“Our scouts say they have three Privileged,” Olem cut in.
Holm opened her mouth, a scowl on her face, but Vlora simply held up her hand. “I’m not threatening you – and I have no intention of murdering your Privileged unless we engage in combat. I just wanted to warn you that the Dynize do not have either bone-eyes or Privileged with them. But they are bloody disciplined, and breaking them will take more than overwhelming force.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because whatever happens to me, you’re going to fight those Dynize sometime in the next few days. And I’d rather you win than them. Frankly, I think the battle will be more in their favor than you expect.”
Holm chewed on this information, a worried frown on her face, eyeing Vlora. “I’ll take this information under advisement.”
“I –” Vlora was cut off by the sound of hooves galloping toward them from the direction of her camp. “Excuse me,” she told Holm, striding back toward her bodyguard. She found one of her messengers waiting with them, his chest heaving from a hard ride. “Is it the Dynize?” Vlora demanded. “A night attack?”
“No, ma’am,” the messenger said in a hushed tone. “You told me to let you know the moment Taniel and Ka-poel arrived.” He gestured into the darkness behind him, and Vlora was able to make out two figures on horseback hanging back in the darkness. She could suddenly sense Taniel’s powder magic, as if it had appeared from nothing – as if he were letting her know about his presence.
Vlora looked at Olem. “They’re here.”
“Should we return to camp?” Olem asked.
“No,” she said, jerking her head toward the road. “They’re here.”
“Oh.”
Vlora returned to Holm. “General, I’m afraid I have to cut this meeting short. Will you allow me to reconsider your offer?”
“Has something changed?” Holm asked, peering over Vlora’s shoulder toward the messenger.
“Maybe.”
“I can give you until tomorrow afternoon. Then I will consider the Riflejacks an enemy army.”
“Thank you.” Vlora turned to leave, then paused. “Am I to be assured the Landfall refugees have your protection?”
“We’ve already begun to pass out what supplies we can spare. I will take care of them the best I can – and I will not let the Dynize have them.”
“Again, thank you,” Vlora said. “I will answer you tomorrow.” She left the general at the keelboat landing and headed back to her bodyguard to fetch her horse. She and Olem rode ahead, toward the two figures waiting in the darkness.
She could see that both Taniel and Ka-poel were tired. Their horses were haggard, their clothes covered with the dust of the road. They both wore greatcoats over frontier buckskins, with rifles, swords, and pistols strapped to their saddles. They looked like a pair of bounty hunters chasing an outlaw.
“Good evening,” Olem said, tipping his hat.
“Morning, more like it,” Taniel responded. “Good to see you again, Olem. Glad you’ve healed up since Landfall.” Ka-poel waved. “We would have been here yesterday,” Taniel explained, “but the Dynize have the roads south of their army buttoned up pretty tight.”
“What news?” Vlora asked.
Taniel shared a look with Ka-poel, then gave Vlora a tight, tired smile. “We found them. We know where the other two godstones are.”
Chapter 8
“Ben, wake up.”
Styke stared at the stars, his saddle beneath his head as a pillow while he stretched out on a bedroll tossed sloppily on the damp grass to keep him dry. He waited to answer until a boot nudged his ribs. “I’m awake.”
Ibana leaned over him, peering into his eyes, and gave him a gentle slap on one cheek. “Then answer when I call.”
“It’s the middle of the night,” Styke replied. He’d never had a problem sleeping until the labor camps. The pain of his old wounds, the uncertainty he felt toward the guards and the other inmates; he’d gained the ability to take catnaps but still had difficulty with real, deep sleep. Since he got out, his rest had been inconsistent – some nights as easy as lying down, while other nights sleep was elusive until late in the morning. This night was one of the latter.
“I damn well know it’s the middle of the night. But there’s something you should see.”
“Is it important?”
“It is for you.”
Reluctantly, Styke found his boots and climbed to his feet, glaring at Ibana through the darkness. “I was enjoying the quiet.”
“It’s not going to be quiet much longer. Rumor has it Flint has a plan up her sleeve, and it includes us making a move before sunup.”
“Is that why you woke me up?” Styke made a fist, then stretched out his fingers, repeating the motion to loosen the muscles.
“No. Something else.”
“Pit.” He thought about ignoring her and throwing himself back to the ground in a futile effort to get a few more hours of sleep. If this was really important, Ibana would have woken up everyone. “Okay, fine. What do you want to show me?”
Ibana led him through the lancer camp and out through their eastern pickets. They didn’t exchange another word until they were well beyond earshot of the guards; then she said, “How is your hand?”
“Fine.” Styke, midstretch, buried his left hand in his pocket. “Why? Celine telling you stories?”
“She’s worried about you.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m more worried about you telling a little girl that I need to stop feeling sorry for myself.”
Ibana paused briefly before continuing their walk. “And I need to teach her how to keep secrets.”
“Not from me, you don’t.”
“Every girl keeps secrets from her dad,” Ibana said with a note of bemusement. “Just like every boy keeps them from his mom.”
Dad. What an odd notion. Styke had no way of knowing if he had a few bastards scattered around Fatrasta, but he’d certainly never thought of himself as a father. But with Celine, it felt right. “I wouldn’t know.”
Another pause. “Sorry.”
Styke rolled his eyes. Thirty years or more since his father murdered his mother. It was underhanded to play that card, but he was tired and irritable and Ibana hadn’t yet told him why she was dragging him all the way out here. “It’s fine. What’s going on here, anyway? You didn’t wake me up to ask after my health.”
“No,” Ibana said, “I didn’t.” She gestured ahead of them, and Styke looked up to see the distant outline of a small farmhouse with a light flickering in the single window. He scowled, curious, but allowed Ibana to lead him onward until they were almost to the house. It was an old farmsteaders’ plot, a one-room home with rotting timber walls and a low sod roof.
“Who lives here?” Styke asked.
“No idea. We found it empty, but it seemed apt for our needs.”
“What needs were …?” Styke trailed off as Ibana opened the door and they both stepped inside. Everything of value had been cleared out of the house, leaving bare walls and a dirt floor. A single lantern hung from the rafters and illuminated three men. Styke recognized two of them: Markus and Zac were a pair of Brudanian brothers in their midthirties, ugly as sin and dressed in rags that helped them blend in when they were out scouting. The brothers were old Mad Lancers, two of the original group that had helped Styke terrorize the Kez Army all those years ago.
The third figure was a bigger man, kneeling between the brothers with a burlap sack over his head and hands bound behind his back.
“Afternoon, Colonel!” Markus said cheerily, snapping a salute.