Sins of Empire

Chapter 56

Styke rode at the head of the column of a little over thirteen hundred cavalry, the flags of the Mad Lancers and the Riflejacks flying in tandem from a pair of lances tied to the saddles of Jackal and an Adran sergeant whose name Styke had forgotten. Major Gustar and Ibana rode on either side of him – Ibana keeping her head tilted to one side, listening through her one good ear as Gustar gave Styke a rundown on his new command.

Styke only half-listened, his eyelids drooping as a full night’s ride to Jedwar and back threatened to topple him from his saddle. His legs were practically numb now, and he gripped his saddle horn to remain steady, laying a calming hand on Amrec’s neck. Behind him in the saddle, Celine dozed peacefully, her arms wrapped around Styke’s stomach.

Gustar suddenly fell silent, and Styke looked up to find Ibana nodding to the road in front of him. He felt an involuntary twitch at the corner of his lip.

Blackhats. At least two hundred of them.

The Blackhats were heavily armed with blunderbusses and muskets. About half of them marched, the other half on horseback, with three heavy wagons among them. Styke looked over his shoulder at Jackal and jerked his head. Jackal grinned and rode past him.

“We going to call a halt?” Gustar asked.

“We don’t halt for them,” Ibana said, a note of disgust in her voice.

The column continued on as Jackal rode on ahead, reaching the Blackhats a hundred yards or so out. Styke could see one of the Blackhats look up at the banner, look back at Jackal, then take a good, hard gander at the approaching cavalry. He shouted something over his shoulder and slowly the Blackhats cleared the road.

By the time Styke reached the Blackhats they were waiting by the ditch, staring daggers at Styke and the banner that flew above Jackal’s head. Styke directed Amrec off the side of the road, letting the rest of the column continue on as he approached the Blackhat with a Silver Rose dangling from his neck.

“You know who I am?” Styke asked.

The Silver Rose raised his chin in defiance. “Pretty good idea.” He put on a good face, but Styke could see the fear in his eyes.

“Good. What are your orders?”

“None of your damn business.”

“What are your orders regarding me?” Styke reframed the question.

Styke could see the “Sod off” on the tip of the Silver Rose’s tongue, but a glance at the column of cavalry and he seemed to think better of it. “We’ve been ordered to ignore you. Bigger problems, it seems.”

“Well,” Styke responded, “glad your asshole of a boss can find something better to obsess over.” He turned Amrec around and headed back toward the front of his column.

Behind him, the Silver Rose shouted out, “You have the road, lancer! But the grand master wants you to know this isn’t over.”

“No,” Styke muttered to himself. “It isn’t.”

He caught back up with Ibana, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, resisting the urge to turn around and ride the Blackhats down. “Where are they going?” she asked.

“Didn’t ask.”

“Might have been a good idea.”

Styke made a sour face. “They’re Blackhats. They can go right to the pit for all I care.”

The road carried them toward the distant Landfall Plateau, taking them over numberless marsh-fed rivers draining into the ocean and then up onto a rocky outcropping with thirty-foot cliffs plunging steep into the sea. They reached the top of these cliffs and Gustar suddenly turned over his shoulder, calling for a halt.

Ibana’s head jerked around toward him. “Only the colonel calls a halt,” she snapped.

Gustar ignored her. “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

Gustar produced a looking glass, raising it to one eye and gazing toward the Landfall Plateau. He scanned the horizon, while Styke shared a puzzled glance with Ibana and strained to hear anything.

Then he caught it. The distant but unmistakable report of cannon fire.

Gustar thrust the looking glass at Styke. “To the east of Landfall,” he said.

Styke let his eye focus, holding his hands steady to find the ships out beyond the harbor. Gray plumes of smoke rose above their gunports. He lowered the looking glass, wiped the eyepiece on his sleeve, then raised it again. The Dynize were definitely shelling the city. He’d expected to return with a thousand cavalry as part of a show of force. Not to defend Landfall. “We’re under attack,” he reported.

“That’s insane,” Ibana said. “They’re supposed to have a diplomatic meeting today.”

“It must have gone wrong,” Gustar observed.

“Really damned bloody wrong,” Styke said. He swept the horizon with the looking glass, taking in the full size of the fleet and the hundreds of longboats in the water between the ships and the shore. “Fort Nied is returning fire, and the Dynize are landing troops. Tell everyone we’re in for a hard ride.”

He heard Ibana shift in her saddle. “We’ve ridden all afternoon. Our men and horses are tired. Pit, the lancers rode all night, too.”

“We’ve ridden all night to a fight before,” Styke said.

“Yeah, when we were all ten years younger. We’re old, fat, and out of shape. At least the rest of you are, anyway.”

Styke was about to lower the glass when he spotted something else: more ships, far to the north of where the fleet had engaged with Fort Nied. There were at least a dozen transports emptying their decks of longboats, which plowed across the shallows to disgorge their troops with alarming swiftness. Styke quickly examined the lay of the land out from the beach – marshes and streams, with the odd village, and flat, drained suburbs at the base of the plateau.

He spotted a brigade in dark yellow jackets marching out of the suburbs, heading double-time for the landing Dynize. At a glance, the Dynize already outnumbered them and with the heavy armor they wore they looked more than an even match for basic garrison troops.

“Major Gustar, how do you feel about charging across sand?” he asked.

“Depends on the kind of sand,” Gustar responded.

“I don’t think you’re going to get the chance to check.” Styke handed the looking glass back and Gustar put it to his eye.

He frowned, and seemed to come to the same conclusion Styke had. “The garrison is badly outmatched. My cuirassiers will sink in that sand, but the dragoons might have a chance. You want me to hit them from behind?”

Styke grunted an affirmative and gently woke Celine, who rubbed her eyes and peered toward the distant enemies. “Sunin,” Styke called.

He was joined by Major Sunintiel, her crooked yellow teeth framed in a broad grin. “Ordering a charge, Colonel? Been forever since I killed a man in battle, you know?” Sunin was old enough to be his great-grandmother, but looks were deceiving. She’d always been one of his meanest lancers – which didn’t mean she’d survive the shock of a charge at her age.

“I am,” Styke said, “but you’re not in it. Take Celine.”

“I’m not a nursemaid,” Sunin objected.

“You can also barely hold a lance.”

“Not true!”

Ibana snorted. “You’re about a thousand years old, Sunin. Keep the girl safe.”

Sunin grumbled, but she directed her horse up beside Styke. He took Celine by the back of the shirt, lifting and depositing her in front of Sunin. “Will you be all right?” Celine asked.

“Me?” Styke let Amrec prance below him. “I’ll be fine. You take care of yourself. This is going to get bloody.” He turned away from her. “Gustar, take your dragoons and sweep the beach. Ibana, draw up the Mad Lancers and the Riflejack cuirassiers on the road. We have killing to do.”