by Devin Madson
He laughed. “You won’t kill me.”
“No?”
“You didn’t kill Bax.”
“He showed me no disrespect and himself no dishonour. The same cannot be said of you. Kneel.”
Onru spat on the stones between us. “No.”
Without thought, I drew and loosed for his throat. He rocked to the side, but neither of us was fast enough. The arrowhead buried deep in his shoulder, throwing him back. And as he spread an arm wide to steady himself, he pulled a knife from his sash. Shishi barked. Someone shouted, the cry of alarm muffled by the thud of my pulse. I had no more arrows. The barrel was half a dozen steps away. But as Onru lunged, I swung my bow at him like a club. He ducked, hissing spit onto his chin as the arrow in his shoulder bounced. The upper arm of the bow caught him on the leg on the backswing, but he leapt at me, knocking it from my hand. For a horrible moment I was falling and couldn’t save myself. I hit the stones, head smacking hard enough to send a bright haze before my eyes. His knife sliced my hand and I howled, but when I tried to find some flesh into which to bury my nails, my teeth, my knees, I found nothing but empty air. And blinking back the daze and nausea, I hauled myself to my feet, head throbbing. A high-pitched wail cut through everything. Hot blood splattered across my face, and a body hit the ground with a meaty crunch.
I blinked, trying to dispel the haze, but everything looked wrong. Oddly flat and pale. Shishi licked my hand, her tongue rough and frantic.
“Your Majesty, are you all right?” Manshin’s voice, and there he was seeming to float before me. “Majesty?”
Other voices asked the same question. More faces crowded.
“Onru?” I said.
All those around me turned, making space for me to see the body. Onru, his throat slit and his blood now pooling on the stones. A man knelt beside him in the plain robe of a servant, calmly engaged in cleaning a pair of daggers on the dead man’s surcoat. Sensing my gaze, he looked up and bowed, so deeply his nose all but touched the dead general’s navel. “Your Majesty, I am honoured to have brought this man’s death for you.”
“Who the fuck are you?”
“His name is Yakono.”
I spun, breath catching at the sound of so recognisable a voice. There at the edge of the courtyard stood General Ryoji. Ryoji, who had trained us. Ryoji, who had been my mother’s most loyal guard. Ryoji, into whom I had stuck a blade the night I had chosen to protect Emperor Kin against Mother’s coup. For all the good it had done.
He didn’t look any worse for it, but he looked older than when I had seen him last. I realised with a start of shock that I had never seen him in anything but one of his various uniforms. He looked strange in common clothing.
Despite the way we had parted, despite everything, it took all my self-control not to run to him, not to touch him to be sure he was real. Not to demand immediately to know what had happened to my mother and how he came to be here. The answers to those questions would hurt too much, I was sure, and better my new generals saw no weakness.
Instead of everything I wanted to do, I lifted my chin. “General Ryoji, it has been quite some time since I saw you last.”
“Indeed, Your Majesty.” He bowed and I could not but think of how long he had spent bowing to my mother and calling her by that title. “You are remarkably difficult to find.”
I gestured at the man he had called Yakono. Having killed the traitorous general, he now stood beside the body, still and at ease. “And who is this?”
“Yakono,” the general repeated, coming close enough for me to see how tired he looked. “He is a Jackal.”
Whispering broke out amongst the generals and more than one stepped warily back. The man, Yakono, gave no sign he noticed. The Jackals were as much myth as history, and when I had learned about the elite assassins my forebears had maintained, I had envisioned something very different. The story was they had started out as elite guards under Emperor Tsubasa and slowly became assassins sent on special missions. There had always been twelve of them and each had taken an apprentice to ensure this would be the case, but Emperor Kin had executed them all, unwilling to risk their disloyalty. Yet here one stood, as unassuming and ordinary as any commoner on the street.
“Didn’t Emperor Kin kill all the Jackals?” I said, breaking upon the continued whispering, and there the first sign of life from Yakono. He flinched, something of grief or anger crossing his features before they once more settled into calm like ripples fading from the surface of a pond. Ah, an anger I could use, perhaps.
“Not quite all.”
I had so many questions, but the generals had gathered for a meeting and there was still so much to do and say. This distraction was losing them. “Well, I look forward to hearing more about it when we are finished here, General. Minister Oyamada? Have the body removed and see that General Ryoji and our new guest are made comfortable.”
Oyamada hesitated only the briefest moment before breaking from the line of gathered men. “As you wish, Your Majesty. This way, please.”
I pulled my gaze from Ryoji with an effort, setting aside all my unanswered questions. Back at the barrel I took up another arrow. It shook in my trembling hands.
I ran my gaze along the line of generals, each quieting now after the interruption. I could have let them know it was a warning for any who dared betray me, but they had seen all I had seen and to threaten them would look desperate and fearful.
“Now you have all given your allegiance,” I said, nocking the arrow. “We may discuss what to do next.”
The arrow thudded in amongst its fellows as I went on, “The Levanti are consolidating their hold on the northern half of our empire. There is a chance Chiltae may regroup and attack them, but it seems more likely after losing much of their army they will hold their borders and stay out of this.” I took another arrow from the barrel. “It would be an easy enough battle to get these barbarians”—I winced at the word, but there could be no space for nuance now, no accepting they were no such thing when I needed to rally an army against them—“out of our land were they not allied to a number of northern lords. Lord Kato, Lord Rasten, and Lord Kiri we know for sure, and there are very likely others. Some may have joined out of a pragmatic wish not to be trampled, but others appear to have very deliberately made this choice, eschewing loyalty to the empire for power and personal gain. Chief amongst these being Grace Bahain.”
No whispering followed. Of course they had all heard, but for a moment I was sitting across from Edo at Kiyoshio Castle as he wrote this treason for me to see. The realisation of having no allies left, of being wholly alone, had hollowed me with fear.
“We cannot strike at them head-on while they have such support,” I said. “But we may be able to if we can lure Bahain away from his new emperor.”
“Attacking Kogahaera would be suicidal,” General Rushin said.
“Not Kogahaera. Not yet.” I shook my head. “Syan.”
A moment of utter stillness held the courtyard in its grip, before gazes started to flit to Manshin to be sure he had heard my mad utterance. When he gave no sign of surprise or derision, the complaints began.
“I’m sure you must realise Syan is one of the most fortified cities in Kisia, Your Majesty,” General Moto said.
“The castle is behind at least three layers of walls.”
“It has never been conquered!”
“Yes, even though pirates have raided the city for decades, the castle has never fallen.”
I weathered their exclamations much like Kiyoshio weathered the furious sea and waited for them to die away. Eventually they did, perhaps because they had uttered every complaint there was, or because one by one they noticed I was standing, untroubled, waiting patiently for them to finish.
“We are going to take Kiyoshio,” I said when they were all silent.
“May we ask how, Your Majesty?” General Mihri said. “You have a plan, perhaps.”
“Yes. I do.”
if you enjoyed
WE LIE WITH DEATH
look out for
THE UNBROKEN
Magic of the Lost: Book One
by
C. L. Clark
Touraine is a soldier. Stolen as a child and raised to kill and die for the empire, her only loyalty is to her fellow conscripts. But now, her company has been sent back to her homeland to stop a rebellion, and the ties of blood may be stronger than she thought.
Luca needs a turncoat. Someone desperate enough to tiptoe the bayonet’s edge between treason and orders. Someone who can sway the rebels toward peace while Luca focuses on what really matters: getting her uncle off her throne.
Through assassinations and massacres, in bedrooms and war rooms, Touraine and Luca will haggle over the price of a nation. But some things aren’t for sale.
Chapter 1
Change
A sandstorm brewed dark and menacing against the Qazāli horizon as Lieutenant Touraine and the rest of the Balladairan Colonial Brigade sailed into El-Wast, capital city of Qazāl, foremost of Balladaire’s southern colonies.
El-Wast. City of marble and sandstone, of olives and clay. City of the golden sun and fruits Touraine couldn’t remember tasting. City of rebellious, uncivilized god-worshippers. The city where Touraine was born.
At a sudden gust, Touraine pulled her black military coat tighter about her body and hunched small over the railing of the ship as it approached land. Even from this distance, in the early-morning dark, she could see a black Balladairan standard flapping above the docks. Its rearing golden horse danced to life, sparked by the reflection of the night lanterns. Around her, pale Balladairan-born sailors scrambled across the ship to bring it safely to harbor.
El-Wast, for the first time in some twenty-odd years. It took the air from the lieutenant’s chest. Her white-knuckle grip on the rail was only partly due to the nausea that had rocked her on the water.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Tibeau, Touraine’s second sergeant and best friend, settled against the rail next to her. The wooden rail shifted under his bulk. He spoke quietly, but Touraine could hear the awe and longing in the soft rumble of his voice.
Beautiful wasn’t the first thing Touraine thought as their ship sailed up the mouth of the River Hadd and gave them a view of El-Wast. The city was surprisingly big. Surprisingly bright. It was surprisingly… civilized. A proper city, not some scattering of tents and sand. Not what she had expected at all, given how Balladairans described the desert colonies. From this angle, it didn’t even look like a desert.
The docks stretched along the river like a small town, short buildings nestled alongside what were probably warehouses and workers’ tenements. Just beyond them, a massive bridge arced over shadowed farmland with some crop growing in neat rows, connecting the docks to the curve of a crumbling wall that surrounded the city. The Mile-Long Bridge. The great bridge was lined with the shadows of palm trees and lit up all along with the fuzzy dots of lanterns. In the morning darkness, you could easily have mistaken the lanterns for stars.
She shrugged. “It’s impressive, I guess.”
Tibeau nudged her shoulder and held his arms out wide to take it all in. “You guess? This is your home. We’re finally back. You’re going to love it.” His eyes shone in the reflection of the lanterns guiding the Balladairan ship into Crocodile Harbor, named for the monstrous lizards that had lived in the river centuries ago.
Home. Touraine frowned. “Love it? Beau, we’re not on leave.” She dug half-moons into the soft, weather-worn wood of the railing and grumbled, “We have a job to do.”
Tibeau scoffed. “To police our own people.”
The thunk of approaching boots on the deck behind them stopped Touraine from saying something that would keep Tibeau from speaking to her for the rest of the day. Something like These aren’t my people. How could they be? Touraine had barely been toddling in the dust when Balladaire took her.
“You two better not be talking about what I think you’re talking about,” Sergeant Pruett said, coming up behind them with her arms crossed.
“Of course not,” Touraine said. She and Pruett let their knuckles brush in the cover of darkness.
“Good. Because I’d hate to have to throw you bearfuckers overboard.”
Pruett. The sensible one to Tibeau’s impetuousness, the scowl to his smile. The only thing they agreed on was hating Balladaire for what it had done to them, but unlike Tibeau, who was only biding his time before some imaginary revolution, Pruett was resigned to the conscripts’ fate and thought it better to keep their heads down and hate Balladaire in private.
Pruett shoved her way between the two of them and propped her elbows on the railing. Her teeth chattered. “It’s cold as a bastard here. I thought the deserts were supposed to be hot.”
Tibeau sighed wistfully, staring with longing at some point beyond the city. “Only during the day. In the real desert, you can freeze your balls off if you forget a blanket.”
“You sound… oddly excited about that.” Pruett looked askance at him.
Tibeau grinned.
Home was a sharp topic for every soldier in the Balladairan Colonial Brigade. There were those like Tibeau and Pruett, who had been taken from countries throughout the broken Shālan Empire when they were old enough to already have memories of family or the lack thereof, and then there were those like Touraine, who had been too young to remember anything but Balladaire’s green fields and thick forests.
No matter where in the Shālan Empire the conscripts were originally from, they all speculated on the purpose of their new post. There was excitement on the wind, and Touraine felt it, too. The chance to prove herself. The chance to show the Balladairan officers that she deserved to be a captain. Change was coming.
Even the Balladairan princess had come with the fleet. Pruett had heard from another conscript who had it from a sailor that the princess was visiting her southern colonies for the first time, and so the conscripts took turns trying to spot the young royal on her ship.
The order came to disembark, carried by shouts on the wind. Discipline temporarily disappeared as the conscripts and their Balladairan officers hoisted their packs and tramped down to Crocodile Harbor’s thronged streets.
People shouted in Balladairan and Shālan as they loaded and unloaded ships, animals in cages and animals on leads squawked and bellowed, and Touraine walked through it all in a daze, trying to take it all in. Qazāl’s dirt and grit crunched beneath her army-issued boots. Maybe she did feel a spark of awe and curiosity. And maybe that frightened her just a little.
With a wumph, Touraine walked right into an odd tan horse with a massive hump in the middle of its back. She spat and dusted coarse fur off her face. The animal glared at her with large, affronted brown eyes and a bubble of spit forming at the corner of its mouth.
The animal’s master flicked his long gray-streaked hair back off his smiling face and spoke to Touraine in Shālan.
Touraine hadn’t spoken Shālan since she was small. It wasn’t allowed when they were children in Balladaire, and now it sounded as foreign as the camel’s groan. She shook her head.
“Camel. He spit,” the man warned, this time in Balladairan. The camel continued to size her up. It didn’t look like it was coming to any good conclusion.
Touraine grimaced in disgust, but beside her, Pruett snorted. The other woman said something short to the man in Shālan before turning Touraine toward the ships.
“What did you say?” Touraine asked, looking over her shoulder at the glaring camel and the older man.
“Please excuse my idiot friend.”
Touraine rolled her eyes and hefted her pack higher onto her shoulders.
“Rose Company, Gold Squad, form up on me!” She tried in vain to gather her soldiers in some kind of order, but the noise swallowed her voice. She looked warily for Captain Rogan. If Touraine didn’t get the rest of her squad in line, that bastard would take it out on all of them. “Gold Squad, form up!”
<
br /> Pruett nudged Touraine in the ribs. She pointed, and Touraine saw what kept her soldiers clumped in whispering groups, out of formation.
A young woman descended the gangway of another ship with the support of a cane. She wore black trousers, a black coat, and a short black cloak lined with cloth of gold. Her blond hair, pinned in a bun behind her head, sparked like a beacon in the night. Three stone-faced royal guards accompanied her in a protective triangle, their short gold cloaks blown taut behind them. Each of them had a sword on one hip and a pistol on the other.
Touraine looked from the princess to the chaos on the ground, and a growing sense of unease raised the short hairs on the back of her neck. Suddenly, the crowd felt more claustrophobic than industrious.
The man with the camel still stood nearby, watching with interest like the other dockworkers. His warm smile deepened the lines in his face, and he guided the animal’s nose to her, as if she wanted to pat it. The camel looked as unenthusiastic at the prospect as Touraine felt.
“No.” Touraine shook her head at him again. “Move, sir. Give us this space, if you please.”
He didn’t move. Probably didn’t understand proper Balladairan. She shooed him with her hands. Instead of reacting with annoyance or confusion, he glanced fearfully over her shoulder.
She followed his gaze. Nothing there but the press of the crowd, her own soldiers either watching the princess or drowsily taking in their new surroundings in the early-morning light. Then she saw it: a young Qazāli woman weaving through the crowd, gaze fixed on one blond point.
The camel man grabbed Touraine’s arm, and she jerked away.
Touraine was a good soldier, and a good soldier would do her duty. She didn’t let herself imagine what the consequences would be if she was wrong.
“Attack!” she bellowed, fit for a battlefield. “To the princess!”
The Qazāli man muttered something in Shālan, probably a curse, before he shouted, too. A warning to his fellow. To more of them, maybe. Something glinted in his hands.
