The Price of Valor

by Django Wexler

  The wind rose, sand cascading into the air and flowing out through the window like a tub draining. Raesinia got up and stood on the little trunk as the last of it whirled away and the door opened to admit a burly Patriot Guard.

  “What are you doing?” he said, looking around the room suspiciously.

  Raesinia gave him her best innocent smile. “Just getting some fresh air.”

  In the distance, she could still hear the sound of guns.

  * * *

  WINTER

  “The cutter says Marcus is awake,” Cyte said.

  Winter had to stop herself from looking up at the sun for the hundredth time. It was nearly touching the horizon, and the light was changing to the liquid gold of late afternoon. Another hour or so, and it’ll be dark. A night battle in the city streets could be catastrophic, with no way to guard against sudden ambushes or accidental encounters with friendly troops. Once darkness fell, she would have little choice but to order her troops into a defensive position and wait for morning. Giving them that much longer to dig in.

  “How is he?” she said.

  “He’s lost some blood, and he won’t be on his feet anytime soon. But they say the wound should heal clean if it doesn’t fester.” Cyte hesitated. “He was asking for you. Pretty urgently, I understand.”

  Winter turned north, where the Grand Span stretched across to the looming bulk of the Island. There were no soldiers on the bridge itself—the Patriots had put it under howitzer fire as soon as the Girls’ Own captured the near end, and in spite of Captain Archer’s efforts, shells still rose every few minutes to burst on the bridge in gouts of smoke and flame or crash hissing into the river. The Royals had crossed an hour earlier, sprinting in groups after each thundering blast, and the artillery had followed them, cannoneers whipping their teams into a frenzy. Archer’s howitzers, still on the near side of the river, had pounded the opposite foot of the bridge in preparation for their arrival.

  So far, things were going well. The Royals had assaulted the enemy at the base of the bridge and sent them running, though they’d paid a fearful cost in lives advancing across the open ground. Archer’s guns had blunted an attempted counterattack, and Winter had fed troops from the first regiment of Janus’ promised reinforcements across as quickly as possible to bolster the bridgehead. Before long, Sevran was advancing again, but his pace was maddening slow. On the Green Road, the Patriots had given way easily under pressure, but now they dug in their heels tenaciously, defending barricaded positions with artillery in support.

  Rather than waste men in costly assaults, Sevran brought up his own guns to blast the defenders out before advancing. Winter approved, but the strategy was burning daylight fast. The Girls’ Own, recovering from their earlier exertions on the Green Road, would be next over the bridge, and once they were there Winter would have to either order an all-out assault and accept the losses or face the reality of a night strung out in the streets of Vordan City under fire. Neither prospect was appealing.

  “What was the last word from Sevran?” Winter said.

  “Still attacking the barricade a block south of Farus’ Triumph. He said he’s nearly through, but that there’s guns covering the Triumph on all sides. We’re going to need more artillery, or else we’ll have to work our way around.”

  Either would take more time than they had left. Damn. Winter grimaced. “I can spare a few minutes for Marcus while we’re waiting.”

  The wounded were being cared for in a building that bore the sign of the Silver Eagle, which had been apparently been a nest of paper pushers. Winter’s soldiers had cleared the desks out of the way and laid bedrolls on the floor, where the cutters worked with scalpels and bone saws amid the usual mix of screams, moans, and prayer. Very few of the patients were from the Girls’ Own, who had so far gotten off lightly; the majority were Patriots or militia, along with some Royals who’d staggered back from the bridgehead under their own power. There were also some civilians, who’d been discovered alongside the wounded militia. Both groups had a great many burn victims, including some corpses that had been reduced to charred skeletons, but since none of the buildings had caught fire, the cutters were at a loss to explain why. Perhaps Marcus can shed some light on the subject.

  A row of offices had been mostly appropriated for surgeries, but Cyte led her to one on the end, where Marcus was lying on a bedroll. The desk that had been in the center of the room had been pushed to one side, and a teenage girl in a blue army jacket sat on it, looking worried. Beside Marcus, sitting cross-legged, was an older woman in tight-fitting black, speckled with blood and ashes. Bobby, waiting at the door, saluted Winter and stepped aside to let her in.

  Marcus still wore his uniform, but one leg of his trousers had been cut away and his thigh was swathed in bandages. He was propped up on a pillow, looking a bit gray but undoubtedly conscious.

  Seeing him again, especially like this, was strange. Throughout the Khandarai campaign, and even during the fighting around the revolution, Marcus had been Janus’ right hand, far above Winter in authority. In her ranker days, she’d thought of the senior officers in the same way the Khandarai thought about their gods, as inexplicable, capricious beings whose notice was to be avoided if at all possible.

  Now, though, the eagles on her shoulders matched his, though he was still nominally her superior by seniority. But he had no troops under his command, and his wounded, exhausted state made Winter look at him with new eyes. He was just a man, tired and in pain. He always was. That was the secret that the officers conspired to keep the rankers; you gave orders, because it was your job to give orders, but it didn’t actually mean you knew any better. We’re all just doing the best we can, under the circumstances.

  He looked back at her, and she wondered if the change in their relative status had given him any matching revelations. If it had, he didn’t voice them. Instead he glanced at the open door and coughed.

  “It’s good to see you, Colonel Ihernglass.”

  “Likewise, Colonel d’Ivoire.”

  “I need to speak to you privately, if possible.” He raised one eyebrow slightly, in what was probably an attempt at subtlety. “It concerns . . . the matter of the Desoltai temple.”

  Magic, in other words. The Thousand Names. Winter nodded at Bobby, who shut the door.

  “I think you know Lieutenant Forester, from the Colonials,” she said. “This is Lieutenant Cytomandiclea. They were both involved in an attempt on my life by the Penitent Damned several weeks ago, and I brought them up to speed on . . . related matters.” Winter looked at the two women beside Marcus. “I assume the same is true of your companions—wait.” The girl’s face had finally clicked. “Andy?”

  Andy stared at Winter uncomprehending for a moment, and then her eyes went wide. “Oh. Oh! You’re—” She cut off, uncertain. “You’re Winter.”

  “What are you doing here? I thought you were wounded at Midvale.”

  “Once I healed up, the Preacher sent me to help Marcus.” Andy leaned forward eagerly. “Are the others still with you? Is Jane here?”

  “Most of them are here,” Winter said, fighting not to show a stab of pain in her face. “They’re camped out up the road a bit.” Looking at the other woman, Winter realized that she recognized her as well, from their desperate venture under the Vendre. “And you’re . . . Rose, was it?”

  “Sothe is my real name,” the woman said. “I work for the queen.”

  “She’s . . .” Marcus gestured vaguely, trying to find an appropriate description.

  “I’ve seen her work,” Winter said.

  “They both know what’s going on,” Marcus said. “The Penitent Damned are working with Maurisk, or else they’re running the show entirely. They tried to steal the Thousand Names, and we stopped them for now, but Raesinia got herself captured in the process. We have to get her back before they can get her out of the city.”

>   “Why would they want to get her out of the city?” Winter said. “If they use her as a hostage—”

  “She carries a demon that makes her unable to die,” Sothe said. “The Penitent Damned want to drag her back to Elysium.”

  “Ah,” Winter said, digesting this rather large revelation.

  “Are your troops going to reach the Hotel Ancerre before nightfall?” Marcus said.

  Winter shook her head. “I doubt it. They’re holding on like ticks over there. We’re going to have to dig in and hold through the night, I think. In the morning Janus can bring up more artillery and tear the Island down around their ears if he has to.”

  She’d made her decision, she realized, sometime in the last few minutes. An all-out rush for the hotel might work, but the odds were against it, and it would certainly cost more lives than she was prepared to spend on an outside chance.

  “By morning, they’ll have her well away,” Sothe said. She glanced at Marcus. “I’m going to get her. By myself, if I have to.”

  “How?” Winter said. “The Patriots have turned Farus’ Triumph into a killing ground, and the surrounding streets are barricaded.”

  “I’ll find a way through,” Sothe said, but there was something about her tone that sounded less than confident.

  “Even if you do,” Andy said, “those Penitent Damned are probably in there, right? The monster who tried to kill Marcus, and the one you fought.”

  “And Ionkovo,” Marcus said. “She’s right. You won’t have a chance against them alone.” He looked up at Winter. “Is there any chance you could sneak a force through? Just enough to get into the hotel and out again. Maybe by the river—”

  Winter shook her head. “They’ve got spotters on the shore.” They’d sent small boats out earlier, hoping to find a spot to land a company and outflank the barricades, only to draw fire from the rooftops.

  “After dark,” Sothe said, “a small group might be able to sneak across the Triumph.”

  “They’d have to be fools not to put lanterns up—”

  “I know a way in,” Cyte said.

  Everyone paused and looked at her, and she shrank a little, then took a deep breath.

  “There’s a tunnel,” she said. “Under the Triumph. It runs from the south side to the north side, right under the fountain. It’s just about big enough for one person at a time. They use it to do maintenance on the pipes. It comes up by the back wall of the Ancerre.”

  Sothe frowned. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “Not many have. The contract for maintaining the fountain has been with the same firm for the last fifty years, and they’re pretty closemouthed about it.”

  “So how do you know?” Andy said.

  “The Wastrel Prince, the second son of Farus the Fifth, used to use it to sneak his mistresses into the Ancerre and past his father’s guards.” Cyte’s cheeks colored a little. “I wrote a paper about it, back at the University.”

  “Is it still there?” Marcus said. “That was decades ago.”

  “The entrance is, anyway,” Cyte said. “I went and found it. It’s locked, but it wouldn’t be hard to break open.”

  Marcus caught Winter’s eye, and she nodded slowly.

  “It’s worth a shot,” she said. “I’ll put together a team from the Girls’ Own.”

  Sothe straightened up and squared her shoulders. “I’ll get ready, then.”

  “Me, too.” Andy hopped down from the desk and stretched.

  “You don’t have to go—” Marcus began.

  “If you’re going to fight the Penitent Damned, better to have as many people who know what a Penitent Damned is as you can get, right?” Andy grinned. “Besides, I missed most of the fight against that old witch. I still owe these fucking Penitent Damned for Hayver.”

  “I wish I could join you,” Marcus said. “But I don’t think I’d be very useful at this point.”

  “You need rest.” Winter waved the others toward the door. “Start getting the team ready. I’ll be with you in a few moments.”

  When they were alone, Winter looked down at Marcus. She’d gotten some odd reports from her scouts, and a few pieces were finally falling into place. The picture they formed made her stomach churn.

  “It was a Penitent Damned you fought here, wasn’t it?” All those charred skeletons. They’d wondered if the Patriots had been drenching civilians in oil and burning them alive. “Some sort of fire demon.”

  Marcus gave a weary nod. “They set caches of flash powder in the buildings.”

  “We found them,” Winter said. Her mind leapt ahead, full of racing flames. “So when we advanced—”

  “The demon would turn the whole district into a firestorm,” Marcus said.

  “Saints and martyrs.” Winter sucked in a breath, goose bumps rising at the thought of how close they’d come to total disaster. And there had been a lot of bodies in the street . . .

  “All volunteers,” Marcus said, reading her expression. “Docks people, refugees. Men and women. Raesinia and I asked them to do it.” He smiled weakly. “Couldn’t just let them cook you, could we?”

  “I . . .” Winter found herself flushing, and coughed. “‘Thank you’ hardly seems adequate. A lot of men and women owe you and your volunteers their lives.”

  “Just what I had to do,” Marcus said. His eyes were red, and heavy with fatigue. “Listen. Help Raesinia. Please. As soon as you can.” His hand clenched into a fist, twisting the bedsheet. “She can’t die, but she can still hurt. If they get her away from the city . . .”

  “We’ll find her,” Winter said.

  “Thank you.” Marcus let out a long breath, his fingers relaxing. He put on a small smile. “The eagles look good on you.”

  Winter touched the gold insignia of rank on her shoulders. “They’re heavier than I expected.”

  His smile broadened a little. “Always.”

  “Get some sleep,” Winter said, straightening. “When Janus gets here, tell him I’ve gone on ahead.”

  Cyte and Bobby were waiting for her outside the door, and she gestured them into the empty office next door. Winter closed the door and kept her voice low.

  “I’m going,” she said. “You know I have to.”

  “It’s going to be hard to explain to anyone who doesn’t know about . . . all this,” Cyte said. “What are you going to tell Abby?”

  “I’m going to try and avoid her. Bobby, are you in for this? We could certainly use your help.”

  Bobby nodded, looking down at her hands. Winter frowned, then turned to Cyte.

  “You’re staying behind.” Cyte opened her mouth to object, but Winter cut her off. “Please don’t argue. I’m leaving you in command here.”

  “In command?” Cyte’s eyes went wide. “That’s ridiculous. What about Abby and Sevran?”

  “They’ve got their own problems to deal with. All you need to do is keep sending troops across as they come up and start digging in. Janus will be here in an hour or so, and he’ll take over. I want you here to fill him in.”

  Cyte hesitated, but she could see the logic. “Be careful. We need you.”

  “I’ll do my best.” Winter smiled, but it took an effort. “Can you go and ask Abby to put together maybe half a dozen people she’d want in a street fight? Make sure they’re well armed, too.”

  “Yes, sir!” Cyte saluted and hurried out, shutting the door behind her. Winter turned to Bobby, and there was a long pause.

  “Are you all right?” she said. “You were pretty quiet in there.”

  “Sorry,” Bobby said. “I was just . . . thinking. I’d got it into my head that this would be over soon. Once we got rid of Maurisk, maybe. But when you started talking about the Penitent Damned, I thought, this is never going to be over, is it? Not for us.”

  She was staring down at her
hand, the one she’d used to stop a sword that would have cut Winter in two. She wore a tight black glove now, but underneath it Winter knew the flesh was white and glittering, like polished marble.

  On impulse, Winter stepped forward and wrapped her arms around the girl. It was the first time they’d been so close since that night at the fire in Khandar, and she half expected Bobby to pull away, but she only rested her head gently on Winter’s shoulder.

  “It won’t,” Winter said. “You’re right. But whatever happens, I promise I’ll be there with you.”

  “I . . .” Bobby’s voice was thick. “John talks about what he wants to do, when the war is over.”

  “Go see him,” Winter said. “We’ve got a little time.”

  Bobby pulled away, wiping her eyes, and nodded. She caught something in Winter’s expression and said, “We’ll find Jane when this is over. I know we will. And she’ll—”

  Winter forced another smile. “I know. Go on.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  WINTER

  In the end, there were nine of them. Winter, Bobby, Sothe, and Andy, plus a sergeant and four rankers from the Girls’ Own. The sergeant, whose name was Maura, was a tall, impressively built woman whom Winter vaguely recognized as one of the Docks people from the days of the old Leatherbacks. In addition to the pair of pistols and saber that they all wore, she carried a long wooden staff, with which she was apparently formidable. Winter was surprised to find two of the Deslandai recruits, Joanna and Barley, among those Abby had picked to go with them.

  “They were keen to help,” Maura said, her voice surprisingly high for such a large frame. “And I saw them get into some tight fighting in the woods at Jirdos. When Jo hits someone, down they go. And Barley knows what she’s doing with those knives.”

  Winter blinked, a little confused. “I thought your name was—”

  “They call me Barley,” the slight woman said, with a faint sigh.

  “Because she’s barely there,” Maura said. “Get it?”