Wrath of Empire

Chapter 10

Styke sat astride Amrec a mile northeast of where the Riflejacks had made camp the last few nights and watched the column of infantry marching double time through the thinning morning fog. They’d left the river highway in favor of a dirt road through rougher terrain where they could stay ahead of any pursuers, and Styke guessed that the two enemy armies would figure out their disappearance any time now.

Supposedly, Flint had some trickery up her sleeve to keep the two armies occupied with each other. Styke didn’t know. He didn’t particularly care. It wasn’t his problem anymore.

In front of him in the saddle, Celine slept with her head against the crook of Styke’s arm, snoring softly. He thought about waking her to watch the troops go by, but figured she’d had enough of soldiers for one lifetime. He adjusted her head to lay against his chest so he could lift his arms, and turned around to find Jackal waiting nearby. The Palo bannerman sat easy in his saddle atop a captured Dynize horse, watching the columns pass. Styke nudged Amrec gently around to join him.

“What do your spirits say about all this?” Styke asked.

Jackal didn’t take his eyes off the passing soldiers. “That we’re all going to die.”

“Oh.” Styke felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

“But,” Jackal added, “they always say that. They don’t actually know when we’re going to die – just that it will happen. Which is pretty obvious. Spirits are preoccupied with death.”

Styke swallowed a lump in his throat. “Was that a joke, Jackal?”

“I’ve been working with street children for the last few years,” he said without smiling. “It helped me develop my sense of humor.” He finally looked up from the Riflejack column and gazed at Celine for a few moments. “She’s good for you, I think. Tempers your fury.”

“I think ten years in the camps tempered my fury.”

“That’s not what the spirits say,” Jackal replied.

Styke smoothed Celine’s hair gently with one hand. “I have no idea whether to take you seriously.”

“You added another to their number a couple hours ago. Agoston, I believe. He is hiding from me, but the spirits say he betrayed you.” As crazy as Jackal sounded sometimes, he always came up with bits of information he had no other way of knowing. It made Styke more than a little uncomfortable. Jackal continued. “The spirits say you’re a man of madness. They say Death walks in your footsteps just to find an easier road. Some of them fear you. Some hate you. Some like you.” Jackal’s eyes narrowed. “The ones that like you are not sound of mind.”

“Thanks for that.”

“They also think this is a terrible idea.”

“The spirits? What idea?”

“Searching for the godstones.”

Goose bumps spread on the back of Styke’s arms. Another piece of information Jackal hadn’t – or shouldn’t have – been told. “Have you been spying on us?”

“The spirits bring me a lot of information to sort through. One of the braver ones happened to overhear your conversation with Flint and the other two.”

“Taniel and Ka-poel.”

“The spirits just call them Black and Fire. But yes, them. The spirits want nothing to do with the godstones, and think we shouldn’t, either. The stones are surrounded by a cacophony of death so thick that it drives spirits to madness.”

“I didn’t know the dead could go mad.”

“Madness can follow them from life. But for a spirit to be driven to insanity after death? That’s something.”

Styke turned toward Jackal and sniffed, trying to sense any sorcery about him. He thought he detected something – a hint of grave moss and fresh-turned dirt – but it was so minuscule it might be his imagination. Was Jackal using some kind of strange new sorcery? Had a Knack manifested itself late in life? Styke should be able to smell it, but he hadn’t used his sorcerous senses for ten years, and had never considered the fact he was out of practice.

They sat in silence for several minutes. In a nearby field, Ibana was gathering the Mad Lancers and the Riflejack cavalry for their briefing – minus the scouts keeping an eye on the nearby armies. Styke wondered if he made Ibana do too much of his footwork. But that’s what a junior officer was for, was it not? As the senior officer, he sat around, made important decisions. Maybe he’d do some paperwork once in a while, though upon reflection he realized he made Ibana do that as well.

He glanced sidelong at Jackal. “Can the spirits help us find the godstones?”

Jackal made a sour face. “I asked. It took almost an hour to get them to talk to me again.”

“So that’s a no.”

“Definitely no.”

“Well,” Styke said, lifting his reins. “Tell me if they’re good for anything.”

He turned Amrec away from the road and headed off across a shallow gully to where the cavalry was assembled with Ibana. Halfway to Ibana, Ka-poel met him on horseback. He pulled up, eyeing her for several long moments. Ka-poel smiled at him, and though he was almost two feet taller than her, he found something incredibly terrifying about the casual intensity in her eyes. To his Knack, she smelled of coppery old blood.

“So we’re to be your bodyguard, are we?”

She nodded.

“Do you ride well?”

Another nod.

“I don’t know your signing language. Is there a better way we can communicate?”

She hesitated, then tapped the side of her head.

“You’ll think of something?”

A nod.

“Try to do it soon.” Styke adjusted Celine in his saddle and wondered how she could sleep so well. Even after three weeks on horseback, his thighs and balls still hurt too bad to so much as snooze. To be young again, he mused. “Tell me,” he said to Ka-poel. “Did I dream you in that town north of Landfall? Did I dream that you wiped blood on my face and disappeared?”

She smiled.

“You can be coy with Taniel and Flint and everyone else. But I’m going to keep you alive the next few months. Don’t play with me. Did I dream that?”

She snorted, her face growing serious, then shook her head.

“No, I didn’t dream it, or no, you didn’t do it?”

She smiled again.

“God damn it.”

“Styke!” Ibana called.

Styke pointed at Ka-poel. “We’ll talk about this again later.” He rode over to where Ibana waited at the head of the assembled cavalry and ran his eyes across them. Most wore the crimson and blue of the Riflejacks – some volunteers wore whatever they happened to have on them, and the rest wore the old, sunflower-yellow jackets of the Mad Lancers. Everyone was mounted, facing toward Ibana and Gustar at the front, and each had the reins of an extra horse tied to their saddle.

The Mad Lancers had each taken the breastplate of a dead Dynize cuirassier. Styke’s hung from his saddle – he needed a smith to hammer it out to fit him. Their breastplates weren’t as strong as those of the Riflejack cuirassiers, but they were much lighter, and he decided he’d have the Riflejack dragoons fitted with them the next time they slaughtered a Dynize army.

“Some of you know me from old,” Styke began, shouting to be heard across the field. “Some of you have already ridden under my command at Landfall. And some of you signed on just in the last few days, in which case you will come to know me soon. But for every one of you here today my name is Ben Styke, and I am your new colonel.”

A thousand pairs of eyes watched him silently. Someone in the back cheered, but quickly fell silent.

“I understand that most of you are here for the money, that you followed Lady Flint across the ocean in return for riches, so she is the one who holds your loyalty.” Styke held up a finger. “Flint has given us one mission, and has cut us loose. Your soul belongs to her, but your bodies belong to me. When I tell you to slaughter, you slaughter. When I tell you to burn, you burn. When I say charge, you charge. Anyone who has a problem with that can slink back to her right now and explain that you don’t want to follow orders.”

No one moved.

“Good.” Styke continued. “We will ride hard every day. We will train every day. We will treat our horses with respect. If you fall behind, we will not coddle you – but we will not abandon you, either. You will be taught to keep up. It doesn’t matter whether you are a cuirassier or a dragoon or a lancer, or a farmer, or an accountant. From this day forward, you are a Mad Lancer.

“Mad Lancers are as kind to our allies as we are cruel to our enemies. We take in the broken and we turn them into warriors. We crush those who think themselves invincible. We thrive on the ravages of war. The Mad Lancers protect Fatrasta – even from itself. When all this is over, Lady Flint has assured me that all the survivors will be rich. But mark my words: If you disobey my orders, I will kill you myself.”

Styke took a long moment to enjoy the irony of a man famous for ignoring his superiors expecting unquestioning obedience from his own cavalry, before continuing on in a shout: “Welcome to the Mad Lancers. We ride as brothers and sisters. We die as brothers and sisters. Let’s move out!”

He turned immediately to Ibana and Gustar, noting that Celine had woken up during his speech and was looking around groggily. “How was that?”

“Could have been better,” Ibana said.

“Go to the pit,” Styke told her.

“A bit more violent than my boys are used to,” Gustar commented. “But I like it.”

“They’ll learn,” Styke warned. “We aren’t knights in shining armor. We’re killers.”

“Adrans have few hang-ups about war,” Gustar assured him.

Ibana sighed. “I miss my old armor.” She thumped her Dynize breastplate. “This won’t even stop a good rifle shot.”

“Quit your whining. It’ll turn a sword or a bayonet. Until we can find out where Lindet stashed our armor, this is the best we’ve got.”

Ibana perked up. “We’re going looking for it?”

“It’s on my list,” Styke said. He didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up – he wasn’t entirely certain that Lindet hadn’t destroyed it like she said – but he also had a feeling it was floating around in a Blackhat armory somewhere. If it was on the west coast, he was going to find it. “Get the men moving,” he told Gustar. “We’ll head north two more miles, then cut through the refugee camp and go west. I’d like to skirt them entirely but that would take too long, so we’ll have to be well on our way before Holm has any idea we passed through.”

Gustar snapped a salute and rode off, shouting for the men to form columns.

“We’ve got a lot of new volunteers,” Styke said, looking over the cavalry. “Are you sure you’re going to be able to whip them into shape?”

Ibana scoffed. “You may be an old cripple, but I’m in the prime of my life. If we turned farmers and dockhands into cavalry during the Fatrastan War, we can do it now.” She paused for a moment. “I’m surprised you said yes to this. That eager to be cut loose?”

Styke considered the question for several moments, looking down at Celine, who was content to watch the activity without comment. “The longer we stick around, the more likely it’ll be that Flint and I come to blows. I don’t want that to happen.”

“Sure.”

“But it’s not just that. Flint has sent us west. What’s to the west?”

Ibana shrugged.

Styke held up three fingers. “Bad Tenny Wiles, Valyaine, and Dvory.”

A wicked little smile crossed Ibana’s face.

Styke continued. “I figure there’s a pretty good chance we come across those bastards while we look for this thing for Lady Flint – and I really like the idea of mixing business and revenge.”