The Price of Valor

by Django Wexler

  “I don’t . . .” Winter blinked and rubbed at her eyes. “I don’t know how to organize a supply base.”

  “The clerks from the Ministry will handle the details. You’ll be in overall command.” He leaned forward. “Now, it’s possible that I’ll have need of the Third before long. You must be ready to march at an hour’s notice, and march hard. We’re entering a critical period.”

  “Command.” Winter tried hard to concentrate. “Command of what?”

  “The garrison. The city, in effect. Don’t let the locals get the better of you. If you have to, remind them who has the upper hand here.”

  “You’re leaving me in charge of the city?”

  “Don’t worry too much. I imagine it mostly takes care of itself.” Janus got to his feet. “Now I must be going. Get some rest. I’ll have them send your officers in later.”

  “Sir—”

  “One other thing.” A look of unaccustomed uncertainty crossed Janus’ features. “Augustin’s gone missing. I would appreciate it if you kept an eye out.” He sighed. “He’s not the sort to wander off, and I’m worried.”

  “I’ll . . . see what I can do, sir.”

  “Thank you. Now, I’ll be in touch by courier. I have every confidence in you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Incidentally, your part of the battle was excellently fought. Well done.” He gave another brief grin. “Try to do it without getting bashed over the head next time.”

  He bustled out, calling orders before he’d closed the door behind him. Winter took another long drink of water.

  In command . . . of the city?

  It was too much for her to wrap her battered mind around at the moment. She laid her bruised head gingerly back on the pillow and let her eyes close.

  * * *

  When she next awoke, the pain had receded a little, and Bobby and Cyte were waiting by her bedside. Winter pushed herself back in the bed until she was propped up against the headboard and groaned.

  “I had a really terrible dream,” she said. “Janus had marched off and left me in charge of Desland.”

  Bobby and Cyte looked at each other, worried.

  Winter groaned again. “All right. I didn’t get hit that hard. He’s really gone?”

  Bobby nodded. “This morning.”

  “And how does he expect me to run a city? I don’t even speak Hamveltai.”

  “Most of the Deslandai upper class is bilingual,” Cyte said. “Historically, the region has been heavily influenced by both Hamvelt and Vordan. It was actually a Vordanai protectorate until—”

  Winter winced and held up a hand. “Later. Okay. So how bad was it for us?”

  “Captain Verity reports twenty-two dead, thirty-six wounded,” Bobby said, consulting a folded page from her pocket. “Captain Sevran reports fifty-four dead, sixty-two wounded. I’ll have a more detailed report on the injuries soon.”

  Losses were light, he said. Winter remembered the redheaded sergeant—I didn’t even know her name—whimpering and clawing at the wound in her chest. Twenty-two dead. Twenty-two who followed me from Vordan because I told them it was the right thing to do. Twenty-two daughters who won’t be back. She didn’t even want to think about the wounded, the cutters’ tents with the piles of arms and legs outside. “Light.”

  “What about . . .” The question made her feel absurdly guilty, but she had to say it. “Jane?”

  “She’s fine,” Bobby said, an unhappy look on her face.

  Winter’s heart twisted. “What’s wrong?”

  “I think she’s still angry at you.”

  “Oh.” Winter let out a deep breath. “I’ll talk with her. Later.” Guilt prickled. “Is Marsh all right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Who’s been in command while I’ve been . . . out?”

  “Sevran and Abby having been working together, sir. There’s a lot to be done, but they seem to be on top of things.”

  “Still. I need to be up and about.” Winter began to move, but pain lanced through her head again, and she moaned involuntarily. Bobby rushed to press her back into the bed, and Cyte held up her hands.

  “It’s nothing you need to concern yourself with, sir,” Cyte said. “We can handle it. Just supply requisitions, transport arrangements, that sort of thing. The Deslandai have been very cooperative.”

  “You’ve got quarters for everybody? Somewhere to care for the injured?”

  “Yes, sir,” Bobby said. “We’re taking care of it, don’t worry. Just rest for now.”

  Winter nodded carefully. Her eyes went to Cyte, and she cleared her throat. “Do you think you could give me a moment alone with Bobby?”

  “Of course, sir.” Cyte got to her feet and saluted. “I’ll be outside.”

  She left, closing the door behind her.

  “What about you?” Winter said in a low voice. “Are you all right?”

  Bobby held up her right hand, and Winter noticed for the first time she was wearing a dark glove on it. She tugged at it with her other hand until her palm was exposed. A streak of sparkling gray ran across the living flesh.

  “God,” Winter said. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s nothing,” Bobby said, pulling her glove back into place. “Better than losing the hand.”

  “You saved my life.”

  Bobby’s face colored. “I just . . . I saw you fighting, and I wanted to help. I’m sorry I didn’t get there sooner.”

  “Did Abby see anything?” She’d been in the corner, grappling with a Deslandai soldier. “She’s not hurt, is she?”

  “Just a little bruised, sir. And I talked to her, but she didn’t mention anything unusual.”

  Winter smiled weakly. “You’ll have to be careful about snapping swords in half if you want to keep your secret.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  Her evident sincerity made Winter laugh out loud, however much it hurt. “Thank you, by the way. For saving my life. It seems to have become a habit.”

  Bobby grinned. “I do my best, sir.”

  * * *

  By the next morning, Winter felt well enough to walk, albeit with exaggerated caution. She discovered she had been sleeping in the upper room of an abandoned house near the gate, which Janus had appropriated as his headquarters. It was nearly empty now, with the army departed, and Bobby and Cyte arrived to escort her to the new regimental quarters up in the citadel.

  Desland was closer to being two cities than one. Like Vordan City, it was divided by a mighty river, but here there was no convenient island to serve as a footing for bridges, so the Velt flowed on placid and unimpeded. Innumerable barges, skiffs, and other watercraft crossed and recrossed the flat expanse many times a day, from the cargo warehouses and docks of the low-lying west bank to the residences of the upper class on the cliffs of the east.

  Only the east bank had a wall, and it was of medieval construction, a crumbling stone barrier long ago leapfrogged by the expanding city and useless in any case against modern artillery. It also had a citadel, originally intended as a final holdout for the cities defenders in case of a siege. Equipped with barracks and training fields, it made a convenient base, except that it was naturally located at the highest point inside the walls, looking off a cliff over the river. Winter, legs shaky and head throbbing, tried not to think about how much farther they still had to go.

  This part of Desland was not too dissimilar from a well-off district of Vordan City, though the Hamveltai influence was apparent in the steeply sloped roofs with carved wooden buttresses at the corners. Carriages rattled back and forth, and pedestrian traffic was light but steady. There had been an exodus in the first few days as those who were convinced the Vordanai would exact vengeance fled the city, but now the locals who remained had apparently decided their conquerors were not going to put the place to the torch
after all. The three blue uniforms—one of them worn by what was clearly a woman, and one with a colonel’s eagles—drew quite a bit of attention, and they walked in the center of a bubble of stares. Passersby detoured to give them a respectful distance.

  Winter forced herself not to stare back, and instead tried to focus on what Bobby was saying, which was a slightly overexcited explanation of how Janus had won the Battle of Gaafen. Cyte, on her other side, listened with the indulgent air of someone who had heard it all before.

  “—Give-Em-Hell and the Colonials crossed the river upstream, fifty miles short of Gaafen. They had to detour to find a good road, which is why we moved so slowly on the approach. Every day we marched six miles and they made fifteen. Give-Em-Hell started raiding the Deslandai supply lines so they’d think that was all that was going on, and the cavalry kept the scouts from figuring out the infantry was there. They were all in position the day before we reached the Gaafen line.”

  “Wait,” Winter said. “That means the Colonials went over the river before we knew the Deslandai were going to fight at Gaafen?”

  Bobby nodded vigorously. “Janus knew. It’s like he could read their minds. The morning we attacked, Fitz Warus led a company from the Colonials down to the Gaafen Bridge and captured it before the Deslandai engineers could set off the charges they’d rigged to destroy it, and then the rest of the Colonials came over and attacked the town from behind. After we threw back their first attack on the right, Janus brought the center forward, and they just started to panic. The whole Deslandai army fell to pieces in an hour.”

  Winter smiled ruefully. And I thought we might be reduced to battering a fortified position head-on. I ought to have more faith in Janus. Such faith had been justified many times over by now, even if the general was not in the habit of explaining his plans to his subordinates.

  “And the city just surrendered?” Winter said. “We were still on the wrong side of the Velt. They could have tried to keep us from crossing.”

  “Apparently there was a bit of a coup,” Cyte said. “Or at least a shift in government. Desland’s ruled by a merchant’s council, but Hamveltai interests had always held a lot of sway. Nobody seems willing to say exactly what happened, but those members of the council seem to have left town rather suddenly, and what was left didn’t have a lot of interest in continuing the fight.”

  “Better to make money off us than try to fight,” Winter said. “Ashe-Katarion was the same way, until the Redeemers turned on us.”

  “I don’t think that’s very likely here, sir,” Cyte said. “Most of the Deslandai are Sworn Church, but there’s always been a substantial Free Church minority, and they’re on relatively good terms. I don’t think there’s many who are eager to die for Elysium.”

  “That’s something we have in common, then. So there hasn’t been much trouble?”

  Cyte shook her head. “No, sir. Nothing significant.”

  “A few incidents of . . . overexcited carousing,” Bobby said. “But Sevran and Abby have been keeping things under control.”

  “Abby? What about Jane?”

  Bobby looked embarrassed. “You’ll have to talk to her about that, sir.”

  What the hell am I supposed to say to Jane, anyway? She’d blown up at her on the battlefield, in the heat of the moment, but ultimately she’d meant every word. I don’t care what she thinks of the Royals. You can’t leave fellow soldiers to fight on their own if you’ve got a choice. Just thinking about it made Winter feel angry, but that only made things worse. I can’t lose her. Not again.

  The citadel was surrounded by a stone curtain wall, three stories high, enclosing a drill field and a stone keep along with various wooden buildings. The huge doors, solid oak planks banded with iron, stood open. By the rust on the hinges, Winter guessed they hadn’t been closed in decades. She was gratified to see sentries on the wall walk, though, Girls’ Own and Royals both.

  Passing under the wall—the ceiling was full of holes, where medieval defenders in the gatehouse could have poured boiling oil on attackers who’d breached the first set of gates—they emerged into the courtyard. About half of it was taken up with tents; Winter guessed the citadel only had room for a few hundred. In the other half, several companies were drilling while a group of men in regulation uniforms inspected a cartload of crated goods. Soldiers were everywhere, maintaining gear, cleaning linens, or just sitting in the weak autumn sun.

  As soon as Winter entered, silence spread throughout the yard, spreading like a ripple from a stone dropped into a pool. The shouts of the drilling sergeants quieted, and every head turned to stare. The closest soldiers to Winter, two Girls’ Own rankers and a royal corporal working on coiling ropes, bounced to their feet and saluted. Soon that was spreading, too, every man and woman in the yard straightening up and putting a hand over their heart. Winter heard Bobby and Cyte follow suit.

  Winter was certain her cheeks were flaming red. She waved a hand awkwardly.

  “Thank you, everyone.” She patted the bandage that ran around her head. “I’m all right, as you can see. Thank you.” Winter paused. “The general asked me to tell you, ‘Well done.’”

  No one moved, but she saw smiles spreading.

  “That’s all,” Winter said. “Thanks.”

  The crowd of soldiers relaxed, and a low buzz of conversation began again. The three directly in front of Winter stood aside to let her pass.

  “You don’t have to keep thanking them,” Bobby said. “You’re the colonel here.”

  “Sorry,” Winter muttered. “I couldn’t think what else to say. Is Sevran in the keep?”

  Cyte said, “I’ll take you up. Bobby, you need to go find Marsh, don’t you?”

  Bobby blushed but nodded and hurried away. Winter stared after her a moment, then shook her head.

  “You don’t approve?” Cyte said.

  “It’s hardly my place not to.”

  Cyte shrugged. “You seem to worry a good deal about her.”

  “Bobby . . .” Winter sighed. “It’s just that I knew Bobby in Khandar, and . . . she feels very young sometimes.”

  “War has a way of burning that out of people,” Cyte said, then laughed. “Look at me. Half a year ago I’d never swung a sword in anger, and now I can act cynical with the best of them.”

  Winter smiled. “Don’t let Graff hear you say that. He considers cynicism his personal prerogative.”

  “Sir!” Sevran said, rising. “It’s good to see you on your feet.”

  “Right now I’m eager to get off my feet,” Winter said, collapsing into a chair and waving away the captain’s salute. “This is quite a hill they’ve stuck us on top of. Could I trouble you for some water?”

  “Of course!” Sevran gestured at one of the young rankers waiting by the door, and the boy dashed off.

  Winter waited, but the captain remained standing. Eventually she felt compelled to break the silence. “Is something wrong?”

  “Sorry, sir. It’s just . . .” He straightened back to attention. “I wanted to say that I realize I acted against orders, during the battle. I advanced my battalion from the position I was assigned. Captain Verity was correct not to—”

  “No,” Winter said. “She was not. I didn’t just leave you orders, I left you in command. That means making decisions. You saw a threat, and you acted to forestall it. It was the correct decision. Whether or not Captain Verity agreed with you, you were within your rights to order her to support you.”

  Sevran deflated slightly. “Thank you, sir. I recognize that it’s put you in a difficult position.”

  “My personal life is my own problem,” Winter said with more confidence than she felt. “It’s not your responsibility, Captain.”

  The ranker returned with a glass carafe, still cold from the well. He poured a cup, which Winter took gratefully.

  The keep reminded her a little
of the barracks of the Heavenly Guard in Ashe-Katarion. It was richly furnished, with solid furniture, wall hangings, and rugs, but there was no concealing the fact that it had originally been intended as a fortress. The ceilings were low, the walls stone, and the windows were narrow slits that let in hardly any sun. Captain Sevran had taken an old common room on the second floor for a planning room, laying a map of the city out on the big polished table and surrounding it with scraps of notepaper carrying various details. A desk bore stacks of paper, both flimsy army foolscap and thicker pages that must have come from civilians in the city.

  “I’ve made a start on getting the supply lines organized,” he said, following Winter’s gaze. “Janus left us several wagonloads full of people from the quartermaster’s office, and they’re working on securing what we need. Our biggest problem is upriver transport. Goods move north from here mostly by barge, and a lot of the bargemen are Hamveltai. So far they haven’t been very cooperative.”

  “If that’s our biggest problem,” Winter said, “we’re having an easy time of it. We haven’t had any riots, protests, that sort of thing?”

  “No, sir. Not so far. The Vordanai community here has been very accommodating, and the Hamveltai are keeping their heads down. We’re eating better than we have in weeks.”

  “That’s something to look forward to. How are your men holding up since the battle?’

  He pursed his lips. “I’d say they’re doing well, sir. The . . . uh . . . story of your altercation with Captain Verity spread pretty quickly, and it seems to have done a lot for their respect for you.” He smiled. “I haven’t had a single formal complaint, not even from the noble-born lieutenants. Although Lieutenant Novus’ dismissal may have something to do with that.”

  “People heard what I said to Jane?” Winter winced. She’d hoped to keep that between them. “The Girls’ Own can’t be happy about it.”

  “You’d have to ask Captain Verity or Lieutenant Giforte about that, sir, but my impression is that a lot of them think you were right. There may be . . . pockets of grumbling, though.”

  I’ll bet. Jane’s old cronies—Becca, Winn, and the others from the Leatherbacks—wouldn’t be so quick to forgive Winter for humiliating their leader. Thank God Abby seems to have a good head on her shoulders.