Hope's End: A Powder Mage Short Story by Brian McClellan Page A

it is better I weather this marriage of mine, with a husband who cheats and steals and lies and threatens to beat my daughter, than go through with a divorce.”
    “I’m sorry to say it, my love, but your father is a fool.”
    “I know. I’ve told him that to his face. Now you’ll be late to see the general. You better go.” She leaned forward and touched his knees, then ran a thumb across his cheek. “Come back when you’re finished and we’ll celebrate.”
    Constaire left the tent with the spry step of a young man whose world was covered in gold. Verundish kept the smile on her face until he was gone, and then let it slide away like a weathered mask.
    She picked up the letter and read the last paragraph.
    Your father will still not grant us a divorce. I intend to wed my mistress by the end of the year. Either ensure our divorce or kill yourself. If I’m not rid of you within three months I will sell the girl to a Starlish slaver.
    She had no idea how much time had passed, but Verundish was still staring at the letter when she heard Constaire’s voice call her name from outside the tent. She stirred, and registered the distant thump of Adran artillery as it pounded the Gurlish stronghold of Darjah. She could hear the clamoring of her fellow soldiers as they prepared the evening meal.
    She had meant to be wearing considerably less when Constaire returned. She struggled to bring a smile to her face. It was the least she could do.
    Wait. Something was wrong. Constaire never called her by her full name. He was the only one in the army with the gall to call her ‘Verie.’ He was the only man in the army she would allow to do so. And she couldn’t remember the last time he had asked before entering her tent.
    “Come,” she said.
    Constaire lacked his normal smile, and his eyes were sightless and haunted as he slipped inside. Verundish had seen a similar look on men who had lost a limb to cannon fire or watched a friend gunned down beside them.
    “What’s wrong?” she said, tucking her own troubles into the back of her mind. Time enough to shoot herself later tonight, after Constaire had left.
    “May I sit?” he asked. His eyes didn’t meet hers.
    Verundish remembered all of the times he had swept into her tent and taken her in his arms, throwing them both down onto the cot in a fit of laughter. Her concern deepened. “Of course.” She straightened the blankets, and as she did she slid the loaded pistol beneath her pillow to a better hiding spot under her cot.
    Constaire lowered himself onto the cot beside her. She took his hand, noting the way his tender white skin contrasted so deeply with the black roughness of her fingers. Constaire had never worked a day in his life, but Verundish did not hold it against him. It was his carefree attitude that had attracted her in the first place.
    “They’ve chosen me to lead the Hope’s End against Darjah,” Constaire said.
    Verundish’s breath caught in her throat. “No. I thought you were being considered for promotion!”
    “If I survive, I’ll be a major.” The ghost of a smile crossed his lips and disappeared. He bent his head forward as if to pray.
    Hope’s End. The leading charge against an enemy’s stronghold. The first through the breach—facing fixed bayonets, cannons, and sorcery. Members of the Hope’s End rarely survived the first volley, let alone the capture of the fortress itself.
    “There’s nothing you can do?” Verundish asked.
    Constaire shook his head. “The order came directly from General Tamas. I think,” his eye twitched, “that he does not like that my father bought me this commission.”
    General Tamas was infamous for his belief that rank should be earned, not bought. He often put nobles in a place of danger in order to test their mettle. His stance had benefited the commoners beneath his command, and the men loved him for it. But this was going too far. Constaire would die.
    “Why a Hope’s End? Why now?”
    Constaire