“Nothing more,” said Fennec, now playing the disappointed uncle as he turned toward her guards. “Pray sleep on it, Princess, and remember that everyone in this camp trusts you with their lives.”
“It’s General, not Princess,” Ji-hyeon called after him, and, unable to resist, added, “But give it time, you might be calling me queen.”
He stopped walking, looked back at her. “It’s true, then. I don’t know how Hoartrap does it. Well, let me say it again, in case you misheard me before—I’m with you, not your father. And assuming we live out the week, I’ll be more help to you if I know your intentions, instead of only his. General.”
Then he was just a silhouette tramping down the hillside, and Ji-hyeon looked up to where Fellwing wheeled above them. She felt the winter air, then, breathing its corpse breath down the mountains they had zigzagged up and down, and she pulled Sullen’s coat tighter around her. It smelled of sweat and saam and the kaldi they’d shared, and she breathed it in, exhaling smoke of her own, and even as Fennec stopped for a word with the guards she heard a foot crunch the grass at her back. She turned, pleased with herself that she registered no surprise at seeing Hoartrap standing where she’d been minutes before, at the heart of the pentacle.
“Do you have a few moments to spare an old Villain, General?”
“For you, sorcerer?” Ji-hyeon tried to smile. “Anything.”
“Oooooh, careful, careful,” he said, rocking one of the stones with his foot. “One must always be mindful of how she words things, and never more so than when addressing my kind.”
“Devils, you mean?”
“Well, we’re both honest to a fault, but that’s about as far as the resemblance goes. Come to watch the Imperials arrive, have we?”
“Hardly,” said Ji-hyeon, but when she glanced back over the plains a shiver coursed down her spine. Far, far out in the frozen black sea of the night-draped hills, an orange glow outlined the southern horizon. She rubbed her eyes to make sure she wasn’t just glimpsing a scout’s campfire, but no—it was too remote, and that she could make it out at all from this distance meant it came from something far grander than a few scavenged logs. “That can’t be… Why would they build their fires this late?”
“It’s possible they’ve been marching late, and have just made camp,” said Hoartrap, stepping beside Ji-hyeon and squinting into the south. “Or they’re still at it, advancing by torchlight. In the old days, the Fifteenth had a real monster of a colonel—he’d trained his troops to live off a few hours of sleep a day, and march clear through blackest night. It was something to see, riding out with the original Cobalts. This great fiery wyrm, relentlessly pursuing you across the moonlit world… Brings back the memories, I tell you, seeing that right there. I’d wager cold coin that’s the Fifteenth down from the mountains, and they’re on the move.”
It might have been her imagination, but the light did seem to waver as she watched. Now the dark hills really did look like the Haunted Sea beyond Hwabun, the fox fire in the distance completing the picture. Ji-hyeon’s throat tightened as she stared out onto the Witchfinder Plains. This was it, then—the Imperials had come to kill her and every single one of the people who had trusted her to keep them safe… the people she had ordered to make camp and build pickets, digging in for a battle that never had to happen. They could have packed up and moved anytime, she could have ignored Zosia’s counsel and delayed this confrontation, like Fennec and all the rest had urged, but now it was too late. Even if she gave the order to move out tonight, to move out right fucking now, it would be well after dawn by the time they were packed up and moving, and how close would the Imperial regiment be then? Too close, was the answer.
“Eh, they’re still leagues away,” said Hoartrap, as though he was already bored with the subject. “I’d be surprised if they attack before tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow!” Ji-hyeon felt sick. While they’d been bivouacking in the Kutumbans after leaving Myura, the days and nights had inched by, slow as arthritic snails, but now everything was moving far too fast.
“Don’t fret, General, I’m sure you’ll have scouts and advisors stalking your tent by the time you get back down, eager to deliver the intelligence you’ve already seen with your own eyes. But for now why don’t we—”
“Cut to the chase, Hoartrap,” said Ji-hyeon, ripping her eyes away from the hypnotic glow on the horizon. Turning from the beacon of an enemy army to the milky, misshapen face of a dangerous and unpredictable devil-eater wasn’t much of an improvement.
“It’s to be war, yes?” Hoartrap’s smile was as warm and welcoming as the farthest frozen star. “You and Zosia were alone far too long in the command tent for it to be anything but.”
“Hasn’t that always been the goal, Captain?” Ji-hyeon watched the sinister bastard carefully, wondered if she could detect it even if he gave anything up. “I mean, you and Maroto stumbled on us quite by accident back in Myura, didn’t you? So why would you expect the aim would be anything less than the conquest of Samoth? Of the whole Empire, in time? That’s what we’ve been moving toward all along, isn’t it?”
“Nothing could make me happier than learning you are sincere in your intentions toward our beleaguered opponents,” said Hoartrap, nodding his head toward the light to the south. “Yet for all your talk of Samoth this and Crimson Empire that, where in your little war does the Burnished Chain fall?”
“They fall hardest,” Ji-hyeon said with more passion than she meant to betray. Getting mad felt good; it made her decision to stay and fight seem justified. Besides, if you couldn’t be honest with your devil-trafficking warlock, who could you be honest with? “The Crimson Empire is nothing but the carrier, the Chain is the sickness. The things they do to wildborn, to their own people, and all in the name of the higher truth… And their higher truth is spreading. I know that firsthand, growing up in the Isles, and coming in from Zygnema we saw whole Dominions that’ve converted. Hells, Sullen says even the Flintland tribes are taking a knee. The Chain’s the real enemy, and always have been.”
“A fine speech,” said Hoartrap with exaggerated solemnity. “I’m just relieved you’re not actually working for them.”
“Working for them?” It was hard to tell when Hoartrap was being serious, and she didn’t want to waste her indignation if this was just another joke.
“Oh, you know, a silent partner in your campaign against the Crimson Empire—the Chain’s last rebellion failed, so perhaps they colluded with you to overthrow Queen Indsorith. You get Samoth, they get the Empire, standard stuff. Don’t tell me you haven’t even considered it?”
“No.”
“Good for you! Ethical standards are commendable in the young, though they can become terminal if left untreated. Of course, if the Chain’s not secretly supporting you, then we’re all in for some very, very bad times. The Fifteenth are going to come down on us like devils on fresh sin.”
“That’s been the plan ever since we made camp,” said Ji-hyeon, barely able to keep her eyes on Hoartrap instead of the lights of the Fifteenth. “Have any other uncanny portents for the future, oh wondrous seer?”
“Ha! Well, maybe one or two. Would you heed advice, if I offered it?”
“First I’d have to hear it.”
“Hearing can be harder than it sounds,” Hoartrap said, and, following his gaze upward, Ji-hyeon wondered if he was eyeing her devil or the indifferent heavens beyond. “What do you think they want, I wonder?”
“Who, the Imperials or the Chain? Or the devils?”
“The devils, of course. I’ve been studying them my whole life, and the question is always what can we squeeze out of them? How do we bind them, everyone asks. And once we do, what will we accept in exchange for setting them free again? But there’s so much more to it than that—why did they build the Gates in ages past? As a means of egress from their world into ours, surely, but to what end? To prey on mortals, but then turn around and grant our every wish once we shackle them? What sort
of creature wields such power, yet is so easily captured by bumbling mortals? It’s the question of our epoch, isn’t it, lurking behind every faith and every fairy story, tugging at our curiosity… What do they want from us?”
“The Immaculates say they want to be left alone,” said Ji-hyeon. “Nothing more.”
“Oh, the Immaculate sages say quite a bit more than that on the matter!” Hoartrap clucked his tongue, and with a muttered word, the stars began to wink in and out of view. What at first caught Ji-hyeon’s heart as witchcraft revealed itself to be something altogether more wonderful, and terrifying: dozens of other devils now shared the night sky with Fellwing, dancing with her owlbat. She didn’t know if she should fear for her devil… or for herself. “The mysteries of the Forsaken Empire and the Sunken Kingdom are not so mysterious, when you’ve read as broadly on the subject as I; back when they were just plain old Emeritus and Jex Toth, those legendary combatants fought for the same stakes we do today. Do you know that until they destroyed one another the Frozen Savannahs had never seen snow? And the Panteran Wastes were more like a paradise than a hellscape?”
“What happened?” asked Ji-hyeon, scarcely able to believe even Hoartrap knew how the Age of Wonders had ended.
“What have we been talking about? War, a war that sought to harness that which cannot be predicted nor controlled. There are things far, far greater than the devils you’ve seen, lurking out there in the First Dark, beyond the Gates. Entities that could never squeeze through such a narrow doorway. But there are other ways to pass over, given enough time and assistance… And there are ways to keep them at bay, despite the machinations of their servants.”
Ji-hyeon shuddered, though she no longer felt the chill of the night. “It’s late, sorcerer, and I have a war to wage in the morning. If you wish to swap ghost stories with an eager member of the Bong family, I suggest you visit my first father.”
“Oh, we go way back, Jun-hwan and I,” said Hoartrap, arresting Ji-hyeon’s retreat before she’d even taken two steps. This monster knew both of her fathers? “But it’s you I’m talking to, isn’t it, General? You know how the historians always talk about the great wars, like the one that claimed Emeritus and the Sunken Kingdom? They always come back to a very particular euphemism for all that bloodshed, all that killing. Can you guess?”
A tragedy. A waste. That was how her father had always referred to the war he waged with Cold Zosia, but Ji-hyeon didn’t think these were the words Hoartrap spoke of, and so she simply shook her head.
“No?” Hoartrap smiled wide enough to swallow her, the Cobalt Company, the distant fires of the Imperials, and every star in the sky. “Sacrifice, General, a term with which you must acquaint yourself, if you wish to take the Carnelian Crown. No victory without sacrifice, ask any veteran officer. And if the sacrifice is great enough, well, that’s how wars are won. That’s how you buy back what was otherwise lost forever. That’s how you demonstrate to your opponent that you cannot be defeated. With a mighty enough sacrifice, any obstacle can be overcome, no matter the odds. Anything is possible.”
Whatever he spoke of, Ji-hyeon was sure it wasn’t simply the imminent Battle of the Lark’s Tongue. Feeling as vulnerable as she had as a child in a nightmare, she extended her hand and called for her devil. “Here, Fellwing. We’re going to bed.”
Looking up, it was hard to pick her devil out from the flock, and it only became clear which one was Fellwing when the others began to harass her. The small owlbat tried to dip away but the others gave chase, jostling her about, forcing her to climb instead of fall to Ji-hyeon’s shaking hand. She looked to Hoartrap, desperate, and with another smile and a murmur the other devils were gone, and Fellwing quickly landed on Ji-hyeon. The devil squirmed anxiously into the wide cuff of Sullen’s coat, shivering against her wrist. Without another word, Ji-hyeon wheeled away and hurried back toward her guards, the far-off blush of the Imperials definitely brighter now than before. As she fled, Hoartrap called after her:
“Don’t fret, General, we’re on the same side here. And when the time comes, I stand ready to make any necessary sacrifice.”
CHAPTER
20
The Fifteenth marched all night, and as they raised their camp alongside the sun, Domingo used his hawkglass to survey all from a hilltop. He would have liked to stand in the bed of the wagon instead of sprawling there like an invalid, but propped up on his pillows he could still get a good enough view to know he had once again gotten the job done. Red canvas tents spread out across the surrounding foothills, and just beyond them the Lark’s Tongue beckoned. The Cobalt Company was still hidden from sight behind those last few rolling hillocks, but the scouts assured him that only a league west the last foothill descended into a long valley, and on the far side of this vale his enemies waited. They had not retreated at the last moment, as he’d feared they might, and that meant as soon as he gave the order the decisive victory Cold Zosia had always denied him would finally be his.
Well, whenever his soldiers had gotten some sleep he could give the order; they had earned a little rest before the battle, yes they had. Domingo knew he had a reputation as a taskmaster among the other Imperial colonels, but what none of those gossips realized was that he didn’t push his troops because he didn’t value them, or considered them beasts of burden. He pushed his troops because he knew Azgarothians were made of sterner stuff, that they could take it, and when they’d once again risen to the challenge and proven their mettle, his heart swelled with pride. He loved his regiment, because they had earned his love, damn it, even that fellow there picking his nose as he sat on a hogshead. Go on, lad, mine all the silver ye may; you’ve earned it!
Domingo lowered the hawkglass from his eye, the instrument too heavy to hold up one-handed for long stretches. He turned it over, admiring the glint of the sunlight on its engraved surface, and let out a long, unhappy sigh. This was all that was left of Efrain; that blackened, thumbless thing they had put into the family crypt wasn’t his son, it was just burned meat. If that anathema Portolés hadn’t returned the hawkglass along with his remains, Domingo would have had nothing to remember his boy by, out here at the end of the hunt, with vengeance at long last within reach. He had never thanked her for bringing it back to him…
Nor should he have, not when she was at least partially responsible for Efrain’s murder in the first place. That then was something for him to set his sights on, once the Cobalts were all killed—finding that witchborn war nun and bringing her the same justice he was about to mete out to Zosia and her army. Back in Diadem the Black Pope had made some noises about Brother Wan perhaps being able to help Domingo find Sister Portolés along the way, seeing as they were likely pursuing the same quarry, but that had been another exercise in frustration. Not that he had expected such a miracle from the hideous little monk; the Empire was a big place, and the only people you ever bumped into were the ones you would prefer to avoid.
A speck of movement caught Domingo’s attention to the north, but when he raised the glass again nothing was there but a grassy hillock. Ah, no, one of his mounted scouts appeared in the eyepiece and then was gone again, riding damned fast, and here came another. Domingo dropped the glass to get a wider view, squinting north. The hills between him and the riders obscured most of the action, but a pack of his people seemed to be hounding a pair of dark riders, chasing them toward the western mountains. Cobalt scouts, obviously, rumbled as they sought a peek of the Fifteenth’s camp—well, Domingo’s riders would soon give them an eyeful!
He raised the glass again, but it was hard to track the fast-moving riders from this distance with his off hand. As they arced southwest, he caught another glimpse of the fleeing scouts, and he nearly fumbled the hawkglass. For a moment, the rear rider had almost looked like… but no, that was just an old man’s mind playing tricks on him. From this distance what he had thought was a familiar face was just a pale blob that his imagination played with. The rider wasn’t even wearing Chainite robes. Still,
he looked again with the glass, hoping to calm his racing heart, but the riders were gone again behind some higher hills, and from here they would either make the Cobalt camp or be caught by their Azgarothian pursuers outside of Domingo’s sight.
Not that it made much difference, really—either way they would be dead by this time tomorrow, along with every other member of their rebel army.
It was a scene straight out of the Chain Canticles, a lone believer and her doubting companion riding at breakneck pace toward their goal, the full might of a corrupt army rising behind them like a tidal wave of iniquity. If anything, it might be a little over the top, even by Canticle standards, especially as arrows fletched with cardinal feathers started whizzing past them when they refused to heed the final shouted warnings of their pursuers. Sister Portolés couldn’t have asked for a more portentous entrance.
They reached the crest of another of the steadily steeping hills, horse froth running down their legs as they pushed their steeds beyond hope of repair, and then looked out over the final valley before the Kutumbans stabbed up from the plains. There at last they saw what both the war nun and her captor had taken on faith would be there, a camp nearly as impressive as the one at their hind, save here flew Cobalt pennants instead of Crimson.
If Heretic had not believed the gossip he heard in the last town that the Cobalts had come down from the mountains and made camp here, they never would have found them in time. If they had been spotted sooner by the sentries as they circumnavigated the Imperial camp, they would have been caught an hour ago, and all the prayers of Samoth’s queen would go unanswered. If Heretic had not unchained her legs that morning so she didn’t have to ride sidesaddle, or if the Imperials who pursued them were better shots—
“Fallen fucking Mother!” Portolés cried as an arrow embedded in the back of her calf, causing her to kick her exhausted horse all the harder. The fire burned its way up to her knee and down to her ankle, but all she could do was pray her horse had a little life in him… And then Heretic whooped in triumph, and glancing back she saw that the Crimson riders had stopped at the top of the hill, giving up the chase. Looking back into the valley, she saw a dozen of the Imperials’ blue-blazoned cousins riding up to meet her, these outriders not looking much friendlier than the crimson ones they’d left behind…
A Crown for Cold Silver Page 53
