Blood of Empire

Chapter 69

Styke leaned against a tree in the godstone garden and worked to remove his ruined gauntlet. From his teeth to his toes, everything hurt. It was as if he’d been hit by a runaway mule cart, and he still couldn’t quite grasp just how easily the emperor had manhandled him. The supernatural strength was beyond anything he’d ever witnessed.

Across the garden, at the base of the godstone, Taniel and the emperor tore into each other like two fighting cockerels. The emperor had snatched up his own sword. Both men were obviously trained duelists. Their movements were a blur, their hands darting like hummingbirds, their footwork raising a cloud of dust around them. Even for someone like Styke, who had watched and participated in fights his entire life, it was difficult to tell what, exactly, was happening.

It was clear, however, that Taniel was not winning. Blood soaked his face and shirt, rivulets of dirty sweat trickling down his neck. The emperor fought with a look of focus, and not a single sword stroke marred his bare chest.

Styke gasped as the gauntlet finally came off. He dropped it to the ground and examined his hand. His left and ring fingers were likely broken. The other three seemed to work, and the hand itself was undamaged. He discarded the ruined gauntlet, trying to catch his breath, wondering how many ribs were cracked and how much blood he’d lost.

A shout tore his eyes off the duel and made him peer around the tree against which he’d been resting. A door leading into the palace complex had opened not far from where he’d entered, and a group of soldiers in their imperial garb and lacquered masks emerged from within. There were seven in total, and they froze in wonder at their emperor battling the Kressian stranger.

Their pause only lasted a few moments. One barked to the others, and they began to jog toward the godstone, loosening swords and checking their pistols. Styke felt his head sag in painful exhaustion.

Summoning what reserves he could find deep within himself, he limped along behind a screen of bushes, coming up on the line of guardsmen at an angle, reaching them just a few moments before they reached his borrowed horse. He lurched out from behind the bushes and slammed his right gauntlet in between the eyes of their leader, dropping him like a stone, then drew his knife.

The guardsmen were not dragonmen, but that was where Styke’s fortunes ended. The fall of their leader seemed to barely faze them, and five of them fanned out while the closest to Styke leapt toward him with sword drawn.

Styke caught the swing on his left vambrace and jabbed with his knife. Even as his counterstroke skidded off the guard’s ceremonial armor and sank into the flesh just below his arm, Styke knew he was moving too slowly. A pistol shot went off to his side, and he felt the rattle of a bullet hitting one of his pauldrons. A quick, shouted exchange took place between the remaining guards as he attempted to pull his blade out of their companion. Someone stepped up to Styke’s side, and before he could react, the butt of a pistol cracked him on the temple.

The blow would have dropped a lesser man. As it was, Styke stumbled back, stunned, stars floating across his vision. He might have fallen if his back had not come in contact with a tree. He let it take his weight, grateful for the moment of rest, and blinked hard to try to clear his swimming vision.

A scream issued from somewhere nearby, attracting the attention of his assailants. Styke took the opportunity to spit blood into the face of the closest guard and fall forward among them, knife swinging. It was sloppy work, but he managed to drop two before the other three withdrew. He stumbled after them, knife cutting a graceless arc in the air, grumbling curses at their backs.

He found another tree to take his weight and turned to look after his retreating opponents, only to discover that he’d gotten mixed up in the melee. He was no longer between them and their emperor, and they’d chosen to leave him to go help their ward.

The scream, it seemed, had come from the emperor. His face was torn open from brow to chin, a neat, bloody gash cut through his nose and lips. Despite the wound, he seemed to have doubled his efforts, backing a vindicated-looking Taniel toward the corner of the garden.

Styke’s opponents didn’t reach their emperor. The crack of firearms tore through the air behind Styke, and all three men collapsed in a hail of bullets. Styke whirled, nearly losing his balance, to find a line of dismounted Lancers and Household guards just inside the grotto, their weapons smoking. Ibana emerged into the garden behind them, followed closely by Etzi.

Ibana’s measured pace was doubled when she laid eyes on Styke. She jogged over to him, her armor rattling, and ducked beneath his shoulder. “By Adom, Ben, you look like death!”

“I’m fine.” He tried to wave her off.

“What the pit happened to your hand?”

He gestured toward the emperor. “Him.”

Etzi and his Household guards watched the duel with eyes wide. No one moved to interfere. “The emperor,” Etzi said in an awed whisper, “has been given strength by the bone-eyes. We found one of them just in the main hall, face withered, barely able to stand. The emperor must be drawing power off of them in incredible amounts. Who is that man, and how is he able to fight the might of the imperial cabal?”

“That,” Styke said, “is Ka-poel’s husband.”

“Incredible,” Etzi breathed, “but still, he cannot win, not against –”

Whatever he was about to say was cut off by a crack that cut the air in two. It was as if a cannon had gone off in the garden, and everyone around Styke flinched away from the sound. All eyes were drawn to the godstone. A new crack ran, jagged and splintering, from base to capstone. On the altar, clothes smoking, were two figures.

Ka-poel stood like an avenging angel, head held high, ignoring the old man on his knees in front of her. She grasped him by the nape of the neck and threw him forward, off the altar, where he gave a pitiful cry and curled up into a ball.

In that moment Taniel suddenly surged forward, batting aside the emperor’s sword and plunging his own blade two-handed into the emperor’s sternum. The emperor gasped loudly and backpedaled toward the godstone. Somehow, despite two feet of steel through his chest, he remained standing. It wasn’t until he finally turned toward the godstone and his eyes fell upon Ka-poel – and then the old man at his feet – that he finally teetered. Blood dripping from his lips, the emperor of Dynize collapsed.

“Leave him!” Ka-poel snapped. The sound brought a halt to Etzi and the Household guards, who had begun to rush toward their fallen emperor. It also elicited a look of surprise from Taniel. “Finish destroying the imperial guard,” Ka-poel ordered. She gestured at the old man at her feet. “Then bring him and any survivors to the throne room. We have much to discuss.”

Styke felt light-headed and dizzy. He began to chuckle.

“What’s so funny?” Ibana demanded.

Styke continued to laugh until it hurt. He clutched his side, nearly sticking himself with his own knife. “She went in there looking for a god and came back out with a voice.”

It took over an hour for the Lancers and the Household guards working together to clear the imperial complex. Messengers were sent in every direction with the intent of halting further violence, but even after that hour Styke could still hear the crack of carbines or the occasional clash of swords somewhere off within the complex grounds.

Beyond the walls, Talunlica continued to burn as mobs and soldiers raged back and forth across the city.

The imperial throne room was a long, high-ceilinged chamber made of brightly painted wood, lit by gas lanterns along both sides and gas chandeliers hanging at intervals. The flags of several hundred Households flew from the rafters, marching their way up to the very throne itself, which was a single piece of red stone carved into the likeness of twin swamp dragons.

The room was filled with spectators: wounded Lancers and Household guards, captured imperial soldiers and bureaucrats. The Household heads who had accompanied them stood in close conference with Ka-poel and Taniel near the throne. Styke rested his head against the wall off to one side, just trying to keep from falling over. Maetle had given him a splint for his fingers and bandages for his side, but he could tell from Ibana’s worried glances that he looked like he was knocking on death’s door. He was weak with blood loss, his armor covered in blood.

Someone called for attention. Styke opened his eyes, realizing he’d been dozing on his feet, and lifted his head toward the throne. The Household heads, Etzi among them, left the dais to take up positions at the front of the crowd. Styke watched their faces, curious at the various reactions: hope, joy, confusion. Fear.

Only Ka-poel and Taniel remained on the dais. They waited until the Household heads were in their places and then Ka-poel took up a position just in front of the throne. Taniel joined her.

Everyone’s attention was on Ka-poel. No one spoke. No one even seemed to breathe.

“Where is my grandfather?” she suddenly asked.

A few moments passed before a pair of Lancers dragged in the old man whom she’d brought with her through the godstone. The resemblance was uncanny, but Styke had somehow expected more from the Great Ka. Sedial seemed unharmed, but everything about him was broken: His face was pale, his eyes empty, his mouth hanging slack. He was left to sit on the top step of the dais, staring blankly at the floor. A line of drool dripped from his chin.

Ka-poel looked down at him for some time, leaving the entire hall in breath-bated silence. Her lip curled. Her eyes narrowed. She finally sniffed and took a deep breath.

“The emperor is dead,” she said. Her voice carried clearly, echoing off every corner of the room. “The Great Ka has been driven mad by what he saw in the godstone. The imperial cabal will take a century to recover from the losses they’ve incurred from this war, and the mighty armies of Dynize have been reduced by hundreds of thousands.

“You have nothing,” she continued. “You are a divided country with broken ideals and a shattered reputation that will not survive the modern world. Many of your greatest Households have been destroyed this very day by the machinations of Ka-Sedial. You have nothing… except me.

“I don’t want to be your god. But it was either me or him.” She nudged Sedial with one toe. “I will not answer prayers. I will not perform miracles. But I will be your goddess – your empress – and I will help you put back together the pieces of this shattered land. You’ve got what the Great Ka promised you. You’ve got a new god. Will you accept me?”

The final question was almost timid in its asking, entirely different from the tone of the rest of her speech. Styke was certain that if the assembled Households said no, she would leave them all without a second thought.

The question left an ominous silence, which continued for over a minute, and then two. Slowly, one by one, the Household heads began to kneel. They were followed by a wave of every Dynize in the room, from the Household guards to their prisoners. Only the present Lancers, still wearing their armor, most of them wounded and slick with gore, remained on their feet. They looked toward Styke. As did Ka-poel and Taniel.

“Colonel Ben Styke,” Ka-poel intoned, “I would like the Mad Lancers to form an imperial guard for my new government. Will you carry our standard below your own?”

Below. The word punched a laugh out of Styke’s belly, one so hard that he almost fell over from the pain. He wiped tears from the corners of his eyes. “You’re already very good at this, my little blood-witch friend.”

Several of the Household heads inhaled sharply. Ka-poel smirked.

“Even being a god, I imagine there will be a lot of cleaning up to do,” Styke continued. “There will be a lot of violence.”

“There will,” she agreed.

Styke glanced at Ibana. She just shrugged. He said, “I’ll think about it. I’ll have to consult the men.”

“Can I heal your wounds?” Ka-poel asked. Her tone was gentle.

“You’re a Privileged now?”

“No. I’m something different.”

“Ah. Good for you. Will I die from these wounds?”

“I don’t believe so.”

Styke considered the offer. He was no stranger to sorcerous healing, but he could feel his own stubbornness taking hold in his gut. He was no man to feel beholden to a god. “A little pain is good for a man,” he finally said, pulling himself away from the wall. He limped to the center of the throne room and turned his back on Ka-poel, walking slowly toward the exit. He heard Etzi’s voice hiss behind him.

“Where are you going?” Etzi demanded. “You’re witnessing the birth of a god!”

“Gods,” Styke replied, waving him off. “Emperors. Countries. Bah. I’m giving the order for the Mad Lancers to regroup and await new commands, then I’m going to find my daughter.”