The Shadow Throne: Book Two of the Shadow Campaigns

by Wexler, Django

  Janus’ lip curved in a slight smile. “I suppose not.”

  Marcus looked around the square. None of his men had done anything more dangerous than fire their muskets at a cuirassier as he went past, and the ranks were still in good order. The grassy interior of the formation was crammed with volunteers, sitting or lying wherever they’d fallen and breathing hard after their desperate flight. He caught one blue uniform amid the dull-colored mass, and recognized Lieutenant Ihernglass, which meant that at least some of the men sprawling around him were actually women. There was certainly nothing feminine about them now, and they’d been liberally smeared with blood and grime. Marcus could see several nursing wounds, and he felt a sudden stab of guilt. I shouldn’t have let them go out there—

  “Captain,” Janus said.

  “Sorry, sir. What was that?”

  “I said that we must seize the moment. I want you to take the volunteers and attack. The artillery will support you.”

  “Attack?” Marcus looked back at the exhausted citizen-soldiers. “I don’t think—”

  “The pike formation is still fresh,” Janus snapped.

  “Perhaps the Colonials should lead—”

  “Captain,” Janus interrupted, “I have no time for argument. You will lead that attack now, or I will find someone who will.”

  “Yessir.” Marcus drew himself up and saluted. “At once, sir!”

  He ran to the edge of the square, edged sideways between the surprised rankers, and hurried across the killing ground toward the pikemen. These volunteers, still formed into a rough block, had done nothing but bristle and cheer as the horsemen swept past. Marcus waved his hat at the blue-uniformed lieutenant in charge.

  “Captain!” The man—Bosh, Marcus recalled—snapped a salute. “Do you have orders?”

  “We’re to attack, on the double.” Marcus pointed up the slope, at an angle that would let the pikes edge around the still-formed squares. “That way. Follow me!”

  “With this lot, sir? They don’t know how to march! We’ll just be a mob.”

  “It’s what we’ve got,” Marcus said, trying to emulate Janus’ peremptory demeanor. He raised his voice. “We’re going at them! Follow me!”

  An enthusiastic cheer came from the ranks of the volunteers. There was nothing for raising men’s morale, Marcus thought, like watching a battle without actually being shot at. He waved his hat in the air again, chopped his hand in the direction he wanted, and set off.

  Lieutenant Bosh’s prediction came true almost immediately. As soon as they started to move, the ranks the sergeants had so painfully constructed dissolved, and the formation started to look more like a blob than a rectangle. He heard the clatter of wood and the occasional shocked screech as men tangled their long-hafted weapons, trod on one another’s feet, or fell over.

  “Keep those pikes up!” Bosh shouted, walking backward and waving his arms frantically. “Keep together!”

  “Double time!” Marcus said, and then broke into a trot himself. The sound of confusion behind him increased, but he could hear the thud of many boots climbing the hill. The Colonials gave him a cheer as he went past, and to either side the cannoneers were running back to their guns.

  Crossing the crest of the hill, he was confronted with an immense bank of smoke, just starting to break up in the feeble breeze. Through a few gaps, he could see the enemy line, still putting itself back together after its last attempt to catch the fleeing volunteers. The reason for Janus’ haste was suddenly obvious—until the line got back into shape, and the men reloaded their muskets, there would be no volley of deadly, coordinated fire to break the momentum of the pikemen’s charge. But how the hell could he know that, from the other side of the hill—

  Marcus shook his head. One day, he thought, he might learn to stop second-guessing Janus bet Vhalnich. He drew his sword as the leading edge of the mass of pikemen came over the grassy top of the hill behind him. From either side, the boom of cannon resumed as the artillery picked up its attack.

  If this works, it’s going to be one of those things that get written down in the history books. He wondered, briefly, what he should say. Oh well. I can always think of something clever later to tell the historians.

  “Come on!” He chopped downward, toward the enemy. “Let’s get the bastards!”

  Marcus broke into a run. Behind him, the volunteers let out another cheer and followed. They made it halfway to the enemy line before someone with a loaded musket spotted them through the smoke, and a crackle of musket fire came to meet them. Marcus heard balls zipping overhead, and men jerked and tumbled behind him, but for the moment he was untouched. He didn’t dare stop, for fear of one of his own men skewering him from behind.

  He expected an awful collision, the crash of body on body and weapon on flesh, but it never happened. The men in the thin line of regulars watched the pikes come on, three thousand strong, and made a rapid assessment of their chances. First one by one, then all in a flood, they broke and ran, sprinting down into the valley, desperate to stay ahead of the vengeful mob. In spite of the shouts of the officers, the panic was contagious, as the companies to either side of where the line had been breached decided they were better off following their companions.

  In a few seconds, the solid-looking line of blue had shattered around the charge of the pikes like a pane of glass hit by a stone. The regulars were in full flight, scattered across the valley, and the volunteers whooped and went after them. Marcus slowed to a trot, then finally halted, his sword still unbloodied. He couldn’t have brought his cheering men under control if he’d wanted to, but it no longer mattered. High on the other hill, he could see rearing horses and frantic motions, as Orlanko’s officers and cannoneers also decided on the better part of valor.

  The battle was over.

  Now what?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  MARCUS

  The greatest challenge the new government had faced so far was staging the victory parade. The military officers had wanted to hold it in the traditional spot, on the main drive at Ohnlei, while the Deputies-General had insisted it wind through Cathedral Square on the Island to pay proper respect to the representatives of the people. In the end the queen had arranged a compromise—the procession would begin at the palace and make its way through miles of countryside, to finally enter the city and finish at the cathedral. A reviewing stand was hastily erected by the side of the Ohnlei Road, roughly halfway along the route.

  Marcus thought it was a bit hard on the soldiers, who had done all the marching and fighting and would now be required to march a few miles more. When he’d mounted the reviewing stand, however, he began to perceive the wisdom of Raesinia’s solution. The side of the road was lined with people, cheering and waving blue-and-silver flags. They stretched in an unbroken line toward the city as far as he could see, as though the entire population of Vordan had turned out to bear witness to their triumph. Trying to cram all of the spectators onto either the palace grounds or into the square would have been a disaster.

  He was used to thinking of the queen as a passive participant in the plans of the likes of Janus or Orlanko. But she’s smarter than we give her credit for, isn’t she?

  At the moment, Raesinia sat at the front of the stand, in a dress that, while elaborately laced and ruffled, was nonetheless black. Recent events might have blotted out the memory of the king’s death for some, but not for her. The officers present had added black armbands to their uniforms, which served a nicely doubled symbolic duty of representing their mourning and expressing solidarity with the volunteers who’d fought and died only a few miles north of here.

  She was surrounded by a mixed flock of courtiers and army officers, the former in brightly colored finery and the latter in dress blues trimmed with silver and gold. It was, as yet, a small flock. Proclamations had gone out immediately following the victory, calling on the great nobles
and the colonels of all the army regiments to come and swear loyalty to the new queen and the Deputies-General, but so far only a few had answered. Some noblemen and -women, younger sons and daughters for the most part, had arrived bearing excuses for their families, but few of the counts and almost none of the colonels had turned up. They were frightened by the Deputies-General and its rhetoric, and in spite of the queen’s triumph they were hedging their bets. An aristocrat’s first allegiance was always to survival. The officers who had come were younger men, captains and lieutenants who’d come up through the college and were eager to spit in the eyes of their higher-born colleagues.

  No one came to dance attendance on the new Minister of War. They’d offered perfunctory congratulations, but Marcus suspected that most of the officers hoped to persuade the queen to reject the country nobleman in favor of one of their own. After all, they told each other, he’d only gotten lucky, and happened to have his men on the spot in the moment of crisis. And Khandar, well, whipping a troop of gray-skins wasn’t such a great feat when it came down to it, was it?

  Marcus almost felt sorry for them. The queen was definitely a great deal smarter, and more stubborn, than they gave her credit for. And, having worked with Janus for the past week on drafting his plans for a reorganization of the Royal Army, he knew that these men were about to have their world turned upside down.

  “May I ask a question, sir?” Marcus said.

  “Certainly, Colonel.”

  For a moment Marcus nearly looked over his shoulder to see who Janus was speaking to. He fingered the silver eagles on his shoulders uneasily, as if to confirm they were still there.

  “I think I’ve puzzled out most of what you did during the battle. Using the volunteers as a skirmish screen was inspired.”

  “I guessed it would confuse the enemy,” Janus said. “The Desoltai used similar tactics, if you recall, and they certainly caused problems for me.”

  “And you knew they would eventually have to commit their cavalry.”

  “Indeed. It was Orlanko’s misfortune that he had only a regiment of heavies available. A few squadrons of hussars or dragoons would have been better suited to the task.”

  “I even,” Marcus said, “understand why you launched the final attack when you did. The enemy were still in disorder from their own charges.”

  A smile flickered across Janus’ face. “None of this amounts to a ‘question,’ Colonel.”

  “Why did you send in the volunteer pike? Why not the Colonials? It seemed to me that a charge by regular troops would have made success more certain.”

  “Ah,” Janus said. “Truthfully, there were a number of reasons. The Colonial formations were still tied up with the fleeing skirmishers, and it would have taken time to get them shaken out and moving. I judged that a single concerted assault, delivered promptly, would be more likely to succeed than a more traditional attack by lines. There was also the matter of keeping something in reserve—if the attack had failed, the Colonials could be relied on to hold their ground, whereas the volunteers would likely have panicked. The proper use of reserves is crucial. If the Last Duke had kept a few of his battalions in reserve to launch a counterattack, things might have gone very differently.”

  “I think I understand that, sir.”

  “Also,” Janus said, lowering his voice slightly, “there’s the matter of replacement.”

  “Sir?”

  “Casualties among the volunteers will be easy to replace.” He waved a hand at the crowds. “A call from the queen would no doubt produce a groundswell of support. Whereas well-trained, reliable troops are in very short supply. It seemed prudent to preserve the Colonials, as much as it was practicable.”

  There was a long pause. Marcus looked away from Janus’ face, following his gaze down to the passing lines of volunteers. One company, marching with a slightly larger gap ahead and behind than usual, was just passing in front of the reviewing stand. Marcus recognized the slim figure of Lieutenant Ihernglass in the lead, and though the soldiers behind him wore trousers instead of skirts, there was no concealing their true identity. A mutter ran through the gathered officers, and the crowds on either side of the road fell silent for a moment as they passed.

  Then the queen, rising from her seat, offered the female soldiers a wave. Cheers rose again, louder than before, and the company marched on.

  “Then,” Marcus said, “you don’t think this is over?”

  “It’s a long way from over, Colonel. This may only be the beginning. Given time, we may be able to bring the army and the nobles into line, but . . .” Janus sat back in his chair, eyes hooded. “Don’t forget the matter of our prisoner.”

  Marcus winced. The Guardhouse had been critically undermanned since the fall of the Vendre, a skeleton of a skeleton crew, and no one had even noticed that Adam Ionkovo was gone until long after it had happened. Gone, from inside a locked cell, with no evidence of violence.

  “One of the guards is missing as well,” Marcus said. “It’s quite possible that Ionkovo or his allies got to him, and now he’s either gone to ground or been disposed of.”

  “It’s possible,” Janus said. “But I doubt it. Ionkovo let himself be captured because he knew he could escape. My guess is he was the one who shot Danton, and he pulled the same disappearing act there.”

  “Then you think he’s one of them. The ignahta.” The Elysian word felt alien on Marcus’ tongue. “Like Jen.”

  Janus nodded. “That is the true face of our enemy, Captain. Don’t forget it.”

  Marcus shook his head, but said nothing. The enemy that he cared about was still out there. Orlanko. The duke had fled north after the defeat, to meet with his Borelgai allies. He’ll tell me the truth about what he did to my family. Even if I have to choke it out of him.

  “You intend to press the issue?” Marcus asked, after a moment.

  “I have no choice.” Janus tapped a finger on the arm of his chair. “Even if I have to lead an army to the gates of Elysium itself.”

  WINTER

  Marcus had given Winter’s company a hall in the former barracks of the imprisoned Noreldrai Grays, now that the Ministry of War was gradually being reopened for its proper function. It was considerably more luxurious accommodations than they’d enjoyed before the battle, or even back at Jane’s building in the Docks. The girls had to bunk four to a room, but they were big rooms with proper beds, glass windows, and clean linen. Winter, somewhat to her embarrassment, had the suite that had belonged to the mercenary captain, which was closer to a nobleman’s apartments than a soldier’s barracks.

  It was the morning after the great victory celebration, and the hall outside was quiet. After the parade, the volunteers had returned to their chaotic encampment at Ohnlei, and a great crowd of citizens had accompanied them. At the queen’s order, the cellars of the palace had been thrown open and barrel after barrel of wine rolled out for the grateful, thirsty crowds. Vendors from the city sold food, with special discounts for anyone wearing a black armband, and enthusiastic entrepreneurs hawked keepsakes, souvenirs, and celebratory woodcuts. One image in particular was everywhere—an artist’s impression of the queen’s surrender, with Raesinia bowing her head in submission to the triumphant Deputies-General while her guards and officers looked on, aghast. Until the small hours of the morning, Winter heard cheers and shouts of “One eagle and the Deputies-General!”

  She’d posted sentries around the hall, as before, to protect her soldiers’ notional virtue, but they were to keep people out, not in. Small groups of girls kept slipping away to join the fun, and while Winter was certain some of them were going to do things they might regret in the morning, she didn’t feel she had the moral standing to try to stop them.

  For herself, she’d stayed in the great bed with Jane. Any carnal desire could be satisfied out there, she was sure, for at best a nominal fee, but it held no attraction for Winter.


  She awoke, naked and warm under the sheets, with Jane clinging to her arm like a limpet. Winter kissed her on the forehead, and Jane’s brilliant green eyes flickered open. She let out a low groan.

  “I am not getting out of bed today,” Jane said. “And neither should you.”

  “I have to,” Winter said. “And so do you. They’re coming back from the hospital today, remember?”

  Winter rolled out of bed, went to the basin to wash, and started buckling herself into her uniform. She caught a raised eyebrow and a lewd look from Jane as she did so, and gave an exaggerated sigh.

  “What?” Jane pulled on her own trousers, trying to look innocent.

  At the outer door of their apartment, Winter could hear shouts of happiness and cheering from outside. They must have arrived. As she reached for the latch, Jane caught her sleeve.

  “What am I supposed to say to her?” Her eyes were glued to the inlaid woodwork, refusing to meet Winter’s.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, ‘Sorry about leaving you to die, glad you didn’t!’ That sort of thing?”

  “It wasn’t like that,” Winter said, putting an arm around Jane’s shoulder. “You know that, and so does she. So does everyone out there.”

  “I was the one who got them into this in the first place,” Jane said. “It’s my responsibility.”

  “You know that’s not true, either. You told me yourself it was their idea.”

  “I know.”

  Winter moved her hand to the back of Jane’s head, pulled her down, and kissed her thoroughly. When they finally broke apart, Jane let out a long breath.

  “I love you,” she said.

  Winter smiled, cheeks only a little pink. “Likewise. Now, I think we have work to do.”

  —

  The newly released patients were gathered in the barracks’ small dining room, along with the girls who were sufficiently clearheaded to leave their beds. The half dozen bandage-wearing wounded were led by Abby, who had a strip of clean white linen wound around her skull but seemed otherwise unhurt.