“Mad Ben Styke charged forces several times his size during the Fatrastan War. You think he’s mellowed with age?”
Olem pursed his lips. “I don’t think he has.”
“Send out our scouts. Anyone we have left with a horse. I want to know where Styke is, and I want to know where the enemy cavalry are.”
“I already sent them.”
“Good. What’s our last report on the Dynize main army?”
“They’re still coming in quickly. Marching like a force possessed.”
Vlora hesitated. She didn’t know why the Dynize were moving so fast, but she would use it to her benefit.
“Did you get a confirmation on their numbers?”
“Twenty-five thousand, give or take.” Olem hesitated. “But again, we have no knowledge of their cavalry. I suggest we send five hundred of our reserves up to the ridge with sword-bayonets fixed. If they try to flank us with cavalry, that might give them pause.”
Vlora paced back and forth. The powder trance was helping, but she still wanted to hiss and spit and swear. She had to keep reminding herself that things could be worse. These odds – this Dynize army – it was still something she could beat. She had to beat it. “Give the order,” she confirmed.
Olem didn’t move. Something to the south had grabbed his attention.
Vlora’s pacing continued for a few more moments. “Well?” she asked. “What are you waiting for?”
“They’re here.”
The Dynize Army came around a bend in the river, marching in the footsteps of the vast migration of refugees. Vlora saw their advance force first – a few dozen cuirassiers decked out in enough silver, jade, and gold that they had to be a general’s bodyguard. The infantry fanned out, and within thirty minutes the glitter of breastplates filled the river valley. The cadence of their march drifted to her across the wind and she could see that they were deploying with an almost reckless speed.
She didn’t have time to wonder why.
Vlora took a deep breath and opened her third eye, fighting a wave of nausea. Her vision became awash with glowing pastels as she looked into a sorcerous mirror of the real world. She stared into the Else for almost a minute, ignoring the rising tension of the approaching army, searching for little flickers of light.
“I don’t see any Privileged or bone-eyes,” Vlora finally said, closing her third eye. “Just the usual smattering of Knacked.”
“Same here,” Olem confirmed. “Nothing from Davd or Norrine, either.” He sent a runner for the flanking defensive force Vlora had ordered, and brought up extra messengers to handle the stream of orders they would no doubt soon be giving. Vlora called for her horse and mounted up, remaining about fifty yards in front of her army, watching as the Dynize finished their deployment.
Her powder trance allowed her to examine the enemy as if she were standing right in front of them. She looked into the eyes of the men, examined their stances, their armor, their faces. It was obvious that they were tired from a long, forced march up from Landfall. Some shoulders slumped and eyelids fluttered, but there was a resolve there she didn’t expect. They were ready for a fight.
The absence of bone-eyes meant that Vlora could break them. But she didn’t have experience fighting Dynize. She did not know how well their discipline would hold, or what actions would break their spirit.
And she did not know where her – or their – cavalry were at this moment. She needed a little more time.
“I’m going to seek terms,” she told Olem. “Gather a few men.”
Vlora rode out across the valley with a small bodyguard and Olem at her side. A mile or so separated the two forces, giving them ample space to size each other up. She wondered why they hadn’t tried to take the high ground of the ridge, trapping the Riflejacks against the river. Perhaps they knew that their cavalry would cover that flank. Perhaps they didn’t want to risk Vlora pulling back while they maneuvered.
Or perhaps Styke had managed to tie up their cavalry, and the Dynize were just as uncertain as she was. She barely dared to hope.
They reached the center point between the two armies, and watched while the gaudily dressed cuirassiers rode toward them. Vlora let Olem watch the enemy bodyguard and kept her eyes on the ridge. She knew it was a fruitless exercise with Olem’s scouts up there now, but she couldn’t help but watch for the arrival of cavalry.
The Dynize came to a stop about a dozen yards away and a single horse rode out in front of the group. It was ridden by a middle-aged man with an orange-lacquered breastplate and teal uniform. He sat rigidly in the saddle, a distant expression on a gaunt face. Gold hoops and small feathers hung from his ears, and he wore silver rings mounted with human teeth. His fingernails were painted with gold.
“Lady Flint,” he said in thick, if understandable, Adran.
“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure,” Vlora said, eyeing the army over the general’s shoulder, then shifting her gaze to the man himself.
“My name is General Bar-Levial. I command the Shrike Brigades of the Emperor’s Immortal Army.”
“That’s a mouthful,” Olem muttered. He tucked a cigarette between his lips and lit a match.
Bar-Levial’s eyes did not leave Vlora’s face. “You seek terms?”
“I want to know why you’re here. You hold Landfall, and the Fatrastans are no doubt pulling their armies in from the frontier, yet you’re here chasing the Landfall refugees as if they are important to your plans.”
“Refugees?” Bar-Levial seemed surprised. “We don’t care about the refugees. We’re here for you, Lady Flint.”
Vlora scoffed. “Me?”
“I’m here to satisfy the honor of my emperor and his appointed emissary.”
“Ka-Sedial?”
“Yes.”
“I …” Vlora couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. “You’re here because I made you look like assholes at Landfall? You’re here for revenge?”
Bar-Levial’s eyes narrowed. He straightened in his saddle. “I am here to satisfy the honor of my emperor …”
“Yes, yes, you mentioned that already. But you marched an entire army out here to find me just for revenge? Don’t you have better things to do with your soldiers?” She wondered where Lindet’s field armies were at this moment – Fatrasta was a young power, but they would have gathered themselves by now and prepared to strike back.
“The emperor’s armies will not stand degradation,” Bar-Levial said coldly.
Beside Vlora, Olem ashed his cigarette. “You shouldn’t take it so hard. Yours isn’t the first army humiliated by an Adran general. It won’t be the last.”
“Silence your man, Lady Flint.”
“Shut up.” Vlora found herself getting angry. She would meet an enemy on any field of battle, but the idea that Ka-Sedial had sent an army after her – not the refugees, not to sow chaos, but specifically after her just because she’d beaten him in battle – was infuriating. “I’m a mercenary, and the Fatrastans don’t even want me anymore. What about this? How about I tell you that I’m leaving the continent, and I don’t give a shit about your bloody war? Will you turn around and go back to Landfall, and let me and my men walk away without a fight?”
“That changes nothing.”
“Why?”
“Because Ka-Sedial does not take defeat lightly. He believes that allowing a victorious enemy to remain victorious spells doom for an entire theater of war.”
“I’m a loose end he wants tied up?” The fact that Sedial had enough soldiers he could send an entire army to deal with a loose end was rather terrifying.
Bar-Levial’s lip curled. “Are you afraid, Lady Flint?”