Promise of Blood

“You sure you’re all right, sir?” Olem asked. He put out one hand to steady Tamas.

Tamas waved him away. “Fine, fine. Let’s have a look at the damage outside.”

The street was in chaos. People emerged from their houses, yelling for help. Mercenaries tried to right field guns that had been tossed on their sides like they weighed nothing. Cobbles had popped from the street as if the ground had flexed beneath them. Whole rows of tightly packed apartment housing had crumbled, spilling bricks out into the road.

One of the Wings of Adom mercenaries paused before Tamas.

“There’s been an earthquake, sir,” the man said.

“Thank you, soldier. I gathered as much.”

The man rushed off, his eyes looking a little dazed. Tamas exchanged a glance with Olem. “We don’t get a lot of earthquakes here,” Tamas said.

Olem shook his head. “Not in my lifetime.”

Tamas turned around, assessing the damage. There would be parts of the city where things were worse, and parts where they were better. Tamas didn’t even want to think of the chaos this had caused at the docks.

“Does Sablethorn look like it’s leaning, sir?” Olem asked.

Tamas looked. The black spire, rising over the buildings to the west, did indeed look a little off. “At least it didn’t fall outright. Olem.”

“Sir?”

“Find some runners. I want damage assessment from the entire city. I want to know about the barricades. If some holes have opened up, it may be our chance to punch through them.”

“Now?”

“Definitely. General Westeven will take advantage of the chaos to move up his barricades and reinforce them with rubble from the quake. We need to take advantage as well.”

“You sure you’re unhurt, sir?”

“Positive. Go.”

Olem hurried off. Tamas waited until he was out of sight before he sagged against the wall behind him. His head throbbed from where he’d been hit. He could see figures scurrying over the barricade down the street, rushing out beyond them to snatch up bricks and masonry and throwing them back over.

“Ryze!” Tamas said.

The mercenary brigadier picked his way through the rubble to Tamas.

“Any of those guns operational?” Tamas asked.

“Axles are bent, wheels broken. We’ll need to call in some smiths to fix them.”

Tamas indicated the barricades. “Pass word among your boys to move up within firing distance. Don’t let Westeven reinforce his barricades.”

Ryze snapped a salute and spun off, barking orders to his men.

Tamas went back inside. He found a chair and righted it, and then rummaged through the mess until he found a spare coat. He wadded it up and pressed it against his head. He sank into the chair.

“You’ll have a nasty bump on your forehead.”

A man stood in the doorway, hands on his hips, surveying the damage within. He had long black hair, pulled back in a braided ponytail that hung over one shoulder, and a thin mustache. He was a big man, twenty stone or more, and a head and a half taller than Tamas. His skin had a slight yellow tint, hinting at some Rosvelean ancestry, but he spoke with the accent of a native Adran. He wore the brown pants and long, dirty white shirt of a city worker underneath a frayed jacket.

“Yes,” Tamas said, tenderly pressing his fingers to his temple. “I think I will. Are you a surgeon?”

The man looked down at his hands, surprised. “No, I think not. These pudgy hands have only one calling: the kitchens.”

“A cook?” He sent Olem away for just a minute and now any kind of riffraff just wandered in to his command center. “If you need help, I’m sure the soldiers outside are setting up a field hospital.”

The man narrowed his eyes. “Cook?” he snapped. “Do I look like a cheap purveyor of watery soup and half-cooked meat? I’m a chef, damn it, and you watch who you call a cook in the future. Feelings are liable to get hurt.”

Tamas lowered his hand from his injured head and stared at the man. Who the pit did he think he was? Amusement turned to annoyance as the man entered the room and set a chair back on its legs near Tamas, taking a seat.

“Do you know who I am?” Tamas demanded.

The man waved a hand, using the other to adjust his big belly comfortably into his lap. “Field Marshal Tamas, unless I’m mistaken.”

The gall. “And you are?”

The man removed a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his forehead. “It’s bloody hot in here. Where are my manners? I’m Mihali, son of Moaka, lord of the Golden Chefs.”

The Golden Chefs sounded familiar, but Tamas couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

“Moaka?” Tamas asked. “The na-baron?”

“My father preferred to think of himself as a culinary expert above all else, Kresimir rest his soul.”

“Yes,” Tamas said. He touched his head gingerly. It seemed to have stopped bleeding, but his headache was getting worse. “I attended one of his galas once. The food was unparalleled. He passed on last year, didn’t he?” Even the son of a na-baron didn’t belong here. Where the blazes was Olem?