He raised the knife.

  “Wait,” Sedial said. “It must be coordinated with a sacrifice at the main godstone in Talunlica.” He paused, lips moving silently as if speaking to a voice in his head. Another moment passed. “Ah, yes. We are in position. Go ah
ead, Michel.”

  Tears streamed down Michel’s face as his arms plunged downward. The knife rammed between Ichtracia’s ribs. She let out a muted gasp, body twitching, and he jerked the knife out of her, sagging back onto his knees. He could do nothing but watch her chest as the blood bubbled out of it.

  Sedial tsked. “You missed her heart, my boy. I suppose this is your first time. Shall we try again?”

  “Please don’t,” Michel whispered as his hands jerked back up, holding the knife above Ichtracia’s chest. He felt a brief breeze on the side of his neck and heard something like a sigh.

  “Ah. No need. That was enough blood,” Sedial said happily. “Look.”

  Michel was allowed to turn his head toward the godstone. A rectangle had appeared on the stone surface, about the size of a door. It glowed with the same light as the top of the godstone, though greatly muted. Michel suddenly felt hot breath on his ear and could sense that Sedial had stepped onto the altar with him.

  “I don’t know what attention I’ll be able to turn toward mortal pleasures once I am a god. But I promise that I’ll make a special point of attending to you. The anguish you have felt these last few moments is nothing.” Another affectionate pat on Michel’s shoulder. “I go into the Else!” Sedial announced to his assistants, straightening his back and squaring his shoulders to the godstone. “Hold this room against any attack until I have returned.”

  Without a backward glance, Sedial strode through the glowing door into the godstone.

  CHAPTER 67

  Styke had to admit that the procession making its way down the main avenue to the emperor’s palace was an impressive one. At its head were the Mad Lancers—nearly four hundred heavy cavalry garbed in ancient armor, the skull-and-lance flag fluttering over their heads. Behind them came the Household heads and their guards. Taking up the rear were the Adran cavalry Styke had borrowed from Flint what felt like years ago, still commanded by Major Gustar. Everyone rode at attention, eyes keen, knowing that they were putting on a show for the palace.