The Infernal Battalion

by Django Wexler

  Here and there were groups of soldiers in uniform, officers directing the work. The rankers carried shovels instead of muskets, and they were shifting dirt with impressive speed, digging out pits and piling the earth in front of them to make a rampart. They were far outnumbered, however, by the civilians, men and women from the city who’d come out with nothing more than work clothes and tools. They were everywhere, burrowing through the hillside like moles. As he watched, a half dozen stout women in dockworkers’ leathers roped themselves to a tree stump and yanked it out of the earth, clods of dirt clinging to the trailing roots. The rocks uncovered by the diggers were piled between the trenches and carried by relays of youths to be stacked down at the base of the hill, where they could be an obstacle.

  “Enthusiastic, aren’t they?”

  Marcus turned to find Abby approaching. Winter’s return had apparently done her a world of good. At the very least, the dead look had gone from her eyes, though she still had the thick, dark circles underneath.

  “It’s impressive,” Marcus said. “Will it be ready by tomorrow?”

  “More or less,” Abby said. “We could do more, with more time. But with all the volunteers helping, we should have a triple breastwork across the whole front, assuming we have enough timber. I’d like to dig a second line, but this ground is full of rocks.” She kicked the soil, as though it had personally offended her.

  “We’ll need space for the gun pits in front, remember,” Marcus said.

  “Don’t worry,” Abby said. “The Preacher and his hellion were marking out distances when we got here. And the girls are very eager to have some cannon around.”

  The Preacher’s here? Marcus hadn’t realized that. I suppose I’ve been a bit preoccupied. “Good. Anything you need from me?”

  “If you have a moment, it would help if some of the ax companies cut more trails up and over the crest, then down to the cutters’ stations. We don’t want to be tripping over bushes when we’re pulling casualties out of here.”

  “I’ll see to it.” Marcus smiled. “It’s good to see you feeling better, Colonel.”

  “Well.” Abby blushed. “I apologize for making you fret, sir.”

  Marcus walked back up the hill, satisfied that section of the work was well in hand. It was the most critical part, the tip of the V, where the heaviest attack could be expected to land. More trenches lined the flanks of the hill, petering out where it sloped down onto the flats. Here the line would have to be more mobile, and they didn’t have the spare manpower to extend a full breastwork over such a distance. Still, men were digging gun pits, sloped at the back and deep enough to provide some shelter for the cannoneers. When a cannon fired, its recoil would drive it up the ramp, and then gravity would help run it back into position.

  Just past the bottom of the slope was the boundary of the first plowed field, marked by a fieldstone wall that was already mostly dismantled. Immediately beyond it was the cutter’s station for the Second Division, several large tents with their sides tied open, operating tables already set up inside. Around them, lower tents were ready to shelter the wounded, at least until the beds filled up.

  Hannah Courvier, the Second’s head cutter, was standing outside one of the tents, talking to a thin young man Marcus didn’t recognize. To his surprise, Raesinia was with them, accompanied by her two Girls’ Own bodyguards. Marcus went over in time to catch Hannah’s frown.

  “Well.” She looked at the young man, then back to Raesinia. “I don’t hold with foreign mumbo ​jumbo, but you come highly recommended. Can you do anything with a broken foot? We’ve got a light cavalry lieutenant who fell off his horse.”

  “I will do my best.” The young man glanced at Marcus and nodded. “General.”

  Marcus nodded back. Hannah stomped away, and the young man followed. Raesinia looked up at Marcus. “How are the preparations going?”

  “Well, for the moment. If they come tomorrow, we’ll be ready. It would be better if we had one more day...”

  “But you don’t think he’ll give us that,” Raesinia said.

  “I wouldn’t,” Marcus said simply.

  “Winter says she’s ready as well,” Raesinia said. “But she doesn’t know how long it will take, once the battle starts.”

  “I’m assuming we’re going to have to hold out until dark,” Marcus said. “After that, we should be able to break contact and retreat down the road to Vordan City.”

  “It won’t come to that,” Raesinia said.

  “No harm in being prepared. We don’t know exactly what will happen, even if Winter wins.”

  Raesinia nodded, her eyes distant, as though she were lost in thought.

  *

  There were more lines to inspect, more preparations to confirm. Marcus caught up with the Preacher as the sun was setting. Torches lit the way for the final preparations of the artillery.

  “Oh, Almighty Karis, preserve us.” The artilleryman’s rasping voice was audible most of the way down the hill. “Captain! What kind of cannon is this?”

  The answer was impossible to hear, but the Preacher’s response was clear.

  “Correct! And it fires twelve-​pound balls, is that right?” Another pause, and then, “So what, exactly, were you planning to do with these boxes of eight-​pound balls? Hurl them at the enemy with your bare hands? Do you think you might find somewhere they could be put to slightly better use?”

  Marcus grinned as an anxious captain dashed past him. A moment later, he found the Preacher standing beside a cannon, running his fingers through his long gray beard.

  “General!” The Preacher saluted.

  “Colonel,” Marcus said with a nod. “I didn’t know you were here.”

  “Well.” The Preacher rolled his shoulders with a sigh. “I said I was getting too old for this, but young Viera disagrees, and she’s a hard one to argue with.” He grinned crookedly. “Besides, your lads came to the school and hauled all the cannon away. I didn’t have anything left to teach with. Or any students, for that matter.”

  “Sorry. Most of the artillery was captured at Alves. We need all the metal we can get.”

  The Preacher waved a hand, then patted the barrel of the gun next to him. “This is what they’re for, not moldering away on a drill field.” His face went dark. “I only wish it were infidels we were pointing them at, and not Vordanai.”

  “I think everyone here agrees with that,” Marcus said. “Let’s hope this will be the end of it.” He frowned. “Do you want a command? I’m sure—”

  The Preacher shook his head. “Colonel Archer offered, but I thought I could serve best as an aide. Dispensing my expertise, as it were.” He glared at the errant boxes stacked nearby. “Ammunition is going to be a problem. Some of these guns are older than I am, and we’ve got balls in a half dozen obsolete sizes to deal with. We can’t be spendthrift.”

  “You’ll manage,” Marcus said. “At least we’ve got decent ground.”

  “No complaints there.” The Preacher looked out at the darkening horizon, where the flat fields stretched into the distance. “But ground isn’t everything. I’m leading a service tonight, if you have time.”

  “I’ll try to make it,” Marcus said, though he knew he wouldn’t, and suspected the Preacher did, too. It was an old dance between the two of them.

  “Colonel!” Viera stalked up from farther down the hill, her blue uniform spotted and stained with mud. “Are you lazing about?”

  “He’s obliging the general,” Marcus said.

  Viera paused at the sight of him, saluted, and then turned on the Preacher. “They’re making a mess of things down at the third battery. When I pointed it out, one of them patted me on the head.” She sniffed. “I considered tossing a torch into their caisson to administer a sharp lesson, but I didn’t want to waste the ammunition.”

  “That was probably wise. Karis teaches us mercy, even for the lowest.” The Preacher sighed. “Give me a moment.”

  He turned back to Marcus, who gr
inned. “Try not to let her blow anything up.”

  “Oh, I’ve given up on that. I just try to keep her pointed in the general direction of the enemy.” His smiled faded. “I meant to ask you, when I got the chance. Do you know what happened to General Solwen?”

  Val. He and his men had been taken by surprise before the Battle of Alves. Marcus shook his head. “Captured, I hope. I can’t imagine Janus ordering a slaughter, and Val at least wouldn’t fight against us.” Unless he’s out there right now with glowing red eyes...

  “I will say a prayer for him,” the Preacher said. He saluted again. “With your permission?”

  “Of course. Good luck.”

  He walked off after Viera, whose Hamveltai-​accented Vordanai was just as loud as her mentor’s. They’re well matched, I suppose.

  Raesinia found him after another hour, back down among the Girls’ Own trenches, inspecting the newly raised breastworks. The piles of earth in front of the trenches had been topped with logs, producing a makeshift fortification that would block a musket shot, if not a cannonball. Many of the soldiers hadn’t stopped there, but had hacked gaps in the logs wide enough to lay a musket in, like the arrow slits of an ancient castle.

  “General,” Raesinia said, as Marcus bent to examine another trench. He heard the soldiers around him go quiet. “It’s late. Don’t you think you should get some rest?”

  There were a few quiet chuckles. I suppose everyone in the army knows about us now.

  “As you command, Your Highness.” He straightened and looked out across the plain.

  Tomorrow. The darkness of the fields was broken by tiny points of light, like a swarm of fireflies. The campfires of Janus’ army, stretching as far as the eye could see.

  Part 5

  Interlude

  Janus

  He had almost begun to feel normal again when the touch of the Beast dragged him back into the whirlwind.

  The campaign, Janus thought, was proceeding satisfactorily. His men had cleared the Illifen passes, diligently reducing the fortresses and accepting the surrenders of their garrisons. The tactics were sound and, more important, it took time. Time was what was needed, for all the moving pieces to fall into place. For Marcus to reach Vordan City, and for Winter to join him.

  He’d sent them a final message when the Beast’s core arrived. From then on, he’d guessed it would be too dangerous to communicate. The Beast’s primary focus was no longer distracted by the pursuit of Winter. It watched his every move.

  For a while, though, it had been content to observe, letting him inhabit his own body. He issued orders, studied maps, and received reports. He still let his mind slip free from time to time, of course, to look through the perspectives of other red-​eyes. It was such a joy to be able to see what his scouts saw and not have to wait for a few hastily scrawled words.

  Marcus’ approach was not unexpected, though his dispositions showed more imagination than Janus had thought him capable of. Perhaps I didn’t give him enough credit. Or maybe it’s the pressure of command that reveals new depths. Either way, his old subordinate had set him an interesting problem to solve, and he had just been sitting down to figure it out when he felt the cold winds of the Beast at the back of his metaphorical neck. In an instant he found himself lifted from the realm of the physical, back to the mindscape of the Beast, where the dark, brutal winds of the core whistled terrifyingly close.

  “What are you doing?” the Beast said, its voice like thunder.

  “Planning for tomorrow’s battle.” Janus was unable to gesture, but he invited the Beast to survey the silver threads that led to its many bodies. “We will crush the Vordanai army, I guarantee. Losses will be minimal.”

  “Losses are irrelevant. Armies are irrelevant. I want the city, and I want the Thousand Names.” The Beast drew even closer. “You have grown comfortable indeed in your... role.”

  “I wish only to serve as you have directed,” Janus said. “Since, of course, you could dash me to pieces at once.”

  “Perhaps I should,” the Beast said. “I have never seen a mind maintain itself so long. It is... unnatural.”

  “But useful,” Janus said. “It allowed the campaign to proceed while you were busy hunting for Winter.”

  “Yes. But that hunt is on hold for the moment. So what further use are you?”

  “When the Names are taken, Winter will be the only remaining threat to you,” Janus said. “But sooner or later, your existence will become widely known. Hamvelt, Borel, and the other nations will come against you. I imagine you will want me close at hand to repel them while you pursue your primary purpose.”

  The Beast made a thunderous sound that might have been a chuckle. “You are very skilled at arguing for your continued existence, little figment of my imagination.”

  “As I said, I wish only to serve.”

  “Very well. But for now”—winds snatched at Janus, lifting him away from the silver threads that connected to the real world—“you will observe. I do not need you to fight my battles.”

  “Of course,” Janus murmured.

  30

  Winter

  “Well,” Winter said, doing up the last buttons of her coat. “I suppose it’s time to go and save the world.”

  Cyte, still in just her uniform shirt, gave a quick nod, arms folded over her chest. Her face was tight.

  “Be careful,” she said. “Please.”

  “I’m not the only one who’s going to be in danger, you know.”

  Winter leaned close and kissed her. Cyte hesitated at first, and then her lips parted, returning the kiss with desperate urgency.

  “I’m serious,” Winter said when she pulled away. “I’m coming back, and so are you.”

  Cyte nodded, blinking rapidly. Winter wanted to kiss her again, put her arms around her, crawl back into bed and never come out. Instead she slipped out of the tent, shivering at the sudden chill. The sun was only a suggestion of brightness at the horizon, and fall was slipping away quickly.

  She walked up the hill, following the paths cut by companies of enthusiastic axmen the night before. At the back of the ridge, behind the artillery, a small copse of trees had been left untouched. Their leaves were fading to brown, but they still effectively concealed the small clearing at their center from prying eyes, and Winter had picked the spot for a meeting place. She pushed through bushes until she broke into the open, and she waited for the others to arrive.

  In the center of the clearing, they’d made a pyre, a bed of firewood built on a layer of small sticks and kindling. Winter looked down at it and shivered, but not from the cold.

  Alex and Abraham arrived next. Alex had trimmed her hair and traded her ragged traveling clothes for a tighter, darker outfit of leather and silk. Winter raised an eyebrow at her, and she shrugged, blushing slightly.

  “I had this stashed in the city from the last time we came through,” she said, looking down at herself. “I thought it was an appropriate costume for the world’s greatest thief. This seemed like as good a time to pull it out as any.”

  “Having a fancy costume seems to defeat the purpose of being a thief,” Abraham said, pulling his gray robe away from the bushes with some effort. “You’re not supposed to let people see you.”

  “You clearly don’t understand what it takes to be the world’s greatest thief,” Alex said. “You have to show off a little to build your reputation.”

  She grinned, but her smile was shaky. Winter did her best to project reassurance.

  Sothe didn’t so much arrive as materialize out of the shadows. She shot Alex a pointed look, then nodded to Winter.

  “You’re ready?” Winter said.

  “Feor assures me the ritual was successful.” Sothe looked down at herself. “I didn’t feel different, at first. But I tested a cut on my arm last night.” She held out her wrist. In a line across her old, fading scars, there was a stripe of flesh that had turned the color of marble. “It is... a strange sensation.”

 
Winter blinked back a moment’s tears, remembering Bobby coming to her when she’d first noticed the change Feor’s magic was working. How long could she have lived, if she hadn’t followed me? Another year? Longer? They’d never know now.

  “If you’d like,” Abraham said quietly, “I can send you into a deep sleep. I thought that might make the prospect... easier. Only with your permission, of course.”

  Sothe gave a small smile. “I consider myself as capable of bearing pain as anyone, but I must admit the prospect of being burned alive was unappealing. I think your way sounds better.”

  “Wait,” Winter said. “What am I supposed to tell Raesinia? Assuming... things work out.”

  “She knows I intend to go with you,” Sothe said. “Just not the details. Tell her I gave my life to stop the Beast.”

  The assassin nodded again politely. She dropped a small pack at Winter’s feet, then lowered herself onto the pyre, taking care not to disturb the logs. Winter watched with a quiet awe at her self-​control. She’s not even trembling. When she was comfortable, Abraham stepped forward and put a hand on her shoulder.

  “I don’t blame you,” Winter said abruptly. “For... what you did. And I think... maybe you can balance the scales.”

  Sothe only smiled. A moment later her eyes closed and her breaths became slow and deep.

  Abraham stood up. “I should get back to the cutter’s station,” he said, looking from Alex to Winter. “If you need my help, you’ll know where to find me.”

  “Thanks,” Alex said. “Don’t forget to keep your own head down.”

  He nodded gravely and left the clearing. Alex looked down at Sothe nervously, then raised her eyebrows at Winter. “So, now we just... light her on fire?”

  “Not yet.” The Steel Ghost’s voice rang from nowhere. For a few seconds the air was full of flying sand, and then the robed, masked figure stood beside the pyre, looking down at Sothe. “This is a brave woman,” he murmured.