Styke grabbed her shoulder, and she suddenly leapt away from him, stumbling through the surf and falling into a defensive stance, her passive face suddenly angry. That coppery scent grew stronger in Styke’s nostrils, and he became very conscious of Celine standing between them.
“Whoa,” he said gently, reaching out and taking Celine by the hand. He pushed her behind him, jaw tight, then set one hand on the hilt of his boz knife. “Explain.”
Ka-poel looked from Styke to Jackal and back again, no doubt taking note of the carbine in Jackal’s hands. There was something suddenly feral in her eyes that Styke did not like—that he had not seen before. Her gaze shifted slowly to Celine, and that feral look seemed to fade. She straightened; then her hands flashed, repeating the phrase from a moment ago. Then she continued.
“It’s not here,” Celine translated. “I was wrong. My … compass was wrong. This godstone is not in Fatrasta.”
Styke resisted the urge to take a half step closer. “Then where have you been leading us?”
“Toward the godstone.”
“You just said it’s not in Fatrasta …” Styke trailed off, realization setting in. He turned toward the western horizon, staring across the ocean in the direction she’d been facing when they reached the beach. “The third godstone is in Dynize?”
Ka-poel gave a short nod.
Styke thought of all the soldiers who’d died to get them here—of the lancers who’d fallen, of the new recruits who’d been butchered by a vengeful Dynize cuirassier, and of his own wounds he’d gathered on the journey. He bit his tongue, hard, clamping down on his rage, and considered having Taniel Two-shot come after him if he staved Ka-poel’s head in this very instant.
“How long have you known?” he managed when he finally allowed himself to speak.
“I have suspected for a few days.”
“And you didn’t tell me this back at the cuirassier camp? Or any time since as we rode deeper into enemy territory?”
Ka-poel’s anger and defiance finally flagged, her gaze falling. “I needed to be sure.”
“So … what?” Styke raised his hands, then let them fall at his sides again. He paced in the surf. “Your internal compass, this thing that’s been leading as many as two thousand men across a continent at war, is off? By what? A thousand miles?”
“More like five hundred, I think.”
Styke scoffed. Five hundred miles. He pointed to the ocean, finally taking that half step forward. “I can’t ride my lancers across an ocean! Unless you’re hiding something beyond that blood magic, I don’t think you can do anything to change that. Can you?” He paused, feeling suddenly lost. All this time, all these lives. For nothing. “Can you?” he whispered.
Ka-poel shook her head.
Styke climbed back up the cliffs, leaving Jackal to keep an eye on Celine. By the time he reached the top, his mind was made up, his resolve strengthened. He found Ibana and Gustar waiting for him, while the lancers prepared a camp just beneath the rise of the hill, where they couldn’t be spotted by passing ships.
“Pack it up,” he said quietly.
Ibana’s eyebrows rose. “Excuse me?”
“We’re going back. The blood sorcerer was wrong. The godstone lies beyond the ocean.”
Both Ibana and Gustar stared at him, working their jaws, coming to terms with this news. “Beyond the ocean?” Gustar asked, rubbing a hand across the stubble on his cheek.
“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” Styke couldn’t feel anything but anger right now, and he fought the urge to go find Amrec, take Celine, and ride off before anyone could stop him. He wondered if he should just do that—if this dream of a reborn Mad Lancers was just a fool’s errand.
He shouldered Gustar out of the way, heading toward Amrec. He heard boots behind him, and Ibana say, in a warning tone, “Don’t meddle with him in this mood.”
Gustar snatched him by the arm a moment later. Styke whirled, his boz knife coming to hand, and snatched Gustar up by the front of his jacket. “Pack,” Styke ordered.
“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.