But this wasn’t a game. It was his career, and the lives of all these people, and perhaps even the future of the Empire. He would use his victory to bolster his guild-family name the same as any good Ossan, but he would also use it to better the lives of millions. Ambitions, he had decided when he was barely twelve, did not have to be just for oneself. He had ambitions for everyone.
One day the world would see that he was more than his innate sorcery. The masses would smile at him without fear.
Satisfied with his plans and remembering his own encroaching glassrot, he slid the witglass off his ear and back into his pocket, where the velvet and cork lining protected him from the godglass sorcery when he didn’t need it. He let his fingers remain there for a moment, running them over the various godglass baubles. Each was shaped differently so as to be picked out by feel; a comforting assortment of sorcerous crutches for his weak, mortal body.
He was deep in thought from his brief meditation when one of the staff, still on horseback, called out. “Sir, there’s something going on back in camp.”
Demir felt the tug of his own thoughts, and it took a force of will to pull himself out of them. He let go of Myria’s arm, giving it one last reassuring pat as if they were old friends, before lifting his eyes in the direction of the camp. The plain here had only a slight incline, and it wasn’t until he had found his horse and gotten into the saddle that he was able to tell what the staffer had been talking about.
There was, indeed, something going on in camp. Hundreds – no, thousands – of torches had been lit, and a large procession was breaking away from the encampment and heading across the plain directly toward Holikan. The torches glittered as the last vestiges of sunlight disappeared over the horizon. Despite all of his mental faculties, Demir found himself completely flummoxed. After the battle, select regiments had been sent out to treat the wounded, hunt the fleeing enemy, and secure outposts, but the bulk of the soldiers had been ordered to return to their tents, where casualties could be counted and control could be asserted over an army with their blood up.
So what the piss were they doing marching toward the city?
“Capric,” he called, “find out what’s going on over there.”
Capric scowled in the direction of the city for a few moments before throwing himself into the saddle. Demir watched him ride away, transfixed, something in his brain refusing to click over, knowing that something was wrong but unable to find an explanation. This was not in his calculations. Unwilling to show himself in a panic, but unable to remain completely idle, Demir began to ride slowly toward the south, a fear of the unknown growing in his belly. He took the fabric of his victor’s cloak between two fingers of his left hand, rubbing it anxiously.
It wasn’t until Capric returned, breathless, that the fear really took hold.
“Demir,” Capric barked, “there’s been some kind of communication error. The Eighth seems to think they have orders to sack the city.”
“Sack the…” Demir whispered. “What glassdamned century is this? We don’t sack cities! Get back there and tell them to return to camp! Spread the order to all the colonels. Go!” Capric galloped off, and Demir glanced over his shoulder at his staff. He eyeballed Helenna Dorlani first, then Jakeb Stavri and the oldest of the Forlio brothers. Everyone wore the same expression of vague confusion and surprise that he imagined on his own face. “Who gave orders to sack the city?” he demanded.
They all looked at each other and shook their heads. “No one would give an order like that,” Jakeb said. “Decimation, yes. But nobody has sacked a city in a hundred years!”
Demir swore and turned back, watching until the realization finally settled in that the soldiers would reach the outskirts of the city before Capric even made it back. Once they’d actually started their pillaging, it would be impossible to get them to stop. He dug in his own heels, forcing his horse into a gallop, barely hearing the startled swearing of his staff. The darkness quickly forced him to rein in lest his mount break a leg crossing the uneven plain, and it was almost ten minutes before he reached the column.
He was greeted by a harried Capric. “The colonels say they all have orders to sack the city!” Capric reported.
“Who gave the order?”
Capric winced. “You did!”
“What?”
“They all have orders with your personal seal telling them to conduct the sacking.”
“No, no, no,” Demir breathed, watching the stream of soldiers flow past him, torches and bayoneted muskets in hand. Some were somber. Some cheered the dark promise of a night spent slaking a bloody thirst. All of them were heading out to follow orders. His orders, apparently. He fumbled for his witglass, fixing it to his ear long enough to churn through his memories, looking for some kind of mistake.
Had he sent out a poorly worded missive? Had he said something offhand to one of his secretaries? Nothing immediately came to mind, and that terrified him. Mistakes could be made along the best lines of communication, but this was beyond anything he’d encountered in his studies.
He needed to find out what had happened, but first he had to curtail this impending ruin. He pointed at an officer among the group. “You there, Captain, hold your men!” The captain either didn’t hear him, or ignored him. The soldiers themselves were so engrossed in the prospects of their new mission that they didn’t even notice his presence. Demir urged his horse closer, wishing he had a pistol to fire in the air. “Stop!” he shouted. “Hold! Get yourselves in order, damn it!”
Anger warred with the growing panic in himself. He reached out, grasping for scattered bits of glass left over from the battle and plucking them up with his mind. Hundreds of shards rose into the air, hovering in place like frozen raindrops as they awaited his mental command. His eye twitched, his thoughts stayed by indecision. Could he kill his own men to avert this disaster? How many would he need to massacre to get their attention? After several moments he let go. The pieces fell, sprinkling to the ground, unnoticed by the marching soldiers.
He heard a gunshot, then another. Screams came from the direction of the city, followed by the sounds of whooping. Demir could feel control slipping from his fingers, eliciting a panic deep in his chest like one he’d never felt in his life. He turned and galloped toward the outskirts of the city, where the gunshots, screams, and shouting grew louder and more chaotic. He soon passed a woman’s body lying by the wayside, bayoneted several times. The sight of it made him want to vomit. He saw another corpse, then another – obvious civilians, all of them.
A stronger man – a more experienced glassdancer – would have ended this with a quick, brutal show of discipline. Demir knew he could still do it, but he couldn’t bring himself to take the action. His mind was spinning now, frayed at the edges and threatening to snap. What madness was this? How could any of his officers have thought he would give such an order? He had marched them across the mountains with uncanny speed and won them three great victories but he’d never been cruel in triumph.
He reached the outskirts of the city and found that thousands of his soldiers had already plunged into the interior. They rushed from building to building, snatching anything of value, throwing children into the street, killing men and women where they stood, all in the flickering of torchlight while the smoke of burning buildings began to thicken.