The Infernal Battalion

by Django Wexler

  “We need more information, obviously. Alek is doing everything he can.” She shook her head. “Until we get it, we have to assume that Janus honestly intends to take the throne. What will the army do when the news gets out?”

  Marcus frowned. “The soldiers will watch their commanders to see which way they jump.”

  “And the commanders?”

  “I’m sure of a few. We’ll have to ride herd on the rest until we know more.”

  Raesinia nodded. “That’s the most important first step, then. I don’t want any violence, but we can’t afford to have troops marching away to join Janus. Not if we’re going to have to fight him.”

  Fight him. Fight Janus. An involuntary shiver went through Marcus at the prospect. “Hell. Saints and fucking martyrs. I thought we’d finally—”

  “I know.” She closed her eyes. “Believe me, I know.”

  “I should go. If all hell is going to break loose, at the very least everyone needs to know where to find me.”

  He got to his feet, then paused when Raesinia took his hand again.

  “Marcus...”

  He looked down at her, slim and beautiful, pale in the flickering light of the lamps. At that moment he wanted nothing more than to kiss her, the way he had in Murnsk. They’d dallied all through the return trip, snatching brief moments from official business. But she’d made it clear that she didn’t want them to be seen together. And here in Ohnlei someone was always watching.

  In his worst moments Marcus wondered if Raesinia wasn’t rethinking what she’d said, the offer she’d made him. It was one thing to talk about love when battle was looming. It was another to do it in the cold light of day, with the court and the Deputies-​General looking over your shoulder. She’d certainly been more reserved since they’d returned, and Marcus had told himself that he wouldn’t blame her if she wanted to pretend none of it had ever happened.

  I should have just talked to her ages ago. But that meant facing the possibility that she’d say it out loud and make it real.

  “Is something wrong?” he said.

  “No.” Raesinia let her gaze fall. “Just... be careful. A lot might change in the next few hours. Make sure you stick close to people you trust.”

  “You too. I’ll send a report when I know the situation.”

  She nodded, looking away.

  *

  The Grand Army—​most of it, anyway—​was encamped on the rolling countryside north of Ohnlei, busily ruining the well-​kept meadows and scenic little. They’d constructed their camp with more care than usual, since it seemed likely they were going to be there through the winter, and while the soldiers had started under canvas, they’d set to improving their situation with the typical ingenuity of veterans. Now the camp resembled a small town, with two main roads crossing at a central square and smaller streets marking off a well-​defined grid, while the tents had mostly been replaced with wooden lean-​tos and even small log cabins. Hawkers drove carts up from the city every day and set up shop in designated spaces, eager to relieve the soldiers of their surplus pay. There was even a section designated for brothel tents, well patrolled by trusted men and women.

  Marcus was proud of the camp, though he had to admit that Fitz Warus had done most of the actual administrative work. He’d hoped that the army could turn it into their winter quarters, and spend their time on making good the damage of the brutal Murnskai campaign. Now—

  Let’s not jump to conclusions yet.

  Only roughly two-​thirds of the army had made the journey south to Vordan City—​specifically the First, Second, Third, Fourth, Sixth, and Eighth Divisions, leaving the Fifth, Seventh, Ninth, and Tenth on the frontier. The split had seemed like the right idea at the time, with the units that had seen the least fighting remaining in the north to keep an eye on the Murnskai border, while the battered divisions that had borne the brunt of the campaign went back to Vordan for reinforcement and training. Now, though, Marcus was acutely aware that he’d left four nearly fresh divisions, some thirty-​six thousand men, far beyond his immediate reach, while the six that he had to hand were either well below strength or had a high proportion of raw recruits.

  On the positive side, apart from divisional batteries, the bulk of the artillery had come south with the army. The same was true of Give-Em-Hell’s cavalry, although casualties in that arm had been particularly appalling. Still. We’d better hope that Alek’s spies are wrong, or at least that not everyone in the north goes over to Janus. The odds are way too close for my liking.

  The news was already loose. Marcus could feel it as he rode through the camp. The normal raucous chatter of the evening was gone, replaced with hundreds of furtive, whispered conversations. Messengers rode to and fro. Even if Raesinia hadn’t warned him, Marcus’ instinctive sense for camp life would have told him that something was badly wrong. As it was, he had to restrain himself from kicking his horse into a gallop.

  His own dwelling was a tent, albeit a large and comfortable one. He’d refused Fitz’ offer to build him a more permanent shelter, wanting to set a virtuous example; now he looked at it and saw only how indefensible it was, how easy it would be for any attackers to get inside. Stop. It won’t come to that. It had better not.

  A sentry outside held two horses, and saluted as Marcus dismounted.

  “Division-​Generals Warus and Solwen to see you, sir! They’re waiting inside.”

  “Thanks.” Marcus slid from his saddle and handed the man his reins. “Send someone for coffee, would you? I think it’s going to be a late night.”

  Inside, much of the tent was taken up with a folding table, adrift in maps and paperwork. Marcus’ humble camp-​bed was concealed behind a thin curtain, leaving the rest of the space for interviews and planning. He still had most of Giforte’s old staff to help him, though he badly missed the man himself. But Raesinia had greater need of him, and until tonight it had seemed like there wasn’t any chance of action soon. Damn, damn, damn.

  The two men waiting for him were some of the longest-​serving soldiers in the army, Old Colonials both. Valiant Solwen—“Val” to nearly everyone—​was a short, wide-​shouldered man with a ruddy face and a pencil mustache. He and Marcus had each commanded a battalion in Khandar, back when they’d been captains at the edge of the world. Marcus had gone there voluntarily, running from everything after he’d heard about the fire that had killed his family. Val had been banished for some slight, terrifyingly important at the time, which had long since been forgotten in the uproar that had followed.

  Fitz Warus hadn’t even been a captain in those days, just a staff lieutenant serving under his older brother, Colonel Ben Warus. He’d changed very little since then, outwardly. A decade younger than Marcus and Val, he was as slender as a blade, always impeccably uniformed even in the harshest conditions. Looking at him now, though, Marcus was struck by the thought that even dependable Fitz had changed in the last year. He’d not grown up exactly—​he’d always been the responsible one—​but grown out, taking responsibility on his own instead of serving as Marcus’ right hand. Something in the way he carried himself exuded competence. There was a good reason Janus had made him commander of the First Division.

  “You’ve heard?” Marcus said, as he let the tent flap fall closed behind him. No need to specify what.

  They both nodded.

  “I think everyone knows by now,” Val said. “Or will shortly. Rumors are the damnedest thing.”

  “Some of the carters have admitted they were tipped to spread the story,” Fitz said. “Someone wants all of Vordan to know about this.”

  “Right. So no point trying to keep things under wraps.” Marcus eased himself into one of the camp chairs. “Have you talked to your colonels?”

  Fitz nodded, but Val shook his head, staring fixedly at Marcus.

  “I wanted to come here first,” he said slowly. “Just to... check on things.”

  “To check...” Marcus raised his eyebrows. “Ah. To make sure
I wasn’t about to declare for Janus, you mean?”

  “Not that I really thought you’d do it,” Val said hastily. He gave a harrumph. “I just didn’t want you to say anything you’d regret later.”

  Or else you wanted to make sure to be on my side, whatever I did, Marcus thought ruefully. Val was a good man and a respectable commander, but he had no head for politics—​witness his getting banished to Khandar in the first place. He’d negotiated the tricky waters of the revolution and subsequent wars by sticking close to Marcus, whatever happened.

  There are a lot of soldiers in that position. Without a particular ideology, or at least not one they’d bet their lives on, but with a great deal of trust in their commanders. It’s like I told Raesinia. The army will obey the generals. He took a deep breath. We just need to make sure of the generals, then.

  “I’m not sure of anything at this point,” Marcus said. “I’m not convinced that this really came from Janus, or that he’s acting of his own free will. But whatever happens, my loyalty is with the people of Vordan, and that means Raesinia and the Deputies. Is that clear?” I made that choice once already.

  “Of course, of course,” Val said. “I just thought... heat of the moment, you understand...”

  “Thank you, Val,” Marcus said. “I must admit that my first instinct was to ride north to see what was going on for myself. Thankfully, Raesinia was there to point out that it might have looked... politically dubious, under the circumstances.” He looked down at the table, with its burden of paperwork, and frowned. “What’s our first priority?”

  “So far the men are under control,” Fitz said. “There’s been a lot of whispering, but no action. I’ve warned my colonels to be on the lookout for spontaneous demonstrations. We may want to institute a curfew.”

  Val nodded vigorous agreement. “I told Lieutenant Fylar to make sure everyone stayed put. He’ll keep my division in line.”

  “That accounts for the First and the Third,” Marcus said. “What about the rest?”

  “The Fourth is temporarily under my command,” Fitz said. “Pending the trial of General Kaanos.”

  Morwen Kaanos—​Mor—​had been, along with Adrecht Roston, the other half of the commanders of the original Colonials. Adrecht had led a mutiny against Janus, and nearly killed Marcus himself; he’d been left to die in the desert with his coconspirators. Mor had served in the revolutionary army until the Murnskai campaign, but he’d made no secret of his distaste for Janus and Raesinia, and it had come to a head just before Marcus’ return, when he’d tried to assume command. Raesinia had outmaneuvered him, and he’d been arrested, but his trial had been postponed until the appointment of a new Minister of War.

  “Given Kaanos’ attitude toward Janus,” Fitz went on, “I doubt any of his officers are likely to be leading their men in that direction.”

  “And we can be sure of the Second,” Val said. “They may still be in mourning for Ihernglass, but Abby Giforte would never turn on you.”

  Not to mention, Marcus thought, that her father now works directly for the queen. That was unfair—​Abby would stay loyal, regardless of what Alek did. She’d proved that in the revolution, and again when she took command of the Second Division’s First Regiment—​widely known as the Girls’ Own, the only female regiment in the Vordanai army.

  Certain as he was of Abby, though, Marcus would have felt better if Winter Ihernglass had been here. He was another Colonial, a man of extraordinary talent who’d been bumped up to sergeant by chance and climbed the ranks from there to become one of Janus’ most trusted officers. While Marcus continued to feel uncomfortable letting the women of the Second Division put themselves in danger, he couldn’t dispute that the Girls’ Own had performed wonders under Ihernglass’ command, from the campaign on the Velt through the worst of the fighting in Murnsk.

  But Ihernglass was gone, in pursuit of the Penitent Damned who’d poisoned Janus with some foul magic. Since Janus had recovered, Marcus assumed that Ihernglass had successfully completed his mission, but no reports of his party had ever come back. Given the chaos in northern Murnsk, the freak blizzards and wild tribesmen roaming the country, Ihernglass was presumed dead by almost everyone. If it’s true, it’s a damn shame.

  “The Eighth is de Manzet,” Marcus said. “He’ll play it safe, whatever happens.”

  “That leaves the Sixth. New fellow there. Quord, isn’t it?”

  Fitz nodded. “Herran Quord. Janus appointed him after General Ibsly was killed at Gilphaite. I’ve only met him briefly.”

  “Likewise,” Marcus said. “All right. Fitz, do you have a few men you trust for quiet work?”

  “Of course,” Fitz said.

  “Have them walk around the camp, see if there’s any unusual activity, especially from the Sixth. I want to hear as soon as you have anything.”

  “Yes, sir.” Fitz saluted and got to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Val, once you’re sure your own people are in order, go and find Give-Em-Hell. Tell him to make sure his men are ready, but quietly. If we need to put down a riot, I want him on hand.” The moral impact of a squadron of advancing cavalry was the best chance of dispersing a crowd without real bloodshed. And Marcus had no doubts at all about the loyalty of Give-Em-Hell’s men, who felt a nearly religious awe toward their diminutive commander.

  “Understood.” Val hesitated. “Then what? Do you really think it’ll come to fighting?”

  Val looked stricken, and Marcus wanted to give him some reassurance, but all he could offer was a shrug. “I don’t know, and neither does anyone else. We’re at least four days’ ride from Yatterny, even by military courier. The whole thing could be over already, and we might not find out until tomorrow.”

  “Or Janus could already be on the march,” Val said glumly. “I’ll tell Give-Em-Hell to be ready.”

  *

  “They’re trying to keep quiet about it,” Fitz said, an hour later. “But the Sixth is definitely up to something.”

  Marcus sat at his desk, massaging his temples to fight off an incipient headache. “You’re certain?”

  “Nearly. There’s activity at their supply depot, and the divisional artillery is restocking their caissons. Lots of men suddenly cooking or trying to trade for extra food, like they’re expecting to march.”

  “Any chance its spontaneous?”

  “No, sir. I visited the quartermaster myself, and there’s a half dozen fresh requisitions over Division-​General Quord’s signature. Either he’s behind this, or someone’s framing him fairly competently.”

  Marcus felt his teeth grinding. It’s better than a mass uprising, he told himself. But his experiences in Khandar and the revolution had left him with a pronounced dislike of mutiny.

  “Send a message to all commanders that I’m calling a council here in half an hour,” Marcus said. “That shouldn’t push Quord into anything rash; he knows I have to do something. Get a few of your men to go after the messengers and let everyone but Quord know they should wait another hour. I want him here alone.” Marcus sighed. “And have a dozen muskets you can count on waiting when he arrives. In case he decides to be really rash.”

  Fitz saluted and stepped outside to give the necessary orders. Marcus leaned back in his chair and scratched his beard.

  Then what? Val had asked the question, but it was what everyone was thinking. Secure the army. Then what? Will any troops rally to Janus? If they do, where will he march? It had to be south. He’ll come for Vordan City. His best chance at legitimacy is to take the palace and the Deputies quickly. No doubt the Deputies could be persuaded to ratify Janus’ ascension at bayonet point. So that means he can either descend the Pale, or try for the high passes—

  Marcus reached for a leather-​bound stack of maps, then stopped himself. Not yet, damn it. As soon as we start thinking of this as a war, it becomes one. If there’s any chance of stopping it, we have to take it.

  Fitz reentered, with two soldiers behind him. Both
wore the scorpion badge of the Old Colonials. Some of the Khandarai veterans were deeply loyal to Janus after his near-​miraculous performance there, while others—​mostly those who’d served under Ben Warus before the Redeemer revolt—​were more divided. Marcus could only trust that Fitz knew his men.

  “You can wait there,” Marcus said, pointing at the curtained-​off nook that held his bed. “Stay out of sight until I call.”

  “The others are outside,” Fitz said. “I told them to watch for Quord and come in just behind him.”

  “Good.” Marcus pursed his lips. “What do you know about Quord?”

  “Not much. He’s my age, promoted up from lieutenant for service under the Directory. Janus made him a colonel after the coup, and then a general.”

  “Which means he’s smart.” Janus was a good judge of ability, and the men he’d promoted to fill the decimated ranks of the post-​revolution army had usually been competent and intelligent. Unfortunately, his eye for character hadn’t always been as keen. “Has he seen any fighting since then?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  We’ll see, then. Marcus was holding out hope that there was some kind of misunderstanding, though it seemed unlikely. It’s never pleasant to accuse a fellow officer of treachery.

  There was a scratch at the tent flap a few minutes later, and a young man’s voice. “Column-​General d’Ivoire?”

  “Come in,” Marcus said.

  Quord was pale, clean-​shaven, and nearly as neat in appearance as Fitz, with a pair of narrow, square spectacles and close-​cropped hair. He held himself as straight as a ranker under inspection, and snapped a crisp salute.

  “Sir! Reporting as ordered for the council.”

  “Division-​General,” Marcus said. “Good to see you. Please, have a seat.”

  Quord’s eyes went to Fitz, then to the empty chairs around the table. “Are we expecting the others, sir? I—”

  The tent flap rustled, and four soldiers filed in, muskets at the ready. At the same time the two men behind the curtain stepped out and took their places flanking Marcus. Marcus kept his eyes on Quord, and the expressions on his face were unmistakable—​a brief, animal panic, followed by a mixture of rage and resignation. No misunderstanding, then.