The height of the old cypress allowed him a commanding vision of all the tree-tops for miles around but, more importantly, it allowed him a clear view of the Basin Highway and the Kez army camped along it. He could see the fires raging through the baggage train, the dry wood of the old wagons catching as easily as cotton, and felt a momentary pang of pity for the poor sods rushing to put out the flames.
If he knew the Kez command structure, at least one teamster would hang for this.
He pushed away the thought and focused on the task at hand, reaching out with his senses for the wagon of black powder that he’d first approached. He found it easily and noted that the teamsters had already moved it well away from the flames.
In his mind, he designated the powder barrels as target one.
“Powder,” he said, holding out one hand. He felt Ka-poel put a fresh powder charge in his palm, and tore the end off without looking, emptying the contents straight into his mouth. The taste was bitter and sulfuric, the granules crunching between his teeth, but the effect of so much powder was instantaneous.
It felt as if time had slowed to a crawl. Every one of his senses brought the details of the world into sharp focus, allowing him to hear and see everything going on down in the Kez camp as if he was standing down there among them. He felt as if his heart would explode from the rush of adrenaline and his mind would be overwhelmed by all the sensory information, but the nature of his sorcery allowed him to bring it all under control.
He forced himself to focus, moving his aim up and down the length of the camp, reaching out with his senses until he found the Privileged sorcerer walking through the camp.
Even now, after killing several Privileged, he still felt a chill run down his spine when he put one in his sights. It was as if they could see him aiming at them from the distance and were about to raise their hands, twitching gloved fingers to call sorcery into this world and snuff him out as easily as a candle.
Privileged were, blow for blow, far more powerful than powder mages. But of the advantages that a powder mage had over a Privileged one of the most important was that Taniel could sense a Privileged while a Privileged could not sense him.
“Target two,” he whispered to himself.
The seconds ticked by as the Privileged got closer to the fires. A dozen bodyguards clustered around him, eyes on the surrounding swamp, their caution well-warranted. They spread out a bit as their master reached the baggage train and raised his gloved hands, summoning water and wind to do his bidding and put out the fires.
Taniel pulled the trigger.
In his mind’s eye, Taniel burned black powder to control the trajectories of the two bullets leaving the muzzle of his rifle. He adjusted the flight of the first bullet minutely, nudging it slightly up and to the left as it cut through the air and slammed into the center of the Privileged’s chest.
At the same time, he corrected the wobbling flight of the second bullet and sent it straight into the wagon of powder barrels.
The resulting explosion would have knocked him out of his perch had Ka-poel not steadied him by the back of his collar. He took a deep breath, his ears ringing from the sound, and watched the resulting chaos for several moments before handing Ka-poel his rifle and shimmying down the tree.
It would be several hours before anyone figured out that the Privileged had died from a bullet to the sternum and not from the explosion. The longer the Kez went without realizing there was a powder mage nearby, the better.
Two days after he killed the Privileged, Taniel watched from the vantage of a cypress tree as a pair of his companions fled into the woods, followed by at least thirty Kez soldiers. It was late in the evening, and he and the Ghost Irregulars had managed three more strikes, varying their tactics each time.
This strike had been different. Only a couple of Ghost Irregulars went in, getting close enough to assassinate a pair of guards. It was impetuous and sloppy and undertaken in the daylight, as if they were getting overconfident.
Just as it was meant to look.
Taniel sighted down his rifle, waiting for the pursuing Kez soldiers to get closer. But they came to a slow stop, firing their muskets and shouting a few choice words after the Ghost Irregulars, before turning back and retreating to their camp. He watched them go, disappointed, before climbing down from his hiding spot and heading to find Major Bertreau.
The major was with the rest of the Ghost Irregulars, spaced out around a hollow a few hundred yards distant, waiting in what would have been a perfect ambush for the Kez pursuers.
“They didn’t take the bait,” Taniel told her.
Bertreau swore. “We might have been too obvious.”
“They didn’t take the bait last night, either.”
Bertreau scowled into the trees, as if trying to will the Kez to fall into her trap. “They’re catching on to us.”
“They must have someone smart in charge for once,” Taniel replied. The Kez had a habit of putting their idiot, inbred nobility in command of their colonial armies. But that didn’t mean they should be underestimated, or that quality officers didn’t wind up with a command from time to time.
“Had to happen sooner or later,” Bertreau said. “Mapel! Have everyone fall back.” She jerked her head to one side, pulling Taniel away from the rest of the soldiers as they prepared to leave. “I’ve been thinking,” she said quietly, “about our orders.”
“What about them?” Taniel asked.
“Have you considered what they actually meant?”
“Sure. They wanted us to return to Planth. But we decided to come here and delay the Kez instead.”
“Not that,” Bertreau said. “What they meant! Think about it. The Kez sending a whole brigade into the Tristan Basin? Planth calling for every available regiment? There’s something important in Planth.”
Taniel stared at her. Two days straight of running a powder trance left his brain a little wired, and he was having trouble following Bertreau’s logic.
“Those orders were only four days old when we got them,” Bertreau said, “and they were signed by Lindet herself. Our damned chancellor is hiding in Planth.”
Taniel didn’t know a lot about the politics behind the Fatrastan Revolution but what he knew was that one of the local governors, Lindet, spearheaded the movement and was now in charge of the new government. She was outnumbered and outgunned by the Kez colonial armies and so she and her staff kept moving, always hiding.
And this time, apparently, the Kez had found her.
He cursed himself quietly for not seeing it earlier. Planth was far more important than he’d initially suspected. Lindet and her staff were the spine of the revolution. If this brigade reached Planth, the government would be captured and the war—Fatrastan independence and everything Taniel and his companions had fought for—would be over.
The thought troubled him the whole way back to camp. All of their efforts had barely slowed the Kez brigade, buying Planth perhaps an extra day to prepare. But the Kez were bent on reaching Planth, and they were not taking any bait that might distract them. A few hundred extra casualties meant nothing to them.
The Ghost Irregulars reached camp, breaking out the rations for a late dinner while men shook the spiders out of their hammocks. Taniel wished, not for the first time, that they were far enough from the enemy to make camp fires.
He sat down on a log next to Ka-poel and chewed his sausages and stale biscuits without relish, considering the options available to them. They could continue their tactics all the way to Planth—another three days’ march—and then harry them as they took the city. But beyond that, the Ghost Irregulars were helpless. They weren’t much use in a pitched battle, which this whole thing would no-doubt come down to.
So what else could they do to delay the Kez? Send a few squads to go on ahead, blocking the path with fallen trees? But there were still more Privileged with the Kez brigade—now hiding themselves from Taniel—and they could sweep aside any obstacle with a gesture.
>
It made Taniel feel helpless.
His increasingly negative thoughts were cut off by a distant call from one of the camp guards.
“Rider coming in!”
Taniel exchanged a glance with Ka-poel and snatched up his rifle before he went looking for Bertreau. He found the major having her own dinner beside her tent. “Did someone just say a rider was coming in?” she asked.
“I was just about to ask you the same thing,” Taniel replied. Together, they walked to the edge of the camp, gathering a small crowd as they waited to see what type of bloody fool would ride a horse through this swamp dragon-infested mire. More than a few of the Ghost Irregulars had armed themselves, and even Ka-poel had a hand on her machete. Taniel was the first to spot a flash of metal moving through the trees.
“See him?” Bertreau asked.
“I… I think so? But I might be going mad.”
A few moments passed before Bertreau let out a long breath. “No. No, I definitely see it too.”
A horse waded through the knee-deep water. It was the biggest horse Taniel had ever seen, easily twenty hands high with the powerful build of a true war animal. Interlocking plate armor covered its head, neck, and hindquarters, while a skirt of mail gently skimmed the water.
A horse that size would make any man seem small, but the rider on its back looked shockingly proportional. He was similarly armored, encased in leather, plate, and mail that must weigh eight stone, and had both hands on the reins, a long, wooden lance under one arm with a cavalry sword sheathed on his left side and a carbine holstered on his right.
No one, not even heavy cuirassiers, wore armor like that any more. The whole thing was like a vision out a fairy tale, with a warrior two and a half centuries out of date.
A familiar tingle went down Taniel’s spine as the horse emerged from the water to stand, barely looking affected by all that weight, staring Taniel down like he was a bug to be stomped. Sorcery radiated off the creature, and it took him several moments to realize it wasn’t coming from the horse or the rider, but rather the armor that they wore.
Pit-damned enchanted armor. No one wore armor that looked like that any more, and no one enchanted much of anything, either.
The rider shifted, lifting a sack out of his saddlebags, tossing it on the ground at their feet. The sack was soaked through with blood, and a head rolled out of it to come to a rest at Bertreau’s toe. The face was fixed in a gruesome expression, the neck cut cleanly. By the size of the sack, there were two more heads inside.
“Kresimir,” Bertreau swore. Taniel couldn’t help but echo the oath silently.
“Kez are tracking you,” the rider said in a throaty growl, voice echoing from his helmet. He flipped up the visor, gazing down at Taniel and Bertreau with an expression only slightly less intimidating than his horse. “I’m looking for Major Bertreau.”
Bertreau, for the year that Taniel had known her, was fairly unflappable. She was more liable to show anger than fear, and not a lot impressed her. Her eyes still fixed on the severed head, she gave a low whistle before finally looking up at the rider.
“Reporting,” Bertreau said, snapping a salute. She elbowed Taniel in the ribs and reluctantly he threw up his own salute, still trying to get his mind around what he saw before him. A man with severed heads in a sack, riding a fully-armored warhorse into a damned swamp like it was a ride in the countryside, wearing enchanted armor! The armor, he decided, was the hardest part to get over.
The big man surveying the camp, nodding slowly to himself. His face was handsome in an open, honest sort of way, worn rough by the elements and criss-crossed with scars. Dirty-blond hair was matted to his forehead with sweat. Taniel guessed he was in his mid-thirties. “I’m Colonel Ben Styke. You assholes are a pain to find.”
“That’s kind of the point, sir,” Taniel said. Inwardly, he repeated Bertreau’s whistle. He should have recognized that armor from the stories. Mad Ben Styke and his Mad Lancers were a damned legend. Rumors said they were a company of volunteer cavalrymen who’d looted a Kez governor’s collection of ancient cavalry armor and taken to wearing the stuff. Taniel never really believed it. And he certainly hadn’t guessed that the armor was enchanted. Bloody pit.
“Pole, what are you… “ Taniel wasn’t able to catch her in time as Ka-poel slipped past him and approached the horse.
“Careful, girl,” Styke said. “He’ll bite your whole hand off.”
Ka-poel seemed less than worried. She patted the beast’s armored nose, rubbing its exposed neck beneath the armor. The horse shook its head, then leaned into her for a nuzzle that almost planted her on her ass.
“I’ll be damned,” Styke said. “He doesn’t like many people, girl. Take that as an honor.” He leaned over Ka-poel, sniffing, then turned toward Taniel. “You smell of powder and sorcery. You must be Taniel Two-shot.”
“That’s me,” Taniel said, lifting his chin. He’d known plenty of big men like this in the Adran Army—grenadiers, usually—and they rarely respected anything but strength. Someone this size would ride all over you unless you took a stand.
“Good,” Styke said, his face suddenly splitting in a grin. “Pleasure to meet you. Heard you’ve been popping Privileged left and right, and for that I owe you a drink.”
Taniel opened his mouth with a retort that died on his tongue. “I, uh... thank you, sir.”
“Thank me when you’ve got a drink in hand,” Styke said. “Could be a while. Lindet appreciates what you’ve been doing down here to slow the Kez, but you,” he nodded to Bertreau and the rest of the camp, “are needed in Planth immediately.”
“She knows we’re here?” Taniel asked.
“Lindet knows just about everything. She’s got spies crawling out her ass. We best get moving soon, though.
Bertreau looked around, and Taniel could tell she was more than a little star-struck. This was Ben Styke, after all. In the flesh. Taniel, despite his sorcery, was feeling more than a little intimidated himself. Not that he’d ever admit it.
“It’s getting late,” Bertreau said. “It’ll be dark within the hour.”
“Just enough time to pack the camp and get moving,” Styke replied. He leaned forward, banging his mailed fist against the armor on his mount’s neck. “We’ve got twenty-five miles to make before noon tomorrow. Best get started.”
Taniel exchanged another look with Bertreau. After all their work, they still had to head to Planth. And no getting around a direct order this time. He headed toward his hammock. “Camp!” he called. “Get ready to move!”
The Ghost Irregulars skirted the Kez army in the darkness, taking the river north toward Planth. They lost Styke during the night, but by the time they finally hid their canoes and made their way over to the Basin Highway, he was already waiting for them atop his enormous warhorse, ready to accompany them the last couple of miles.
For someone who’d been out in the swamps for almost a full year, the sight of Planth was like a light at the end of a long, wet, snake-infested tunnel. The Ghost Irregulars had ranged all over the Basin, passing through towns and forts to re-provision, send post, and get their orders, but Planth was almost big enough to be a proper city.
Built atop of a stony ridge jutting from the swamps, it had begun as a trading fort on a bend in the Tristan River and had grown into a hamlet, then a town, and now boasted almost ten thousand settlers of a dozen different nationalities, including a fair number of Palo. Land for miles around had been cleared and drained for farming. While the fort still dominated the stony ridge, the city itself sprawled along the side of the river, unprotected by walls or palisades.
Taniel was surprised to see an enormous camp on the outskirts of the city. There were hundreds of tents, impromptu stables, hastily-built outhouses, and all the trappings of an army at rest that would have made him think of home had it not been so hodge-podge. No dozen tents were the same color and so many different flags were raised above the camp he lost count.
He could tell
at a glance this was not an army. This was a hastily-gathered militia pulled from the nearest towns and outposts. It would fall beneath the Kez brigade in a few hours—sooner, if the Kez unleashed their remaining Privileged.
Bertreau sent Taniel on with Styke, opting to go looking for a tavern with the parting words, “You’re the Privileged-killing hero. You deal with the politicians.”
The city was crowded, shoulder-to-shoulder. Men wearing the dark yellow coats of the Fatrastan Continental Army rubbed shoulders with buckskin-clad frontiersmen, plain-clothed settlers, and fancily-dressed businessmen. Practically everyone had a musket or rifle on their shoulder and a fight in their eyes, and Taniel allowed himself to be led through it all by Styke. Ka-poel tagged along at his heels, barely keeping up.
“Are we in that much of a hurry?” Taniel asked. “This place is chaos. I’d like to ask around for news from home.”
“Chancellor first,” Styke replied. “I don’t worry about keeping her waiting but you probably should.” He paused at a crossroad and pointed forward. “I’ve got to go stable my horse. Go straight on till you find the big church and tell them you’re to see Lindet immediately.”
Abandoned, Taniel and Ka-poel shoved and cursed through the press. While she was utterly undeterred by Styke or his enormous warhorse, Ka-poel seemed a little more intimidated by the sheer number of people. She was shoved and knocked around, and almost drew her machete on a passing frontiersmen, before Taniel finally planted her firmly behind him and told her to hang on to his belt.
Even with him leading, they got turned around twice before eventually made their way to the very center of the city where the square was dominated by big yellow tents, each of them waving the flag of the Continental Army. There seemed to be lines everywhere—a tangle of humanity streaming in and out of pubs, whorehouses, hotels, and privies.
There was a church on the northern side of the square, and even it had a line—a mix of soldiers, militiamen, and townsfolk, all waving orders or contracts, arguing amongst themselves. They were kept organized by a varied group of well-dressed city men in black vests and bowler caps. The line wrapped around the church twice, and Taniel stared glumly at the end before heading straight up to the big door.
Ghosts of the Tristan Basin: A Powder Mage Novella Page 3
