Wrath of Empire

Chapter 37

The engagement with the Dynize dragoons had left the Mad Lancers badly mauled. Unwilling to chance another fight, Styke and Ibana agreed to retrace their steps along the coast for two days until, late in the evening, they spotted Fatrastan flags on the horizon.

Styke sat slumped in the saddle, tired as pit and feeling like he’d been kicked in the head by a warhorse. He turned his eyes to the eastern horizon, where he could see the edge of a Fatrastan camp. Their flags waved in the breeze, torches flickering to life as the sun went down. Styke watched the distant approach of one of his scouts.

“I think I’m a hypocrite,” he said, giving voice to something he’d been considering for several days.

Ibana looked sidelong at him. “What kind of nonsense is this?”

He shrugged. “I came to the realization that I’m a hypocrite,” he said with more confidence. He’d been thinking about what Valyaine had said, sorting through his own memories of the War for Independence all that time ago and realizing that maybe that treacherous bastard was right – maybe Styke was looking at his own participation in the war through the rosy lenses of the past. “I’ve always known I was a killer, a monster. But I never thought of myself as a hypocrite.”

“And this is bothering you more than murder?” Ibana asked.

“Yeah. Yeah, I think it is.”

“You’re a strange man, Ben Styke.” Ibana spurred her horse, riding out to meet the scout.

Styke exchanged a look with Jackal. The Palo bannerman shrugged. Styke sighed and rode out after Ibana, meeting the scout on a nearby hill. It was Ferlisia, one of the longest-standing members of the lancers. She snapped a salute.

“Did you talk to them?” Styke asked.

“Just briefly,” Ferlisia reported. “It’s the Third Army.”

Styke nodded to himself. When he’d decided to pull back after that fight with the Dynize, he’d figured they would have to head all the way back to Bellport to find some relief. He hadn’t expected to find the Third Army already out on the Hammer. They must have marched straight past Bellport without stopping.

Styke had a glimmer of suspicion that they’d been sent after the lancers but dismissed the notion. Lindet wouldn’t send a field army of infantry to chase a highly mobile cavalry force.

She would, however, send them to secure the godstone.

Regardless, the Mad Lancers needed somewhere to lie low. “I’ll go see if they’ll let us lick our wounds inside their pickets,” he said, lifting his reins.

Both Ibana and Ferlisia looked alarmed. “Sir, the commanding officer is –”

Styke waved Ferlisia off. “I know who it is. Dvory. That’s why I’m going to ask myself.”

“That’s not a great idea,” Ibana said in a low voice.

Styke looked over his shoulder at his column of lancers. They’d lost nearly half their number to death or wounds in the Dynize ambush. They didn’t have healing Privileged or proper surgeons to deal with the wounded. They’d done so well and come so far, only to be blindsided by a superior cavalry force. Styke did not want to meet that force again without taking some time to recover.

“If Dvory betrayed you once, he’ll do it again,” Ibana said.

“Perhaps. He might not know I’ve been killing his old conspirators, though.”

“He’ll have passed through Bellport. There’s no way he won’t have gotten word from Valyaine. You damn well should have killed Valyaine when you had the chance.”

“Yeah, I know.” Styke wasn’t thrilled about the idea of marching in there to ask for help from someone who’d betrayed him. But his meditations over hypocrisy the last few days had given him a more optimistic outlook than he’d expected. “Look, if those dragoons snuck up on us once, they can do it again. We need to recover, and this saves us having to go all the way back to Bellport. We get inside their pickets and we’ll be safe until we can regroup.”

Ibana pursed her lips, clearly wanting to argue.

Styke forestalled it with a raised hand. “I’ll deal with Dvory. If I’m not back in two hours, head south and try to throw them off your trail.”

He began to ride toward the camp without explaining himself further and tried to gather his thoughts. He wondered if maybe he’d known all along that he was a hypocrite, and that’s what had truly kept him from killing Tenny Wiles. He wondered if maybe being broken by the labor camps had been a blessing to everyone around him, rather than the blow against the brave Mad Lancers that he’d always considered it.

He frowned into the setting sun at one point, only to see a small group of figures sitting on the horizon less than two miles away. They were all on horseback – four of them, if his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him.

Those goddamn dragonmen, still plaguing his trail. Another good reason to spend a few days hugging a field army.

He was pulled from his contemplations by the sound of a horse whinny behind him. He turned in his saddle, a rebuke on his lips to send Celine back to the lancers.

But it wasn’t Celine. It was Ka-poel.

Of course it was.

He waited for her to catch up, trying to figure out what he could say to send her away. Going to see Dvory was already a dangerous gamble. A wild card like Ka-poel might make things worse. But she’d already made it abundantly clear that he couldn’t leave her behind.

“I think,” he told her as she arrived, “that some dysfunction in the back of my brain silently tells me that I’m invincible.” He wasn’t sure why he shared the thought, but he continued. “Maybe I’ve had it my whole life. Maybe it was surviving the firing squad. Maybe it wasn’t until more recently, when I survived that fight with Fidelis Jes. Or maybe it was something you put in my head with your damned blood sorcery. I don’t really care, but I have the feeling that it’s going to get me killed.”

Ka-poel stopped beside him, watching him through half-lidded eyes.

“I was watching that sign language you’re teaching Celine,” he said. “I hadn’t realized it before, but it looks like a jumble of Palo war signals and something else.”

Ka-poel smiled coolly at him and nodded.

Styke felt pleased to have remembered as well as he did. He hadn’t seen Palo war signals for over ten years, and even then he’d only picked up on the very basics while he was in the Tristan Basin. “Did Ibana tell you what I’m doing?” he asked.

Ka-poel made a series of gestures.

Styke shook his head. “I said I recognized it. Not that I understand it.”

She pointed at him, then mimed hanging from a noose. You’re trying to get yourself killed.

“I wouldn’t say I’m trying,” Styke said. He had a sudden worry that maybe he was trying to get himself killed and he didn’t even know it. He’d always chalked his own courage up to a lack of fear, but maybe it wasn’t so simple. “I’m not trying,” he insisted. “We need surgeons and protection while we put ourselves back together. But Dvory might try to kill me. If he does, I intend on taking him with me. You probably should go back to Ibana until I sort this out.”

Ka-poel pursed her lips and tilted her head. That, Styke understood. “Suit yourself.”

Ka-poel put her slate away as they rode up to the sentries. One of them stepped forward, eyeing Styke and his horse. “State your name, rank, and business.”

“I need to see your quartermaster,” he said. “Then I need to see General Dvory.”

“Name and rank?” the sentry demanded.

“Colonel Ben Styke.”

The sentry’s eyes widened. “Oh. Right. I, uh, better have someone escort you to the general.”

Styke and Ka-poel were led through the camp. He was pleasantly surprised to find that the Fatrastan Army was significantly more organized than they had been during the War for Independence, with clean rows of tents and clearly marked regiments, companies, and platoons. It was the first time he’d been in a Fatrastan army camp in over ten years, and he felt more than a little nostalgia for the old days.

They were led to a large tent in the middle of the camp. Two guards stood at the entrance, bayonets fixed, and Styke was able to tell which one recognized him by the way the man straightened, inhaling sharply.

Their escort called out his name and rank and then went inside the tent, emerging a moment later. His face was pale. “General Dvory will see you now, Colonel Styke.”

“That was quick,” Styke commented dryly. “Stay here,” he told Ka-poel, ducking into the tent.

Dvory was much as Styke remembered him – an unassuming-looking man with the dusky skin of a full-blooded Rosvelean. He was slim, of medium height with black hair and a plain face. At some point in the last decade he’d begun to wear spectacles. His bottom lip drooped slightly, giving most people the impression he was stupid, which, Styke remembered quite clearly, was not the case.

“Ben Styke,” Dvory said, standing up from behind his desk. He folded his spectacles and set them on a book he’d been reading.

“Dvory,” Styke replied.

“It’s General Dvory now. You may call me sir.”

Styke ambled over to the chair on the opposite side of the table from Dvory and sat down, listening to it creak angrily under his weight. Dvory was an honest-to-god real general. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Dvory had always been competent, but not “make me a general” levels of competent. Nowhere close. “Fat goddamn chance of that. You’re welcome to try to have me beaten for insubordination. We’ll see how that goes for everyone involved.”

Dvory managed a pained expression and lowered himself into his chair. “I expected you sooner or later,” he said. “Unfortunately, I expected the attitude as well. I heard you beheaded Fidelis Jes?”

“I asked to see the quartermaster,” Styke replied. “I think it’s ironic they brought me straight to you, considering you used to be one of my quartermasters. Yeah, I beheaded Fidelis Jes. He had it coming.”

“I see.” Dvory reached for a cigarette box, opened the lacquered lid, and plucked out a cigarette. He lit it with a match, inhaling deeply, and Styke thought he saw just the slightest tremble to his hand. “It’s a pity,” Dvory continued. “Fidelis Jes was a great man.”

“He was a prick, and everyone knew it.”

“Great men can be pricks,” Dvory said. “Take yourself, for instance.”

Styke interrupted with a snort. “You think I’m a great man?”

“Absolutely! You were, anyway. I understand you’re a shadow of your former self, but you still have that attitude – that disregard for your betters that got you put in front of a firing squad.” Dvory paused to smoke, looking over Styke’s shoulder thoughtfully. “You’ve always been a pompous piece of garbage and yet … still a great man.”

Styke ignored the insults, focusing on Dvory’s careless appearance. Was he trying to goad Styke into attacking him? Or did he just assume he was safe in the middle of his army? Styke produced his most condescending smile. “Have you been practicing that speech in a mirror?”

“Excuse me?”

“The ‘great man’ thing. I bet you’ve been practicing that ever since you found out I killed Jes.”

Dvory’s eyes narrowed. He took a deep breath, ashing his cigarette into a half-empty glass of whiskey. Again, Styke noted that the carelessness of it seemed too performative. Dvory wanted Styke to think he didn’t give a damn about him anymore. “Why are you here, Styke? Did you come to kill me? I heard Agoston disappeared. Tenny Wiles, too. Valyaine, though … he beat the shit out of you in Bellport. That must have been something to see. Have you softened in your old age?”

“I could kill you now,” Styke mused aloud.

“And die by the hands of my guards. Not even you can fight a field army, Styke.”

Styke leaned forward, listening to the chair creak. He drew his knife and planted the tip against the top of Dvory’s table, spinning it. To his credit, Dvory ignored the knife and kept his eyes on Styke’s face. But even with that bravado, he could almost hear Dvory wondering if the prospect of death would stop Styke from having his revenge. “No,” Styke said, watching his knife spin before plucking it up in his hand. “I’m not here to kill you.”

“Oh?” Dvory blinked in surprise.

“Of course not. We’re on the same side, aren’t we?”

“Are we?” Dvory asked. “No one reinstated the Mad Lancers. No one made you a colonel again.”

Styke used his boz knife to trim his fingernails. “That’s not entirely true. Lady Vlora Flint reinstated the Mad Lancers and my rank.”

“A traitor with a price on her head,” Dvory scoffed.

“A patriot who just happened to piss off Lindet,” Styke said. “Regardless, I’m killing Dynize. That puts us on the same side. Or would you like to go back to Bellport and ask the mayor who arrived to save the city in the nick of time?”

“Ah,” Dvory said, as if something had just occurred to him. “I wondered where the old goat got a spine. You put him up to it, didn’t you? Told him not to let the army strip the city for supplies.” He shook his head. “He’s lucky we didn’t need anything or I would have had him hanged.” Dvory made a vexed sound in the back of his throat. “I should have you hanged for insubordination.”

“Go ahead,” Styke said, calling what they both knew was a bluff.

Dvory stubbed out his cigarette and scowled at Styke. “Don’t think I wouldn’t. Fortunately for you, I have strict instructions not to kill you or your men.”

That did surprise Styke. He leaned back and put his knife away. “From who?”

“Who do you think? From Lindet. I saw her a month ago on her trip from Landfall to Redstone. She specifically said she wanted you left to your own devices unless you outright attacked a Fatrastan army.” Dvory frowned at a spot above Styke’s head. “Jes warned me a decade ago that Lindet had a soft spot for you.”

“When he asked you to help separate me from Ibana and the others so he could execute me?”

“That’s right.”

“I just wanted to be clear on that point,” Styke said. He considered lunging across the table. He could bury his knife in Dvory’s chest before he made a sound. He might even be able to make it to the edge of the camp before the alarm was raised. But it wasn’t worth the risk, not when he needed to look after his own. “You asked why I’m here. The lancers need a place to lie low for a couple of days. I want to do that inside your pickets.”

Dvory looked like he’d been slapped. “Did you just ask me for help?”

“I did.”

“Wait. I told you straight out that I betrayed you, and you turn around and ask for my help?” He sounded truly incredulous.

Styke resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “That’s right.”

Dvory stood up, pacing from one end of the tent to the other before retaking his seat. He rocked back and forth like a child unable to come to grasp with their emotions, then plucked up another cigarette. “Why should I help you?”

“Because I’m doing your job for you,” Styke said. “Because patching things up with Ben Styke would be a damned good career move right now. Because you used to be a Mad Lancer and unless you’re as cold as you’re pretending, some of those people riding with me were your friends.”

Dvory swallowed hard, but did not respond.

Styke sat forward and put his elbows on Dvory’s table. He said in a quiet voice, “Two days ago, we were ambushed by a force of Dynize dragoons. They ambushed us. Me, Ibana, Jackal, all the rest. They took us by surprise. Now, I know you don’t want to deal with a force of dragoons alone, not one skilled enough to sneak up on the Mad Lancers. They might not be able to crack a whole field army, but they can make your life miserable. But if you give us a couple of days to rest, we’ll be on our way without taxing your supplies – and then I intend on hunting down those dragoons and butchering them. Like I said … I’m doing your job for you.”

“We’re heading west,” Dvory said. “We move on tomorrow.”

“We’ll move with you,” Styke said. “And sleep inside your pickets. You can use a few of the old lancers as scouts if you want.”

Dvory seemed genuinely torn. He fiddled with the butt of his extinguished cigarette, his face looking like he’d just swallowed a lime. “If I allow this,” he said, “are we square?”

“We’re square.” Then Styke reached across the table and shook hands with a man who had once betrayed him. He forced a smile on his face and tightened his grip just a little.

Ibana wasn’t going to let him hear the end of it.

Dvory showed Styke out of the tent, and Styke was only slightly surprised that the initial two guards had become twenty, all of them with bayonets fixed and all of them pretending that they hadn’t been waiting for some kind of signal as the two men exited. Ka-poel stood by a nearby torch, arms folded, flames dancing in her eyes. Her face was unreadable.

“Who is this?” Dvory asked, gesturing to her.

“My servant,” Styke said.

“A Palo, eh? I heard your tastes had gotten … significantly younger since you left the labor camps.”

Styke leaned sideways as if whispering to a friend, a smile plastered on his face. “Speak like that of my girl again and you will live out the rest of your life as a torso and a head in a flour sack.”

A bead of sweat rolled down Dvory’s forehead. “What are you doing out here?” he asked, quickly changing the subject.

“Asking for your help.”

“No. Here, on the Hammer.”

“Killing Dynize.” Styke joined Ka-poel, touching her elbow and pointing in the direction they’d left their horses. “Good-bye, Dvory. Don’t forget to tell your pickets to expect my men.”

When they were finally out of sight, Styke turned aside and spat into the grass. His mouth tasted of bile, his nerves shot, and he suddenly realized just how close he’d actually come to killing Dvory. Every muscle was sore and tight from the tension.

“I just asked a favor of a man who once betrayed me,” he told Ka-poel.

Ka-poel pursed her lips, pinching two fingers together and thrusting them in front of Styke’s face. It took several moments in the poor light to realize that she held a single human hair. It took him another few moments to realize the significance.

He barked a laugh. “Does that belong to Dvory?”

She nodded.

He felt a little of the tension leak off, and rolled his shoulders to loosen his muscles. “Leave him alone for now,” he said. “You can keep the hair – it might come in handy. If I don’t kill him for betraying me, I can still kill him for his smug, stupid face.”