Promise of Blood

“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.”

Kresimir’s palace was immense. Taniel had never seen its equal, not in Adopest or Kez or Fatrasta. He could look down the street and not see the end of it. Unlike the other buildings in Kresim Kurga, the rock had not been stained black by soot. It was volcanic, as if the mountain had spewed it out in one gigantic piece and let it cool, the sides polished enough he could see himself in them. Taniel couldn’t find a single crack, or see the marks of a workman’s tools.

“It’s a complex,” Del explained as they searched for an entrance. “Kresimir’s home on earth. He and the Predeii lived here for decades.”

“Yes,” Bo said, feeling along the sheer wall. “I remember reading about this place. But how do we get in? Sorcery?”

“There is an entrance,” Del said.

“Lions!”