“Toward the back. There’s a garden path there that leads down to the Dregs. We should be able to get clear pretty quickly.”
“I’ll stay with Her Majesty,” Marcus said. “Your people can handle the flik-flik team.”
“Right.” Giforte took a deep breath. “I’ll give you the word when we’re ready.”
Raesinia was talking quietly to Feor. A bit belatedly, Marcus realized that all this business of combat and musketry, to which he’d long since become accustomed, represented a new world for her no matter how many clandestine exploits she’d had. He looked over her face, and found no trace of fear there. Maybe being immortal makes it easier to get used to.
“We cannot just leave them,” Feor said. “You don’t know what was sacrificed to get the archive here.”
“We can’t ask Giforte and his men to die to no purpose,” Raesinia said. “We have to—”
Marcus was interested to know whether Raesinia had come to the same conclusions he and Giforte had, but she was interrupted by shouts from the front of the house. A sudden increase in the volume of rifle fire was followed by screams, and the splintery, rending crash of shattering wood.
The main hall, where they were standing, looked through an open foyer onto the front doors. Marcus saw them bow inward, wood cracking and sagging in its metal frame as though it had been hit by a battering ram. Or a cannonball. For a mad moment he thought the Patriot Guard had already gotten a gun in place, but they’d have heard the report—
Another blow tore the doors apart, fragments of wood spinning away and metal bands peeling back. They shuddered open, and through the battle smoke a huge figure loomed. Four Mierantai, who’d backed away from the windows and shouldered their rifles, all fired at once; at such close range they could hardly miss, but the figure didn’t flinch. Two huge strides covered the distance separating it from the soldiers, and it grabbed the closest rifle, tore it from the owner’s hands, and swung it into the next man like a club. The impact snapped the weapon in two and sent the soldier flying across the hall.
It was a huge man, all in black. Smoke clung to the giant, blowing off him like steam. When he turned to regard Marcus and the others, his face was hidden behind a dark mask, covered with glittering fragments of black glass.
“Abh-naathem,” Feor said. Her voice was barely a whisper.
“Giforte,” Marcus roared. “Break out now!”
Giforte shouted orders at the Mierantai. More men appeared on the stairs, and more rifles fired. Marcus could see the balls striking home with little puffs of dust and torn cloth, but they bothered the giant no more than flea bites. He snatched up another soldier in one hand and squeezed, the crunch of breaking ribs audible even over the firefight, then flung the spasming victim aside. As the rest scrambled out of the way, he focused on Raesinia, and the glass on his face shifted as though he was grinning under the mask. The floor shook as he stepped forward.
“Mistress!” Auriana said, moving to stand between the apparition and Feor. “Run!”
“No!” Feor’s voice was thick with despair. Justin, her other student, grabbed her by the arm and dragged her back toward the kitchen, and Marcus and Raesinia followed suit.
Auriana raised her hand, and the giant suddenly paused. He leaned forward and took another step, straining as though walking into a heavy wind. His back foot, digging in for purchase, broke through a floorboard with a crunch.
“No . . . ,” Feor moaned, looking over her shoulder.
“Can she hold him?” Marcus said.
“She’s not strong enough—”
Auriana looked back at them. Her face was a crimson mask, blood pouring from her nose and the corners of her eyes.
“Mistress, run.” Her voice was a bubbly rasp.
“Marcus!” Giforte shouted. “Come on!”
There was firing in the backyard. Giforte had gathered two dozen Mierantai, and they charged the thin cordon of Patriot Guard hiding in the back hedges. Several were hit by musketry as they ran, but the Guards took to their heels before their opponents reached them. Lieutenant White and several of his flik-flik crew, sacks of equipment on their back, followed at a dead run.
Marcus took hold of Raesinia’s arm in one hand and Feor’s in the other, and ran, Justin keeping up behind them. A rear guard of Mierantai followed, while the second floor of the house still spit and fumed rifle fire, keeping the Patriot Guards hunkered down. A piercing scream cut through the battle racket, and Marcus knew the monstrous Penitent had broken through Auriana’s desperate defense.
Giforte, ahead, was beyond a small gate in the hedge and waving frantically. Marcus and his two charges reached it just as the kitchen door of the house exploded, bits of doorframe flying into the yard as the giant shouldered his way through.
“Just run!” Marcus shouted.
But the rear guard was already turning, rifles lowered and bayonets fixed. A volley crashed out, balls pocking the wood around the door and scoring again and again on the monster. His huge head snapped back, and Marcus could see a strip of the black mask hanging loose where a ball had torn it, with a smudge of red underneath.
Marcus ran, following Giforte and the flik-flik team. As the captain had said, the hedge door led onto an alley, twisting between the rear walls and hedges other estates. Screams from behind them indicated that the Penitent was in pursuit.
“Giforte!” Marcus said. The captain slowed enough for him to pull alongside, breathing hard. “We’ll lead him off, through one of these other yards. You get clear!”
“But—”
“White and the others will never outrun him!” The flik-flik team was visibly flagging under the weight of their equipment. “He wants Raesinia. We’ll draw him off and try to lose him. You have to get word to Janus.”
Giforte considered only for a moment, then gave a quick nod. “Good luck!”
We’re going to need it. Marcus drew up short, and Raesinia skidded to a halt beside him. Feor stopped, too, with Justin trailing behind her like a kite.
“Did you catch that?” Marcus said to Raesinia.
“Most of it.” She wasn’t even winded. “It’s a good plan.”
“You two should go with Giforte—” Marcus began, turning to Feor.
At that moment, though, the Penitent burst through the hedge, enormous strides devouring the distance between them. Too late. Raesinia gave him a cheery wave and ducked through the nearest open gate, onto the elaborately landscaped grounds of the elderly manor house. Marcus, Feor, and Justin went after her.
“We’ll never outrun him,” Marcus said. The giant’s head was visible over the hedge, coming closer preposterously fast. “If you take Feor and stay hidden while I run the other way—”
“What did I tell you?” Raesinia said, turning and planting herself in plain view. “I’ll draw him off, you hide.”
“But—”
“I can’t fucking die, Marcus.”
“They can stuff you in a barrel and ship you off to Elysium,” Marcus said. “I can’t let that happen.”
Raesinia looked up at him, then at Feor, jaw set. “I—”
The hedge gate was ripped from its hinges, and the giant stepped through, turning sideways to fit between the close-set plants. He’d been hit by so many rifle balls that his black clothes were in tatters, and blood dripped from his fingers. Marcus couldn’t tell if it was his or his victims’.
I can’t leave her. That was what it came down to. She’s the queen, and I’m a soldier. And—
He drew his saber, setting himself in front of Raesinia.
“He’s bleeding,” he said. “That means he can be killed.”
“Marcus!”
The Penitent Damned nodded, as though acknowledging a challenge, and lumbered into a run. Marcus raised his blade, ready to throw himself to one side. He didn’t seriously expect to survive the first f
ew moments of the confrontation, but he wasn’t going to make it easy.
Raesinia . . .
Wind, sudden and hot, hissed through the manicured garden. It had a smell that Marcus knew, taking him across thousands of miles in an instant. It was the sandy, dry scent of air that had been baked under the sun of the Great Desol, the smell of the east wind in Ashe-Katarion, blowing sand and grit off the desert through the streets of the city. And there was sand in the air now, impossibly, whipping against Marcus’ skin and lodging in his beard. He closed his eyes for a moment against the stinging onslaught and took a step backward.
When he opened his eyes again, the giant had stopped, surrounded by a cloud of flying sand that thickened by the moment. It swirled around the huge man in waves, a dust devil that rose out of nowhere to engulf the Penitent in a whirlwind of blown grit. The giant lashed out, trying to push through the cloud, but his punches met nothing solid. Whenever he tried to take a step, the sand thickened, shoving against him and driving him back.
“I can’t hold him for long.” The voice spoke in Khandarai, and Marcus thought it was just on the edge of familiarity, like someone he’d known in another life. He turned away from the giant, and froze.
“You’re dead,” he managed. “You’re not even real.”
The man standing behind him, in the midst of another swirl of spinning sand, wore the traditional loose brown garments of the Desoltai tribes, with dark gloves on his hands and his hair hidden under a black cloth. His face was concealed behind a mask, a simple metal oval with square slits for eyes and mouth but otherwise featureless.
“Malik-dan-Belial,” Feor said, with something like awe. The Steel Ghost.
Marcus knew him. Or knew the mask, which in the end was all there was to know. The Steel Ghost had been a trick, an illusion, a bogeyman the desert tribes had created out of a mask and a costume to frighten invaders. In the end, his legendary sorcery had been nothing more than a clever means for flashing messages from one place to another, the “language of light” that Janus had used as the basis for the flik-flik system.
But the sand that rolled around him now was no illusion, nor was the force of the wind holding the massive Penitent in place.
“I have done my best to keep the shadow priest in check,” the Steel Ghost said. “But there are too many abh-naathem in the city now. You must stop them, d’Ivoire.” The blank mask turned to Raesinia. “Keep the queen safe. Retrieve the Thousand Names. I will help where I can, but my power—” The giant threw himself against the whirlwind, and the Steel Ghost flinched. “My power has limits.”
“Who are you?” Marcus said. “You’re not—I don’t—”
“We share an enemy, but we are not allies. The abh-naathem’s ambition has no limit, and they must be stopped before they undo the work of a thousand years and bring ruin to us all. That is all you need to know.”
“Marcus?” Raesinia said. “What is he saying? Marcus!”
“Go now,” the Ghost grated. “I will keep this one here as long as I can.”
“He says we should run,” Marcus said in Vordanai. He took hold of Feor and Raesinia and dragged them after him a few steps, until they got the message. Justin, eyes wide, held Feor’s other hand.
“But—” Raesinia began.
“Later!”
Marcus led them around the side of the house. Ahead was the Dregs, crowded even in wartime. But there were Patriot Guards there, too, moving down the street in small groups. Word of the breakout had clearly gotten around.
“Now what?” Raesinia said.
“Back to Mrs. Felda’s,” Marcus said, eyes tracking the guards. “If we can.”
“What about Giforte?” Feor said.
Marcus looked over his shoulder. They’d drawn off the Penitent Damned, but the city was still full of Patriot Guards. There was no way of knowing whether Giforte and his men had made it to their forest bolt-hole without going after them, and that might bring down even more attention.
“He’ll have to manage on his own,” Marcus said. “Right now we need a very deep hole to hide in.”
Chapter Nineteen
WINTER
It took some doing, but they managed to suggest to General de Ferre that—in accordance with the generally accepted rules of civilized war—it would be only fair to offer the Hamveltai a chance to surrender before beginning the assault. The general grudgingly conceded this, but insisted on issuing orders drawing up the attack formations while the ultimatum was delivered to the fortress and a response awaited.
Winter had been worried that the general would insist on writing the note himself, but it transpired that de Ferre spoke no Hamveltai, so the task was delegated to Fitz Warus. It therefore agreed with the story they’d given Anne-Marie to carry the night before, saying that—against all the generally accepted rules of civilized war—the fortress had one hour to capitulate, and that if no surrender was received, not only would it face an assault but no quarter would be offered to prisoners or even civilians.
Of Anne-Marie herself, there’d been no sign since the previous evening. Winter had no idea whether she’d been taken in as a guest, as a prisoner, or even had her head mounted on a pike. It gnawed at her as she drew up the Royals and the Girls’ Own, in accordance with de Ferre’s orders, in two compact columns facing the southeast section of the fortress.
That the assault would be a disaster was obvious even to Winter, who was no student of siege warfare. While not as intimidating as the high walls of a medieval castle, the defenses of Antova were formidable. Instead of solid stone, the “walls” were layers of defenses. First there was a slight rise to deflect incoming cannonballs, then a ditch with an earth rampart behind it, topped by wooden barricades and studded with slits for firing. Beyond that was a narrow track, followed by an even deeper ditch and a higher mound of earth, rising to the parapets themselves, which were crenellated in brick and lined with cannon.
To reach the top, Winter’s soldiers would have to cross the open field at a run, struggle over the first ditch and up the wall. Having reached the lane, they would once again be in the open, facing the deadly close-range fire on the next line of defenders, and an even taller wall to scale. To make matters worse, the star-shaped design of the whole affair meant that each side of the fort was in easy range of at least one other side, so the attacking force would be taking fire from behind as well as ahead.
De Ferre was confident that di Pfalen’s men were demoralized, after their succession of defeats, which Winter didn’t doubt was true. But it didn’t take much morale to stand behind a rampart shooting down helpless enemies. Even de Ferre must see that this will be a bloodbath. If the general could see it, now that he’d had time to inspect Dreiroede’s masterpiece, he refused to admit any error. The minutes of the hour’s grace he’d given the Hamveltai ticked away, and the moment of the assault approached.
Winter, standing in front of the line, looked at the assembled ranks of the Royals and the Girls’ Own. They’d grown somewhat fuller since the battle, bolstered by recovering casualties and stragglers who’d caught up or been brought in by the wagons. The men and women in the front rank were staring at the defenses, and no doubt making the same mental assessment Winter was.
Will they go, if I tell them to? She was almost certain they would. Why? It was idiotic—anyone could see it was idiotic. Some would go because they were afraid of being disciplined, others because they didn’t want to look like cowards in front of their fellow soldiers. But mostly they’ll go because they think I know what I’m doing. They trust that, if I give the order, it must not be certain death after all.
It was that kind of faith—in her, but most of all in Janus’ guiding hand—that had held the Army of the East together. And it was about to be broken beyond repair, thousands of lives thrown away for the pride of a puffed-up nobleman. Janus is right. This will be the end of the campaign. It wasn’t just the ca
sualties. If this assault goes forward, even if we take the walls, the army will never fight again. Not for de Ferre.
“Sir,” Cyte said. Forty minutes had passed. “If we don’t get word, are we going forward?”
“We have our orders.”
“A lot of the volunteer officers talked about refusing.”
“They’ll go.” Winter’s voice was bleak. “Nobody wants to be the only one to disobey. They’ll go, until the wheels come off the cart, and then it’ll be too late.”
“Then we should be the first,” Cyte said, low and urgent. “This is suicide. It’s a thousand yards to the wall, under all those heavy guns. Half the soldiers won’t even reach the first ditch!”
“I know.” Winter bit her lip, hard enough to draw blood. “But if we’re the first, God alone knows what de Ferre will do. He’d be within his rights to have every officer shot.” Winter herself, of course, most of all.
“Better a few dozen of us than a thousand rankers,” Cyte said, but her voice was tight. “You can’t do this.”
Winter looked, instinctively, for Jane. But Jane was over with the Girls’ Own, beside Abby. It wasn’t where she was supposed to be—as a staff officer, she belonged out front at Winter’s side—but Winter couldn’t bring herself to reprimand her. And anyway, I know what she’d say. We should march the regiment in the other direction and never look back.
“Sir!” Bobby was running along the line, waving. For a horrible moment, Winter thought she’d mistaken the time, and that this was the order to attack. She’d left Bobby with Fitz and the Colonials, where de Ferre had his command post, so she could bring any new developments.
“What is it?” Winter said, trying and failing to keep the anxiousness from her voice.
“Truce flag on the walls, sir. The fortress wants to parley.”
Winter could hear the news spread through the ranks, as those close enough to eavesdrop repeated it to their companions. A kind of collective exhalation of breath spread through them, nearly two thousand men and women relaxing simultaneously. If they were going to die, it wouldn’t be quite yet.
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