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“Just saw an ugly brute in the window.”

Tamas finished reloading his pistol. The pain from his leg had begun to fade to the back of his mind. “Wardens,” he said. “I hate Wardens.” He looked over the hill. The front of the villa looked normal enough, but the windows were open, rifle barrels sticking through. He could see the grotesque shape of Wardens within, aiming down their rifles, as well as the bright colors of Charlemund’s bodyguard. He fired his pistol, burning half a powder charge to nudge the bullet where he wanted. One of the rifles fell inside.

“Who tipped them off?” Tamas snarled. “There’s a spy among my own men. Among my elite!”

“We should worry about whether we brought enough men,” Olem said. “We have less than a hundred. If he’s got any number of Wardens in there along with his own bodyguard, we could be in trouble.”

Vlora suddenly dropped down beside him. “Sir,” she said. “We need to retreat. We’re taking heavy losses. I lost two from my carriage just trying to get to cover.”

“Pit,” Tamas said. They didn’t have enough men to take Charlemund. If they retreated, however, he’d be gone within an hour. There was no way they could get back quickly enough with more soldiers. “We’ll button him up. He can’t get out. They don’t know whether we have a hundred men or a thousand. Vlora, I want you to get out of here. Get back to the garrison. No, get to Lady Winceslav’s estate. It’s closer. I want two thousand men from the Wings of Adom here within an hour.”

“Sir, I’ll send someone.”

“No, go yourself.” Tamas squeezed his eyes shut and saw Sabon take the bullet to the head all over again. He would not lose another friend this day. He slapped her on the shoulder. “That’s an order, soldier. Go!”

Vlora took off running away from the house. Tamas risked another look at the villa.

One of the carriages had overturned when a wounded horse bolted. The animal had been cut free, and four soldiers huddled behind the carriage, reloading desperately. “That’s a bad place for them,” Tamas said. “We need to get some cover fire, have them pull back to a ditch or the vineyard.”

He’d barely finished the sentence when sorcery ripped through the overturned carriage. He turned away, the flash blinding him as men screamed. The carriage was cut in two, the pieces tossed to either side as if discarded by the hand of a god. The soldiers were shredded, thrown through the air like ribbon. One landed near Tamas’s ditch.

Tamas dropped his pistol and dragged himself over the bank.

“Sir!”

The powder trance pumping through his veins, Tamas barely noticed the feel of cobbles cracking against his knees. He was next to the soldier in just a second, pulling himself along the ground with his arms. He grabbed the soldier by the leg. A rifle shot went off not far over his head. Olem stood over him, teeth gritted, presenting himself as a better target in order to draw enemy fire. He reached down, snatched Tamas by the back of his jacket, and pulled both Tamas and the soldier back into the ditch.

“What the pit, sir!” Olem said. “Are you trying to die?”

“How is he?” Tamas could see now that the soldier had been cut through directly by the sorcery. His chest was in tatters. It was impossible to tell where the flesh ended and the bloody uniform began. Olem put an ear next to his mouth and shook his head.

Sorcery erupted again. Screams came from the vineyard, where a number of soldiers had found a spot to hide. Tamas gritted his teeth. “It has to be Nikslaus,” he said. He reloaded his pistol and looked out of the ditch. “Where are you, you arrogant son of a whore?” He opened his third eye, pushed away the dizziness with anger, and scanned the villa.

“There,” he said. A cluster of bright-colored smudges indicated that the sorcerer was hiding in a room not far from the front door, crouched far beneath a window. Tamas gritted his teeth. The brick would stop bullets. But it wouldn’t stop a bounce. He fingered a powder charge. He lay a finger on the trigger, when a flash of light caught his eye.

“Mirrors,” he said. “Pit. He’s using mirrors. He’s in a sorcerer’s box.”

“A what?” Olem said.

“It’s an armored box. You stuff a sorcerer inside, with a pinhole and a set of decent mirrors to see what he’s aiming at, and he can tear up armies without getting shot by a powder mage. It’s hot and cramped, but it keeps them alive in a melee. Charlemund was ready for this.”

“Can’t you just shoot the mirror?”

Tamas was already lining up the shot. “He’ll have extra,” he said. His rifle bucked in his hand and the bullet shattered the mirror. “But it might buy us some time.”

“Sir,” Olem said, tugging on his jacket. “They’ve stopped firing.”

The sound of powder rifles from his own soldiers was few and far between, while the pop of air rifles had stopped completely. He gave a shaky sigh. How many men had he lost already?

“Tamas!” a voice shouted from the villa.

“He might be trying to mark your position, sir,” Olem said.

“Tamas, we need to talk!”

“About your execution,” Tamas muttered.

“Sir.” Olem’s voice held a note of warning. “Careful. We don’t have many men left. We might want to find out what he wants.”

“Tamas!” Charlemund shouted. “I’ve got Wardens and a sorcerer. We’ll tear your men to bits before you have the chance to retreat.”

Tamas took a deep breath, trying to still his rage. Sabon’s body taunted him from the cobbled drive. “I’ll hear him out.”

Olem put a hand on Tamas’s shoulder when Tamas tried to rise. “Let me, sir.” He moved a half dozen feet down the ditch, scooting on his stomach. “Hold your fire!” he shouted. He stood up.

“Where’s your master,” Charlemund called.

“What do you want?” Olem demanded.

There was a pause. “To talk. We must be able to reach some kind of agreement. Tamas, I’ll meet you under a flag of truce.”

“Why should he trust you?” Olem said.

“You question me, boy?” the arch-diocel roared.

Olem stared defiantly back at the villa.

“I swear on the holy vestments, no harm will come to him inside my villa.”

“Come out here and talk,” Olem said.

“And receive a bullet for my troubles? I know Tamas too well. I’m a man of the Rope.”

Tamas would hang him from that rope. He signaled to Olem. Olem dropped back down to his belly and moved over to Tamas.

“It’s suicide, sir,” he said. “I don’t trust him.”

“We don’t have enough men to take him,” Tamas said. “He can tear us apart with Nikslaus in there. We can’t get a clear shot at the sorcerer.”

“What can you do?”

“Send for more men. The rest of my cabal. If I can keep him talking until Andriya, Vidaslav, and Vlora get here…”

“It will take hours for reinforcements,” Olem said.

“Regardless…” Tamas watched the villa. Still no sign of Charlemund. The presence of the Wardens and a Kez Privileged was enough for him to know this was no mistake. Charlemund was the traitor. Would he try to talk his way out of this? Did he just want Tamas for a shield? He swore on the Rope. How much did that mean to a man like him?

“Give the order for reinforcements,” Tamas said.

Olem scurried off to a nearby group of soldiers. He returned in a few moments. “Done.”

“Tamas!” Charlemund called. “I won’t wait all day. Do we keep shooting or will you let me explain myself? Be reasonable!”

“Reason,” Tamas spat. “This bastard betrays me and talks of reason. What will he say? He was trying to cut some kind of deal with the Kez to save Adro?”

“He’ll say anything, sir,” Olem said. “Don’t trust any man who surrounds himself with beautiful women. Least of all a priest.”

“Wise words.”

“You’re going to go in, aren’t you,” Olem said.

“Yes.”

“I’m going with you.”

Tamas opened his mouth.

“Stuff it in your ass, sir. I’m going with you.” Olem stood up. He gestured to a nearby soldier. “Don’t let them leave this place,” he said. “Even if they have the field marshal. Shoot to kill.”