“Thank you, sir.”
“How long did you spend with Vhalnich?”
“Practically from the beginning,” Marcus said. “Although I was here in Vordan during the Velt campaign.”
“Ah, yes. When he conquered mighty Antova in only a few days.” Kurot frowned. “A pity. I would have liked to hear more of that. But no matter. You must have formed an impression of him.”
“I...” Marcus hesitated. Whether Kurot trusted him or not, it wouldn’t do to seem too friendly with the man who was now an enemy of Vordan. “I had his trust, I think. And I understood him, at least a little. I’m not sure anyone has the full picture. Janus is a very secretive man.”
“So I understand. Secretive, prone to drama, with a tendency to conspiratorial thinking.” Kurot flashed a smile. “I’ve been studying him, of course. One should always know as much as possible about one’s opponents. Would you call him a genius?”
“It doesn’t quite fit, sir, but it’s as close as I can get. It seemed like things that would elude an ordinary person were just obvious to him.”
“So it often is, with geniuses and great commanders. Janus is as interesting a case as I’ve ever studied. Nearly great, we might say. Like a cracked gemstone. Flawed, but still intensely brilliant.”
Marcus frowned, but said nothing.
“The Velt campaign was a masterpiece,” Kurot went on. “And the Khandarai campaign will be taught in military schools for centuries. But under extreme pressure, he clearly starts to fray a bit. Murnsk was not such a great success, after all.”
It was very tempting to speak up—Janus had, after all, destroyed every enemy army that had come against him except for Dorsay’s slippery Borels, and only the magically turned weather had halted the march. But that seemed impolitic, so Marcus merely concurred with a “Yes, sir.”
“Did he talk to you about his art of war?” Kurot said.
“A little, sir. But only in broad terms.”
This apparently excited the general so much that he had to stand up and pace. “We’ll have to go over what he said. Every word.” He waved a hand at the maps. “It will be a pleasure to finally face an opponent who understands the rules of the game. Hunting rebels in the south is necessary, but I take little pleasure in it. They’re simple creatures, by and large. You set the trap and wait until they step into it. No, I imagine Vhalnich will be a different sort of player altogether.”
“I’d expect so, sir,” Marcus said, swiveling in his seat.
Kurot’s gaze went to the game board. “Do you play chess, General d’Ivoire?”
“Not since the War College, sir.”
“Pity. I think every important truth about war can be found in chess. All this”—he gestured again at the map and the little soldiers—“is contained in this simple board, if you have the eyes to see it. Move and countermove is the very essence of war.” He looked up. “I’m sure Vhalnich told you the same.”
“I can’t say he did, sir. But Janus never attended the College.”
“Of course. An amateur. All the more astonishing, really.” Kurot went quiet, lost in thought.
“Did you want to discuss plans, sir?” Marcus prompted.
“Time for that later,” Kurot said dismissively. “We won’t even reach the passes for days. No, I just wanted to meet you face-to-face. Clear the air, as it were.”
That’s what everyone seems to want today. Marcus suppressed a sigh. “Thank you, sir. But if there’s nothing else, I had better get back to my division. I’m still introducing myself to the colonels.”
“Of course, of course. For the moment, the marching schedule remains as you’ve so kindly laid out. I’ll send you any changes of plans.” Kurot smiled again. “And let me know if you want to brush up on your chess. I’d be happy to show you a few tricks.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, sir.”
*
By the time Marcus returned to the Second Division camp, dinner was well under way. Light streamed from the command tent, and loud voices were audible from inside. Marcus swept in and found a half dozen people sitting around the big table, with a steaming platter of meat and a plate of bread sitting between them.
“Finally,” said a handsome young man. “I thought my stomach was going to tear itself in half.”
“Oh, come off it,” Abby said. She sat at one corner of the table, leaning back in her chair. “You’ve been eating like a king all week.”
That was certainly true, Marcus reflected. Being in rich, friendly territory was an unaccustomed luxury for an army on the march, and the locals were happy to sell the quartermasters all the food they wanted. For the moment, hardtack and army soup had been replaced by beef, pork, and fresh bread.
“Let me make it my first official order,” Marcus said, “that no one should ever wait for me to eat dinner. Please, get started.”
A laugh went around the table, and the assembled officers relaxed and began loading their plates. Marcus tossed his jacket on the bedroll and sat at the head of the table, with Cyte at one side and Abby on the other.
“Would you mind doing the introductions?” he asked Cyte. “I still need to put names to faces.”
“Of course.” She set down her knife and fork and pointed at the young man next to Abby. “Colonel Parker Erdine, of the cavalry.”
Erdine doffed an imaginary cap and bowed, silky brown hair falling around his face. “An honor, sir.” He had the air of a dandy, but from what Marcus had read he’d proved himself a hard fighter.
“You know Abby,” Cyte went on. “Colonel David Sevran commands the Second Regiment.”
Sevran was a solid, serious man with pockmarked cheeks and an unflappable look. Marcus nodded to him and said, “You commanded a battalion under Ihernglass in the Velt campaign, didn’t you?”
“I did,” he said. “Most of those men are still with the regiment. They’re solid soldiers.”
“Good to hear.” Marcus turned to the oldest man in the room. “I presume you’re Colonel Blackstream, then?”
“You presume correctly,” Blackstream drawled. He wore his age well, with long white mustaches and gray hair pulled back into a complicated braid. Marcus knew he was a War College man, who’d been a captain at Vansfeldt when Marcus had been a nineteen-year-old lieutenant. “Fourth Infantry Regiment, sir. We won’t disappoint.”
Winter had written that Blackstream seemed to get along well with the other officers, even if he was a bit dour. Marcus watched his expression for any hint of jealousy—Marcus was, after all, a considerably younger man who’d advanced much farther in the same career, and that kind of professional rivalry was stock-in-trade for prerevolutionary officers—but the man’s face was hard to read. Marcus made a mental note to keep an eye on him, and turned to the other side of the table.
“This is Colonel Martin de Koste,” Cyte said. “Commander of the Third Regiment.”
“Honored,” de Koste said, inclining his head. He was tall and neatly dressed, with the attention to detail and etiquette that came from a noble upbringing. Of all the colonels of the Second Division, he was the one Marcus was most inclined to mistrust. Winter had written that de Koste practically worshipped Janus. I’ll have to see if there’s a way to have a quiet word with him.
Aloud, Marcus said, “And of course Colonel Archer and I go all the way back to Khandar. The good old days, eh?”
“The old days, at any rate,” Archer said, grinning. He was a boyish-looking fellow, with smooth cheeks and golden hair. Despite the impression of youth, he was an experienced artillerist, and a student of the Preacher’s methods. Marcus wasn’t certain if Archer shared the old cannoneer’s religious tendencies as well.
“All right,” Marcus said to the table at large. “I’ll keep this brief. It’s never easy joining a new command, and I know it’s never easy getting a new commander. Winter Ihernglass was one of the best soldiers I ever had the privilege to lead, and this will always be his division. I consider myself to be
just looking after it for the time being.”
There were smiles around the table, and Abby leaned back in her chair, looking satisfied.
“I know the thought of fighting Vordanai doesn’t sit right with a lot of you, and I can’t say that I like it, either,” Marcus went on. “Janus bet Vhalnich was... a friend. But anyone who takes up arms against the queen and the people of Vordan needs to be stopped, no matter how great their previous services. I still hope this will somehow be resolved peacefully, though I admit that seems unlikely. If it does come to fighting, I want every courtesy extended, every surrender honored, in accordance with the civilized laws of war. Most of the men we’ll face are just obeying their officers’ orders, the same as ours.”
Colonel Erdine was nodding vigorously, but de Koste was scowling. Interesting.
“In that vein,” Marcus said. “I want to make one point very clear. This is Vordan, and we are Vordanai. That means no looting or pillaging will be tolerated, under any circumstances. Is that understood?” There was a round of nods. “Please communicate that to your men. We’re here to protect the people, not abuse them.” Marcus looked around the table again. “That’s all I’ve got, for the moment. Any questions?”
“You went to meet with Kurot,” Abby said. “Did he tell you anything about the plan?”
“General Kurot assured me he’d fill me in when the time came,” Marcus said.
Blackstream looked sour. “Do you really think he’ll be a match for Janus?”
“I’m sure he’ll do fine,” Marcus said. “He’s... very clever.”
Abby and Cyte exchanged looks. “Clever” was usually not a good trait in an officer. Clever officers got people killed. But that’s what I said about Janus, back in the beginning. Kurot deserves a chance. He ignored the traitorous voice in the back of his mind that said against Janus bet Vhalnich, one chance was all you usually got.
6
Winter
That morning, they skirted another little ridge, veering north to avoid a rocky knuckle of ground that reared up between two valleys, covered with stunted, skeletal trees. The land to the west of the Votindri Range, against which Elysium nestled, was folded like a carpet shoved against a wall. Every quarter mile brought them into a new valley, heavily forested where the trees could get purchase on the rock.
It would have been bad enough if they could just follow one of the little streams, but they were still on the wrong side of the watershed. All the tiny trickles ran south, eventually merging into the river Kovria, which veered into territory known to be under Janus’ control. Up ahead was a line of hills, dark and forbidding. On the other side, they’d be in the basin of the Bataria, and things would get easier, or so Winter told herself. At least we won’t have so much up and down.
Her legs burned already. After the Murnskai campaign, she’d thought she was inured to hard marching, but this cross-country trekking through forests and over hills was more difficult than traversing even the worst roads. The uncertain footing wasn’t helping—the trees had shed their leaves with unaccustomed haste in the sorcerous freeze, and now that it had warmed they were decomposing into slime.
The forest, in general, didn’t seem to have weathered the brief spate of unnatural blizzards well. Some trees had tentative buds, but others seemed dead in truth, or determined to wait out the true winter. The valley floors were choked with debris, rocks, and broken bits of wood. Abraham said these came from the breakup of ice dams and the resulting floods. He’d proven to be quite the authority on the natural world, in fact, while Alex was almost cheerfully ignorant.
“I still say it would have been easier to go south,” Alex said now, breathing hard. “We’re walking away from where we want to be.”
“This way we’re more likely to get there in one piece,” Winter said. “If we go south we’ve got half the Vordanai army and God knows how many Murnskai between us and Vordan.”
“We could get past them,” Alex said. She raised one hand, and her power gathered a globe of darkness at her fingertips.
“And if the Beast finds us?” Abraham said. He carried a long stick in one hand and used it to probe the muck as he walked. “You told me what it was like at Elysium. It will not give up easily.”
Alex went quiet. Winter stifled a sigh. They’d had the same conversation a number of times since they’d left the Mountain days before. She was glad for the company, and she couldn’t exactly blame the girl, but...
Abraham, on the other hand, rarely spoke but was always worth listening to. He’d already pointed out several places where edible mushrooms grew and the tracks that might lead them to beaver dens. At the moment their packs were still laden with dried meat and berries, but the mushrooms had been welcome, and eventually hunting might be necessary. We have a long way to go.
He paused beside Winter, stick outstretched, and wrinkled his nose. Alex, up ahead, half turned.
“What’s wrong?”
“I can smell something,” Abraham said. “Something dead.”
After a moment, Winter could, too, the sick-sweet stench of rotting meat infiltrating the cleaner smell of decaying leaves.
“Another deer?” she said. They’d passed several corpses, all in an advanced state of decomposition, not even torn much by scavengers.
“Probably,” Abraham said. He sniffed again. “I think it’s up ahead.”
“I see it,” Alex said. “It’s not a deer.”
*
Either Abraham’s sense of smell wasn’t as good as Winter’s, or—more likely—his time working with the sick had bred a certain tolerance. Either way, he was the only one who could approach the body. Alex and Winter stood together, upwind and a little way off, and watched.
Winter had had—unfortunately—quite a bit of experience with fresh corpses, but this one represented new territory for her. The body sat at the foot of a tree as though it had simply taken a rest one day and never gotten back up. The skin was sloughing off, and the flesh beneath was black with rot, to the point where Winter couldn’t tell where the remnants of the clothes ended and the body began. Bits of pale bone peeked through around the face, and the eyes were gone, leaving only empty holes.
“Still some scavengers around,” Abraham said, kneeling in front of the vile thing. “Probably crows. It’d take more than a freeze or two to get rid of them.”
“Why are you messing with that thing?” Alex said. “Please don’t tell me you think we ought to bury it.”
“I’d like to, but the ground’s too rocky,” Abraham said. “No doubt the forest will take care of it soon enough. But I’d like to see if I can figure out who this was.”
“Why?” Alex said, then saw that Abraham had picked up a smaller stick to poke the body. “Oh, saints and martyrs.” She turned away, making a retching sound.
“Because if there’s one person out in the middle of nowhere, there might be more,” Winter said.
“Exactly.” Abraham bent a bit closer. “This was a woman. Middle-aged. Wearing some kind of robe, nothing fancy. Probably Murnskai, by the hair.” He straightened up, tossed the stick aside, and shrugged. “Any idea why she’d be out in the woods?”
“Refugee from the war?” Winter said.
“We’re pretty far north,” Abraham said. “And you’d think a refugee would run to a town, especially if she was alone.”
“Maybe she was with a larger group, and she died on the way,” Alex said, still not looking around.
“And they just left her like this?” Abraham shrugged. “It’s possible, I suppose.”
“Maybe bandits cut her throat and left her as a warning,” Alex said. “Can we please move on?”
There weren’t any bandits in these woods, Winter reflected. Bandits needed prey, and here there was no one, just endless miles of forests and hills. She’d always known Murnsk was a vast country, but she hadn’t appreciated how much of it was no-man’s-land, undisturbed except for the occasional trapper. She’d read that in the north
, the Murnskai territory didn’t end at a border so much as peter out amid the tundra, where the nomadic tribes acknowledged no king or emperor.
The smell of the corpse faded after a few minutes’ walk. It was Alex who spotted the next one, propped against a tree like the first. This one seemed like it had been outside longer, and there wasn’t much left but bones and scraps of dark fabric. They gave it a wide berth by common agreement, and kept moving.
The third corpse was a bloated thing that looked like it had been drowned, lying among a pile of broken wood where a flood had washed it. Winter and the others looked down on it from the hillside above.
“This is getting weird,” Alex said.
“One body might be coincidence,” Abraham agreed, “but this many means there was a group of people here.”
“If it was a big group, we ought to have seen tracks. Campsites, maybe,” Winter said.
“I think this one is a soldier,” Alex said. “Look at his collar.”
Winter was unwilling to get closer, but even from this distance she could see that the jacket the body wore had a military look. “I think you’re right.”
“The last one looked more like a peasant,” Abraham said.
“Weird,” Alex repeated.
After that they found bodies at least once every few hours. Some of them had been dead for a long time, leaving little clue as to their identities, while others seemed more recent, still clothed and waxy-skinned. They seemed to come from every walk of life—young men and old women, peasant girls and Murnskai soldiers, servants in drab linen and even a white-robed Sworn Priest. Except for the ones that had been obviously moved by animals or floods, every body looked at rest, as though they’d all taken a seat and waited there to die.
“Sacrifices, maybe,” Alex said. “The Trans-Batariai do human sacrifice.”
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