Wrath of Empire

by Brian McClellan

  Tamas had always warned them about overdosing on powder—from either running a trance for too long a time or imbibing too much in one go. She’d flirted with the edges of her limits a few times, walking up to the precipice that would either make her powder blind or outright kill her. And now she ran up to that cliff and jumped off the edge.

  Vlora’s eyes flew open. She reached out with her senses, across the mile of Dynize infantry that snaked down the road. Every six rows, she detonated a single powder charge in an infantryman’s kit. It took her less than a second, and within moments the column was overshadowed by powder smoke, the air full of the screams of the dying and the confused. She turned to Taniel and nodded.

  The scouts were dead before they could voice another word. Taniel breezed past them, the very tip of his sword slick with crimson, sprinting into the head of the column with a speed Vlora had never seen before. He was upon them in the blink of an eye, his sword moving like the wings of a hummingbird, soldiers collapsing as he passed like some kind of avatar of death sweeping his scythe through the souls of the damned.

  Vlora watched the dance for mere seconds before following him into the slaughter.

  CHAPTER 67

  Michel stumbled down street after street, ignoring the curious glances of the afternoon traffic and occasional Dynize soldier as he made his way to Ichtracia’s townhouse. The heavy map-carrying case pulled at his shoulder, and he considered dropping it in the street but couldn’t quite bring himself to do so until he reached the dead-end cul-de-sac where Ichtracia lived. He paused a few feet from the narrow garden path that led up to her front door, painfully adjusting his cuffs and collar. He tried to dust the debris from the tunnels off his shoulders, only to realize just how addled his head still was, and walked up to the front door. He knocked, fixing his most charming smile, and prepared to greet her footman. He really hoped that she would wait to kill him until he’d had a chance to talk a bit.

  His smile disappeared as the door opened to reveal a man Michel had never seen before. He was enormous—easily six and a half feet tall—and as wide as a draft horse. Behind him, standing just inside Ichtracia’s foyer, Ka-Sedial leaned on his cane. He eyed Michel with the same sort of eagerness that a child eyed the display case of a candy store.

  “I’m looking for Ichtracia,” Michel said.

  The brute snatched Michel by the front of his jacket before he could even think to yell. He felt himself swung around, held in the air like a doll and deposited on the floor of the foyer in the blink of an eye. The door shut behind him, and Ka-Sedial leaned over Michel, his kindly old face fixed with a gentle smile.

  “Ichtracia isn’t here at the moment,” Ka-Sedial said. “But you have very good timing and very poor luck, Michel Bravis.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re getting at, but it’s not a great idea.” Michel summoned all the bluster his aching head could manage. “I just put a bullet in the head of the man who’s been bombing your people. Je Tura is dead, and within the hour every one of your bloodthirsty soldiers is gonna know I’m the man who killed him. I’m going to be very popular and—”

  The brute leaned over Michel and punched him so hard in the jaw that stars swam in front of his face. His mouth numb, uncertain whether any teeth had been knocked out, Michel could do nothing but hang limply as the brute lifted him like a toy and carried him into the sitting room, where he tossed him unceremoniously into one of the chairs. The brute carried another chair over to face Michel, and Ka-Sedial took a seat, that gentle smile still fixed to his face. Despite his grandfatherly manner, his eyes smoldered with an entirely different story.

  “I don’t care,” Sedial said. He raised one hand. “Don’t mistake this for ingratitude, of course. I am pleased that je Tura is dead. He had far outlived his use to me. But your name will be forgotten long before you’ve finished screaming in my dungeons, so don’t try to appeal to my very small regard for populism.”

  Michel stared at Sedial, uncertain what to say—uncertain if he could even speak. He didn’t bother looking at the brute. The brute was just a fist, but Sedial was the man swinging it. Something had changed, and very recently, and Michel’s luck had led him to stumble straight into Sedial.

  “Shall we wait for Ichtracia to return?” Sedial asked. “Or should we continue this discussion now? Ah! I think I hear a carriage outside. Delightful—we won’t have to wait long.” He turned toward the door, raising his eyebrows. Michel heard the front door open. “Mara, my dear, please come in here.”

  Ichtracia appeared in the sitting-room doorway, an irritated expression on her face turning to shock at the sight of Michel. “What the pit are either of you doing here?” she asked in Adran.

  “You know I prefer you speak to me in Dynize,” Sedial chided.

  “I’ll speak in whatever I like, lizard. What are you doing here, and what happened to him?” She glanced at Michel. “I thought you were with Yaret. There’s already a rumor going around that you killed je Tura personally.”

  Michel swallowed, wondering if opening his mouth would get him punched again. “I did,” he managed.

  Ichtracia’s eyes turned to her grandfather. “Then what is this?” she demanded.

  “My dear,” Sedial purred, “your friend Michel is not what he seems.” Michel resisted the urge to say, She already knows. Sedial continued. “While it seems that Michel managed to find our bomber, the rest of our sweeps through the Landfall catacombs were not entirely devoid of success. We pulled in three small cells of Blackhats still hiding down there. The first of those included a woman by the name of Hendres. I believe that she was Michel’s ex-lover.”

  Michel felt his heart fall. He knew exactly where this was going. “I need to talk to you,” he said to Ichtracia.

  Sedial ignored him. “We didn’t even have to torture her when she was brought to me. Within an hour, she had told me everything she knew about Michel. It seems that he doesn’t work for the Blackhats, nor even for us. He works for a Palo freedom fighter by the name of the Red Hand.” Sedial paused to examine his nails, waiting for Ichtracia to respond. Her eyes flicked back and forth between Michel and Sedial, but she said nothing.

  “Ichtracia, I need to talk to—” Michel said, his voice stronger, but Sedial cut him off.

  “This Red Hand has been set against both us and the Fatrastans for years. He’s murdered our spies, even killed our dragonmen. Apparently he is a powder mage, though we still haven’t managed to ascertain his true identity. I’m not even sure what his motives are, and I think you and I will have a long talk with your friend Michel to find out just exactly what information we’re missing.” Sedial turned to Michel, that grandfatherly smile disappearing. His eyes bore into Michel with a hungry intensity. “Well, Michel. Shall we begin?”

  “Aren’t you just going to take my blood? Force me to talk?”

  “We will. Eventually. But I’m in no hurry. This way will be more amusing.”

  Michel fixed his eyes on Ichtracia while she, in turn, watched her grandfather as one might watch an adder. “Ichtracia,” Michel said, “I know why he calls you Mara.”

  Both Ichtracia and Sedial stiffened. Sedial’s lip curled. “You are not to address her,” he said.

  “He calls you Mara because you’re his little sacrifice,” Michel continued, talking quickly. “You’re his backup plan with the godstone. If killing all those people doesn’t force it to unlock its secrets, he’s going to kill you.”

  Sedial laughed. “You’re not telling her anything she doesn’t already know. My granddaughter may be a sullen child still, but she knows her place.” Despite the laugh, his voice held an edge of annoyance.

  “It’s sorcerous blood, isn’t it?” Michel said. “It’s stronger than regular blood. A lot stronger. He may sacrifice a Knacked or two, but that’s probably not going to be enough. He has to have a Privileged, waiting on his cue. Does the emperor even know that Sedial plans on using one of his tools that way?”

  “Shut him up,” Sedial
said.

  The brute stepped over to Michel and slammed his fist into the side of his head. A bright light shot across his vision, and he almost rolled out of the chair, but the brute caught him before he could fall. Michel spat blood at the brute, who didn’t seem in the least bit bothered.

  “Stop hurting him,” Ichtracia said quietly.

  “What?” Sedial and Michel responded at the same time.

  “I told you to stop hurting him.”

  Sedial scoffed. “He’s not your pet anymore, dear. He has betrayed the state, and he has betrayed you. You’re not just going to watch as we cut him into small pieces—you’re going to help keep him alive. And I intend him to remain alive for many, many months. Now, attend! Michel, tell me who the Red Hand is and why he opposes us.”

  Michel stared at Ichtracia. “I bet you weren’t the first person he called Mara.”

  “His finger,” Sedial said calmly.

  The brute snatched up Michel’s hand, pressing it against the table beside his chair, palm down. Michel attempted to fight, battering his fist against the brute’s side and struggling to pull loose, but it was like trying to fight a marble statue. The brute drew a knife from his belt, slammed the tip into the webbed skin between Michel’s pinkie and ring finger, and like a chef dicing a carrot, sliced off Michel’s pinkie with a surprising crunching sound.

  Michel screamed and lurched back as the brute suddenly let go of him. He clutched at his hand, blood fountaining from the little remaining stump of his finger. He pulled it to his chest, rolling in his chair, tears streaming down his face. He’d felt plenty of pain, plenty of times, but the sharp agony brought him near to throwing up.

  “Let him bleed for thirty seconds,” Ka-Sedial instructed, “and then sear the spot with your sorcery.” He looked at Ichtracia. “Don’t just stand there! Put your gloves on. If he dies tonight, I will take it out on you. You’ve had your fun with Michel. Now it’s my turn.”

  Slowly, hesitantly, Ichtracia pulled her gloves out of her pockets and put them on. Through Michel’s tears he could see the horror in her eyes and he gritted his teeth and tried to talk through the pain. “It was your big sister, wasn’t it? The other one he called Mara. I bet she disappeared the night he killed your brother and father, didn’t she?”

  The brute’s fist slammed across Michel’s face, and this time it did knock him out of the chair. He landed on the floor, blacking out for a split second, blood from his hand soaking into the rug beneath him. He was suddenly lifted from the ground and thrown across the room, his body stopping mere inches from the wall. Nauseous, he tried to see through his pain and found himself held aloft by Ichtracia’s sorcery on the opposite end of the room from Sedial. Ichtracia struck a pose, gloves on her hands, arms splayed like a child holding a toy away from their parent.

  “What do you mean, disappeared?” Ichtracia demanded. She was staring at Sedial, but she was speaking to Michel. “I saw the burned corpses of all three of them. My sister is dead.”

  “Put him back here,” Sedial said, pointing at the chair, his face screwed up in indignant anger. “I will take another finger every time he speaks without answering my questions.”

  Michel felt the sorcery around him tighten, and allowed all the pieces that had clicked in his brain to come babbling out. “Those burned bodies you saw were decoys. At least, one of them was. Your big sister didn’t die in that fire. She was whisked away by her nanny, taken across the ocean by loyalists. She disappeared, and Sedial wasn’t able to find her, so he killed some poor girl and burned the body beyond recognition.”

  “Shut up,” Sedial growled.

  Tears streamed down Ichtracia’s face, but her jaw was clenched in determination, her eyes burning. “Continue!”

  “You weren’t Sedial’s first choice, were you? He always knew he needed the blood of someone powerful to activate the godstones, and Ka-poel was destined to be a powerful bone-eye. That’s why her nanny fled, that’s why your father and brother died, so that she could get away. They knew, and they weren’t going to let your grandfather sacrifice their kin for his ambitions.” Michel spoke quickly, hoping he hadn’t made any mistakes. He’d only realized any of this after his confrontation with je Tura and the realization that Sedial was sick enough to nickname his granddaughter “Sacrifice.” That Ka-poel was a member of this family was only an educated guess … and if he was wrong, he was as good as dead.

  “They had no vision!” Sedial shot to his feet, his composure completely gone. He shook his head, as if waking from a dream, and pointed at Michel. “How do you even know her name?” He gestured to the brute, who began to stride across the room to fetch Michel.

  The brute suddenly stopped, a confused look on his face. He frowned; then his eyes widened a second before his head was suddenly stuffed into his own chest by invisible forces. His arms and legs followed, blood erupting across the room, and within moments Sedial’s implacable henchman was an unrecognizable square of flesh the size of a small travel trunk, which was deposited at Sedial’s feet. Ichtracia’s expression hadn’t changed through the entire event, but when her fingers stopped twitching, she said to Michel in a gentle voice, “You may answer my grandfather’s question.”

  Sedial rocked back on his heels, and for the first time there was real fear in his eyes. Michel licked his lips. “I know because Ka-poel is the one who sent me here to retrieve you. She is married to the Red Hand, and she’s the voice in your head—the bone-eye who has been communicating with you over the last year.”

  “Why didn’t she tell me?” Ichtracia’s voice came out as a squeak.

  “I don’t know. Maybe she wanted to tell you in person. Maybe she didn’t know if she could trust you not to tell him.” Michel nodded at Sedial. “But she didn’t even tell me. I just figured the whole damned thing out an hour ago.”

  “Did you know?” Ichtracia asked her grandfather. “Did you know she was still alive?”

  Sedial sputtered. “I had my suspicions. I knew she escaped with that bitch nanny and a few traitors, and I know that the dragonmen sent to Fatrasta to retrieve her never returned.”

  “But did you know she was here, alive, opposing you?” Ichtracia’s voice rose in pitch.

  “No.”

  Ichtracia squeezed her eyes shut. She drew a handkerchief from her pocket, one hand still raised toward Michel, keeping him fixed with his feet dangling above the floor. She wiped her eyes and nose. “I always know when you’re lying, Sedial.”

  The old man was suddenly thrown backward, slamming into the wall with enough force to rattle the building and cause a shower of plaster to fall from the ceiling. He collapsed to the floor, moaning and cursing, and Michel was suddenly lowered to the ground. He almost fell himself, but was held on his feet by that invisible sorcery like someone propping themselves beneath his arms. Ichtracia strode across the room and delivered one vicious kick to Sedial’s head, silencing his moaning.

  A long, angry silence filled the room. Michel tried his best not to whimper, unsure whether he should look at Sedial or Ichtracia, and knowing he didn’t want to look at the spongy bit of flesh that used to be Sedial’s henchman. He clutched his hand, trying to stop the bleeding, trying to think through the pain. “Is he dead?”

  “I’m a monster, but I will not kill my own grandfather.”

  “So what do we do?” Michel asked her. He tried to take a step forward, nearly collapsed, and decided to lean against the wall for a few minutes.

  “We leave.”

  “When he wakes up, he’s going to have every Dynize within fifty miles looking for us.”

  Ichtracia took a deep breath, chin raised. “You’re going to get us out of the city.”

  Michel thought about Dristan and the stables, wondering if the kid had already left on his trip. That had been a risk back when he thought he could slip away quietly. Now that this had all happened—well, Michel wasn’t entirely sure he could get out of Landfall without killing a thousand people on the way. “That’s easier
said than done.”

  “That’s your next task,” Ichtracia said with finality. “Get us out, and then take me to my sister.”

  CHAPTER 68

  The ocean swelled and crashed, smashing against the breakers at the base of the Starlight citadel with a rage driven by the approaching storm. Styke paused to wipe the water from his eyes, only for the swell to slam into him once again, pummeling him against the rocks. He bent beneath the onslaught, his fingers gripping the icy stone, and forced himself to leap the next boulder and proceed over the breakers.

  Somewhere above, the report of the cannons mixed with the thunder of the surf until they were one cacophony in his ears. He turned, waiting, grasping Ibana by the wrist and helping her over the stones, shoving her on ahead of him. He tried to see through the rising swell, counting the lancers still clinging to the rocks, and witnessed a wave hit Ferlisia in the back, slamming her into the rocks. When the wave receded, she was nowhere to be seen.

  “Come on!” he bellowed, though he knew they could not hear him. “Keep moving!” He reached back and grabbed Ka-poel, lifting her bodily and shoving her along after Ibana before following himself. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the rising swell and snatched Ka-poel by the shoulder, pulling her beneath him, then braced his knees and arms against the rock as the wave hit.

  The impact was a sensation like he had never felt, like being unhorsed in the midst of battle, then having the horse rear and fall directly on him—yet somehow worse. The force of the ocean shoved him, swallowed him, then threatened to pull him out to sea. His muscles flexed beneath the onslaught, his skin feeling as if it might burst, until the swell was gone. He shook his head and lifted Ka-poel, pushing her along before the next wave.