Blood of Empire

Chapter 63

Vlora stood on the prow of her keelboat, face to the wind, listening to the polers keep time as they worked their way up and down the sides of the vessel. The river was packed, hundreds of keelboats crammed together as close as they could manage without fouling their poles. All around her, soldiers double-checked their rifles and kit as their sergeants belted out encouragement, obscenities, and orders. She could feel the tension of the moment, her heart hammering at the prospect of the coming battle.

A light powder trance hummed in the back of her head, keeping her thoughts clear and her body limber. She didn’t trust herself to take more than the smallest amount of powder, but this, she told herself, would be enough. As she scanned the horizon with her looking glass, she picked out the most important features in the landscape.

The largest was the Landfall Plateau, looming less than two miles from their current position and growing closer with every moment. Smoke rose from the city, telling a tale of internal strife, while people streamed out of the suburbs of Lower Landfall at an alarming rate. She put the refugees from her mind. They would not be a threat.

The threat, she found, was gathering on a bend in the river, just where the Hadshaw turned toward the ocean and the western bank became the southern bank. Thousands of soldiers – tens of thousands – mustered speedily on the plain. Their morion helmets and steel breastplates glittered in the afternoon sun as their officers tried to force them into formation. Thousands more streamed from the city, the suburbs, and from the mighty fortress half-constructed around the godstone south of the city.

“Looks like they knew we were coming,” Bo said. He stood beside her, his own looking glass to his eye, gloves already donned. “Their scouts must be lightning fast.”

“Or one of the armies we were facing up north sent their fastest messengers once we’d slipped away,” Vlora replied. “They would have killed a horse to get here before us, but it is possible.”

“Either way,” Bo mused, “we’re in for a fight.”

“As expected. Do you see that bit of high ground at seven o’clock?”

“No… wait, yes. They’re putting a couple of field guns into place.”

“Looks like it.” Vlora lowered her looking glass and turned to look back across the flotilla just in time to see another keelboat maneuver perilously close to hers. The polers on both vessels stopped their work as the two drifted together, and then Olem leapt onto hers. Once he was on board, the polers immediately began to move again. He brushed off the front of his uniform, gained his balance, and came to join her with a flushed face.

“I’ve leapt between horses before,” he proclaimed, “but there’s something about jumping keelboats that’s even more terrifying. I’ve got news from the shore.”

“Our cavalry?” Vlora asked.

“They’re pretty exhausted from the ride down here,” Olem reported. “Sabastenien says that he’d prefer not to use them unless absolutely necessary. He has been able to scout with spare horses.”

“And?”

“We’re looking at twenty-five thousand infantry, with the number rising quickly as they get reinforcements. They’ve got one heavy-gun emplacement up on the plateau, but it’s not facing the river – it’s facing west. It won’t fire on our landing but it’ll pound our flanks the moment we make a move toward the godstone. On the plain itself, they don’t have a lot of good places to put field guns, but it looks like there are at least three different gun platforms for us to worry about.”

As if to punctuate his point, a puff of smoke went up from the center of the massing defenders. Vlora thought she saw a splash some ways down the river. The report of a single artillery round hit them a moment later. “Getting their distance,” she commented. “Anything else?”

“Yes. That fortress down south might not be finished, but it has some pretty nasty gun towers and sloped walls. If we do manage to take the field, that damned fortress is gonna be a whole different beast.”

“We’ll deal with that when we get to it,” Vlora said. “Tell Sabastenien that I want his cavalry to harass the enemy’s north flank. Tell him not to engage – just keep them nervous. I want Davd and Buden to keep those gun crews hopping until we can get close enough for Nila to take care of them. Norrine is on Privileged duty. Bo is going to do his best to keep us from getting hit too hard in the face when we land.”

“Right away!” Olem signaled to a nearby keelboat and was soon leaping across, off to deliver Vlora’s orders.

She took several deep breaths, willing herself steady, and glanced over at Bo. He was watching her with a note of concern. “What?”

“You ready for this?”

Vlora reached into her pocket for a powder charge, squeezing one end between two fingers until a few granules spilled out into her palm. With a thought, she ignited them, causing a small flash and wisp of smoke.

Bo raised both eyebrows. “I’ll be damned.”

“It’s coming back,” Vlora told him. “Not fast enough, and I’m not going to push myself, but it’s there.”

“Congratulations. Just promise me you won’t do anything too stupid today.”

“I’ll try.”

“I’m not reassured.”

They continued down the river, the probing shots of shore artillery getting closer and closer as the flotilla approached. Small clusters of enemy troops began to appear on the bank, streaming in from some nearby camp. Vlora could tell at a glance that the troops were green, their officers struggling to keep them in order. She wondered if they would be the worst she faced, but immediately dismissed the thought. Sedial was too intelligent not to surround himself with at least a few brigades of veterans. He’d throw these greenhorns at her to tire her out, then unleash the veterans.

Olem returned. “Messages sent,” he reported. “I’ll be relieved when we get back on shore and I don’t have to do that.”

“Man up,” Vlora told him playfully.

He scoffed, taking an offered rifle from one of Vlora’s bodyguard and readjusting his bicorn hat. “I’ve never done a proper water landing before.”

“It might get rough,” Bo warned, raising his hands as a cannonball splashed down just a few hundred paces in front of them.

Vlora peered toward the shore, watching as the groups of soldiers grew thicker and more coherent. Their landing point was in the gentle shallows just at the bend of the river, and the enemy had clearly anticipated the spot. At least two brigades would oppose them there. She had more men, of course, but she was also leading them off several hundred keelboats. “Rough” might be an understatement.

“Oh,” Bo suddenly said. “I brought you something.” He fished into his pocket quickly and, before she could object, threw something over her neck. It was a red-and-blue-striped sash with a gold medallion stamped with the mountains of Adro over the teardrop of the Adsea. It took her a moment to recognize it, and when she did, she let out a gasp. The last time she’d seen this medallion was when it had been worn by Tamas to some state function. Though it had been his by right, he rarely wore it and never kept it displayed.

It was the decoration of a field marshal of Adro.

“This doesn’t belong on me,” she said in confusion, trying to take it off. Olem reached out and stopped her.

Bo said, “Remember when you accused me of bringing Taniel an army and then handing it to you when he didn’t want it? Well, the army was never meant for Taniel. It was meant for you. Whether you like it or not, you’re Field Marshal Flint now. The general staff voted on it yesterday. Unanimous. So keep the bloody thing on.”

Vlora didn’t know how to respond. She fingered the gold medallion, lost in memories for a brief moment until the report of cannon fire brought her back to the present. She drew her sword and turned around. To her surprise, hundreds of sets of eyes were already on her. The men crouched on their keelboats, bayonets fixed, rifles loaded. An eerie silence had fallen over the flotilla.

“My soldiers!” she called, loud and clear. “My friends! Today we do not fight for glory or riches. We do not fight for the immediate safety of our people or our borders. We fight a menace that we alone among modern men have faced before. Today we aim our weapons at a man who would be a god. Are you with me?” Thousands of men sprang to their feet, lifting rifles in the air, and let out a great cheer. “We will not allow this threat to rise!” she bellowed. “We will spit in the face of those who would rule the world!”

Vlora whirled, her sword thrust into the air. Ahead of her, the sandy riverbank loomed large as the keelboats turned toward it, rather than continuing on with the curve of the river. A cannonball suddenly whizzed past her head, tearing into a keelboat behind her and scattering dozens of soldiers. Their cheers did not die down – they only intensified.

Bo suddenly threw up his hands, fingers twitching. The air above them seemed to shatter and a cannonball careened off his sorcery, flying harmlessly toward the opposite bank. He grimaced, then his eyes widened. “Hold on!” he yelled, bracing himself against something only he could see.

Vlora felt the sorcery a half second before it collided with Bo’s shield. Lightning webbed above them, crackling and hissing. A bolt of ice materialized over Bo’s shoulder and lanced toward the bank. “Got him!” Bo crowed. “Norrine, you better hurry up if you want to kill those assholes before me! Nila, now!”

The moment Nila’s name left Bo’s lips, a column of blue fire sprouted from the keelboat to their right. The flames sizzled across the water, hitting the bank and turning as if they had a mind of their own. They cascaded across the bank, consuming infantrymen by the hundreds. Within seconds there was nothing but charred flesh and blackened grass on the riverbank, leaving Vlora with a beachhead several hundred yards deep and twice as wide. She braced herself as the polers suddenly dug in, slowing the boat until they slid almost gently onto the sandbar.

Vlora licked a few morsels of powder off her fingertips and drew her pistol, waving both pistol and sword in the air. “Charge!” she cried, leaping into the knee-deep water. Ten thousand voices answered her call, and the might of the Adran Army swarmed the shore.

Vlora’s soldiers gained their beachhead and then some. Within thirty minutes the entire riverbank was theirs. Three Dynize gun emplacements lay in smoldering ruins thanks to Nila’s sorcery. Marion-helmed Dynize casualties littered the field and filled it with the cries of the wounded. The rest of the Dynize had pulled back with startling alacrity – half fleeing, half retreating, but keeping the bulk of their army between Vlora and the godstone. The rest of the keelboats were unloaded, field guns rolled by plank onto the soft floodplains while Sabastenien’s cavalry kept the Dynize nervous to the west.

During the landing, Vlora had twisted her ankle in the run toward shore. It was an undignified injury, and she paced to try and work out the pain. A bullet had grazed Olem’s cheek, leaving him with a startling amount of blood across his chin and collar. Bo cleaned sand out of his prosthetic, while Nila had somehow managed to reach the shore without getting even the hem of her dress wet. Vlora ordered Burt’s irregulars up to relieve the cavalry, and gazed toward the plateau, where she could just barely see the gun platform that would make her life miserable if she tried to march toward the godstone.

“I don’t like it,” she stated to no one in particular.

“Like what?” Olem asked, dabbing at his cheek with a handkerchief. He waved off a surgeon and walked over to join Vlora.

“They should have held us there,” she replied. “They had enough men that even with a little bit of discipline, and backed up by their bone-eyes and Privileged, they should have contested that landing more fiercely.”

Olem scowled and cast his gaze across the riverbank. “Now that you mention it…”

“I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Only two Privileged and a single bone-eye,” Olem said. “That seems like scant protection for all the soldiers he’s sending out to meet us.”

“Do they still have reinforcements coming in?”

“From everywhere, it seems. Our scouts estimate they now have thirty-five thousand soldiers on the field between us and the godstone and still growing. So why are they holding off?”

Vlora brooded, staring toward the monolith she could see clearly just a couple miles to their south. It poked up from the center of that big, ugly fortress. She could once again sense that dark foreboding from the godstone, putting her on edge, and she worried that it might affect her decision-making. “They might be stretched thin. The sorcerers, I mean. With Lindet to the west and a couple armies still up north and the losses we inflicted on their cabal during the siege of Landfall, they might just not be able to field very much sorcery against us, so they plan on a defensive battle.”

“Possibly,” Olem conceded.

There was a “but” in his tone. “What do you think it could be?”

“If he knew we were coming, what if he’s just luring us toward the fortress? Does the godstone have any other powers that we’re not aware of?”

The very suggestion made Vlora ill. “Ask Nila and Bo. Tell them to be ready for anything.” She couldn’t allow herself to hope that they’d completely caught Ka-Sedial with his pants down. But if she had, and there was a chance to avoid the coming bloodshed… “Get me a messenger to send to Ka-Sedial. He has thirty minutes to agree to surrender the godstone, or we’re going to take it by force.”

“Isn’t that Delia’s job?” Olem asked.

“Do you see Delia anywhere? Besides, we still don’t know for sure whether she’s betrayed us or not.” The orders were relayed, and Vlora watched the messenger run off to find a political officer, then turned her attention back to the landing. Her soldiers were already falling into line, forming tight regiments with her best troops – some of them still wearing their Riflejack mercenary uniforms – composing the center. Auxiliaries commanded the right, while a staunch company of grenadiers took her far left flank closest to the plateau, ready in case Sedial dispatched troops directly from the city.

Olem rushed back and forth, intercepting messengers, issuing commands, and keeping all of the minute details straight with an accuracy that Vlora couldn’t hope to match. He soon returned to her side and, in a low voice, asked, “The afternoon is advancing. Are we going to attack tonight? Or should we dig in for camp?”

Vlora hesitated only a moment before answering. If they attacked and had a hard time making progress, they could be forced back into the keelboats overnight. But if they dug in and waited until dawn, it would give Sedial an immense amount of time to rearrange his defense.

And she still couldn’t shake the feeling that he was simply buying time to use the godstones.

“Get our auxiliaries digging trenches on our flanks, but tell them to be ready to move at a moment’s notice. We’re attacking today unless Sedial surrenders.”

The message was relayed, and Vlora was left to watch as the preparations continued. She dabbed a bit of powder on her tongue, relishing the sizzle that it sent through her body and wrestling with the urge to take more. Only a few minutes passed before a rider appeared, rushing toward Vlora and not bothering to dismount before belting out a warning.

“Lady Flint! Word from General Sabastenien. He says that the provosts have –”

“General Vlora Flint!” a voice boomed.

Vlora whirled from the rider, turning toward a column of provosts that had appeared between the lines of her own men. There were at least two hundred of them, pushing their way through the regular soldiery, and at their head was Provost Marshal Valeer. She fixed him with a cool look and crossed her arms.

“Valeer! I thought you’d wait in the wings until the real fighting was done. Are you here to lead the main charge?”

The provost marshal strode toward Vlora until he was mere paces away, his hand on his sword, his chin lifted and lip curled. Olem subtly stepped out ahead of Vlora and ashed a cigarette toward Valeer. “It’s ‘Field Marshal’ now,” he said.

Valeer sniffed at the sash around Vlora’s neck. “We’ll see about that. Vlora Flint, you have orders to end this offensive immediately. Lady Snowbound has secured a cease-fire with the Great Ka of Dynize. Stand down, or face the consequences.”

Vlora eyeballed Valeer’s provosts as they fanned out to surround her and Olem, and noticed that both Bo and Nila were elsewhere – clearly something that Valeer had planned on. She maintained her cool demeanor. “Has she?”

“She has, and I’m here to insist that you give the order to stand down at this very moment.”

“I won’t give such an order until I hear the terms of the cease-fire.”

“The terms are not your concern. The stability of Adran international relations is your concern, and you are on the very precipice of plunging us into an extended conflict that we cannot hope to win. Stand down!”

At a gesture from Olem, Vlora’s bodyguard assembled from where they’d been resting nearby. Though heavily outnumbered, they shouldered their way through the provosts until they had joined Vlora’s side. It was a show of solidarity that gave her a fresh breath of confidence. Beyond the cordon of provosts, officers and regular army soldiers began to take a great interest in the proceedings.

“Olem,” Vlora said, not taking her eyes off Valeer, “send a runner to the general staff. Let them know they’re to stand by for further orders.”

“I said, ‘Stand down,’ ” Valeer snapped.

“I heard you the first several times,” Vlora replied, “but like I said, I won’t do any such thing until I know what deal the Lady Snowbound has made. Where is she?”

“With the Great Ka.”

Vlora scoffed. Delia must have landed her provosts and practically sprinted off to meet with Sedial for her to have already made a deal. “And the terms of the cease-fire.”

Valeer straightened his shoulders, drawing himself up. “While you played at soldier up north, we have been arranging for the end to hostilities. Lady Snowbound has handed over the capstone of the Yellow Creek godstone to the Dynize. In return, they have pledged –”

“You what?” Vlora snarled.

“We have handed over –”

She cut him off again, drawing her sword before she’d given the action conscious thought. “What insanity could have possibly compelled you to hand that madman the key to the power he seeks?”

“You dare to draw your sword at me?” Valeer replied, taking a step back and thrusting a finger toward her. “Your mad thirst for blood will see us all dead – Delia and I have taken steps to avoid that. We gave them the capstone the moment the army left the coast. Now, put up your sword if you ever want to see Adro again!”

“Take it from me,” she snarled.

“We know your secret, Lady Flint,” Valeer proclaimed haughtily. “You can’t use your sorcery. Provosts! Arrest this woman in the name of the Republic of Adro!”

A moment of confusion hung in the air, and the provosts stared at their leader as if they couldn’t imagine it would go this far. In that instant, Olem drew his sword and pistol and shouted, “The provosts have turned on Lady Flint. To arms!”

Vlora’s bodyguard took two steps outward and lowered their bayoneted rifles, putting Vlora into the center of a steel hedgehog formation. The only opening faced Valeer, and the provost marshal drew his own sword and leapt toward her. He had barely made it half a step when a shot rang out in Vlora’s ear. Valeer gave a gasp and stumbled back, staring at the smoke that rose from Olem’s pistol. Clutching his chest, the provost marshal collapsed.

“If you set down your weapons right now, you will be allowed to return to your comrades alive,” Olem said loudly.

The closest provosts looked down at their dying marshal, then at Olem. They were drawn from what little remained of the old nobility, and most of them had a good reason to personally dislike Vlora and Olem. But they also knew exactly where they were. She could see on their faces that they knew the improbability of their leaving this place alive if they tried to follow Valeer’s last order.

Beginning with the few closest, they threw down their rifles.

“Get rid of this,” Vlora said, gesturing to Valeer, “and escort these men to the rest of their comrades.” The provosts were mobbed by the regular soldiery and swept away, while Vlora took advantage of the chaos to catch her breath. She could feel her heart hammering from the confrontation, and even another hit of powder couldn’t keep her hands from shaking. She turned to Olem. “Do we know if our fleet has arrived to reinforce us from the coast?”

“They’re supposed to be here tonight or tomorrow.”

“Send a runner around the north side of the plateau to try and flag them down. We need to know if Delia really did secret away the capstone.” She swore under her breath and realized that her adrenaline wasn’t from the confrontation but from the implications of what Valeer had revealed. “All those meetings. Our own discussions. Delia played me for a fool the whole time. Damn it!” She turned toward Valeer, who lay on the ground nearby, supported by two of his men, blood leaking from his lips. He barely seemed to know where he was anymore, and would likely be dead within the hour. “Did Delia really think I’d just surrender?” she asked Olem. “Did she not understand that this is more important than anyone’s career, including mine?” She caught herself just short of throwing her sword. “Recall the political officer,” she belted at her cadre of waiting messengers. “Tell the general staff to prepare to advance.”

“Ma’am!” a voice called. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but –”

“What is it?” Vlora demanded, whirling on a soldier standing just behind her.

The soldier had a Palo man by the collar. The Palo was of medium height with a short, wispy beard and a gaunt face. His left hand was wrapped in bloody bandages and looked like it was missing a couple of fingers. “Sorry, ma’am. He surrendered to our pickets. Claims he works for Taniel Two-shot and has urgent news. Thought you might want to talk to him.”

The Palo removed his flatcap. “Michel Bravis, Son of the Red Hand, at your service.”