The Infernal Battalion

by Django Wexler

  “Why can’t you say no to him on this? From what he told me, you’ve refused marriages before.”

  The second prince’s lips thinned. “It’s... personal.”

  The Queen of Vordan and the Second Prince of Borel, caged together. Something in Raesinia’s mind rebelled at the thought that, between them, there was nothing they could do.

  She got up from her seat at the table, picked up one of the heavy chairs, and dragged it across the room, to face the couch. The prince watched her curiously as she set it down and then sat facing him.

  “There has to be a way out of this,” she said carefully. “I’m not sure how, but I’m pretty certain I’m going to need your help.”

  “That seems unlikely,” Matthew said. “I’m not good for very much. Unless you need to throw a party.”

  “It’s not just that I’m unhappy with the idea of this marriage,” Raesinia said, ignoring him. “There’s a man I’m in love with. His name is Marcus d’Ivoire.”

  Matthew blinked. “The general?”

  Raesinia nodded. “He wasn’t so high-​ranking when we met. And... it’s hard to explain. We went through a lot together.”

  “Raesinia.” Matthew sat up a little straighter, and the cynical humor left his face. “Why are you telling me this? I take it no one else knows.”

  “A few people do. My friend Cora.” She shook her head. “I’m telling you because I want you to trust me. If we’re going to work together and beat your father, we’re going to need that.”

  “We won’t,” Matthew said. “We can’t. Believe me, no one has fought him longer or harder than I have.”

  “Why?”

  “Look,” Matthew said, the ironic twist of his lip sliding back into place. “Keep d’Ivoire around. I certainly won’t raise a fuss. Be discreet and we can all get what we want.”

  “He wouldn’t accept that,” Raesinia said. “Marcus is... old-​fashioned sometimes.”

  “Then I guess you’ll have to poison me,” Matthew said. “It shouldn’t be difficult. I drink quite a lot.”

  “Matthew, please. I might be able to help you, but—”

  He sat up all the way, glaring at her. “Why would you think that? Do you know my father?”

  “I don’t,” Raesinia said. “But I am the Queen of Vordan. I have... resources you might not. What can it hurt just to talk about it?”

  “You’d be surprised,” Matthew said darkly. Then he sighed and put his face in his hands. “Why not? Half the Keep knows by now, I’m sure. Like I said, Borelgai and secrets.”

  “I’m from Vordan,” Raesinia said. “And we can keep secrets.”

  Matthew snorted, then took a deep breath.

  “There’s a man I’m in love with,” he said.

  Ah. Raesinia tried to keep any surprise off her face. “I see.”

  “His name is... not important. You wouldn’t know him. He’s in the Life Guards.”

  “And your father found out?”

  Matthew nodded miserably. “We kept it secret for years. I have a reputation as a wastrel, so nobody pays close attention to the company I keep. While my brother was healthy, my father didn’t care. He thought he’d have all the heirs he needed. But when he got sick...”

  “The king started pressuring you to marry.”

  “And when I kept turning him down, he got angry, and started investigating.”

  “He told you he’d send your lover away if you didn’t go along with this,” Raesinia guessed.

  “Worse than that. There’s all sorts of duty he can send a Life Guard to where he’s likely to get killed. I... can’t risk that. Even if we can’t be together.” Matthew swallowed hard and forced a smile. “I should have told you from the beginning. If we go along with Father’s plan, maybe he’ll let me choose my escort. Then you can have your lover and I’ll have mine, and we’ll be a perfectly happy couple.”

  “Your father won’t allow that,” Raesinia said. “He’d be worried people would find out.”

  “I know.” Matthew’s smile faded. “But what else am I supposed to do?”

  Leverage, Raesinia thought. “Your father has a hostage to hold over both of us,” she said. “We need something we can hold over him.”

  “Unless you’ve got a spare heir to the throne lying around, I doubt you’ll come up with anything.” Matthew cocked his head. “You could always just leave once he’s dispatched the ships you wanted.”

  “That only helps in the short term. I still need him to keep Janus from taking the kingdom.” She sighed. “Besides, he’s decided I’m a prisoner in the Keep. I can’t even visit the city, much less take a ship.”

  “That, at least, I guarantee is a bluff,” Matthew said.

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Father’s desperate to avoid another war with Vordan,” he said. “He’s still paying for the War of the Princes. That’s the point of all of this, in the end, in addition to getting him an heir who seems likely to live out the decade. He wants to tie Borel to Vordan.” The prince looked pensive. “If you walked out the front gate, I doubt he’d really be able to stop you. Not without causing an incident that might lead to war.”

  “Fair enough. He knows he’s got the promise of aid to keep me chained here anyway.” Raesinia frowned. “The king has debts? I thought Borel was a rich country.”

  “Borel is extremely rich. The Crown is very poor. It’s traditional.” Matthew waved a hand. “How do you think Goodman got so powerful? He paid for practically half the fleet. That’s why Father won’t cross him unless he knows he’s got something to gain.”

  “Goodman,” Raesinia said, half to herself. “Goodman is the key to this. He has to be.”

  “He’s the richest man in the world,” Matthew said. “He’s central to quite a lot of things.”

  “I mean that if we can get leverage on Goodman, then we can put pressure on your father.”

  “Good luck. The other merchants have been trying to tear Goodman down for years. If it could be done, one of them would have found a way. It’s a dog-​eat-​dog world, as they’re so fond of telling one another.”

  Raesinia was thinking about the Second Pennysworth Bank, the proud marble facade that had seemed so impenetrable until the mob arrived. And the way the panic spread. Cora had talked about it, something she hadn’t quite understood at the time, but—

  “You have friends,” Raesinia said abruptly. “The best people in Borel, I expect.”

  “I like to think,” Matthew drawled, “that I am not unloved.”

  “They’re rich?”

  “In Borel, best and richest are basically synonymous,” Matthew said. “Why? Do you need money?”

  “Not exactly,” Raesinia said. “But I might know someone who does.”

  *

  “Raes, are you sure you’re okay?” Cora said. “I can’t believe they stuck you in the same room with him.”

  “I told you, I’m fine,” Raesinia said.

  She looked around, feeling a little paranoid. The second prince had warned her that the Keep servants in their new rooms were probably spying for his father, and she assumed the same was true of those in Cora’s new quarters. To avoid them, she’d come with Cora to one of the castle’s inner courtyards, where dour statuary brooded on well-​trimmed lawns. Given the near-​constant drizzle, they were not frequented, and by taking shelter away from any doors, they had as much privacy as they were likely to get.

  “I’m fine,” Raesinia repeated. “Prince Matthew is... well, a gentleman. More important, he’s on our side. He doesn’t want this marriage any more than I do. He’s going to help us.”

  “Help us how?” Cora said. “If we break off the marriage, the king will refuse to send aid, won’t he?”

  “Not if we can get Goodman behind us.”

  “That doesn’t seem very likely,” Cora said. “He’s the one who’s been pushing to wring us dry.”

  “You said that as a new company, without any backers, you had trouble getting
access to investors,” Raesinia said. “If someone important—​Prince Matthew, say—​were to offer his support, that would help, wouldn’t it?”

  Cora nodded slowly. “It would certainly help. But, Raes...” She hesitated. “Even with a lot more capital, it would take a long time to put us on a sound enough footing to have real influence in Borel. I’m not a magician. I’m sorry.”

  Cora looked pained, and Raes impulsively put an arm around her shoulders.

  “I know,” she said. “I rely on you too much as it is, and I’m sorry. I promise I’m not going to demand the impossible.” Raesinia put on a mischievous grin. “Forget about a sound footing and success. How long will it take you to fail?”

  18

  Marcus

  “They’re persistent,” Cyte said, watching the white-​uniformed soldiers gathering themselves for a third try. “I’ll give them that.”

  “That’s one word for it,” Fitz said.

  Marcus grunted. “Some might say stupid.”

  “That’s another,” Fitz said.

  They stood on a hillside, the high point of a ridge that rose out of the rolling farm country south of Alves like a pillow stuffed under a bedsheet. Behind them, to the south, was the river Reter, a slim waterway too easily crossed to provide much of a barrier. In front of them, low plains stretched north to the Pale.

  The three Murnskai regiments had arrived just after noon and had been battering themselves against the hillside position ever since. Marcus had light cavalry patrolling to either side, watching for outflanking maneuvers, but so far there’d been nothing, just this headlong assault. It was almost painful to watch.

  The approach to the hill, fifteen hundred yards or so of low grass, bare earth, and the occasional stone wall, was already strewn with Murnskai dead. They were scattered everywhere, but piled up in drifts where the enemy battalions had made their farthest advances. In the lull between attacks, Marcus ordered his own casualties picked up and taken south, where the advance guard and the baggage train were still pushing forward.

  “Here they come,” Cyte said. She offered the spyglass to Marcus, but he waved it away. He didn’t need to watch this close up.

  Six enemy battalions, depleted from their earlier attacks but restored to some semblance of formation, marched forward. Their commander had apparently decided to deploy in depth, in three lines of two units abreast. To either side of them came a couple of small guns, four-​pounders, which Marcus’ men had dubbed yappers for how they sounded a bit like excited terriers. The Vordanai army had dismissed such small cannon as nearly useless decades ago, but the Murnskai still clung to them.

  Archer’s twelve-​pounders opened up at a thousand yards, solid shot plunging down from their elevated position at the crest of the hill to wreak its usual havoc on the packed ranks of men. The Murnskai had already deployed into line, coming on like they were on a parade ground, but a good shot would bounce through two or even three of the battalions, carrying away victims as it went. More white-​uniformed bodies dribbled from the rear of the formation, adding to those already carpeting the grass, the battalions shrinking toward their centers as they came on.

  As the enemy closed, the six-​pounders joined the chorus, doubling the volume of fire. The yappers fired back, but the range and the slope defeated them, and Marcus couldn’t see that they were having any effect. He wondered if the Murnskai commander just wanted to hearten his men with the noise and the smoke. If so, it wasn’t working—​the rear battalions were already looking shaky, formation loosening as they were hit again and again. As he watched, one of them dissolved, soldiers breaking and running for the rear while officers on horseback rode in to try to rally them.

  And still they came on. The guns switched to canister, throwing clouds of musket balls, cutting chunks out of the Murnskai ranks. Another battalion broke, and another. One of the yapper batteries had come close enough that its shots began whistling overhead, but the two regiments of Vordanai—​Sevran’s and one from Fitz’ division—​waited stolidly behind their guns, unperturbed.

  “About now, I think,” Marcus said.

  Cyte yelled to the drummers, and they beat out a new rhythm, transmitting the command. Archer’s guns fell silent, and the line of Vordanai infantry moved forward, positioning themselves in front of the cannon. The remaining Murnskai were less a distinct formation at this point than a tightly packed mob, three remaining battalions dissolving into a dense mass of men with their standards at the center. As they came within musket range, two battalions of Vordanai stood in neat lines to oppose them. On either side of the line, another battalion moved forward, angling inward like a swinging door, forming a C shape with the Murnskai at the center.

  “Fire!” The command went up from a hundred throats, on both sides at once. Six thousand muskets went off with a roaring, tearing rattle, and the whole front line was instantly blanketed with a dense bank of off-​white smoke. It didn’t take an expert’s eye to see that the Murnskai were getting the worst of it, pressed together in an awkward blob instead of a well-​dressed line, raked by fire from both sides. Men fell in the Vordanai ranks, but enough white-​uniformed soldiers dropped that their corpses began to form a rampart. By the third volley, the Murnskai were wavering, and the fourth put them to flight; they streamed down the hill like a flock of frightened sheep, leaving only the ghastly piles behind.

  “They won’t be trying that again,” Fitz said. “Not today, at any rate.”

  Marcus nodded. The Murnskai officers didn’t seem to be having much success rallying their men, who were spreading out into the fields or streaming up the road the way they’d come. Cyte snapped her spyglass closed and stowed it.

  “Sir,” she said, pointing over his shoulder. Marcus turned and saw a horseman in the uniform of a light cavalry sergeant approaching. The man saluted without dismounting.

  “Something to report?” Marcus said.

  “Yessir. Got a column pushing south from Mezk. At least a division, possibly two.”

  Marcus closed his eyes, visualizing the map that was at this point burned into his brain. Traveling due south from Mezk would take them around the end of the Reter, neatly outflanking his current position. Just as expected.

  “That’s long enough, then,” Marcus said. He turned back to Cyte. “We’re pulling out. I want everyone over the river by sundown. Get the baggage train on the road for the Vlind first thing in the morning.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. Her salute was still crisp, though her drawn face and the bags under her eyes spoke volumes.

  Marcus had to imagine he showed the same signs of weariness, as did almost everyone in what was left of the Army of the Republic. They’d been marching hard since the disaster at Alves, from first light until well after the early-​autumn twilight, sometimes stumbling into camp by torchlight. Even for troops accustomed to the harsh pace Janus had demanded of his men, it was difficult, and for the new recruits it was pure torture. They were losing men every day, soldiers abandoning their units or simply dropping by the side of the road, and Marcus didn’t know whether to call it desertion or illness born of exhaustion.

  What they’d bought, with all this pain, was a little distance from their pursuers. Janus was whipping his pursuing columns hard, but bringing an enemy to battle when he was determined to evade was one of the trickiest coups in grand tactics. So far Marcus had been able to avoid it, moving steadily south and west to keep Janus’ pincers from closing around him. When he found a good position for defense, as he had today, he turned part of the army about and faced down Janus’ vanguard, giving the slower elements time to increase their lead. Sometimes their pursuers paused, waiting for support to come up; more often, as they had today, they threw themselves into the teeth of the defense and came away bloodied.

  But it couldn’t last. The moment the Army of the Republic stopped moving, it would be surrounded and overwhelmed by Janus’ more numerous forces. Marcus could turn and swipe at his pursuers, but not make a real s
tand, not without committing to an all-​out battle he was sure to lose. So every day they went back, and every day a few more men were left by the side of the road or melted into the darkness.

  “We’re hurting them,” he said to Cyte, as they rode through the twilight toward the Reter. “We have to be hurting them. But they keep coming.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t seem like Janus.”

  “He never struck me as particularly sentimental about losses,” Cyte said. “Given his advantage in numbers, maybe he’s just willing to accept the casualties to wear us down?”

  “It’s not that I think he’d balk at the casualties,” Marcus said, frowning as he struggled to articulate his feelings. “It’s not that this way of fighting is too ugly for him. It’s worse than that. It’s inefficient.”

  “A capital sin,” Cyte deadpanned.

  “It is, for Janus. This is the man who spent the last hours before his execution writing out letters to be delivered in the event of his rescue. He never stops. It’s not like him to waste time and lives bashing us head-on when he could get us some other way.”

  “Maybe there is no other way,” Cyte said. “Maybe you’ve thought of everything and this is all he’s got left.”

  “Somehow,” Marcus said grimly, “I doubt it.”

  *

  It occurred to Marcus, as they rode into the camp, what it was that bothered him about Janus’ strategy. He doesn’t need to attack to wear us down. We’re doing that to ourselves.

  The campfires were burning, and the air was thick with the scent of grilling meat. Most of it, Marcus knew, was horsemeat. The killing pace was consuming horses faster than it did men, and Marcus had given orders that none of those that fell were to be wasted. Supplies were desperately low as it was. The towns along the Pale had depots of powder, fodder, food, and other military necessities, but their commanders—​cowardly, fence-​sitting traitors—​had been reluctant to hand over their stocks to the fleeing Army of the Republic. Marcus had seriously considered taking them by force, but in the end he couldn’t bring himself to storm a friendly outpost. They’re afraid of Janus. If he wins, he might come looking for the names of the officers who helped us.