You didn’t see me when dead men rose up with glowing green eyes, Marcus thought. But he said, “You just need to be careful. Remember you’re not intended to fight a major engagement, just give the impression that you’re ready to. And Give-Em-Hell will be there.”
“There’s that. After what happened in Murnsk, half the army thinks he’s practically superhuman.” He brushed his horse’s mane with one hand, sodden hair squelching. “I have a bad feeling, is all.”
“You always have a bad feeling, Val. It’s just nerves. Remember that tactics exam where you took class first?”
“I threw up just beforehand. In my boot.” Val smiled faintly. “Had to chuck it out the window and take the test in one sock.”
“Exactly.”
“There’s a little bit more riding on this than drinks at the Hafhouse, though.”
“I know.” Val had changed, too, Marcus realized. You couldn’t hold the lives of thousands of men in your hands and not change. Not unless you’re Janus bet Vhalnich, I suppose. “I think when we’re done you won’t have to buy your own drinks for a long time.”
“There’s a happy thought. Adrecht would have volunteered for the assignment just for that.”
Marcus laughed and clapped Val on the shoulder. Ahead, he could see the lights of the Second Division camp, and he waved to his old friend and turned off the road. His horse squelched across the sodden fields. He acknowledged the sentry’s challenge and then her salute as he came closer, and threaded his way through the outer ring of tents to his own.
Cyte was waiting for him, and mercifully she’d thought to save him a plate from dinner. Pork, apples, and some kind of bitter greens reminded him of the food from Mieran County, though the preparation was less artful. Enjoy it while it lasts. When they went on the attack, they’d probably be moving too fast to gather supplies, and the army would go back on good old dried meat and hardtack.
“Anything I should know about?” Marcus said, chewing vigorously. He swallowed and reached for his canteen.
“Not really, sir. A few out sick, but fewer than last week. The new recruits are toughening up. Colonel Erdine is complaining that the weather is hard on his horses.”
“Tell him that when I figure out how to give orders to the weather, I’ll take care of it.”
“Noted, sir. Any new orders from the general?”
“Mmm,” Marcus said, mouth full. After a moment, he went on. “I’m expecting written orders soon, so I don’t know how much I can tell you. But you can pass the word that we should expect action before long.”
Cyte nodded grimly. Everyone had known that was coming, of course. But to the recruits, the immediate prospect of combat was always something they had to work themselves up to, and it was better to warn them than to let it take them by surprise. Even the veterans could be forgiven for worrying a little, going up against Janus. I sure as hell do.
When the written set of orders arrived, Marcus was amused, though unsurprised, to find that they were both thorough and verbose. His line of march was spelled out in detail, complete with approximate times he was expected to reach certain landmarks and where his nearest supports would be positioned at each stage. If Marcus had sent it across an instructors’ desk at the War College, he would have received extra marks. After years in the field, though, all he could do was wonder what would go wrong first.
*
Rain, it turned out. Rain mixed with dirt made mud, and mud was a soldier’s worst enemy.
He’d hoped the thunderstorm would pass on, giving them clear weather, but more gray clouds rolled in behind it. It rained all the next day, not the torrential downpour of the night before but a steady, solid curtain of water. Marcus ordered an early start, but it wasn’t long before the familiar problems started to trickle in. Thousands of marching feet churned even the stoutest road into mush. Wagons got stuck, guns foundered, and horses injured themselves. Traffic jams grew from these seeds and stretched on for miles.
Val’s Third Division had the lead, and the schedule called for them to reach Grenvol on the Daater by noon. In fact, Val’s outlying pickets made contact with Give-Em-Hell’s cavalry, holding the town, closer to two thirty, and he wasn’t actually crossing the bridge until after three. That took longer than expected, too—whoever had written up the timetable hadn’t accounted for the bottleneck the narrow bridge presented. Marcus’ troops, who were next in line, had plenty of time to close up ranks before it was their turn to file over the churning water. A few civilians came out to cheer them on, but the rain seemed to have dampened everyone’s spirits.
The march went on until long after dark, but even with the lengthened hours they ended up well short of their planned campsite, still between the Daater and the small river Ixa. General Kurot was waiting when Marcus finally arrived at the camp himself, soaked through and spattered with mud after a day spent herding soldiers and finding crews to rescue bogged-down equipment.
“General d’Ivoire,” Kurot said. He had a rain cape with a raised hood, keeping the damp from his uniform, though spray still fogged his spectacles.
“General Kurot,” Marcus said. “The last of my division is coming in now, sir.”
“We are still short of the Ixa,” Kurot said. That was the scheduled jumping-off point for the move against Janus.
“I realize that, sir,” Marcus said, and gestured at the heavens. “We’ve been lucky to get this far in this mess.”
Kurot’s lips were pressed into a thin line. “Then it is your opinion that it is impossible to regain the original timetable?”
Is he joking? “Yes, sir,” Marcus said cautiously. It’s not my opinion; it’s a fucking fact.
“Very well.” Kurot let out a breath and closed his eyes, with the air of someone taking the high road. “We will allow one more day to get across the Ixa, and plan the attack for the morning of the day after tomorrow.”
“Understood, sir!” Marcus said.
“I will inform General Solwen.” Kurot inclined his head. “I expect better results tomorrow, General.”
The rain stopped around midnight. That was cheering, but it would be some time before the mud dried out, and the next day’s march suffered from most of the same problems. Despite Kurot’s admonition, Marcus was pleased with the way the Second Division handled the adversity. The veterans in the Girls’ Own and the other regiments didn’t complain when he rounded up teams to haul lines or lift guns. They just rolled up their sleeves and did it, and that attitude spread to the recruits. Several times Marcus responded to a call for help to find that a passing company had pitched in unprompted, unsnarling the line before he even needed to intervene.
“A little mud is nothing,” he heard one older woman telling a wide-eyed young man, “when you’ve been to Murnsk and seen blizzards in July.”
Cavalry patrols returned regularly, reporting running skirmishes with their opposite numbers. They were unable to penetrate the enemy cordon, so Janus’ exact position was unknown, but the orientation of his cavalry screen told them that he was still somewhere around Alves. Meanwhile, Give-Em-Hell’s men worked hard to prevent anyone who got within sight of the Army of the Republic from getting away. That would be especially crucial in the morning, when Val’s division would split off for its diversionary march west.
That night, after shedding his mud-spattered clothes, Marcus reread his orders for the next day and sent for Cyte. She turned up promptly, her boots flaking dried mud whenever she moved.
“Sorry, sir,” she said. “Haven’t had the chance to brush them.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He tapped the orders. “We’re leading the charge tomorrow. There’s a town called Satinvol with a bridge over the Pale. Kurot wants us to take it by nightfall.”
“Understood, sir.”
Marcus frowned. He didn’t like this next part, but however he twisted himself there didn’t seem to be a way out of it.
“If the enemy has dug into the town itself,” he said slowly,
“in your opinion, which regiment would be best suited to handle the attack?”
“The Girls’ Own, sir,” Cyte said, without hesitation. “They have the most experience in loose-order tactics. General Ihernglass generally deployed the entire regiment as skirmishers, with Sevran’s Second Regiment leading the close-order assault.”
“That’s what I thought,” Marcus said. So tomorrow I’m going to order a bunch of young women to charge into musket-fire. He clenched his jaw. I promised Abby I’d do what’s best without being... old-fashioned about it. It still felt wrong. “All right. We’ll see where they make their stand, assuming they decide to put up a fight at all.”
He found himself desperately hoping they wouldn’t, that the clash between blue and blue could be delayed just a little bit longer. But he could read a map as well as Kurot could, and Satinvol was the closest upstream crossing to Alves. He’s not wrong. If we take it, we’ll be well and truly on Janus’ supply line. I just hope that’s not exactly where Janus wants us.
*
The next morning, the drummers woke the camp as soon as the first hints of light infiltrated the eastern sky. As the gray faded slowly to pale blue, the Second Division shook itself out, like a dog emerging from a pond. Tents were struck and left in piles for the baggage train to collect. The regiments formed up on the road to Satinvol. In the lead was Erdine’s cavalry, charged with scouting ahead and keeping the column from being surprised. Then came the Girls’ Own, two thousand young women in columns of companies for quick marching. They called cheerfully to one another in the predawn light, taunts and half-eager, half-anxious banter. Some soldiers responded that way to the prospect of combat, Marcus knew. He could see others staring at their shoes, as though intent on memorizing every detail, or murmuring prayers, or checking and rechecking their kit.
Behind them came Archer’s divisional artillery, one battery of twelve-pounders and one of six-pounders, still limbered to their caissons, facing backward. Marcus wanted the guns in position as soon as possible, though it risked slowing the overall march if they got snarled. Archer knew his business, though, and the alternative, to arrive with no supporting artillery, would be much worse.
On the other side of the guns was Sevran’s Second Regiment, a unit of “royals” who’d been in service since before the revolution. In theory, anyway—in practice, Marcus guessed that casualties and replacements meant only a fraction actually had been around that long. It was part of their mystique, though, the image of themselves that the veterans passed down to the new recruits, and it showed in their neat uniforms and well-dressed ranks, in the way they held themselves superior to the sloppier volunteers. The line of blue continued down the road, out of Marcus’ view, but he knew that de Koste’s Third Regiment and Blackstream’s Fourth were waiting for the men in front of them to step out. Nine thousand soldiers, give or take, holding themselves ready for Marcus’ order.
He’d commanded a larger force in Murnsk. But somehow it didn’t change the feeling of power, the sense of potentiality, of enormous energy coiled and ready to be hurled like the thunderbolt of a pagan god.
The sun finally crested the mountains to the east, a sliver of gold breaking clear of the peaks. Marcus, sitting uncomfortably astride his horse, beckoned to Cyte and watched enviously as she brought her mount over with barely a touch on the reins.
“Signal the advance,” he said. “Then go to Erdine and remind him that I want him to be careful. It’s four hours to Satinvol, but if Kurot’s right and Janus’ troops are advancing, we could end up in a meeting engagement anytime before then. Make sure we’ve got riders ready to send back for support.”
“Sir!” Cyte saluted, turned her mount, and hurried off.
A few moments later, the drums trilled for attention, then settled into the steady rhythm of the marching pace. The Girls’ Own started forward, each battalion’s drummers picking up the rhythm, and then the guns rumbled into motion. Within minutes, smooth as a parade, the whole division was advancing down the road. General Ihernglass certainly kept them in good shape. Marcus got his horse moving, staying by the side of the road ahead of the artillery.
The country they were moving through was farmland, with the crops mostly already harvested, so he had a good view as the sun rose higher. Hedges divided the fields on either side of the road, with a few small farmhouses and the occasional village visible in the distance. Up ahead, he could see the cloud of dust and occasional flashes of blue from Val’s Third Division, moving roughly perpendicular to his own course. In accordance with Kurot’s plan, Val was taking the road southwest to Alves, to convince Janus that the enemy was obligingly strolling into his trap. Behind Marcus, invisible through the dust of his own trailing battalions, the rest of the army was scheduled to fall in, with Fitz serving as a rear guard ready to blunt the other half of Janus’ theoretical double pincer.
Stop, Marcus told himself firmly. It was easy to fret about the overall situation, but that wasn’t his role at the moment. There’s nothing I can do for Val or Fitz. What was important today was what was in front of him, the mission of the Second Division and what the enemy might do to stop him. He tried to recapture the proper state of mind for a subordinate commander—the firm resolution that if things did go badly wrong it wouldn’t be because his own part had been fucked up.
The sun crawled higher. They passed through the crossroads where Val had turned off, a village of a couple dozen homes whose inhabitants had either fled or hidden. Beyond it was a slight ridge topped by a few trees, and after confirming with Erdine that his men had already been over the ground, Marcus trotted to the top of it to take advantage of the slight elevation. The Pale valley was very flat here, sloping gently down to the river with only a few hills like this one, and even from its modest height Marcus could see quite a long way. Ahead of him, the fields unrolled for miles, until they reached the broad, sparkling band of the river. He could see Satinvol, a dense cluster of houses, with several high-steepled churches. Between his leading battalion and the town, there was nothing but more fields—no marching soldiers, no sign of defenses.
So the envelopment Kurot anticipated either isn’t coming or hasn’t arrived yet. There could be soldiers out there, lying in wait behind hedges, but Erdine’s cavalry screen would flush them out. He pulled out his spyglass and focused it on Satinvol, but at this distance he couldn’t make out much more than a mass of buildings. If they’re on this side of the river, that’s where they are. His assignment, if no enemy presented themselves for a field battle, was to take the Satinvol bridge. It was possible Janus would yield it without a fight, but Marcus doubted it.
As the column wound past, he came down from the hill to rejoin it, looking for Cyte. When he found her, he waved her over and said, “Tell Erdine to push a squadron forward all the way to Satinvol, but not to get too close. If he gets shot at, he should come back. If not, ask him to look and see if the houses have been prepared for defense—loopholes, barricades, that sort of thing.”
Cyte nodded and rode off. Marcus glanced at the sun. It was barely nine in the morning, and already the day felt old. Ahead of him, the Girls’ Own were singing a marching tune he didn’t recognize. Whether they’d heard it somewhere or invented it themselves, it was in the grand tradition of soldiers’ road songs in being spectacularly filthy, and Marcus found himself grinning despite the tension.
Erdine’s answer came back almost an hour later. The colonel himself rode up, falling in beside Marcus, and saluted flamboyantly. The huge feather in his cap quivered with each step of his horse, and the polished silver and brass on his uniform glittered.
“Sir!” Erdine said. “Report that we got within a hundred yards of the outskirts of Satinvol, sir, and then we were fired on by sharpshooters. One man wounded, not seriously. I observed soldiers in Vordanai uniforms among the houses, and definite signs that the position had been prepared for defense.”
Balls of the Beast. Marcus had been afraid o
f that. Storming a defended town was always a nasty business, and there was no way of knowing how many enemy there were or what reinforcements they might have available. “No sign of troops outside the town?”
“No, sir. We haven’t seen anything larger than a rabbit since we left this morning.”
“I want you to send a rider back there under flag of truce. Tell him to ask for whoever’s in charge, and deliver a message from Column-General d’Ivoire. The town of Satinvol is likely to become the site of fighting today, and in respect of the fact that we are all Vordanai fighting in Vordanai territory, I request that he deliver this warning to the civilians and urge them to evacuate as quickly as possible.”
“Understood, sir.” Erdine hesitated. “You don’t think that’s going to warn them of our intention to attack?”
“I think they already know about that, Colonel. We can’t cross the river any other way, so we have to come straight at them. Besides, it’s the only decent thing to do.” I have enough on my conscience as it is.
“Yes, sir!” Erdine nodded, feather bobbing, and rode off. Marcus called for a runner, and found himself facing a girl no more than fourteen years old. She still rides better than I do.
“Find General Kurot,” he said. “Tell him we’ve encountered nothing short of Satinvol, but the enemy has dug in there and intends to defend the town. I’ll begin the assault as soon as my troops are in position. Anything he can spare from the artillery reserve would help, but we absolutely must have at least a battery of howitzers.”
“Got it, sir!” The young soldier turned her horse about and kicked it to a gallop, back down the road the way they’d come.
A mile short of the town, Marcus took the column off the road and got ready for combat. He told Abby to throw the first battalion of the Girls’ Own forward as skirmishers, pairs of soldiers spreading out over a wide front. The second battalion stayed formed up as a reserve, with the other regiments taking up formation beside it. Archer unlimbered his guns from their caissons and hooked the teams to the cannon themselves, dragging them forward across the furrowed, muddy earth. The Girls’ Own front line advanced in time, staying ahead of the artillery.
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