The foraging expeditions up the river, which were supposed to have brought in more supplies by boat, had been canceled. The white riders would have made such a trip too dangerous, and in any case the point was moot. The Kovria had frozen over the night after they’d arrived, and the crust of ice was now quite thick, solid enough that the soldiers simply slogged across the surface instead of using the little wooden bridge at the town of Isket, just south of the camp.
It felt like they were a ball thrown high in the air and reaching its apogee, with no energy to go farther but not yet able to fall back. Held there, unnaturally aloft, by the sheer force of Janus’ will. Rumors had started to spread, and no one dared to even breathe the word retreat in the presence of the First Consul. But it was everywhere else, on the lips of the rankers standing watch in the snow and among the gloomy groups of officers drinking up hoarded wine in their tents.
Winter felt isolated from it all, at the very center of things but somehow apart. Her tent, her bed, was a circle of warmth into which the cold couldn’t penetrate. She ought to be worried, ought to be thinking about what Janus would do next or the ultimate fate of the grand campaign. Instead, her mind drifted; the way Cyte smiled, just a bit, when she thought no one was watching, the way her hair fell across the delicate curve of her neck, the soft sounds she made when Winter touched her.
Somehow, the difficulty of the army’s situation had made things easier between the two of them. There was no question of propriety, of secrecy, just the desperate need for comfort. And we’re hardly the only ones, after all. There was a certain practicality to it. Not many better ways to keep warm.
There was a scratch at the tent flap.
Fuck, Winter thought. Fuck, fuck, fuck. In here was warmth, and quiet, and peace. Out there was duty and responsibility, and she did not want to get up. Knew, in the end, that she would.
“What is it?” she said, feeling Cyte stir.
“White riders, sir!” It was a young woman’s voice Winter didn’t recognize. “They’re attacking the Girls’ Own pickets.”
“In the middle of the day?” Winter frowned. That wasn’t according to the usual pattern. “Where’s Colonel Giforte?”
“On her way there, sir. She sent me to get you, said we’re holding them off for now.”
“Right. Give me a few minutes to get dressed. I’m on my way.”
“’S going on?” Cyte said blearily as Winter rolled out of bed and scrambled for her underclothes.
“White Riders are trying the pickets again.” Winter pulled her shirt on and shook out her trousers.
“Damn.” Cyte sat up, blanket falling away. “Wait for me.”
“They’ll probably be gone by the time I get there,” Winter said, pulling on her boots. They were still damp with yesterday’s melted snow. “Stay here. They may try another part of the line before I get back.”
Cyte nodded, trying to shake the sleepiness from her head. Winter belted on her sword and stepped out through the tent flap. The cold wind was like a slap in the face, and the Girls’ Own ranker waiting in front of the tent wore a ragged, makeshift overcoat made of stitched-together blankets.
“Lead the way—” Winter began, then stopped when something tickled the back of her mind. Alex burst into view around a tent, trying to run and sending up huge sprays of snow.
“Winter!” she said.
“What’s wrong?” Infernivore uncoiled deep inside her with its usual hunger.
“Can’t you feel it?” Alex said. She pointed toward the edge of the camp.
Winter looked meaningfully at the ranker standing behind her, and Alex closed her mouth with a snap. She kept pointing, though, and when Winter looked in that direction, she realized she could feel something. Alex’s demon dominated Infernivore’s attention, but if she focused, there was a hint of a presence in the other direction. Out by the picket line—
“Is that where they’re attacking?” she asked the ranker.
The young woman nodded. “Just past those trees.”
“Damn.” Penitents at last? “Alex, come with me. You”—she pointed at the ranker—“find Captain Forester and tell her to meet me out there, as fast as she can. Run!”
“Yes, sir!” the ranker said, bewildered but determined. She dashed off into the camp.
Winter started running in the other direction, as best she could in the snow. Alex pounded along behind her.
“You think it’s them?” the girl said.
“We’re only a hundred miles from Elysium,” Winter said. “This is practically their backyard.”
“What are they doing attacking the pickets, though?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Maybe they’re working with the white riders.”
They approached the tree line. Alex looked over her shoulder and extended a hand. “I’ll make better time this way.”
“Wait—”
But Alex was already rising into the air, swinging toward the nearest tree on a line of pure darkness, trailing snow from her boots. She landed, lashed to the tree, then aimed her other hand and swung again. Winter struggled after her, now able to see the flashes of musket-fire deeper into the little woods. The snow muffled the sound of the weapons to a dull thud, thud, thud, like someone keeping an irregular beat on a drum. After a few moments, the firing stopped, although more distant shots came from farther along the line.
The first body was leaning against a tree, a woman in a Girls’ Own uniform opened from navel to collarbone by a single long cut, hands clamped futilely over the wound. Her blood was startlingly red against the snow, and the drops and sprays had melted little craters in the delicate surface. A bit farther on, another soldier was curled on her side, lying in a pool of brown slush.
“Saints and fucking martyrs,” Winter whispered. Her hand dropped to her sword, and she scanned the silent, shadowed forest for movement. The crunch of her boots in the snow sounded loud.
Another body, still clutching her musket. And another, pinned to a tree, her feet several inches off the ground, hanging from a milky white spike driven through her sternum. Her eyes were wide with terror and disbelief.
“There you are,” a woman’s voice said. She spoke Vordanai with a heavy Murnskai accent. “I was getting bored of slaughtering these rabble.”
Infernivore rose up in Winter’s mind as a slim figure stepped around a tree. She was tall, with a great mass of black hair that fell below her shoulders. She’d wrapped herself in a thick fur, but at the sight of Winter she let this fall, revealing well-fitted dark leather.
Her face was invisible behind a black mask set with tiny chips of obsidian. The weak sunlight gleamed and shifted as she moved, running along the curving surfaces like dripping paint.
“You’re a Penitent,” Winter said, stepping closer.
“Ahdon ivahnt vi, ignahta sempria,” the woman acknowledged, moving slowly to mirror Winter’s approach. They circled, drawing ever closer. “And you’re Vhalnich’s pet demon lord, aren’t you? Ihernglass.”
“I suppose I shouldn’t bother asking you to surrender,” Winter said.
The Penitent laughed. “I’ll tell you what. If you don’t bother with that, I won’t pretend that I’m going to let you live.”
What happened to Alex? Winter resisted the urge to look up at the treetops. The girl had to be there, somewhere, but she might have lost her nerve. Maybe I ought to have waited for Cyte to put a squad together. Winter dismissed that thought at once. Whatever this demon-host could do, it had clearly been able to tear through the Girls’ Own sentries without difficulty. I won’t ask my soldiers to throw their lives away against a monster.
I have to get ahold of her. Infernivore could destroy any other demon, but she needed close contact to unleash it. If she doesn’t know what I can do, I might be able to misdirect her. She hefted her sword and squared her stance slightly. She d
oesn’t have a weapon, but that doesn’t mean much . . .
“Well?” the Penitent said. “Are you going to get started, or should I?”
Winter shrugged. Then, before the movement was quite finished, she lunged forward, snow spraying out behind her. Only a few feet separated them, but Winter started her swing early, telegraphing a wide blow to the Penitent’s left side. Even an indifferent swordsman could have blocked it, which was of course the whole point. Her left hand came up, open-palmed, no obvious threat. If I grab her—
The Penitent stood motionless, but snow fountained around her feet. As Winter’s sword descended, a torrent of fine white particles flowed around the woman’s clothes, rapidly enclosing her in a thickening shell. By the time the blade struck, the fine particles of snow had merged into a solid layer of ice, milky white color fading to absolute transparency. The blade hit and rebounded as though she’d struck stone, steel ringing with the impact as chips and splinters of ice flew.
Winter’s other hand reached out, and she put her palm flat against the Penitent’s chest. Her skin went instantly numb, but Winter was already reaching out with her mind, urging Infernivore on. It filled her arm, roaring through her fingertips, but the Penitent’s demon remained stubbornly out of reach, separated by the icy barrier.
It’s too thick, Winter realized. She took a step and nearly stumbled. Her hand refused to move, stuck to the Penitent’s chest, fingers numbed into insensibility as cold crept up her arm.
“Not exactly an auspicious beginning,” the Penitent said. Her voice echoed oddly; the ice had grown around her head, encasing it in a transparent helmet and visor like an old-fashioned knight. “Surely you’ve got something more than that?”
Winter aimed a second cut at the woman’s head. It rang off her icy helmet, snapping off a chunk as big as a finger and sending spidery white cracks through the rest. The woman frowned, and the cracks receded, sealing themselves closed. She raised her right hand, and more snow rose from the forest floor and shaped itself into a long, thin blade with a needle-sharp point.
“I really don’t see how you could have beaten Wren, let alone Twist,” the Penitent said. “Perhaps you had help—”
A line of absolute darkness shot down from the trees, slamming into the icicle sword near the hilt. The weapon shattered in a blast of cold and splintered ice. The Penitent spun, dragging Winter through the snow, and another spear of blackness stabbed down and hit the woman high in the chest. There was a horrible screech, like a knife blade drawn across glass, and the Penitent staggered back a step in a cloud of powdered ice. When it cleared, Winter could see that the ice armor was fractured in a neat bull’s-eye pattern around the impact, but not broken.
It had stunned the woman for a moment, though, and Winter wasn’t about to let that go to waste. She jumped, putting all her weight on the hand that was stuck to the Penitent’s chest, and jammed both her feet against the woman’s hips. She hung there for a moment, suspended like a climber from a tree; then, gritting her teeth, Winter straightened her legs and pulled as hard as she could.
There was no pain when her hand came free, just a cracking, tearing feeling that promised agony later. She pushed off the Penitent and landed a few feet away in the snow, rolling immediately with a spray of white powder. The Penitent ignored her, more snow whirling around her in a miniature cyclone. It condensed into icicles like thin white daggers, a dozen of them, which hung in the air for a moment before zipping into the trees like a volley of arrows. Snow and torn branches fell as they slashed by, but a moment later another pair of inky black lines lanced out. One hit the Penitent in the head, tearing away a big chunk of helmet, while the other slammed into her knee with a crunch of shattering ice. The woman let out a grunt, slapping an ice-gauntleted hand over her face, and snow spiraled inward to regrow her armor.
Winter took the opportunity for a strategic withdrawal, running for the tree the black lines were coming from. Another volley of ice knives slashed out, and she dove to put the thick trunk between her and her opponent. The tree shivered again, losing more branches.
“Winter!” a voice said from above. Winter looked up to see Alex clinging to the trunk of the tree, eyes wide. “Are you all right?”
“Think so,” Winter said.
“She just shrugged off the best I can do,” Alex said. “You’ve killed these things before, haven’t you? How do we hurt her?”
Another volley of knives, this one curving around the side of the tree like a flock of birds. Winter threw herself flat to avoid them, then struggled to her feet.
“For now, I think we run,” she said. Then maybe come back here with a goddamn cannon.
She broke from cover, zigzagging to the next tree, and Alex swung past overhead. Behind her, the Penitent’s laughter boomed.
“I really can’t believe that’s all,” she shouted. “You are the Winter Ihernglass the pontifex is so terrified of? What a joke.”
Winter threw herself against another tree and risked a look back. “She’s not coming after us.”
“Maybe she’s got better things to do,” Alex said, lowering herself on a dark line until she was beside Winter’s head.
Think, Winter commanded herself. “Maybe she can’t. That armor must weigh half a ton. It can’t be easy to move around in. She didn’t have it up when I got here.”
“I knew I should have speared her first thing,” Alex said. “I thought I would follow your lead, you being the general and all.”
“In the future, feel free to kill any Penitents we run across without asking permission.”
“Noted,” Alex said. “What now?”
“We get help.” Maybe a cannon would do it. If she can’t dodge well, we might be able to hit her. “At the very least, we need Bobby—”
A new sound cut her off, a keening, wailing noise like a rising windstorm. Winter peeked around the tree and found the Penitent still in place, both her hands in the air, as though calling for applause.
Snow exploded all around them. A dozen individual bursts, rising into columns of swirling, freezing mist. They coalesced into roughly man-shaped figures, headless, featureless torsos with rudimentary legs and arms that ended in long, white blades. They glided lightly over the packed snow as they came forward.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Alex said. She fired a line of darkness from one hand, punching right through one of the advancing wraiths. It didn’t even seem to notice. Another rushed at Winter, swinging its blade-arms in clumsy arcs. She danced away, then ducked under a slash from another behind her. She came up inside its guard, sword curving around to cut neatly through it from armpit to shoulder. There was little resistance, as though she’d swung into lightly packed snow, and the wraith exploded into flurries of white.
Winter spun, panting, her breath hanging in the air like smoke. Her left hand was starting to hurt, and she hadn’t dared look at it yet. Another wraith came at her, and she dodged one swing and parried the other, steel blade meeting ice with that same hair-raising squeal. Her riposte punched through it, shattering it to fragments, but there were two more closing in behind.
Alex dropped off the tree with a thump in the midst of the lumbering wraiths. Darkness shot out of her palm, not a single spear this time but a broad whip, shattering the wraith into its component ice. She turned gleefully and slashed another and another, flying snow hanging in the air like powder smoke.
“Behind you!” Winter shouted, fending off four ice swords. The creatures weren’t skilled, but they were strong and relentless. She cut through another and saw Alex spin just in time, taking a thrust along her shoulder instead of through her ribs. The girl swore and chopped the wraith down, retreating toward Winter, who hacked a path to her.
“Keep them off me,” Alex said. “I can handle these things, at least.”
Winter clenched her off hand. Her fingers moved, but the pain made her squeeze her eyes sh
ut for a moment. When her vision cleared of tears, more columns of white mist were rising all around them, more wraiths building themselves out of wind and snow.
“How many can you handle?” Winter said.
“Probably not this many,” Alex admitted.
“Can you get us both out of here?”
Alex looked down at her hands. “Maybe. I’ve only lifted other people a couple of times.”
“This would be a really good opportunity to find out.”
“Right.” Alex put her arm around Winter’s waist. “Here goes.”
Black strands lashed out, wrapping around a nearby tree, and they rose into the air, swinging above the headless wraiths. Ice blades reached for them, inches from Winter’s feet, and the rush of freezing air stung her eyes. Alex hit the tree, grunting with effort, and immediately swung again.
Something flashed from the direction of the Penitent. Winter shouted, and Alex changed course, getting them out of the way of a barrage of ice knives that screamed past. The blades slammed into the tree Alex had roped herself to, a slim pine whose trunk exploded into shards under the impact. It began to topple, momentum dragging their swing off course and slamming them into a snowdrift. Winter’s ears were ringing. She raised her head and saw wraiths in every direction, moving in for the kill. Alex groaned.
Two of the wraiths exploded, and Bobby strode through the clouds of snow. Her sword was still in her belt, but she carried a six-foot-long tree branch, which she swung as easily as an ordinary man might have wielded a truncheon. The next wraith raised its swords to block, but it made no difference at all; the impact of the wood blasted it to pieces. Winter hauled Alex to her feet and retreated to meet Bobby’s advance.
“Sir!” Bobby said. “What the hell is going on? What are these things?”
“Penitent,” Winter gasped. “Just up ahead.”
“There’s fighting all along the line,” Bobby said. “White riders.”
“It’s a distraction,” Winter said. “She’s here for me.”
The Guns of Empire Page 29