“Ben,” Ibana warned.
Styke looked at Ibana, then lowered his eyes to Gustar. The Riflejack met the gaze. He could see resolve there, and questions, and a hint of fear. But Gustar did not shake or shy away. Styke set him down and shoved him, putting up his knife. He took several steps before the hopelessness seized him. It began in his chest like a spike of cold iron and quickly overwhelmed him, until his steps became staggered and he was forced to sit on the closest rock, his head falling into his hands.
“Pack everything back up,” Styke said again. “Leave the bone-eye. She can find her own way back.”
Ibana joined Gustar, and the two of them stared down at Styke. He could feel their eyes on his shoulders. “Back where?” Ibana asked.
Styke gave a half shrug, unwilling to raise his head. He’d seen plenty of men have a breakdown on the field of battle. He’d never experienced one himself, and the very idea of him sitting here fighting back tears, immobilized by hopelessness, almost made him laugh. He was Mad Ben Styke, and a ninety-pound woman leading his army astray had cut him off at the knees.
He wished Ibana and Gustar would go away.
“Back to Landfall,” he answered. He gestured at Gustar without looking up. “We’ll deliver you and yours back to Lady Flint. It’s the least I can do.”
“And then?” Gustar asked.
“And then we’ll do what we do best. We’ll slaughter our way back and forth across Fatrasta until either the invaders are dead or we are.”
There was a measured silence. “That sounds … directionless,” Gustar said gently.
“It worked for us before,” Styke said.
Ibana sighed, pacing back and forth. Styke knew she would have words for him later, when they were out of earshot of the men. He wasn’t looking forward to it.
“Well, sir …” Something changed in Gustar’s voice, and Styke glanced up to find him standing at attention. “It’s been a pleasure serving under you. I appreciate the offer, but the Riflejack cavalry will take our leave. Good day, sir.” Gustar snapped a salute and spun on his heel, heading toward his men.
Styke exchanged a glance with Ibana. “What the pit is he going on about? Gustar! Get back here.”
Gustar froze. Hesitantly, he returned to Styke, giving him a shallow smile and straightening his jacket where Styke had clutched it. “Yes, sir?”
Styke put his elbows on his knees, looking up at Gustar, fighting against his despair and shushing the little voice that told him to let Gustar walk away. “Where are you going?”
“To fulfill our duty, sir.”
“What duty?”
“To escort Ka-poel to the godstone, sir. I was given very specific instructions by Lady Flint, and I intend on carrying them out.”
Styke shook his head in wonderment. “Did you not hear me? The godstone is in Dynize. She can’t lead us to it.”
“We’ve come this far,” Gustar said, brushing off Styke’s words. “A little bit of ocean between us and our goal will hardly stop the Riflejacks. There aren’t as many of us left as I’d like – five hundred, give or take a few dozen. That’ll make it easier to find enough ships to commandeer to get to Dynize.”
Styke pointed to the ocean with his knife. “You’re going to commandeer a fleet and head to Dynize? Pit knows what’s waiting for you there!”
“Not knowing what’s over the next hill doesn’t seem like something that would bother you, sir,” Gustar said, managing to pull it off without the slightest condescension. Styke stared at him, wondering if maybe he had finally been taken by the madness so many had accused him of over the years. Gustar went on. “I’ve got orders, sir. Unless you have any other questions, I’d best go let the lads know that we’re splitting off.”
Styke waved him off, his feeling of hopelessness fouled by exasperation. He shook his head, and Gustar had gone about a dozen feet before Styke said, “Why?”
“Because I have orders, sir,” Gustar said without turning.
“Bugger orders. You Adran pricks don’t follow orders to certain death. Lady Flint isn’t worth that. Nobody is.”
Gustar stiffened. Slowly, steadily, he returned to Styke and squatted down in front of him, like a man about to explain something to a little child. He said, “Field Marshal Tamas was worth it. Lady Flint – Vlora, as most of us knew her when she was still a girl – she might not be quite there yet, but she will be someday, of that I’m certain.” Gustar paused, as if choosing his words. “Styke, we haven’t ridden across Fatrasta for you, or a blood sorcerer, or even for Lady Flint. We rode across Fatrasta because a god killed Field Marshal Tamas and tried to destroy our country. You may keep the truth of what we’re actually doing here from yours, but I don’t from mine. We faced the father god of them all on the battlefield, and we were nothing but rain in his eyes. Every one of us remembers that, and if we have to throw away our lives on the chance of preventing another piece-of-shit godling from walking this world, we will do so. Not for you, or your damned country, or to help you spread the carnage of your vengeance across the continent. We’ll do it to protect our homes and loved ones. Lady Flint understood that. It’s why she sent us out.”
Gustar left Styke, returning to his cavalry. Styke watched him go with a frustrated sigh. His eyes went to Ibana, who just shrugged and followed Gustar without a word.
Styke stared at the ground, letting the tip of his knife fall to the dirt and slowly scratching it back and forth to create parallel lines. He knew he should be doing something, but he didn’t know what. Ibana would inform the men. Gustar would leave. The Mad Lancers would carry on.
He tried to tell himself that the godstone had been a long shot anyway. That even if they’d found it, there was no guarantee Ka-poel could dampen its power. That this whole mistake – this misled party, teetering on the edge of the continent – was Ka-poel’s fault.
So why did he feel so strongly like a failure?
He felt a small hand on his arm. Celine took him by the wrist, forcing him to sit up, then moved his arm to one side so she could sit on his knee. He had a hard time meeting her gaze.
“Ka-poel is sorry,” Celine said.
Styke didn’t answer her.
“I don’t think …” Celine trailed off, then took a deep breath. “I don’t think she is certain of herself. She acts confident, but I think she scares herself.”
“In what way?” Styke asked petulantly.
“Her strength. That thing she did to the cuirassiers in the forest –”
Styke looked up sharply, cutting her off. “How did you know about that?”
“She told me. She told me that she has controlled men before – even hundreds at a time – but that she’s never enthralled them like that. She needed answers and took control of them, and she told me that it scared her.”
“Why would she tell you this?” Styke asked, trying to decide if this was some sort of manipulation.
Celine didn’t even have to consider the question. She frowned at Styke as if the answer was obvious. “Because she is lonely. I’m the only one she has to talk to. The soldiers are frightened of her, and you treat her like a tool. Her love is on the other side of the continent, fighting for his life, and she wants to be at his side, where she can protect him.”
Styke thought of their meeting outside of Landfall, when he had accepted the commission in the Riflejacks and had sent out the order to gather the Mad Lancers. He had waited in that small town, wondering if his old comrades would come when he called, and she had appeared. She had smeared his forehead with blood and then vanished on the wind.
He touched his forehead.
Celine didn’t miss the gesture. “She marked you.”
“With her sorcery?”
“In a way. She says she will not try to control you. That she is not sure if she can.”