Wrath of Empire

Chapter 22

Styke pored over a map by the light of a single oil lantern while the camp around him settled into the silence of an army at rest. They were several miles north of Granalia and he’d finally gotten the chance to wash the blood from his skin and clothes, but the dragonman ambush was still fresh in his mind.

If the Mad Lancers had not arrived, those dragonmen would have killed him, Celine, and Ka-poel no matter how hard he fought. While he’d never particularly feared death, he knew from experience that dragonmen had no problem with harming children, and the idea that they would murder Celine without a second thought made him sick to his stomach. It was a disquieting feeling, fueling an indignant rage that kept him from being able to sleep.

The flaps of his tent were thrown back, breaking him out of his meditation, and Ibana’s face appeared in the opening. “Have a minute?” she asked.

Styke joined her by the coals of the fire, map still in hand. “You should sleep,” he said.

“Too much to do. You?”

“Harder to sleep since the labor camps.” Styke tapped one finger on the back of his Lancers’ ring and changed the subject. “How did your ride go? Doesn’t look like you saw any action.” It was the first time they’d had a chance to talk since their arrival had saved him from the dragonmen, and he needed to catch up.

“We didn’t,” Ibana confirmed. “We saw three armies – two Fatrastan and one Dynize – and a dozen scouting parties. But we managed to steer clear of any trouble. One thing of note: Lindet’s armies are stripping the land. Every town between here and Landfall that hasn’t been looted by the Dynize is being hit by Fatrastans. They’re taking harvests, emptying granaries, stealing wagons, weapons, and animals. Anything of use to the war effort is being swept up.”

“Conscription?”

“Everyone healthy between fourteen and sixty.”

“Pit.” Styke didn’t like the idea of conscription. Forcing someone to fight didn’t make them a warrior. But beyond his personal ideals, the fact that Lindet had already turned to conscription meant that she was worried about this war. “Next time you see soldiers stealing from Fatrastan citizens, string them up.”

Ibana’s eyebrows rose.

“What’s the point in fighting for people who will starve before winter?”

Ibana responded, “Lindet would argue that every resource left behind is one the Dynize will snatch up.”

“Then Lindet damn well needs to guard her citizens better.” Styke had a small sense of understanding: The Dynize landing all along the coast meant Lindet had to pick her battles. This was as bad or worse than the Revolution. But that didn’t make it right. “You’re recruiting?”

“Anyone who is strong enough to ride and hold a lance.”

“They know what we’re really up to?”

“They know that they’ll be left behind if they don’t follow orders. We added about a hundred and fifty to our numbers since you left to deal with Tenny Wiles.”

“Good enough, I suppose,” Styke said.

Ibana watched him sidelong. “How did that go, by the way?”

“It went well.”

Ibana opened her mouth as if to ask further, but something in Styke’s tone must have warned her away. She took the map, rolling it out on her lap. “We’ve got some news from our scouts.”

“Yeah?”

She paused, looking Styke in the eye. “Do you really believe Jackal and his muttering about spirits?”

“What does that have to do with our scouts?”

“Just answer the question.”

“I have more evidence to believe him than not,” Styke replied.

“Well, I don’t. It’s a lot of horseshit.”

“Then why do you ask?”

She hesitated again, clearly frustrated. “Because he was right.” She drew her finger along the map. “The coasts are in flames. Every major city and most of the small ones are either captured or under siege. Little Starland is definitely gone, just like Jackal told us a week ago. Swinshire is captured, too.”

“Shit,” Styke said. Swinshire was on one of two major routes from the center of Fatrasta out onto the sliver of land on the west coast they called the Hammer. They’d planned on swinging through Swinshire to pick up news, a day of rest, some recruitment, and a major resupply before their final push toward whatever awaited them near the godstone.

That meant they had one option left – Bellport – and Styke wasn’t sure he was ready for that. Valyaine, the third of the men who’d betrayed him to Fidelis Jes, was rumored to be in Bellport. Since letting Tenny Wiles go, Styke had wanted more time to consider his actions before another confrontation.

“Bellport it is, then,” he said.

“Bellport it is,” Ibana agreed, rolling up the map. “You figure out what you want to do about those dragonmen?”

Styke cursed them under his breath. Their mere presence complicated things, let alone the fact that they wanted to kill him. “Did you triple the size of our scouting patrols?”

“I did, but no one has seen hide nor hair of them since they fled Granalia.”

Styke remembered the dragonman in Landfall. He’d been an arrogant prick, acting like he could take on an army and win. Styke had now seen two of them fight, and his victories had come from brute force that few could match. He had no doubt that four dragonmen, if they were so inclined, could make life miserable for the lancers.

But would they? They’d taken great pains to come after him when he was isolated. Perhaps they didn’t want the risk of fighting a whole army.

“Not much we can do until they show their faces again,” Styke said. “Drill the men and make sure they know exactly what we’re dealing with. I don’t need dozens dead because they underestimate the enemy. With any luck, they’ll keep their distance when we reach Bellport.” Styke ran a hand through his hair, listening to Celine’s snoring in the next tent over. “Drill the men for an extra hour tomorrow. You’re still using that buddy system?”

“It’s working pretty well, I think,” Ibana answered.

“Good. I’m going to try to get some sleep. If you see Ka-poel, tell her we’re going through Bellport instead of Swinshire.”

Styke watched Ibana drill the men the next morning, enjoying the way the horses raced back and forth across the meadow. He waffled between frustration and amusement when volunteers fell from their saddles or dropped their lances, but was definitely annoyed to see Major Gustar and the Riflejacks were showing up the old lancers.

They rode out of their camp just after noon with a wind at their backs and the sun high in the sky. Smoke rose in a pillar above some town far to their south, and the road was clear for as far as the eye could see.

Styke paused on Amrec, looking back toward the place they’d spent the night, and spotted figures in the distance. Curiosity got the better of him and he removed his looking glass, directing it toward the strangers. They were far enough away that he couldn’t make out any details beyond the fact that there were four of them and they were on horseback. They weren’t wearing Dynize breastplates or yellow Fatrastan jackets.

They sat still, watching as the Mad Lancers marched down the road before slowly beginning to follow. Styke briefly considered sending a platoon to run them down, but rejected the idea. He’d either wind up with a slaughtered platoon of lancers or waste everyone’s time. The dragonmen weren’t going to be seen unless they wanted to be seen.

The Dynize bastards, Styke decided, would be harder to lose than he hoped. Troubled, he put away his looking glass and urged Amrec to catch up with the rest of the lancers.