Blood of Empire

Chapter 30

Vlora examined both the Adran and Dynize camps in the morning gloom. Smoke from the charred remains of the southern Dynize camp obscured her view and made her eyes water. The place looked like the floor of a butcher shop that had recently burned down, the ground carpeted with the bodies of the dead, dying, and wounded in between the smoldering remains of tents and supply wagons.

The northern Dynize camp – General Etepali’s – looked practically cheery in comparison. It had been hastily abandoned in the wee hours of the morning, leaving behind tents, unnecessary gear, and random spots of tidy occupation where the camp followers hadn’t been fast enough to follow their retreating army. Vlora’s own soldiers were currently picking through the scattered remains to look for anything of value that General Etepali might have left behind.

Vlora stared at it all through bleary eyes, functioning on a few hours of deep sleep, smarting from fresh stitches from one of her medics. Last night felt like a nightmare to her, a series of half-remembered events that barely formed a cohesive narrative. Yet here she was, looking at what remained.

Someone had thrown a blanket over her shoulders at some point, and she clung to it like a drowning man to a plank of wood. Beside her, General Sabastenien read out reports. She half listened, nodding when she was expected to nod and saying a word or two when she was expected to respond.

“Final word has come in from our scouts,” he was in the middle of saying. “It seems that once General Etepali realized what was happening last night, she woke her soldiers and organized an attack. They pushed our flank hard – that was a stroke of brilliance, having us build those barricades, by the way – but once they realized they couldn’t take advantage of the attack, they pulled up stakes and retreated. They’re about five miles directly to our southwest now.”

“About what I expected,” Vlora said dully.

“I wonder why she attacked our flank in our camp,” he mused out loud, “rather than attacking our troops that were undertaking the slaughter of her allies.”

Vlora roused herself enough to look at Sabastenien. “Because she didn’t expect us to leave anyone to defend our rear. She expected us to be completely absorbed in the slaughter, which would have allowed her to crush our camp and then sweep in behind us. That would have been more effective than going to the aid of her allies.”

Sabastenien blinked at her. “She allowed her allies to be slaughtered as a distraction?”

“It might have worked, too. It’s why I left Nila and Bo back in the camp.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Sabastenien cleared his throat. “She managed to do some damage, I’ll give her credit for that. Most of our casualties last night came from her. About two thousand men killed or wounded.” He let out a half sigh, half laugh. “Initial estimates on the Dynize are twenty thousand casualties. I’d say that’s a resounding victory. Congratulations, Lady Flint.”

Vlora tried to smile. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“General, could you excuse us for a moment?” It was Bo, sidling up to Vlora’s left and nodding at Sabastenien. Bo looked a little worse for the wear, with bags under his eyes and a tiny bit of his hair singed off the top. Vlora wondered just how close Etepali’s Privileged had gotten to overwhelming him and Nila.

“Of course,” Sabastenien replied, tipping his hat to Vlora. “Lady Flint. Magus Borbador.” He retreated down the hillside.

Vlora felt Bo take her by the elbow and allowed herself to be steered back into her tent. They were barely inside before Bo released her and began to pace violently, then finally rounded on her. “What the pit is wrong with you?” he demanded.

She tried to find her voice, failed.

“Are you trying to get yourself killed? Are you that bloody-minded right now that you accompanied our troops on a night attack in your condition?”

Under normal circumstances she would have snapped right back. His tone was accusatory and venomous. Nobody talked to her like that. But all she could see was the faces of her dead grenadiers.

Bo continued, “I just talked to Davd. He saw that fight with the dragonmen. Said that you would have died before he had the chance to load his rifle if not for a handful of cuirassiers that rode down that dragonman. Blind luck. The cuirassiers didn’t even notice you.” He leaned forward, taking her gently by the sides of the face. She could see the anger in his eyes warring with concern. “You are not a powder mage anymore, Vlora. You can’t do that!”

“Just because I’m no longer a killing machine doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t lead from the front,” Vlora managed.

“Yes, it does,” Bo responded, letting go of her and resuming his pacing. “And we’re not just talking about the lack of your sorcery. You almost died less than two months ago. You shouldn’t even be out of bed for more than an hour or two, let alone charging into an enemy camp in the middle of the night. You…” He stumbled on his words, turning to peer at her face. A sudden realization seemed to dawn in his eyes. “You were trying to get yourself killed,” he whispered.

“Don’t be absurd.” The very idea cut through Vlora, stunning her.

“This is about Olem, isn’t it?” he asked. “Did you engineer this whole battle, planning on getting yourself killed over some soldier?”

“Olem isn’t some soldier,” Vlora finally snapped. “He is the love of my life and he’s your friend. He abandoned us. Me. He walked away from this thing, and…” Vlora sputtered, her words stumbling into a cough that threatened to knock her off her feet. “I didn’t engineer anything,” she finally managed. “I made a tactical decision.”

“A tactical decision to get yourself killed,” Bo said, his voice rising. “You know that this isn’t just about you, right? This is about an entire army that crossed an ocean to help you stop something horrible. Never mind that you have more important things to worry about than Olem – people here are ready to die for you, Vlora. They have died for you. Or have you already forgotten the grenadiers who were torn apart by those dragonmen?”

Faces flashed across Vlora’s vision. Bloody, startled faces. She didn’t even know the names of those grenadiers.

Bo’s outburst was interrupted by the tent flap being thrown open. Nila strode into the room and grabbed Bo by the shoulder. “Out,” she ordered, shoving him back out the flap before he could respond.

Vlora stared into the middle distance, unable to move, unable to respond. Had she tried to kill herself? Death by enemy wasn’t unheard of. Officers whose lives had taken a dark turn and volunteered for dangerous missions. Soldiers who charged without orders. Was it possible that she’d tried to off herself, without her even knowing?

Bo’s words suddenly hit her – she’d heard them when he spoke, but now that he’d been shoved outside, they seemed to slam into her gut like a kick from a horse. He was right, of course. She’d gotten her bodyguard killed. All of them would still be here if not for her insistence on charging in with the infantry. She lifted her eyes, looking at Nila without seeing her. “They’ll call it a victory,” she muttered.

Nila sighed. “Yes, they will. And so will you.”

“I can’t. Have you seen that?” She pointed a finger toward the Dynize camp.

“I’ve spent the better part of the morning helping the wounded,” Nila answered gently. She came to Vlora’s side, and Vlora allowed herself to be guided to her cot. They both sat down, and Nila pulled Vlora’s head against her shoulder.

Within moments Vlora was weeping. She didn’t even feel it start, but suddenly the tears were flowing and her shoulders heaving. She felt a hand on the back of her head, gently stroking her hair, and Nila spoke in a soft, soothing voice.

“The victory is in how few of those dead and wounded are your countrymen,” she said. “So very few. These soldiers are your responsibility, and if you have to resort to a dirty trick to keep them alive, then so be it. You’ve done it, and you can move on. The Dynize are not your responsibility. They belong to whoever sent them to die by your hand.

“I know that you miss Olem. We all do. He’s a fantastic commanding officer and a friend to us all. I don’t know where he’s gone. I don’t even know if he’s truly abandoned us. What Davd told you the other day was true – you betrayed him at the Crease. You did it as a lover rather than as a commanding officer, and that’s what hurt him. You have to let that go. Adom willing, when this is all over, you’ll be able to find him and make this right.

“At this moment, however, you have a decision to make: You can back out of this. Cede command. There are a half-dozen generals in your army who are all the equal of anything the Dynize can throw at us, and not a one of them would think less of you for stepping down after all that has happened. They know you’re in pain. They worry for you. You can let them take care of you for a change.

“Or,” Nila continued, “you can take responsibility. Claim this carnage as a victory and move on. Galvanize yourself and your troops. Come back stronger than before. Sweep your enemies aside. Forget Olem’s absence. Focus on your goals and leave the self-recriminations for when this is all finished.”

Nila fell silent, and Vlora wept out her anger, grief, pain, and frustrations. They remained in that embrace for some time, long after Vlora had dried her tears and her mind and heart felt empty, a shell devoid of the torrent that had so recently been raging within her. The ability for rational thought finally returned, and Vlora used it to probe within herself, looking for that ugly, furious thing that had dominated her thoughts for so long. It was still there, lurking in the corners of her mind, but it felt smaller and diminished.

She finally sat up, looking Nila in the eyes. “Thank you.”

“Of course. Bo’s good at a lot of things. Dealing with complex emotion isn’t one of them.”

Vlora barked a laugh. “That would require him to let his guard down.”

“You say that like it’s not a family trait.”

“Unfair.”

“But true.” Nila lifted the hem of her dress and used it to dry Vlora’s cheeks. In all the time they’d known each other, it was probably the most intimate gesture that Nila had made toward her.

They sat in companionable silence for some time. Vlora stared at her hands, deep in thought, considering everything that Nila had said. She was right, of course. She could step down. Any of her generals could conduct this campaign and do Adro proud in the course of doing so. But none of them had seen the godstone, felt its dark power. None of them knew, firsthand, all the things she knew. They hadn’t met Lindet and Ka-Sedial. They hadn’t defended Landfall.

The moment she had accepted command of the army, she had taken responsibility. And she had to accept that. She might be physically and emotionally fragile. But she was still sound of mind and great of will. Any excuse that she gave in ceding command might be accepted by everyone else. But she’d never forgive herself.

Vlora stood and walked to the tent, poking her head outside. Norrine was standing guard just a few feet away, and Vlora wondered if she’d heard the exchange. If she had, none of it showed on her face. “Pass on orders for the general staff,” she told Norrine. “I’m allowing one day for our men to rest. Our medics are to treat our wounded first, then the enemy. Let General Etepali know that we won’t interfere with her retrieving her dead. We won’t be taking any prisoners – anyone we scooped up will be left in her care.”

Norrine nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Anything beyond that?”

“Let the general staff know that we’re marching due west tomorrow afternoon. We’re going to relieve Burt’s Palo Nation irregulars and find out what the Dynize wanted so badly in Yellow Creek.” Vlora stepped back inside and smiled at Nila. “Again, thank you,” she said quietly. “I have a lot to cast off. But cast it off I will. This is a war I must win myself.”