The tattoo was new relative to the more faded ink work on his torso and upper arms. A delicate spiral began on his inner leg, partially hidden by a heavier star. It glowed in the same fashion as the one now hidden behind a bloody bandage.
“At least knock me out first,” the mage said. It almost disappointed Toria that he didn’t put up more of a fight. “And make sure I don’t bleed to death after you do it.”
“You’re helpful all of a sudden,” Syri said. “Why the fuck should we even let you live?”
“Because of all the military secrets I hold?” The mage returned her feral grin. “I doubt you three are authorized to let such a source escape your hands.”
“Fine, bargain all you want,” Toria said. She nodded once to Syri.
The elven girl placed a hand on the mage’s head. Light flowed from her fingers into his skull, and the mage slumped to the side. If it was the same trick she’d pulled on Fabbri, he wouldn’t wake up for anything. Syri gestured to his leg.
Kane’s turn. Her partner was not as bloodthirsty as he’d wanted the mage to think. Kane visibly steeled himself before placing the edge of his blade to the side of the tattoo and slicing through the skin, peeling away the layer holding magic anchored with ink. Blood dripped through his fingers as he sliced.
The shield around the bomb shattered and faded while Kane cut, the ochre magic flowing through the air and reabsorbing into the mage’s skin. It dispersed throughout his body, soothing a few of the lines on the mage’s face.
He had tied so much of himself into the bomb that it was no wonder he’d put a link on Toria’s magic. Some of her sympathy faded when she realized he would have eventually started to pull energy from her to feed the bomb’s power. But she’d made a promise, and ripped some of her own shirt to have a new bandage ready once Kane finished.
“We good?” Kane waited for her signal before removing the knife. Blood covered his hands and pooled on the floor beneath the mage.
The bomb was completely inert. No magic, no electrical power, just a dull undertone of violence that should never have seen the light of day again. Toria said, “We’re good.” She handed the bandage to Syri, who wrapped the mage’s leg with deft fingers.
“So now what do we do with him?” Kane said. All of their adrenaline had worn off, and he sounded as tired as Toria’s aching body felt.
“Run like hell before any Romans get the bright idea to check on their precious toy,” Toria said. She dialed down her magesight. Now her partners weren’t glowing vessels of power so much as worn-out people. She couldn’t wait to begin rebuilding her shields. After about a hundred years of sleep.
“There’s a truck on the other side of the mages’ pavilions,” Syri said. “Probably dedicated just to them. I almost feel obligated to take it.”
Grateful a little humor still existed in the world, Toria matched her smile. “Let’s go. We’ll take their toys, too.” Sounds of continued fighting leaked in from outside. But their mission was complete.
Time to go home.
Article Seventeen of the Roman Constitution contained a tricky bit of language. A holdover from the old Imperialate, before Emperor Gordian IX had created the Roman Parliament in the last century. With the caste system demolished, official houses of nobility had been tainted to the point of being almost unrecognizable to anyone without dual degrees in genealogy and heraldry.
But five hundred and thirty-seven years ago, Victory married into the house of Galerius. It only lasted six months before she left Leto for his womanizing and gambling, but Octavian didn’t need to know that.
The law required the Roman soldiers to escort Lady Victory Galerius into Octavian’s presence for an audience. Access was all she needed.
She cooled her heels under the watchful gaze of the soldier. The explosions tapered off, but the fighting around them never ceased. She was grateful for the chance to—metaphorically—catch her breath. Though she still owned property in the Roman Empire, and Mikelos still held many financial interests from his days of musical fame, her own past as a lady of the nobility seemed a much more impressive way to demand a face-to-face meeting with the general. Calling on Article Seventeen had occurred to her as a possibility for getting within range of Octavian the day before, but she’d never solidified the plan. She could wing it. That was her specialty.
The aide came scurrying back, three more soldiers trailing behind. He gave her a low bow; the soldiers followed suit after the aide gave them nasty glares.
Looked like this might work after all. Victory gestured with her empty hand for the aide to rise.
“I apologize for the wait, my lady,” he said. “General Octavian is willing to see you.” He fumbled in a pocket and withdrew a small green cloth. “However, the general offers you this token in return for your firearms. You are more than welcome to retain your bladed weapons.”
She wouldn’t quibble over trivialities, despite the fact that Article Seventeen gave her the right to retain all weaponry. They were at war, after all. A point to Octavian for not being stupid. In silence, she dangled the pistol from her pinky for the soldier on her right to retrieve, then stood with her hands held a few inches from her sides.
Reassured that she wasn’t about to replace the pistol with a knife, the aide approached with the handkerchief. He handed it to Victory with another bow. She assumed the small coat of arms belonged to Octavian. Presenting it for her keeping implied that she remained under his protection during the audience.
“Thank you,” she said to the aide. “Please lead on.”
The soldiers fell into an honor guard around them, escorting Victory and the aide through the camp’s command center. Shouting officers who coordinated with other areas of the camp via radio fell silent when they passed, staring at the scruffy armed vampire being given the deference due any Roman lady of birth. Rumors must be spreading like wildfire already.
Spotlights lit a group of tables near the largest pavilions. General Octavian stood ready to greet her, distracted from his stance of attention just once to sign a clipboard for yet another aide. His support staff dropped what they were doing when Victory halted a few feet from Octavian. The officers saluted as one, and Octavian bowed.
He held the position for the full three seconds decreed for a high-ranking military official to give a member of the lesser nobility. He did the political dance well, even dressed in fatigues and dirt-scuffed boots.
Victory inclined her head when he rose. “Thank you for the chance to parlay,” she said. “If there is any question of my use of Article Seventeen, I assure you I can be found in the history books in the seventh dynasty House Galerius, as Leto Galerius’ first wife.”
“Thank you,” Octavian said, “but I don’t think a check will be necessary.”
Convenient, since such a check would be impossible in their current situation. She folded his handkerchief into a small square before tucking it away in her pocket. She withdrew a delicate white satin glove that had been wrapped around her belt. Its twin had been ruined years ago by a much younger Toria playing tea party. So it caused her no hardship to toss the glove to the dirt between them.
Octavian stared at the glove, then traded bemused looks with the officer next to him. “You can’t be serious,” he said to Victory.
“Deathly serious,” she said, “as it were.” She kept her gaze level, resisting the urge to give her own short bark of laughter. The situation had indeed shifted from the strange to the downright absurd.
“Didn’t your little town outlaw dueling fifty years ago?”
“Luckily, we’re three miles from the city limits,” she said. “Are we going to get on with this, or do I need to insult your manhood or something equally juvenile?”
After exchanging one more nod with his fellow officer, Octavian said, “Then I see I have no choice but to accept. Dare I
ask the reason for this little stunt?”
“Sure,” Victory said. “If I win, I have effectively decapitated your army and left them no choice but to turn around and go home.”
“And if I win, I imagine I’ve just killed an obnoxious vampire whose forces will fight all the harder. I’d hardly call that fair.”
“Too bad you already accepted the challenge,” Victory said. “Your choice of weapon, sir.” She could feel the smirk emerging on her lips at the effort to retain dignity in the face of such a bizarre scenario. Asaron would be proud.
“I will confer with my officers,” Octavian said, a note of stiffness appearing in his voice. He was not as amused, evidently.
“Take all the time you need.” She’d surprised him. That was a good thing. Now how long she could drag this little drama out?
The minutes stretched while a huddle of men surrounded Octavian, and runners were sent back and forth with messages and directions for other areas of the command center. The rest of the war did not halt for her, after all. Victory took the time to study the officers around her, all of whom stared at her with blatant curiosity until she met their eyes. Then they were back to work, pretending they’d never paid any attention to her, nor that they’d found themselves unable to meet her direct gaze.
“I’ve made my decision.” Octavian’s announcement jerked her attention back to the man in front of her. He stood flanked by subordinates, solid resolve emanating from the entire group. “The weapon shall be pistols. My second shall be Commander Tiberius Ibrahim.”
“Silver bullets, I assume?” Victory said.
“Of course.” Octavian made a slight gesture with one hand, and yet another aide ducked into one of the pavilions behind them.
“Excuse me, sir,” Ibrahim said. “But the lady has no second herself, leaving the requirements for a formal duel unfulfilled.” His voice dripped with satisfaction as he probed for any hole in Victory’s farce to exploit.
A soldier’s shout of warning rang out behind Victory, and rifles all around the command center sprang to attention. These must be the elite guard, to be outfitted all with firearms. She turned on her heel, keeping her hand from her own sword lest Octavian decide she had broken their terms of truce.
A lone figure emerged from the shadows between two of the grander pavilions—a tall man, battered and blood splattered. He pushed messy red hair out of his face, leaving behind another bronze streak.
It was the loveliest sight Victory had seen in days. He’d probably been waiting to make such a dramatic entrance.
“I’ll be her second,” Asaron said. “I almost wish she’d chicken out so I could take you on myself.” He walked across the silent clearing to take his comforting place on Victory’s left. “But alas, my girl would never do such a thing. So let’s get on with this.”
Octavian had sent two soldiers running during Asaron’s speech, but the elder vampire laughed while the men passed by. “Don’t worry,” he said. “The kid is long gone, too.”
“I’m not even going to ask,” the general said, a growl entering his voice. “Since it seems I have no control over my own camp anymore.”
The aide returned from the pavilion and presented a wooden box to Octavian. The general opened it to reveal two ivory-handled pistols. With a curt nod, he directed the aide toward Victory.
The young officer approached with hesitant steps, stopping far enough away that Asaron was forced to step forward to give the pistols a proper inspection. He wiped his hands on his battered leather trousers before handling the fancy weapons. He checked the chambers, popping out the single silver-plated bullets and reloading them with deft fingers. Asaron gave a double thumbs-up to Octavian before returning to Victory’s side.
While Octavian had his aides mark out the official twenty paces that would separate the duelists, Asaron said to Victory, “You sure about this, love?”
“I can take one bullet,” she said. “Just...make sure that’s all they get the chance for, okay?”
He captured one of her hands in his larger ones, pressing her fingers to his lips. “Mikelos will haunt me to the end of time if I let something happen to you.”
“I know,” Victory said.
“Are you going to kill him?”
Before she could respond, Octavian called out from across the command center. “If you’re quite ready.”
Asaron joined Ibrahim to the side of the marked out line, the two seconds creating an incongruous pair. Victory took her place where another soldier indicated, accepting her weapon with a simple thanks. The soldier did not return her politeness, but that was to be expected.
She hefted the pistol, preparing herself both mentally and physically. Down the line, Octavian stood with military precision, waiting for Ibrahim to call the beginning of the duel. Victory cocked the gun and leveled it at Octavian, nodding her own readiness.
“I hereby revoke my protection of the Lady Victory Galerius,” Octavian said. “You may proceed, Commander.”
“Yes, sir,” Ibrahim said. “On my mark, sir, my lady.” He raised an arm to the dark sky.
Victory drilled holes in Octavian’s head with her eyes, but he avoided her direct gaze. She felt his own attention aimed at her heart.
“Mark.”
She wasted no precious time before squeezing the trigger. She kept her arm steady while simultaneously shifting the rest of her body, side-stepping with a short burst of vampiric speed.
A bloom of red appeared over Octavian’s stomach at the same instant a searing pain shot through Victory’s right shoulder. She’d forgotten how much silver burned under her skin, unlike the simple electric tingle above.
Chaos broke out across the command center. But most importantly, the bullet missed her heart, the last spot truly vulnerable to a vampire her age. She remained on her feet.
Judging by the shock on Octavian’s face as he clutched his stomach and stared at her with wide eyes, he hadn’t been expecting her to still be standing.
Two of Octavian’s officers ran toward her with swords drawn, past their wounded general already being tended by Ibrahim and a medic. Asaron slammed into one of them from the side, tackling him to the ground and distracting the other long enough for Victory to wrestle her sword from its sheath.
Feeling her strength flow out of her along with the blood from her shoulder, she managed to swing her sword underneath the soldier’s guard and catch him between his pants and bulletproof vest. The tip of the blade pierced his skin, and she flung him aside, twisting the sword out of him with the flick of her wrist. He landed with a howl, blood pumping from his stomach.
Victory didn’t give him a second look. She stalked toward Octavian, and Asaron joined her side, wiping fresh blood from his mouth.
They drew to a halt a few feet away from where Octavian had been lowered to the ground. The medic had pressed bandaging over the general’s wound, frantically trying to stem the flow of blood. Victory smelled stomach fluid. Even if they managed to fix the wound, Octavian was at huge risk for infection. Ibrahim drew his sidearm and stood to face them.
“Stop!” He cocked the pistol and aimed it back and forth between the vampires, unsure of who posed the greater threat. “You got what you wanted. Now get out of here before I have both of you killed.”
Victory exchanged glances with Asaron. They couldn’t stop now. Not when they were so close to cutting out the heart of this fruitless invasion. Fighting had mostly ceased around the camp, leaving only the screams of wounded. Having no idea who had emerged the victor, she couldn’t take any chances.
Asaron drew the knife tucked into his belt and let it fly at Ibrahim. It stuck in the commander’s neck, forcing the man to drop his gun and clutch at this throat. The medic bolted to his feet and ran as Ibrahim collapsed over Octavian’s legs.
In another burst of speed, V
ictory stood over Octavian, placing the tip of her sword against his throat. Soldiers all around the clearing aimed guns, crossbows, and longbows at her, poised to fire.
“If you kill me,” Octavian said, gasping out the words around his pain, “you won’t make it out of here alive.”
“Good thing I’m already dead, then,” Victory said. “This is what you get for taking on Limani. This is the message your men will take back to the Emperor.”
“I am glad to die for my—”
Victory couldn’t wait any longer, judging from the amount of her own blood soaking her leather vest. She pressed down on her sword, using her own weight to push the blade through Octavian’s throat. The tip glanced off his spine, leaving a jagged, spurting gash.
A collective howl went up around the camp, and Asaron dragged Victory to the ground with him. Bullets passed over their heads before a second shout called off the soldiers’ hasty actions.
“Let’s get the hell out of here, shall we?” Victory said. She gritted her teeth before a gasp of pain could escape her mouth. Asaron had most of his weight on her injured shoulder, but she wasn’t going to complain about him saving her skin.
They grabbed hands and rolled to their feet, balancing their weight against each other for momentum. Now she noticed Asaron also bled from multiple wounds—he hadn’t reached her side unscathed. “Run!”
Drawing on reserves of strength she hadn’t known still existed, the two vampires dashed from the camp. She wasn’t sure who hauled who most of the way in the blind blur as men and tents gave way to trees and brush. But the next thing she knew, dark woods surrounded them. Starlight brightened a road a little farther ahead.
“Come,” Asaron said. They made it the rest of the way, but Asaron collapsed onto the side of the road first. Victory sank to her knees next to him. “See?” Asaron said. “We’re good.”
Steel Victory (Steel Empire Book 1) Page 28
