Taniel fired a shot, putting an extra charge worth of powder behind his sorcery. He forced the power of the charge inward, to keep the bullet from fragmenting when it hit the Warden’s thick skull, then pushed with his sorcery. The bullet entered the Wardens head and bounced around inside, turning its brain to porridge. It looked up at Taniel, eyes glazing over with a look of surprise, before slumping over.
The thumping of his own heart transfixed Taniel for several long seconds, until Ka-poel’s light touch brought him out of his reverie. She pointed toward the Kez camp.
The Privileged!
Taniel scrambled up several branches, ignoring the pain in his chest, until he gained a new perch. His head spun from the fight, but he had to work through it. No time to change positions, no time to run. He found the Privileged heading toward him on horseback, galloping at full speed with gloved hands raised above his head. Taniel cleared the barrel of his rifle, reloading.
He remembered the trap, the shield of air. The Privileged wasn’t even bothering to hide himself – or the shield – this time. He was coming on hard, protected by an invisible wall of sorcery that Taniel’s bullets could not pierce.
The wall, however, was only between them.
Taniel aimed high, pulling the trigger. He floated the bullet along for over a mile before letting it drop naturally. With its current arc, it would overshoot the Privileged by thirty feet. At the last moment, Taniel burned an extra powder charge, pushing the bullet straight down.
The bullet missed the shield of air, piercing the top of the Privileged’s head. Gloved hands dropped, and the Privileged tumbled from his saddle.
Taniel slumped backward, allowing himself a long breath of relief. Ka-poel sat immediately behind him, looking over his shoulder, and without her presence he might have tumbled from his perch. He handed his rifle over his shoulder and, once he’d stopped trembling, began the downward climb.
Taniel and Ka-poel entered Planth in darkness. The outskirts of the city were quiet, with barely any signs of life, but as they drew closer to the center, they found families urgently packing wagons, merchants boarding up their shops, and just as many settlers on stoops, cleaning muskets and blunderbusses in preparation for a last stand.
Planth would not go down without a fight, but Taniel had heard the stories of what happened to Little Starland and a half dozen other cities. It would be a slaughter.
He found Bertreau and Styke had taken over Lindet’s headquarters in the chapel. Neither looked like they had gotten much sleep. Bertreau sat behind Lindet’s desk, perusing reports from the garrison and attempting to take stock of their situation while Styke lounged nonchalantly on one of the pews.
“Well?” Styke asked, half-turning to watch Taniel approach.
Taniel set his rifle on a pew and sat down next to it, feeling achy and weary. He’d let his powder trance lag in the hope he might catch a few hours of sleep, but was less than optimistic about the prospect. His head, chest, and muscles ached, and he reached for a spare powder charge.
“Three Privileged and a Warden,” Taniel said.
“Hah!” Styke barked. “Well done, Two-shot”
Bertreau gave a sigh of relief without looking up from her reports. “Thank Kresimir for that. At least we’ll be able to go down fighting instead of in a flash of sorcery.” She picked up a piece of paper, reading it silently, before finally looking up. “According to Lindet’s reports – which she so kindly left behind – there may be two more Wardens with them.”
Styke spat on the floor. “We’ll ride them down just like the rest.”
“You don’t ride down a Warden,” Taniel said.
“You can ride down anything if your horse is big enough.” Styke leaned toward him. “I have a really big horse.”
“You’re mad.”
“That’s what people keep telling me.”
Taniel shook his head. Don’t trust Styke, Lindet had warned. It was folly for any sane person to expect to just run down a couple of Wardens. Taniel had barely escaped from that creature in the swamp with his life. Styke’s lancers wouldn’t have a prayer, enchanted armor or not.
“The evacuation?” Taniel asked.
“There are only two roads out of Planth and the Kez are blocking one of them,” Bertreau said. “About three thousand people have managed to leave so far, with that many again trying to get out before the Kez attack.”
Taniel put his head in his hands. Sorcery may not be a threat any longer, but steel would finish the job just as well.
Bertreau continued, “Our garrison is eight hundred with volunteers. I’ve taken command of them, and you’ll take the Ghost Irregulars tomorrow as we agreed. All we have to do is try to buy the people another couple of days. Then we’ll pull out.”
And let everyone else die. Taniel nodded. “All right, I…” his thoughts trailed off, his mind hardly able to focus. He glanced behind him, only to find Ka-poel curled up on the next pew, snoring softly. “I need some rest. So do the both of you.”
“I’ll rest when I’m dead,” Styke replied, grinning to himself.
“Right. I’m sure you’ll get your chance soon enough.” Taniel took off his jacket and folded it into a pillow, lying down on the hard pew.
“Oh,” Bertreau said, glancing sidelong at Styke as if he was a dog that might bite, “the Kez have asked for a parley. Tomorrow at noon.”
Taniel was already fading. “Tomorrow at noon,” he repeated. Then the real fight begins.
“I expect nothing less than the complete and unconditional surrender of Planth.”
The Kez general was a little taller than Taniel with haughty shoulders, an arrogant black mustache, a dozen medals on his dress uniform, and a smallsword hanging from his belt. He adopted what Taniel liked to think of as a “portrait” stance, with one leg forward and hands on his hips, head held high like he was waiting for the artist to finish a glorious rendition.
“I’m sorry,” Styke said, looking down on the general. “Who are you?”
The Kez general sneered. “My name is General Weslin je Jiffou. And you, I presume, are Ben Styke, the Mad Lancer.” If he was intimidated by Styke’s size, he was doing a remarkable job hiding it.
“Colonel Ben Styke,” Styke corrected.
“Yes, yes. Is that the best you have? I will not parley with an animal. I’ll speak with the general in charge or with that traitor Lindet.”
Styke spread his hands. “I’m all you get, Jiffy. The Lady Chancellor is too busy to deal with you and if you think calling me an animal will get a rise…” He shrugged. “I’ve been called worse by better.”
Jiffou made a face like he was holding in a sneeze – though in this case it was probably an indignant sputter. Taniel examined his eyes, watching for what his father called the “noble madness” – that moment when noble officers lost their temper at small things. But instead of an exclamation or a string of curses, Jiffou forced himself to relax. A slow smile spread across his face as he looked from Styke to Bertreau to Taniel and then back to Styke.
“You can parlay with Two-shot here if you’d like,” Styke suggested, jerking a thumb toward Taniel. “He’s got the military lineage for it, if not the rank.” Taniel cleared his throat, hoping his cheeks didn’t redden. He was a marksmen and a soldier – not a negotiator. He opened his mouth, but Jiffou beat him to the punch.
“Ah, the infamous Taniel Two-shot. I suppose I should offer you my thanks. Your murder of two of my superior officers has landed me a field promotion. One which I intend to keep once I’ve handed Lindet’s head to the colonial governor.” Jiffou’s smile broadened. “Lindet sends a mad colonel, a nameless major, and a swamp marksmen out to parley? She must be more desperate than I suspected.”