The Guns of Empire

T
HE
S
HADOW
C
AMPAIGNS

The Thousand Names

The Shadow Throne

The Price of Valor

The Shadow of Elysium
(a novella)

T
HE
F
ORBIDDEN
L
IBRARY
N
OVELS

The Forbidden Library

The Mad Apprentice

The Palace of Glass

ROC

Published by New American Library,

an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

This book is an original publication of New American Library.

Copyright © Django Wexler, 2016

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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-P
UBLICATION DATA:

Names: Wexler, Django, author.

Title: The guns of empire/Django Wexler.

Description: New York City: ROC, [2016] | Series: The shadow campaigns; 4

Identifiers: LCCN 2016007203 (print) | LCCN 2016012687 (ebook) | ISBN 9780451477323 (hardcover) |

ISBN 9780698409460 (ebook)

Subjects: LCSH: Imaginary wars and battles—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION/Fantasy/Epic. | FICTION/Fantasy/ General. | FICTION/Fantasy/Historical. | GSAFD: Fantasy fiction. | War stories.

Classification: LCC PS3623.E94 G86 2016 (print) | LCC PS3623.E94 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2016007203

Map by Cortney Skinner

PUB
LISHER'S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For all the hardworking historians
from whom I swipe my
ideas

Book four! I honestly had no idea, back at the dawn of time, when I was first working things out, that there would even
be
a book four. But here we are.

As always, I have been assisted by a courageous cadre of beta readers, who keep me from haring off in the wrong direction. This time the team consisted of M. L. Brennan (check out her books; you won't be disappointed), Rhiannon Held (ditto!), Elisabeth Fracalossi, and Lu Huan. Casey Blair continued in her unique role of reading my outlines, listening to my ramblings, and helping me fix plot points I hadn't written yet with an almost magical ease.

Thanks are (always and forever) due to my agent, Seth Fishman, as well as his colleagues at the Gernert Company: Will Roberts, Rebecca Gardner, and Flora Hackett. My gratitude also to the coagents around the world who help these books find their way to unexpected places.

I'm always grateful to my editors, but Jessica Wade really went beyond her usual duties for this one: helping me write and rewrite the outline, answering my frantic e-mails, and making the schedule work in spite of me. Further thanks to all the people at Roc who helped to make this book a reality but don't get to put their names on it.

Finally, of course and always, I thank the readers who've followed the story so far. I can only strive to live up to your
expectations.

T
he last of the spring storms was always the most violent, and this one was a monster, lashing the desolate mountainside with wind and rain. Lightning crackled among the towering clouds and speared down in blinding white bolts to strike the spires of Elysium. The fortress-city clung to the mountain like a barnacle on a rock, hunkered down against the fury of the heavens. It had stood for nearly a thousand years, and no storm had washed it away yet.

But the downpour would end soon, and with it the rainy season, giving way to the hot, dry summer of northern Murnsk. The roads would dry and the fields would turn green with crops, and another sort of storm would come, a storm of men and cannon that was powerful enough to sweep even Elysium from its perch. The high, straight stone walls that had made the city impregnable in an earlier era were useless in this age of field-guns and mortars.

The Pontifex of the Black stood in a triangular room and waited for his colleagues, listening to the gurgle of water through a thousand hidden channels and the occasional distant grumble of thunder. He imagined the thunder magnified a hundredfold, cannonballs smashing the holy city to pieces above his head. Tearing down the great walls, ripping through the libraries and dormitories and the innumerable chapels with their patron saints. Destroying his life's work, and the work of his predecessors, stretching back in an unbroken chain to Elleusis Ligamenti and then to Karis the Savior himself.

For one thousand, two hundred, and nine years, the Priests of the Black had performed their sacred duty and the ignorant world had been kept safe from the Beast of Judgment. They had cut a broad swath through the armies of hell, imprisoning every fiend within their reach, until demons and sorcerers had faded in the mind of the common man to nothing more than stories and legends.
And all this work—all the good the Church had ever done, all that they'd bought with Karis' sacrifice—could be erased, the prisons opened and the demons scattered to the winds, the Beast itself unleashed once more.

No,
the pontifex thought.
Not while I have the watch. No matter what those other fools may say.

The door opened with a squeal of rusty hinges, raising a cloud of dust. This meeting room had gone officially unused since the supposed dissolution of the Priests of the Black, the two remaining Church leaders preferring to meet in more elevated surroundings. In normal times, the Pontifex of the Black might see them once every few years, the shadow order going about its business in the depths of the city, invisible to the red- and white-robed priests who walked in the light of day. But these, of course, were not normal times.

The Pontifex of the White entered, his spotless robe instantly acquiring a fine patina of gray as the dust settled. He was an old man whose tall gold-edged hat concealed his balding pate. He glanced up at the Black and grunted a greeting, picking his way carefully across the moldy carpet to the ornate table. Pulling back one of the tall chairs produced another wave of dust.

“Still raining,” the White said, fruitlessly brushing at the velvet seat with one hand. “It brings me aches, you know. I've asked the Lord why it should be that rain outside makes my bones ache in here, but He hasn't deigned to answer.”

He sat down, easing into the chair with an exaggerated sigh. The Pontifex of the Black remained standing.

“When you get to my age,” the White said, “you start to question the wisdom of building your holy city on the side of a mountain a thousand miles from anywhere.”

“I believe,” the Black said, unable to stop himself from rising to the bait, “it was intended to focus the mind on the contemplation of the divine.”

“
You
may need help concentrating on the contemplation of the divine, but I don't,” the White said. “It's been sixty years and I'm quite good at it. I could contemplate the divine quite handily in a warm garden somewhere, I assure you. Out here we freeze, drown, or fry by turns.”

“Take it up with Saint Ligamenti.”

“Believe me, on the day the Lord sees fit to scoop me up, I certainly intend to.”

And we all devoutly wish that day comes soon,
the Black thought. Not that any potential replacement was likely to be better. The Priests of the White were more than adequately supplied with pompous, overbearing fools.

“Have you started already?” said the Pontifex of the Red, pushing through
the half-open door. He was younger than either of his colleagues, with a bulbous, beet-colored nose and eyebrows like overgrown hedges.

“Only pleasantries, Brother,” the Black said. His voice was a harsh rasp, legacy of a childhood illness that had nearly killed him. “Our Brother of the White was discussing the weather. He had observed that it is still raining.”

“It does that this time of year.” The Red took his seat, heedless of the dust.

The Black followed, more slowly. The three of them sat around the triangular table that had once been the ultimate seat of power for the entire continent, stared at one another, and wondered who would speak first.

“The Vordanai have called for an armistice,” the Red said, breaking the stalemate. “Representatives are gathering in Talbonn. Vhalnich and the queen will be there.”

Alone of the three, the Pontifex of the Black was masked, wearing the glittering obsidian that marked his order. It concealed his expression, which meant he could allow himself a silent snarl.
Vhalnich.
The Vordanai general was at the center of everything. The Church had summoned its allies to war after Vhalnich had overthrown their puppet Orlanko in Vordan, only to watch the accursed man smash through armies and fortresses with alarming ease. Now, as the war entered its second year, Vhalnich had consolidated his power as First Consul of the Kingdom of Vordan, answering only to Queen Raesinia.

“Who is the emperor sending?” the White asked.

“Prince Dzurk.”

“An oaf,” the Black said.

“But an important oaf,” the Red said. “Third in line for the throne of Murnsk. And the Borelgai have sent Duke Dorsay.”

“If they can still lift him onto a horse,” the White said. “That fossil has been fighting battles since
I
was a boy.”

“Three armies camped across the border from one another,” the Red said. “And four great powers at the negotiating table. The question is, what will the Vordanai offer?”

“The Hamveltai will accept anything as long as it means peace,” the White groused. “After the whipping they took in the autumn, they're practically begging Vhalnich to leave them be.”

“Viadre is divided,” the Red said. “Quite a few in the Borelgai court want to recognize the revolution as an accomplished fact, especially now that Vhalnich has put the queen back in control. Wars are bad for business. And by sending Dzurk, the emperor indicates he is at least listening.”

“Then this conference must be stopped,” the Black said. “The war must go on for as long as it takes.” He slammed his hand down on the table, raising a plume of dust. The other two men stared at him.

“We brought the great powers to war,” the Red said after a moment. “It wasn't difficult, when Vordan seemed weakened by revolution. There were spoils to be had, or so they all assumed. But now? The Vordanai will not have spent the winter idle, and Vhalnich seems invincible in the field. The prospects are suddenly no longer so pleasant.”

“This is not about
prospects
or
spoils
,” the Black said. “They must be commanded—”

“The Church does not command,” the Red said. “Not in the secular world. We advise. We suggest. And if we push too hard against the current of history, we risk being shoved aside. The day the King of Borel or the Emperor of Murnsk thinks to himself, ‘But how many battalions can the Pontifex of the Red send against me?' is the day our power disappears forever.”

“If the emperor defies us, we can destroy him,” the Black grated. “If we declare him in violation of Church law, the peasants of Murnsk will rise up—”

“And then who will fight the Vordanai?” the Red said.

There was a long silence.

“You are saying there will be peace,” the Black said.

“I am saying we must let matters take their course,” the Red said. “Sometimes it is best to step aside.”

“Vhalnich is
dangerous
,” the Black said.
Why can't they see it?
“Not just to Vordan, but to the world. He has the Thousand Names, the greatest archive of demonic lore outside these walls. And he has the help of the servants of the Beast! The old heresy has
survived
, and who knows how strong it has grown out in the forgotten corners of the world?”

“So you say,” the White huffed. “We have only the conjecture of your agent.”

“Shade has proved his trustworthiness many times over,” the Black said. “We cannot afford to ignore his warning. If it's true, if Vhalnich is a pawn for the old Mages, then he will not be content with ruling Vordan. He will come here and unleash the destruction we have stood against for so long.”

“I think you are frightened of him, Brother,” the White said. “Is it because he has beaten you? You have sent your monsters and freaks against Vhalnich, all to no avail. Your order is charged with the suppression of sorcery and heresy, and it sounds to me like you have
failed
.”

The Pontifex of the Black gritted his teeth. The White supposedly took no
interest in the affairs of the temporal world, but the old man was always too well informed.

“I
am
frightened of him,” the Black said. “And you should be as well. The whole world should be. He is the greatest threat we have faced since the Schism, and the Church must be united against him.” He slammed his hand on the table again. “Tell me, Brothers, where in our vows do we swear to stand against the darkness
whenever it is politically convenient
?”

Looking from one face to the other, he knew he had lost.

“I think,” the Red said, “that peace could be an advantage. After all, Vhalnich can hardly march an army to Elysium if he has just signed an armistice with the emperor. While the negotiations drag on, I'm sure we can trust our brother of the Black to handle things . . . more discreetly.”

“You've made this mess,” the White snapped. “You're going to have to clean it up.”

There was a long silence, and then the Pontifex of the Black got to his feet. “Very well, Brothers,” he said. “If you'll excuse me, I have preparations to make.”

—

“Disaster,” the Black said, stalking through the underground corridors. “It stares them in the face, and still they won't act.”

“Yes, Your Excellence,” said the scribe, hurrying to keep up with his master's long strides. A torchbearer and two armed and masked priests followed behind.

“Tell the communicators I will wish to speak to Shade,” the Black said. Shade—Ionkovo, as he was known to the world—was with Duke Orlanko and the Borelgai. “How long until Mirror reaches Talbonn?”

The scribe shuffled the papers in his hands. “Still several weeks, Your Excellence, even with favorable roads.”

The pontifex cursed silently. There were stories of demons who could transport themselves across the world in an eyeblink, but no such creature had ever been found by the diligent agents of the Priests of the Black. The paired communicators could throw his voice to the other side of the continent, but someone had to be on the other end to act on his words. And with the apparent destruction of his best field team in Vordan, the ranks of the Penitent Damned had grown thin.

There had never been as many of the demonic assassins as legend held. Individuals strong enough to bear a demon's weight on their soul and selfless enough to accept eternal torment to aid the salvation of others were hard to
find, and in any case the Church did not wish to risk unleashing too many fiends. Of those they did create, many never left Elysium, using their powers to mend or speak or scribe. Others were tucked away all over the world, influencing local events and watching for signs of sorcery. Only a minority of demons were truly useful in battle, and many years of training were often required before a Penitent could be trusted in the outside world.

It was easy for his brothers in the White and Red to say that Vhalnich was his problem to resolve. The man was canny, and protected by at least one powerful demon.
But not invincible. An opportunity will come.
With a wrench, he turned his mind to the other pressing matter.

“What about the search for the host?” he said. “Any progress?”

The scribe brightened. “Apparently so, Your Excellence. The fifty-fourth subject is in the eighth hour of recitation, and Father Milovic believes she may have the strength to complete the invocation.”

Finally.
It had been nearly a year this time. “I'll see her for myself.”

—

The Pontifex of the Black descended.

Down, down, down, past the basements that housed the bulk of the Priests of the Black, past the prison levels where the demons were bound, endless corridors of barred cells, each inscribed with the name of a fiend. The greatest demons had grand, poetic names—the Panoply Invisible, Wraith of Shadows, Caryatid—but the majority, those captured in relatively recent days, were more prosaic. Farsight #14, Heat Protection, Earth-Shaping #3.

Each cell contained a miserable wretch of a man or woman, serving as a host for the demon so named. Some of them were “wild,” captured by the agents of the Church, but most had been created here in Elysium, forced to recite the names of the creatures they now bore. It all went back to the discoveries of Elleusis Ligamenti, the founding genius of the order. First, that while some poor souls were infected with demons “naturally” at birth, the creatures could be summoned more reliably by the recitation of their names. Second, that these names could be deduced by careful experimentation on captive subjects. And third, most important, that demons were
singular
—once summoned into a host, they were trapped there until the host died, unable to spread their evil to others.