“I took her so-called weapon, and I took on you, Brother Wan, under false pretenses,” said Domingo. “I will admit I was disappointed when I peeked in that wagon and saw that this great and terrible weapon was nothing more than crocks of oil. But no matter, I thought, oil can come in handy in a battle, and maybe we can erect a means of launching them into the Cobalts. Fine. Hardly revolutionary, but fine. Setting the enemy on fire is a time-honored tradition, but this, this I will not allow.”
“There is something to the proposal, though, isn’t there?” asked Colonel Wheatley, even more cautious than usual in his tone. Daft as the green Myuran seemed, he’d evidently come to appreciate that being co-commander of this joint operation was strictly an honorable formality, and on matters military he was not to speak out of turn. “I mean, we have the stuff, it couldn’t hurt to try, could it? Might be just the thing for morale, if nothing else.”
“Morale is boosted by stalwart command, not magic potions,” said Domingo, drunk enough to speechify but not so far gone as to overdo it. “No Azgarothian in living memory has allowed their soldiers to poison their blades, nor slather themselves with Chain grease, and I have no intention of being the first. Long before we called ourselves the Fifteenth, we were noble enough to fight fair, even against those of less chivalrous disposition. What sort of a knight would I be, if I took to using deviltry when we already had strength of numbers and advantage of terrain? We will obliterate the Cobalt rebels absolutely, and with nothing more than cold steel and iron resolve.”
“Whether or not the Fifteenth takes part, I will allow any troopers in the Ninth who desire the Chain’s succor to be anointed before the battle,” said Wheatley, the sudden display of backbone as surprising in this command tent as it would have been in an octopus. Apparently the bronze iron chain around the man’s throat represented something more than a memento from a pious uncle or aunt. “Thank you, Brother Wan.”
“Yes, yes, thank you for sowing criminal notions in the fertile soil of a greenie’s empty helm,” said Domingo with a sneer at both the anathema and his human sympathizer. “Since you were but recently promoted to your position, Colonel Wheatley, I will pretend I did not hear your suggestion that your soldiers poison their weapons before engaging with the enemy, in clear violation of no fewer than three of the internationally recognized codes governing ethical warfare.”
“In open war with an honorable opponent, yes,” said Wheatley, quick enough to reply that Domingo would have bet his last biscuit that Brother Wan had coached him on the topic. “The Cobalt Company is not a legal army, though, so wouldn’t there be some wiggle room—”
“There’s no fucking wiggle room in my tent,” said Domingo curtly. “I am amazed you could locate the errata on rebel factions in the Crimson Codices, Wheatley, when you couldn’t find your own fucking command at the Siege of Myura. How fortunate for us you were off digging latrines when every other ranking officer was caught by the Cobalts, otherwise we would have had to promote some grunt with actual military experience to the post!”
“I was overseeing the sapping operation,” Wheatley said, having gone the color of Wan’s naked gums as the anathema gnawed at a piece of sheep cheese, watching the two colonels. “Not digging latrines. And the colonel and lieutenants and other captains weren’t captured. They say… they say they vanished.”
“Spirited away, were they, maybe by ghosts or devils?” Wheatley was making this too easy for Domingo—it felt even better to be shaving parts of this boy off with his tongue than it would have to do so with his saber! “They were caught with their greaves unbuckled, Wheatley, not once, but twice—bad enough old lady Culpepper fell for the oldest trick in the songs, sending the whole Ninth out of Myura after an obvious decoy, but then she couldn’t even take back her own fucking city. While you were down in the dirt trying to… trying to…” Domingo was trying not to laugh, “… trying to blow open your own colonel’s castle, the Cobalts swooped in and butchered the whole command. They vanished, all right, into an unmarked grave somewhere off the road between here and Myura. Another old Cobalt trick—if the bodies of your enemies are never found, superstitious humps will start whispering about how they weren’t killed, they’ll say…” Domingo lowered his voice in a passable imitation of the lad, looked back and forth between the livid Colonel Wheatley and the frowning Brother Wan. “They say… they say they vanished.”
To say that the silence that followed was awkward would be a bit like saying gangrene was unpleasant: accurate, but nowhere close to capturing the severity of the condition. Domingo watched the trembling, wide-eyed Wheatley very carefully, in case he pounced across the table to attack him with his fork. That’s what Domingo would have done, if any of his peers had talked that way to him, even in his youth. Especially in his youth.
“As I said, I mistakenly believed you intended to use Her Grace’s weapon because you brought the wagonload of oil all the way here from Diadem, and me along with it,” said Brother Wan snottily. Domingo had never seen the witchborn so blatantly annoyed, which, considering the innumerable times he had baited the anathema, seemed yet another feather in Domingo’s already many-plumed helm. “If you had refused her gift, I never would have raised the subject, because I never would have had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, to say nothing of riding all over the Empire with you and your army.”
“Good steel has a little bend in it, and so does a good colonel,” said Domingo. “You are correct that I accepted the Black Pope’s weapon, but I have changed my mind. I am allowed to do that. I would rather risk the lives of every soldier in this regiment by fighting the Cobalts fairly than risk their souls by using your devilish magic.”
“After all of your lectures on the matter I assumed you didn’t believe in an everlasting soul, Colonel,” said Wan.
“See here,” said Wheatley, “the Burnished Chain does not practice black magic!”
“One fellow’s faith is another’s heresy,” said Hjortt, which didn’t sound as clever as he’d thought once he said it, but no matter. He was in charge; he didn’t have to be clever.
“There is no more powerful weapon than faith, Colonel—” Wheatley began.
“Codswallop! I’ve been hearing that line from loonies my whole life—faith is the strongest weapon, the truth is a weapon, blah blah blah. You hit me with your faith and I’ll hit you with my fist and we’ll see which one’s a weapon!”
“Colonel Hjortt,” Wan said with poorly contained frustration, “a great many of your soldiers have already asked my brethren if they will be permitted to receive the Burnished Chain’s blessing before they see combat. If we could compromise, and I could anoint only those soldiers who request—”
“I don’t give a quick fuck what they asked you for, Wan. A soldier will ask for enough beer to drink herself blind and enough cheese to constipate himself for a week, but that doesn’t mean they should have it,” said Domingo, winking at Wheatley. “Even without the Third coming over from Thao to cut the Cobalts off, between my regiment and Wheatley’s we’ve got more than enough stiff fingers to pluck every blue pansy in the Company. The horse I sent after those Raniputri riders should rejoin us any day, and then, well! It will be a massacre, that’s the only word for it—they may have devils and witches and who knows what else, but our combined forces outnumber them two to one. That’s all that matters, when the horns blow, not the Black Pope’s dread weapon of holy slime and fatuous prayers.”
“Thank you for dinner, Colonel,” said Wheatley, stiffly rising and dropping his napkin over his barely touched beans. “I think… I think I had better see if the squad I sent to check on that odd signal from the western scouts has returned.”
“See that you do,” said Domingo, leaning back in his chair rather than standing. Fuck Colonel Wheatley. “If it turns out one of your scouts dropped his rifle and alerted the whole bloody mountain range to our presence, have the blighter hanged. That will do wonders for your morale, believe you me, nobody in the Ninth will d
ischarge their weapon without—”
But Wheatley had turned without a salute and all but dashed out of the tent. “Well, Colonel…” the witchborn said, refilling Domingo’s glass. “If anointing the rank and file is out, I hope it is not too much of an imposition to ask that I bless our armies when the horns sound? Just a few quick words to—”
“It is too much to ask, Wan, it damn well is. No Chain nonsense where the Fifteenth is concerned, nor the Ninth, nor any regiment within a hundred leagues of me, and that’s final. I won’t have you waving your rosaries around and then thieving all the credit when my intense planning and our hardworking troops bring us to victory. The queen’s extra-special holy oil gets to ride right back to Diadem, along with news of our honest win over the Cobalts,” said Domingo, knocking his glass back in one lusty swallow. Smacking his lips, he dealt the finishing blow: “If you really must have a prayer for them, Wan, I do give you leave to skulk about the latrines blessing the sounding of their farts… But ask for nothing more, or risk my discipline.”
The anathema looked like he might squirt a tear, or even better, lose his temper… why, Domingo might have pushed Wan into saying something truly stupid, in which case that horsewhip might get some use after all. And even if it didn’t, well, the warmth in Domingo’s belly proved that a good tongue-beating could be even more rewarding than the traditional kind. But as he set down his glass a heart-stopping howl tripped his hand, causing the goblet to topple and roll off the table. It wasn’t the first howl heard that evening, but it was a damn bit closer than the last few had been.
“Just a coyote, nothing to be alarmed about?” Brother Wan echoed Domingo’s words from before, to his profound irritation. It was a low, common sort of thing indeed, mimicking a man.
“Coyote my eye, no mangy hilldog would come so close to a bustling camp,” said Domingo, drumming his fingers on the table as he considered the possibilities. First Wheatley’s scouts on the western ridge and their mysterious single gunshot, and now this… He rose to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, brother, I intend to go see just what in the merry hells is going on out there. I can’t expect much of Wheatley, obviously, but Captain Shea should have something to report about all this caterwauling.”
“Of course, sir,” said Brother Wan, rising as well and offering a sharp salute. What had Domingo done to deserve this, where the anathemas were better disciplined than his own officers? “Shall I accompany you, or will you have one of the war nuns?”
“Think I’m safe walking around my own bloody camp,” said Domingo, though another, closer howl took some of the scorn out of his step as he left the tent, a hand on the hilt of his saber. There was quite a bit of commotion now, as he stepped out into the chill, torchlit evening. Soldiers rushed between the rows of tents, but without betraying any definite purpose. Several gunshots came from the western edge of camp, and then a whole volley went off, the rising walls of the high valley flashing with muzzle blasts. Shouts. Screams. Howls. The pair of war nuns to the left of the tent’s entrance were evidencing far less alarm than the pair of burly pureborn soldiers Domingo had stationed on the right, but all four guards looked to him for insight into what was happening, or failing that, an order. “You there, stop, stop at once, damn you!”
The bedraggled squad staggering past the command tent was a rum lot, no doubt about that, but they halted at his command. Wheatley’s people, without a doubt—not the lowliest pike lass in the Fifteenth would go around in such a shoddy state. One man was being clumsily carried by three of his comrades, and the other two women supported each other, smeared with blood and dirt from top to bottom, but seeing a little action was no excuse to let your uniforms flap around half-buttoned. “Just what in the yellow hells is happening?”
None of the bedraggled morons spoke at first, trading guilty looks, and then they all started blathering at once:
“Wolves!”
“A whole pack!”
“Big as oxen!”
“Hot on our heels!”
“Enough!” shouted Domingo. “Who’s got rank here?”
“Him,” said all three of the soldiers carrying the big man with the bloodied leg, nodding at their human cargo. The man raised a drowsy head, saluted in Domingo’s direction as best he could with two men holding him up by the shoulders, and slumped back into the arms of his fellows. Domingo recognized him at once, but couldn’t place which squad of Wheatley’s the man led… No matter, he wouldn’t be standing at the front of the ranks when this mess was over, Domingo would see to that—this idiot was getting busted down to stable duty for dereliction of duty, failure to wear a uniform, and… and… something pawed at the back of Domingo’s mind, something about this wounded squad leader…
“Begging your pardon, sir, but we need to get him to the sawbones—he’s going to lose the leg as it is,” said the younger of the two women leaning against one another. Domingo looked her full in the face now, then took a long, hard look at the other one, who was even stranger—her hood bulged out at the top, and beneath the cowl he made out white hair and a flash of red eyes. What the hell was Wheatley thinking, letting his witchborn wear normal cloaks instead of Chain robes? You needed to know at a glance whether someone was a normal soldier or an anathema, that was just common sense.
Another howl ripped at Domingo’s nerves, from just the other side of the officers’ tents, and he shooed the shirkers away without another thought. Between their maimed squad leader’s ridiculous flattop and the white-haired anathema they’d be an easy enough bunch to locate for disciplinary action once things calmed down, but for now it sounded like the beasts had actually stormed his camp. He drew his saber and nodded at his four guards to accompany him on the hunt—he’d never heard of anything so absurd, a pack of wolves attacking—
He froze, having taken only two steps toward the howl, the wounded squad shuffling off in the opposite direction. It wasn’t that their parting salutes had been sloppy—that would have been typical for the Ninth Regiment—but not even Wheatley would have soldiers so poorly disciplined that half of them used their right bloody hands. Ill-fitting or missing uniforms. Furtive glances. Heading east when the sawbones’ pavilion was north. Domingo was slipping, to have let it go this far, but he made up for the sloppiness with a burst of insight so keen it rattled him to the tips of his boots. That was where he had seen the squad leader. Unbelievable.
Pivoting on his heel, he walked leisurely after the squad. They weren’t going anywhere, not laden down with their injured leader and their anathema limping along with the help of the young Ugrakari girl. Domingo’s saber felt light as a baton as he closed the ground behind himself and the fleeing spies. “Oh, one more thing.”
The squad lurched to a stop again, but not a one of them looked back to meet Domingo’s eye. The Ugrakari called, “Yes, sir?”
“I wonder if you would be so good as to drop Captain Maroto on the ground for me, so I don’t have to cut him out of your arms.” Not bad, Domingo, though at his root he knew he could have done better, if he hadn’t been caught so off guard by seeing one of his old nemeses here in his camp… Then, to his further amazement, the men and woman carrying the big man did as he ordered, dropping the so-called Devilskinner onto the trampled meadow grass of the camp.
The witchborn guards behind Domingo shouted in unison, and well they might, but Domingo had seen things that would make a dead man squirm, and he kept his cool even as the monstrous silhouette stepped around the far end of the command tent, cutting off the spies. They’d dropped Maroto because they had seen it first, and slowly drew weapons as the gargantuan horned wolf stalked toward them. This should be quite the show!
Still, he was close enough as it was, and he took a step back, bumping into one of his guards. When he glanced at the girl to tell her to buck up, he saw that she was gawping behind them. He followed her eyes just in time to catch a second horned wolf shooting out from a gap between the officers’ tents, burying his bigger witchborn guard in a wave of furiou
s white fur. The other witchborn darted in to help her friend, but even with the speed of devils she was no match for the horned wolf; it snapped its head around to meet her charge, the straightest of its three horns punching neatly through robes, the armor beneath, and into her stomach. It reared back on its hind legs, standing as tall as the tents as it pranced on the first witchborn it had tackled, kicking its front hooves at the impaled woman who hung limply from its horn. A solid shove of a splayed hoof and she slid off, falling through the roof of the command tent and bringing the canvas down around her as the creature dropped back onto all fours.
The horned wolf looked at its next victim, and Domingo looked into the face of death. Maroto’s spies were wrong; it wasn’t as big as an ox, it was bigger. His last two guards screamed for help as the behemoth took a wary step toward them, but their voices seemed remote to Domingo, as remote as the shouts of Brother Wan inside the collapsing tent, as distant as the clamoring behind him where the other horned wolf rendered Maroto’s spies into offal. The only thing Domingo heard clearly was Efrain crying over the kitten his father had refused him, and then the monster charged.
What saved him was not the bravery of his guards, but their cowardice. The man and woman both tried to run but crashed into one another, limbs tangling, and, unable to resist the flurry of motion, the horned wolf careened into the pair. One of its horns speared through both the guards, but as the animal drew up short to dislodge the annoyance from its face, Domingo took a wide step around the side and stabbed it through the eye. It didn’t matter if it was mortal, devil, or something in between; a distracted opponent was a dead opponent when Domingo had his saber in hand.
A Crown for Cold Silver Page 39
