The Infernal Battalion

by Django Wexler

  “I see,” Quord said, looking over his shoulder and then back at Marcus. He slumped. “If it’s all the same, sir, I prefer to stand.”

  “As you wish,” Marcus said. “You’ve given orders to the Sixth to prepare to march, have you not?”

  “Yes,” Quord said, a slight hitch in his voice.

  “And is there a specific time those instructions become operative?”

  “No, sir,” Quord said. “They’re waiting on my word.”

  “I would like you to write an order for them to stand down, please. Fitz?”

  Fitz offered Quord a pen and paper. The general bent, stiffly, and scribbled a few lines. Fitz examined the note, then nodded.

  “It doesn’t seem to be any sort of code, sir,” Fitz said.

  “Take precautions in any case.”

  Fitz gave a slight smile, as if to say, You hardly need to tell me that. That made Marcus smile himself—​he and Fitz had spent so long together that at one point they’d scarcely needed words to understand each other. It was good to know they hadn’t lost the knack entirely. Then his eyes went back to Quord, and his expression soured.

  “Go.”

  As Fitz left, Quord said, “Everything that was done was done on my direct orders, sir. None of my officers or men should be blamed.”

  “I’m sure.” Marcus shifted uncomfortably. “I assume your intention was to take your men to the aid of the former First Consul.”

  “Yes.” Quord stood a little straighter.

  “Would you care to offer an explanation for your treason?”

  “With all due respect, sir, you’re the traitor here.”

  “Oh?” Marcus said. “I believe I swore to defend the Queen of Vordan and obey orders.”

  “We have to defend the people of Vordan,” Quord said. “No one has ever had the chance you have right now. This country cannot afford another civil war.”

  “I agree. I’m in the process of trying to prevent one.”

  “Don’t act stupid,” Quord said. “The people will follow Janus over some little girl. He’s proven himself again and again, while she sat in the palace and let him win her battles.”

  “I suggest,” Marcus grated, “you don’t speak of matters you don’t understand. I was there for some of those battles.”

  “Then you know that Janus will win in the end. He always wins. The only question is how many have to die before that happens.” Quord leaned forward, military decorum forgotten in his excitement. “It doesn’t have to come to that, General d’Ivoire. The army respects you, the people think you’re a hero, and there’s no one else with comparable authority. If you were to declare for Janus, the war would be over tonight. Raesinia would have no choice but to surrender!”

  “And I’d be a traitor.”

  “To the queen, not to the Deputies. How can it be treason to save lives?” Quord waved a hand. “How many of these men will die if you lead them against Janus? How many civilians, if the war goes on? If you act now history will call you a peacemaker. Do nothing and you’re just another general on the losing side.”

  There was a moment of silence. Quord had become quite heated, and the soldiers behind him had drawn close, ready to grab him if he made a lunge across the table. Now he regained his hold on himself and straightened up. Marcus, stomach churning, kept his expression flat.

  “I was hoping,” he said eventually, “that you might know something I didn’t. That you were part of some conspiracy.”

  Quord shook his head. “There’s no conspiracy. There’s just—”

  “One general who wanted to be on the winning side. Not even a matter of high principle.” Marcus sighed. “Fair enough, I suppose.”

  “You really think you can beat him?” Quord’s face twisted. “You think you can take the field against Janus?”

  “With any luck I won’t have to,” Marcus said. “But if it comes to it, I’m going to damned well try.” He nodded at the soldiers. “Take him to the palace. The Minister of War will decide what to do with him.” Assuming they eventually pick one.

  *

  “We appear to have passed the crisis,” Fitz said, when the real council convened an hour later. “The Sixth Division has ceased its preparations, and guards have been posted.”

  “Quord couldn’t have acted alone,” de Manzet said. He was a polite, balding man in his forties, an old-​line royal officer who’d maintained his position by quiet competence and keeping his head down. “At the very least, his colonels should have informed the column-​general what was going on.”

  “Let’s say that I’m choosing to believe it was just Quord. His men might have thought his plans were authorized,” Marcus said. “Regardless, I’m not going to convict anyone for following reasonable orders from their superior. In the end there was no harm done.”

  “Except to morale,” grumbled Give-Em-Hell. As always, the cavalry commander looked out of place when not on horseback. More properly Division-​General Henry Stokes, he had a slight frame and wispy hair that belied a fiery temper and a boundless appetite for action that had made his nickname nearly universal. “This kind of finger-​pointing always brings everyone down. They’re looking over their shoulders when they should be facing toward the enemy.”

  “We haven’t got an enemy yet.” This was from Colonel Vahkerson, the Preacher, who’d gotten his nickname from his conspicuous faith. In Khandar, he’d inscribed every one of his cannon with verses from the Wisdoms, insisting that it improved their accuracy. “And I pray to God that we still won’t. Bad enough that good Karisai fight one another, but Vordanai fighting among themselves is an even greater tragedy.”

  “Agreed,” Marcus said.

  “Then you don’t plan to march?” Val said, a touch too eagerly.

  “I plan,” Marcus said, “to do whatever the queen and the Deputies-​General ask me to do. As should all of you. That’s what being loyal means. We don’t decide for ourselves what’s best for the country.”

  “How many of these men will die if you lead them against Janus?” Quord’s question rattled through his mind, no matter how he tried to ignore it. So many of his friends were gone already. Adrecht and Jen Alhundt, twin betrayals that had shaken him to the core. Andy and Hayver, his eager young assistants. Stalwart, dependable Ihernglass. Mor, buried in some military prison.

  And further back. His parents, burned in their home on the orders of the arch-​traitor Duke Orlanko. And his sister, Ellie, who Sothe had told him could be still alive, somewhere—

  No. Marcus pulled up short, as though at the edge of an abyss. I’m not thinking about Ellie.

  He’d been quiet too long. They were all looking at him: a guarded, curious stare from de Manzet, worry from Val, genuine sympathy from the Preacher, Fitz as straight-​faced as ever. Every one of them could have done what Quord did. But they’ve put their faith in me, as always. Better not to let them wonder if that was a bad idea.

  He cleared his throat. “For the moment, we need to wait on events. I want order kept in the camps, no matter what news trickles in. Keep things as normal as possible, but no large meetings and no passes to the city. Curfew is sundown, and spread the word that I’m taking it seriously. The days when we could afford to go easy on people who skirt the rules just ended.” Marcus looked at Give-Em-Hell. “I’m going to be leaning on you for a lot of this. Are your troopers up for stopping fights instead of starting them?”

  “It’s not our preferred trade,” Give-Em-Hell said with a grin, “but we can manage.”

  “If I might make a request,” Fitz said, “I think special care should be taken with the men of my First Regiment. The Old Colonials are... stubborn. I don’t think they’d go as far as treason, but brawling is a distinct possibility if there’s a disagreement. It’d be better if there were outsiders around to keep the peace.”

  “Noted. Anything else?”

  “The Second,” de Manzet said. “They still don’t have a commander.”

  “Ihernglass is official
ly only missing.”

  De Manzet shrugged. “Be that as it may, someone is going to have to take charge.”

  “Right now, Colonel Cytomandiclea is in acting command, with the assistance of Colonel Giforte,” Fitz said. “But it’s an informal arrangement.”

  “That’s tricky,” Val said. “You can’t just put someone new in charge. Not with their... special circumstances.”

  “I’m sure the Second Division would obey whichever commander the Ministry sees fit to appoint,” Marcus said loudly. “But yes, I agree that there might be complications for morale. I’ll speak to the queen about it.”

  “While you’re at it,” de Manzet said, “try to find out if we’re at war or not.”

  3

  Winter

  Thok. Scrape. Tug. Thok. Scrape. Tug.

  The sky overhead was a brilliant, crystalline blue, unmarred by clouds. The mountain peaks in every direction were capped with snow, but the sun beat down on her back with a pleasant warmth.

  Thok. Scrape. Tug.

  Her shoulders burned. One arm ached, as though it knew deep in the bone that it still ought to be broken.

  Thok. Scrape. Tug.

  She had a... thing, like a pick but a little bit wider. She brought it down with both hands, to bite deep into the earth. Thok. Then she twisted it, with a scratchy sound of soil on metal. Scrape. Then she tugged and pulled, one boot braced against the earth, until it came free. One stride forward, and start again.

  Thok. Scrape. Tug.

  Winter had no idea why she was doing this. It had something to do with potatoes, and a fall harvest, but beyond that she was lost. Mrs. Wilmore’s long-​ago lessons on running a farm hadn’t covered potatoes, and in any case she’d forgotten almost everything. But Snowfox had told her this was how she could help, and so here she was, helping. It had been some time, but she figured sooner or later either she’d run out of field or someone would tell her to stop.

  She liked the work. The Eldest had made it clear she was an honored guest at the Mountain and she wasn’t obligated to lend a hand, but Winter found herself dreading the quiet of her empty chamber. The honest simplicity of swinging a pointy stick into the ground, over and over, brought her a kind of peace. She suspected her untrained efforts weren’t really all that helpful, but at least it was something.

  Something other than—

  —​red eyes, a sea of red eyes—

  —​the flawless face of a crystal statue—

  —​the roar of cannon and the howl of the killing wind—

  —​bad dreams.

  Thok. Scrape. Tug.

  One of the Mountain people was waving to her. Winter stopped and waited while the young woman trudged across the field. She hadn’t learned any of their names.

  Better for them if I don’t. Better for them if they stay away. On some level she knew this was nonsense, but she couldn’t banish the chains of guilt. Jane. Bobby. Dozens of soldiers whose names and faces were fading shamefully from her mind, merging into a single broken figure. People who get close to me end up dead.

  “Winter! They are asking for you,” the woman called. She spoke in Murnskai, which Winter still didn’t understand perfectly, but the Mountain people were used to talking slowly for her benefit. “Eldest requests your presence in the high chamber.”

  She’d known this was coming. The world was calling, dragging her back to the place where bad dreams were forged. For just a moment, she wondered if she could say no. Stay here in the fields forever, learning to plant potatoes.

  The demon in the pit of her soul gave a restless twitch. It sensed the presence of its kin.

  There’s no escape from dreams.

  “He has returned,” the Mountain woman said. “The masked one.”

  The Steel Ghost.

  Winter straightened up with a sigh and dropped her potato pick. She could feel her life, her responsibilities, settling back onto her, like a cloak lined with lead weights. Her voice was a croak after days of disuse.

  “Show me the way,” she said.

  *

  The Mountain referred to both the hidden valley—​preserved from the weather and the vengeance of the Church by precarious threads of magic—​and the enormous fortress that occupied one end of it. Naturally occurring caves and cracks had been expanded into a warren of rooms and tunnels, with arrow-​slit windows and well-​stocked storerooms. It was far too large for the few people who lived there, being designed to house the entire population of the valley in case of invasion, and so the corridors the young woman led Winter down were mostly empty. Here and there, young men and women in long priestly robes gave her a respectful nod as they hurried about their errands.

  They followed a spiral staircase through several turns, until they were well above the valley floor. Here the rooms had larger openings, lips of rock carved into balconies, many overrun with the birds’ nests and guano. The highest chamber was completely open on one side, like a house with one wall missing, and a massive fire burned there day and night. Winter had seen it from the valley floor, like a glowing, unblinking eye.

  Thin cushions were laid on the rock in a rough circle. On one of them sat the Eldest, who ruled—​if that was the appropriate word—​the Mountain and its people. He was an old man, with a bare skull and a wispy beard, gleaming, intelligent eyes set deep in a heavily lined face. Nothing distinguished him from the other priests except age, but it was impossible to miss the deference everyone else gave him.

  The other figure present was a tall man, but aside from his height almost nothing about him was visible. His body was swathed in loose cloth, drawn tight at the wrists, waist, and ankles—​an alien style of dress, suited to a desert half the world away. He wore gloves, thick leather boots, and a wrap of black cloth over his hair, so no inch of skin was visible. His face was concealed by an oval mask, smooth and featureless except for three rectangular slits for the eyes and mouth.

  This was the Malik-​dan-​Belial, the Steel Ghost of Khandar, leader of the desert-​dwelling Desoltai. Rumor had imbued him with fearsome powers, but the original Ghost had been little more than a conjuror’s trick. One man took off a mask, another put it on, and together they’re a hero who can step across leagues in an instant. Janus had figured it out, broken the Desoltai, and captured their ancient temple. Where all of this began.

  This Ghost was something else. Infernivore pressed against Winter’s control, straining for him. He carried his own demon, a thing that let him dissolve into flowing desert sand. By his own admission, he was the last survivor of the cult Winter, Bobby, and Feor had fought in Khandar, the original protectors of the Thousand Names.

  And he saved my life. It had taken her some time to realize that. Bobby had flown her away from Elysium and the Beast, but she’d been left alone in the mountains, no food or water, one arm broken. The Ghost had found her and led her back here. At the time, she’d been too wrapped in grief to do more than put one foot in front of the other, but her stint in the potato fields had cleared her head. If he hadn’t found me, I’d have frozen or starved. She wasn’t entirely sure whether she was grateful.

  “Thank you for coming,” the Eldest said. “Antov, tea for Winter, please.”

  A young boy, sitting so still near the entrance that Winter had barely noticed him, sprang to life and scurried away. Winter took her place on the cushion equidistant from the two men. The Ghost inclined his masked head, firelight gleaming off brushed steel.

  “You’re back,” Winter said. The Ghost had left again as soon as she’d been safely delivered to the Mountain. “Did you find anything?”

  “A great deal,” the Ghost said, in his Khandarai-​accented Vordanai. “None of it good.”

  “Elysium?” the Eldest said.

  “Nearly abandoned. The Beast is on the move.”

  Winter shuddered. She and her friends had broken into the stronghold of the Church, expecting to face the Priests of the Black, only to find that their thirteen-​hundred-​year watch had
finally ended. The Beast, brought into the body of Winter’s old lover Jane, had slipped its bonds. It spread from mind to mind, converting all of Elysium into its thralls.

  “Where?” Winter said. Her throat was dry, and when Antov returned she gladly accepted the steaming mug of tea.

  “Hard to say. It does not keep its bodies together. As we feared, it has learned. It will not allow itself to be wiped out again.”

  The Eldest gave a little sigh. Not much of a reaction, Winter thought, to the news that the world is doomed.

  “There’s more,” the Ghost went on. “Janus bet Vhalnich has crowned himself Emperor of Vordan and Murnsk and declared the queen deposed.”

  “What?” Winter said, her numb detachment suddenly broken. There was a crash, and it took her a moment to realize she’d jumped to her feet, her forgotten mug of tea now smashed in a puddle on the rock.

  The Eldest sipped from his own tea. “Another mug, I think, Antov. With perhaps a dash of something stronger.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Winter said to the Ghost.

  “I have not seen Vhalnich myself, but the news is everywhere. If it is a lie, it is an exceedingly widespread and consistent one.”

  “But...” Winter paused, trying to get her racing heart under control. Emperor? She sat down, legs crossed underneath her. Her mind felt rusty from disuse. “That doesn’t make any sense. If Janus wanted the throne of Vordan, he could have taken it after Maurisk’s coup. I’m certain that Elysium was his real objective.” She shook her head. “And anyway, how can he be Emperor of Murnsk? They’ve already got one.”

  “There are rumors that he is dead,” the Ghost said. “Others say he has fled to the east. Either way, Vhalnich has the support of Cesha Dzurk, who claims to be heir to the Murnskai throne.”

  “It’s still insane,” Winter said. “The people of Murnsk will never accept a foreigner on the throne—I know that better than anyone.” That was a scene from one of her recurring nightmares, the desperate Murnskai peasants-​turned-​partisans hurling themselves onto the bayonets of the Girls’ Own, slaughtering their own children to keep them out of the hands of the invaders. “Janus isn’t that stupid.”