Blood of Empire

Chapter 64

Michel’s escort dragged him across the riverbank, following Lady Flint to where a handful of camp followers had hastily erected an open-sided tent. A handful of important-looking officers with gold epaulets on their Adran blues had already found the shade of the tent. A table was brought in and covered with maps and reports in the matter of a few moments. Lady Flint rounded the table, sorting the papers around with a critical eye, and then barked off a series of orders. Waiting messengers scattered like pigeons in every direction.

She finally turned toward Michel and frowned at his escort. “Dismissed,” she said, and the man released Michel and took off after the messengers.

Michel stood just outside of the shade of the tent, looking around, hoping that he did not faint from loss of blood. His entire left arm throbbed from the pain in his hand, and while Tenik’s stitches were tight, the new bandages were already soaked with blood. He wanted nothing more than to lie down on the ground and fall asleep. But he couldn’t. Not while Ichtracia was still held by her grandfather.

“Taniel told me you were his best spy and to make contact when we reached Landfall,” Vlora suddenly said, still looking at her maps. It took Michel a moment to realize she was talking to him, and he gratefully stepped under the tent.

“I’m flattered.”

“And I would have completely forgotten if you hadn’t shown up,” Vlora said. Her tone was clipped – all business – and it seemed that every other breath was to give orders to another messenger or one of the officers gathered around. The command tent had, in just a few moments, become the nexus of the entire battle grinding into motion around them. “I’m a bit busy here, so you better make your report quickly.” She looked up, over his head, squinting into the distance. “Start with what’s going on in the city.”

Michel took a moment to sort through everything in his head, ordering information from most to least important. “We discovered that Sedial used Palo blood to unlock the restrictions Ka-poel made to the Landfall godstone. The Palo have risen up, and there are riots, barricades, and fighting in the streets. At least, there were. He’s ordered all of his soldiers out of Landfall to deal with you.”

Vlora looked up at her second-in-command. Michel remembered Colonel Olem from his time as their Blackhat liaison, and the man hadn’t changed a bit. He even had a cigarette still hanging out of the corner of his mouth. Olem gave Vlora a sharp nod. “That explains all the villages up north. They were probably using them for blood sacrifices as well.”

“I don’t follow,” Michel said.

“Sedial’s crimes extend far out of Landfall,” Olem said, but did not explain further. “Go on.”

“My people,” Michel continued, “have made contact with Sedial’s enemies among the Dynize. We’re doing what we can to gather an internal resistance against Sedial, but I don’t think there’s real time to do anything. The godstones have been active for over a month now. We can only guess that he’s waiting for the last godstone to make his move, but I suspect that if you win the day, he will attempt to use them regardless.”

He now had Vlora’s undivided attention. She peered at him thoughtfully, a serious look on her face. “He does have all three godstones.”

“Oh.”

“It’s broken,” Olem explained, “but he has the capstone. We have no idea if that’s enough for him to act.”

Michel took off his hat and ran his good hand through his hair, barking a laugh. It sounded desperate and manic to his ears. “If that’s all there is to be had, then he’s going to use them.”

“You’re sure?”

“I know what kind of man Sedial is. He will not risk losing this war.” Michel gestured toward the godstone and the battle that had begun to join to their south. He could hear the shouts of officers, then the crack of muskets and rifles. A cloud of powder smoke rose into the air and great battle cries rose from the ranks. It all sounded so close that it made him want to run back to the relative protection of the catacombs. None of the assembled officers appeared to even notice the hubbub.

Vlora seemed to consider Michel’s words. “Do you have any idea what kind of preparations he’ll need to undertake to use the godstones?”

“No. Blood, probably.”

“And do we have any idea what the godstones will do?” she asked Olem.

“Beyond making a god? Could be anything.”

Vlora let out a soft laugh. “So we don’t know when, and we don’t know what, but we’re sure that Sedial is about to do something. This is terrifying.” She didn’t look terrified. She looked annoyed, like someone who’d been given a bigger job than she’d expected and told to do it in half the time. “Fine. It’s all the more important that we kick in his door and take away his toys. Olem, send word to the brigadiers that we’re running out of time. Tell Silvia that she’s to have the flares ready for when darkness falls. We’re not stopping this offensive until we capture the fortress.”

“The casualties –” Olem began.

Vlora took a sharp breath, cutting him off with a nod. “I accept the risk and the responsibility.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The orders were given, and Olem returned to her side. What he said next was in a low tone, just loud enough that Michel could hear. “We do have another option.”

“Go on.”

“We can try to kill him.”

Vlora looked up from her maps once more. “If he shows his head, I’ve already given the mages permission to blow it off.”

“He’s not going to show his head,” Olem replied, “but after dark we can send a couple of mages to scale the walls and seek him out.”

Michel caught his breath, looking between the two Adrans. “There will be at least a handful of dragonmen and bone-eyes inside that fortress. And probably a garrison of thousands.”

“It would be a suicide mission,” Vlora agreed, rubbing her chin.

“But it might be worth it,” Olem said.

Vlora began to pace, scowling at the ground at her feet. Michel could practically see her weighing her options. He couldn’t imagine that even a powder mage could crack whatever guard Sedial had around him, but Vlora and Olem clearly thought otherwise.

He clenched his jaw, thinking of Ichtracia deep in the fortress. Alone, probably injured, awaiting whatever fate her grandfather had in store for her. Would she end up another sacrifice? Or just a casualty? And what happened if Vlora did kick in the door with artillery and sorcery and bayonets? Would Ichtracia survive the chaos that ensued? A plan began to form in Michel’s head, and he considered the idea of a couple of assassins not just for assassins’ sake, but as a distraction.

“It should be me,” Vlora finally said.

The words were barely out of her mouth when Olem responded, “Absolutely not.”

“Tamas would have done it,” Vlora responded, the corners of her eyes hardening with stubbornness.

“You’re not Tamas,” Olem replied, and it became clear that this was part of some wider argument that Michel could not fathom. “And if the assassination fails, you need to be here to make sure the army does not. Give me two of your mages and twenty grenadiers. I can do it myself.”

“No!” The word was almost desperate. “No,” Vlora repeated. “You’re not going anywhere. If I’m vital, then you’re vital.”

Olem seemed about to argue his point, but shook his head. “Then it’s not happening.”

“I’ll do it.” The voice cut through the tent, and a man shouldered his way through the small group to stand between Vlora and Olem. He carried a rifle and wore one of the silver keg pins of a powder mage.

Vlora cast him a hard look. “Davd. You’re supposed to be on artillery duty.”

“Silvia has the enemy artillery contained,” Davd reported. “At least until we get within range of the fortress. I actually came to suggest that we get someone close to deal with the artillery after dark, but if you want to assassinate Ka-Sedial, I’m your man.”

Vlora hesitated.

“All it takes is one bullet,” Davd pointed out. “I can get in, find a high spot, take a shot, and get out. If I can make it back to the base of the wall, no dragonman will be able to catch up with me.”

Olem and Vlora exchanged glances, and it became clear that Olem was more in favor of the idea than his general. Michel could feel his own hasty plans now falling into place. This could work. It had to work. He considered his discussions with Survivor and the route the old man had taken out of the fortress and across the marshes, painting it out in his head. “I can guide him there,” he suddenly blurted.

Everyone looked in his direction, and he nodded with a confidence that he forced himself to feel. One distraction, even a failed attempt on Sedial’s life, might be all he needed to get inside and retrieve Ichtracia. “I can do it,” he insisted. “Give me the mage and I’ll make sure he gets inside the fortress.”