World War IV: Empires Page 7

  And with that, the Mars brother walked away, leaving Alvy to his work. It was a mixture of fear and awe that coursed through his veins whenever he spoke to one of the governors. He could feel the power radiating from them, an immeasurable force he couldn’t comprehend. But just as with the science around him, he only needed more time to unlock its secrets.

  ***

  The ride back felt longer than the way out as Dean slouched in his saddle, the bruises and cuts along his face and body barely healed from the fight with Fullock. But behind him rode twenty thousand clansmen from the Black Rocks, Boulders, Flayers, Molthays, Fulkers, and even the remaining Scarvers. In the Scarver tribe, whoever defeated the reigning chief in combat inherited the conquered chief’s territory, along with any other possessions. In addition to the warriors, it seemed that Dean also inherited six wives, which he immediately divorced, as was his authority to do as chief.

  Once the fight with Rodion had ended, Dean had every intention of forgoing his position as chief and letting the clan’s top two warriors duel for the honor of the title. But for now, they would fight as he instructed them to.

  Dean dismounted, and the first face he saw among the crowds was Kemena. He felt her arms wrap around him gently, and he buried his nose in the scent of her hair. When she kissed his lips he winced, and she immediately pulled back. He smiled. “I’m fine.”

  Kemena looked him up and down then grabbed him by the hand and marched him to the infirmary. “You are not fine.”

  The sick and wounded that Dean passed smelled of death, and he did his best to hide the nausea as Kemena put him in a private room. He sat on the makeshift examination table and watched her move swiftly throughout the room, grabbing the necessary tools and equipment to mend him, although he noticed the lack of supplies, which was concerning.

  Kemena dipped a cloth in alcohol then pressed it firmly against the cut on his brow. “It looks like you were beaten up by a gorilla.”

  “Close to it.” Dean gently wrapped his fingers around her slender wrist and pulled her hand down so he could get a good look at her eyes. “How are you?” He could sense the fatigue in her, and the disheveled hair and dress only added to his worry.

  The pillars of strength slowly gave way as Kemena slumped her shoulders and leaned into Dean on the table. “We’re not going to be able to save everyone, Dean. We’re pressed too thin.”

  Dean rubbed her back gently, holding her up. “Jason will return from the vault. What’s there will give us an edge.”

  And as if Kemena sensed the very doubt in the back of his mind, she added, “And if it doesn’t?”

  He pulled her face to where they were eye to eye. “It will.” He smiled, but the exertion pained the bruises along his cheeks. “Where are the boys?” He hadn’t seen them upon his arrival, which he found odd considering their fascination with the clans.

  Kemena let out a sigh. “I suppose they’re at their quarters, trying to find some way to outsmart the guards General Monaghan keeps on them night and day. They’re restless, Dean.”

  “Probably more so than anyone in this place.” Both Kit and Sam had been as patient as two boys could be given the circumstances. Especially Kit. Dean knew how much the boy wanted to fight, and what made the desire worse was the knowledge that the boy would be a gifted soldier. He had the strength, courage, and tenacity to win many battles. But Dean wanted something more than war for his nephew. Kemena remained silent, reserved, holding something back. “What?”

  “We need to have the funeral, Dean.” The words flooded out of her like a river breaking loose from a dam. “People want to pay their respects.”

  Dean slid from the edge of the table and landed on his feet, wobbling slightly from the movement. “I know.” With Fred barely in the ground a few weeks prior, he’d been reluctant to bury another brother. He slid to the floor absentmindedly, where Kemena joined him.

  She laced her fingers between his and huddled close, their foreheads gingerly touching one another. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

  It could have been the fatigue over the past weeks, the wounds from battle, the weight of his people bearing down on him, or the soft tone in which Kemena said the words, but he felt water collect in the corners of his eyes then roll down his cheeks, following the line of his jaw to his chin then dripping to the floor. The grief poured out of him, his body convulsing from the expulsion of pain he kept balled inside. “I miss them, Kemena.” The words fled his mouth just as spontaneously and abruptly as the tears. “I miss them so much.”

  Kemena kissed his cheek, her lips intermixing with the wetness of his skin. “I know how difficult this has been for you.” She cradled his head in her palm, easing the weight off of him. “You’re nearly done now.” She brought her lips to his ears. “Just a little bit longer.”

  She spoke to him like a child. He was grateful to have her there. He clung to her arms and shoulders until his eyes ran dry. Once it was done, he made sure to clean and erase any notion of the weakness from his face. Kemena was right, just a little bit farther now. And now wasn’t the time to let his people see him in such a state. “Let me see him.”

  Lance’s body had been dressed and preserved, although Dean knew the body wouldn’t last much longer in the heat. It was odd seeing his brother so still, and Dean reached out and touched Lance’s hand as if he would wake. But Lance’s body only remained cold and stiff. He turned around to Kemena, but she had already read his mind once again.

  “I’ll give you a minute.” She smiled and quietly left.

  Dean found a chair next to the table. “What have we done, brother?” He eased himself into the seat, knowing Lance could offer no answer. “Jason’s gone to the vault.” Dean smiled. “I know how much stock you put in that place.”

  While Lance had kept the pendulum close, his brother never truly believed they offered any practical solution. Nothing more than words to rouse the troops. A part of Dean had always believed that, but with the odds stacked against him, he never wished his brother to be more wrong than in that moment.

  “I could use your counsel,” Dean said, rubbing his cheeks with the palms of his hands. “The navy could use your counsel as well.” The thought angered him. “You should have stayed in the military once the wars were finished. Yours was a mind wasted in the merchant trade.”

  Lance had turned down the governorship in a heartbeat. His victories had cemented him into more of a legend than Dean. It was Lance’s name they chanted at the end of the Chinese War, and it was Lance’s name that echoed through the streets once the wasteland clans had been subdued, but Dean’s older brother had always shied away from the spotlight, only accepting the burden when there was no one else to take the mantle. Lance never complained about it, never denounced the call to duty, but Dean had always noticed the glint of fear in his eyes, as if there was something he knew that Dean had not. I think I understand now, brother.

  Dean lingered a while longer, but the dead made for poor companions. He wasn’t sure what he expected to find, but whatever it was, it offered no comfort. Whatever was left of his brother was nothing more than the decaying flesh on the table. The mind, the skill, the voice, and the strength had long since disappeared.

  “Sir?” The quiet tone of Monaghan’s voice startled Dean. The general had scarcely looked so timid in their war meetings together.

  “General, what is it?”

  Monaghan moved his lips fruitlessly but expelled no words. He shook his head, cleared his throat, and simply motioned for two soldiers to come inside, carrying a body-shaped tarp. “We received a message from Rodion while you were away. I thought it best you see it immediately.”

  Dean walked to the covered body slowly and knelt, his nose burning from the smell. He lifted the tarp back and his voice caught in his throat. Professor Hawthorne’s cheeks were a pale grey, lifeless. Dean’s grief shifted to rage. “What is his message?”

  “Pull the tarp lower, sir,” Monaghan said.

  The mangled flesh t
hat had been cut across the professor’s chest and stomach was crudely done, but once Dean had the entire tarp off, he couldn’t help but read the words aloud. “Your people, your family, your name will burn.” The wounds had festered, and the blood dried and the flesh gone brittle where Rodion had worked the blade. Dean covered Hawthorne, resting his palm on the old professor’s forehead. “We bury my brother, then ride upon Jason’s return. Prepare the men.”

  Chapter 7

  The turnout was massive. Tens of thousands gathered to pay homage, many of whom couldn’t even see the casket. Elbows and shoulders bumped against one another, shuffling uncomfortably in the heat of midday. But even with the thousands around her, Canice saw only one face in her mind: Rodion. It was a face that haunted her dreams when she slept and her consciousness when she was awake. No matter how hard she tried to rid herself of the image, it remained.

  Canice barely heard the words spoken by Dean and the priest that presided over the funeral. There was talk of bravery and courage, of gods and sacrifice, of eternal life and death. The words almost made her laugh. The dead care little of the living. The funeral had been the final tie keeping her ashore, but now with it done, she was released to act her vengeance.

  Once the formalities had been spoken and dirt thrown onto the casket, the crowds dispersed, slowly heading back to their lives, their families, but not their homes. No one would go back to their homes, at least not today. Rodion had made sure of that. Canice stayed and watched the casket lowered and buried until the last granule of dirt had been patted down by the gravediggers. She had been so lost in thought that she didn’t notice how long Kemena had been touching her shoulder.

  “How are you holding up?” Kemena asked, her face covered in a black lace veil.

  The attire triggered Canice to examine her own garb. She owned no black, no lace, no veil. She’d never attended a funeral before today, at least not on land. She had dressed as she always had on the deck of the Sani. The way Lance had always seen her. “When is it happening?”

  Kemena furrowed her brow, confused. “What do you mean?”

  “The attack on Rodion. I saw Jason return.” Canice kept no tone of grief or pleasantries; all of her concentration was geared toward the vision of her blade across Rodion’s throat.

  “Canice, if you go back to the capital, you will find no peace there.” Kemena took Canice’s hand, holding it gently between her own.

  For how slender Kemena’s fingers were, Canice was surprised at how strong they felt against her own. She’d always expected her to be weak, simply a wife of the governor who practiced healing as a hobby. Canice pulled her hand back, taking herself out of the moment. “I’m not interested in peace.”

  Canice stomped away, ignoring Kemena’s calls from behind her. She pushed her way through the crowd, marching toward the governors’ tents centered in camp. Two guards stopped her from entering. “I need to speak with the governors.”

  “I’m sorry, miss. We’re under strict orders to keep everyone out. The brothers wish to be alone to mourn Lance’s death.” The guard was middle aged, built thick around the chest and shoulders, but when Canice sent her heel into the side of his knee, buckling him to the ground, all of his strength left him.

  Before the second soldier could lift his rifle, she thrust her hand into his throat, sucking the air right out of him. He dropped the rifle and bent over, joining his comrade in a world of pain. Canice walked inside to the sight of both governors and General Monaghan looking over a map on the table. “I won’t stand by and do nothing. I will be a part of this whether you like it or not.”

  One of the guards crawled inside after Canice, but Dean ordered him out. He motioned for her to join them, and when Canice got a good look at the map, she saw a number of odd-shaped figures spread around the capital. They were neither soldiers nor mounts nor artillery units. “What is this?”

  “These,” Dean said, gesturing to the obscure objects, “are how we’re going to take back the capital.”

  “The plan looks more impressive when you know what they are.” The voice came from the corner of the room and slowly took the shape of a short man, all skin and bones.

  “Oh, good. For a second I thought you were going to base your strategy on throwing rocks at them.” Canice made no effort at hiding her mockery. She was in no mood for games. Not today.

  “Canice,” Dean said, his words eerily calm. “This is Alvy Hughes. He was one of the lead Brazilian engineers for Ruiz.”

  “Not by choice, I might add.” Alvy inched closer to the table and gave Dean a look that asked if he could explain, and, when the governor gave the nod, rested his palms on the edge of the table, his bony fingers tapping the parchment. “They’re bombs.” He tilted his head to the side. “Well, they’re modified missiles reconstructed as bombs.”

  “Explosives?” Canice asked. “Are we launching them from the cannons?”

  “No, the devices are too delicate for a device so crude as powdered cannons,” Alvy answered. “We’re going to walk them inside and place them in Rodion’s camp.”

  “We’ve confiscated a number of Russian uniforms from their dead. My brother and I know these lands like the backs of our hands,” Dean replied. “All we need is a good ship to sail us up the coast.”

  The beast caged inside Canice’s soul rattled the bars, aching to be set free. It took all of her concentration to focus on fully understanding the complexities of what needed to be done. “Even if we could sneak in and plant the bombs, we’d be caught before we could set the fuses.”

  Alvy reached into his pocket and pulled out a small case covered in buttons and switches. “Radio waves. The same kind that Delun has used to communicate with his generals and officers from anywhere in the world, in real time. This device sends a similar signal to the bombs, which will detonate upon activation.” He rested the device gently on the table. “The signal has a range of ten miles. Once the bombs are placed, the team inside gets out, and we detonate from a safe distance.”

  “We’ll have our navy off the coast, bombarding any of Rodion’s men that survive, and have the rest of our army, along with the clans, to the east, pinning them against the coastline,” Dean said. “Each bomb has a blast radius of twenty feet. You multiply that by a hundred, and we can put a serious dent in the number of soldiers left to fight.”

  Canice picked up one of the small bomb-like figurines and pinched it between her fingertips. Striking the camp where all of the soldiers were in one place would solve a lot of their problems, but there was no guarantee they’d make it out alive. “You mentioned you needed a boat.”

  “And a captain to sail her,” Dean replied.

  Canice placed the figurine back on the map, the lock keeping the beast at bay whining as it swung open, and the animal took its first step into freedom. “When do we leave?”

  ***

  It was nightfall when the capital’s port came into view, and the cloudy sky provided the perfect cover for the Sani on its approach. The vessel had been outfitted with sails to make their infiltration less noticeable, and cruised quietly up the coast.

  Jason stood at the bow and closed his eyes, listening to nothing but the waves and the wind and trying to keep the queasiness in his stomach at bay. It had been decided that Dean would stay with the army and put them into position. Jason didn’t have the same clout with the clansmen as his brother did.

  Aside from the sickness, he never minded sailing, but luckily this trip afforded other distractions to keep his thoughts from wandering. The Russian general was responsible for the death of two of his brothers and an alliance with the man who had tried to kill him. He looked to Canice, who sat just a few feet away, her eyes fixed on the same horizon as his, and wondered who would get to Rodion first. The woman had a vendetta, and Jason would have to be quick if he were to kill the general before she did.

  “Your brother told me you never liked sailing,” Canice said, sensing his gaze.

  “He always told me that the se
a was life. That everything that was ever good came from it, and everything that he loved the most lived on it. I never heard him speak about love before until that moment, and I wasn’t quite sure what he meant by it. Now I am.”

  Canice broke her steely gaze in front of her and shifted it to Jason. The stoic stone across her face cracked. “I loved your brother.” She quickly wiped a tear from her eye, trying to stop the dam from bursting. “And I know you did as well. We both want the same man dead.”

  “Whoever gets to him first will have the honors.”

  Canice gave a faint nod and regained the composure of vengeance she’d carried since the funeral. For some reason, standing there watching her, Jason’s mind drifted back to Gabriela. The ease with which his mind shifted startled him. But what astonished him most was not that he pictured her on the dance floor, in the flowing blue dress with flowers in her hair, but as Gabriela the general. She held a machete in her hand and had a rifle slung over her shoulder, her thick black hair pulled back in her hat and an entire army behind her.

  Strength. It was the foundation of Jason’s entire family. It wasn’t the wars or the blood or the legend; it was the quiet, calm, ever-present security of strength. The only reason his family had been known for war is because they were born into war, but whatever the environment, they would always succeed.

  Canice grabbed Jason’s shoulder, shaking him out of his daze. “We’re ready to dock.” She disappeared in the darkness of the ship’s deck, and Jason was left alone.

  This is it. The main Northwest port was heavily guarded by Rodion’s men to keep watch on any of their approaching fleet. As much as the Russian general held a strategic advantage on land, by sea he was vulnerable. But what neither the general nor his scouts understood were the number of natural ports along the coast.