The Infernal Battalion

by Django Wexler

  “No, it isn’t,” Marcus said. “Is morale holding up in your regiment?”

  “I think so. The girls feel... not good, never good after something like this, but happy to have done their part.” She cocked her head. “Thank you, by the way. For keeping your promise.”

  “It’s... only fair.” Even if it does give me nightmares. “Your performance was excellent. General Ihernglass would have been proud.”

  “I’m only sorry you were in danger,” Abby said. “I never expected those mad bastards to try to break out.”

  “No one did, myself least of all.” Marcus hesitated. “Any idea who they were? They seemed to have a mix of uniforms—​I saw Vordanai, Murnskai, and some in civilian clothes.”

  “Nobody seems to know,” Abby said. “We didn’t capture any of them alive, not one. And the Vordanai soldiers from other regiments just know they’re some kind of personal guard for Janus, but not the name of their unit or how many there are.”

  It feels wrong. Janus’ old Mierantai Volunteers had been almost fanatical in their master’s defense, but he didn’t think even they would have thrown away their lives like that. It has to be magic. He wished Raesinia were here. Cyte knows. Maybe I can talk to her about what she’s seen.

  That would have to wait for tomorrow, though. The light was draining from the sky, and fatigue from the day’s fighting dragged at Marcus’ limbs like lead weights. He made his apologies to Abby, and she saluted and left the tent. Once she was gone, the full force of exhaustion fell on Marcus, and he barely made it to his bedroll before he was asleep.

  The drums woke him what felt like minutes later. He sat up with a groan, blood pounding in his head. Before he managed to push himself to his feet, there was a scratch at the tent flap.

  “Sir?” Cyte’s voice, sounding inhumanly good-​natured for this early in the morning. “Are you awake?”

  “Getting there,” Marcus said. Maybe I’m getting old.

  Blessedly, Cyte had brought coffee. His favorite was still Khandarai style, dark and thick with a kick like a mule, but when he was feeling fragile he had to admit the milder Vordanai variety had its appeal. Breathing in the rich scent and taking the first few scalding sips had an almost magical effect, and by the time he reached the bottom of the cup he felt almost human again. Cyte stood to one side, quietly watching his transformation.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I needed that.”

  She smiled only slightly. “Of course, sir.” Has she been taking lessons from Fitz?

  “Everything on schedule?”

  “We should be ready to break camp in the next half an hour, sir.”

  “I’d like to have a word with the colonels before we take the command tent down.”

  “I’ll let them know, sir.”

  Within a few minutes, they had all gathered: Abby, Sevran, de Koste, and Blackstream, Erdine for the cavalry and Archer for the artillery. Cyte joined them, too, and stood quietly by the tent flap. Even the large command tent felt crowded with so many gathered around the table.

  “In another half an hour, we’ll start our advance,” Marcus said. “We’re the far right of the line, so our flank should line up on the Pale. Colonel Blackstream, that’s you. Colonel Giforte, the First Regiment will be skirmishing in front. Colonel Sevran, you’ll be on our left. General Warus’ division is next in line, so make sure to maintain contact.”

  He drew their attention to the map. The field on which the battle would be fought—​always assuming there was a battle, of course—​was roughly triangular, a wedge formed by the convergence of two rivers. The top was the wide, deep Pale, uncrossable except at a bridge. The bottom was the smaller Daater, narrower but still a significant barrier. The city of Alves with its fortifications occupied the tip of the wedge, pointing west. The open end of the triangle was held by Kurot’s army, stretching in a line from Satinvol on the Pale to the Daater. Somewhere in that narrowing triangle, Janus’ army was waiting for them.

  On the map, a position somewhat ahead of the line was marked in pencil. That was where Val’s Third Division had made camp the night before. They’d marched farther than expected, surprised by the lack of resistance. Now they were dangerously overextended, and Marcus was glad Kurot was moving quickly to bring the rest of the army up in support. He tapped the map with his finger.

  “We’re to advance into line with the Third Division, then hold position and wait for orders.” He looked around the room at the colonels. “General Kurot knows we fought hard yesterday, and he’s planning to make the main effort with his left.” The two divisions there, under de Manzet, hadn’t fired a shot the day before. “Our job is just going to be to hold the line and keep Janus’ left in play. No heroics, understand?”

  “We seem to be stretched a little thin,” Blackstream said, frowning at the map. “Kurot hasn’t left much of a reserve.”

  “He hasn’t got a choice,” Sevran said. “It’s a wide front, and he has to cover it or else risk Janus slipping past.”

  “It’ll narrow as we advance,” Erdine said. “We’ll be fine.”

  “None of that is our concern,” Marcus said. “Let General Kurot worry about it. We need to make sure everything goes well here. You should all have the written copies of your orders. Any questions?”

  There was a brief silence.

  “Well, then,” Marcus said. “Let’s get moving.”

  *

  Dawn broke to find the division on the move, long columns winding southwest, with the baggage train still packing up the camp behind them. Erdine’s horsemen were out front, probing for the enemy, and behind them was the Girls’ Own, sweeping through the fields in skirmish order.

  Marcus, riding beside Cyte, was glad to see that yesterday’s fighting hadn’t cracked the division’s discipline. Despite the casualties, and the fatigue the soldiers had to feel, their formations were clean and they made good time. It helped that the sun was out and the mud had finally started to dry. While the Girls’ Own were spread out, picking their way through harvested fields and over the drystone walls that separated them, the other three regiments stuck to the Alves-​Satinvol road, which ran more or less parallel to the river.

  For the moment there was no sign of the enemy. Marcus kept looking across the river, expecting to see troops on the move there, but either the Pale was too wide or there was nothing to see. There was no sign of Alves yet, either. The only other force he could see was Fitz Warus’ First Division, advancing roughly in the same direction a mile or two to Marcus’ left. That was heartening, too. Not that he’d had any doubt about Fitz’ punctuality, of course, but it was always good to know the allies who were supposed to be covering your flanks were actually in place.

  “Do you really think there’ll be a fight today, sir?” Cyte said.

  “You doubt it?” Marcus said, looking back at her. “The enemy certainly showed willing at Satinvol.”

  “If Kurot is right, then we’ve got Janus cornered.” She shrugged. “I suppose that just seems a little too easy.”

  “Even Janus makes mistakes, Captain,” Marcus said. Though, truth be told, he’d been thinking the same thing. “But let’s be careful anyway.”

  By nine in the morning, it was clear the day would be hot, a last breath of summer as fall wore on. The advance was leisurely, with regular halts for water. Kurot hadn’t expressed any urgency, and after their exertions yesterday Marcus didn’t want to overstrain his soldiers. Still, he found himself fretting. When the smoke from the Third Division’s camp became visible beyond Fitz, he breathed a sigh of relief. His biggest worry had been that Janus would take the chance to snap at Val while he was stuck out on a limb.

  “Come on,” he told Cyte. “We’re going to see General Solwen. If the enemy have been up to anything, he’ll know the latest.”

  Barking a brief order putting Abby in command until he returned, Marcus turned his horse up a convenient farm track, threading between stone walls and making his way parallel to the front. Cyte follo
wed him, as usual much more comfortable in the saddle. They got stuck briefly at a junction clogged by First Division baggage wagons, but after a bit of swearing on the part of the sergeant directing traffic, a passage was cleared. Another back​country trail led up to where the Third Division had spent the night.

  “Odd,” Cyte said, as they rode closer.

  “What’s odd?”

  “Scouts.” She nodded at a pair of cavalrymen, carbines in hand, sitting on their horses in the middle of a field. “Seems a waste of manpower to have scouts facing east.”

  “Val can be a little paranoid,” Marcus said. “Besides, he doesn’t know for sure when the rest of us will turn up. You’re not the only one who worries about Janus trying something tricky.” He waved at the pair of troopers, who didn’t seem to notice.

  The Third Division’s four regiments were still forming up around their camp, soldiers filing into formation, the regimental flags snapping in the slight breeze. Sentries had spotted Marcus and Cyte, and a small delegation of officers accompanied by a couple of troopers mounted up and came out to meet them. Marcus didn’t see Val among them.

  He’s busy. Got a late start, as usual. Marcus looked back at Cyte again. She was watching the approaching riders with an odd expression. Something seems...

  Marcus looked closer, and felt the blood drain from his face.

  The banners are wrong. Not the flags themselves, which were just the usual Vordanai eagles, but the banner staffs. Val, peacock that he sometimes was, had paid out of his own pocket for bronze-​banded staffs with silver caps before the Murnskai campaign had begun. All four regiments here were holding ordinary wooden staffs.

  He looked back at the approaching party. There was a captain and two lieutenants, none of whom he recognized. He didn’t know every officer in the Third Division by sight, but he was familiar with most of the members of Val’s staff. So where are they?

  This isn’t the Third Division.

  The simplicity of the ruse took his breath away. But why not? Both sides of the war used the same uniforms, the same flags. From a distance it was impossible to tell one body of men from another. And anyone who gets up close...

  “Cyte,” Marcus hissed under his breath. When she didn’t look around, he repeated it a little louder. “Cyte, keep looking ahead.”

  Sir? Cyte mouthed, eyes locked.

  “When I say go, I want you to turn your horse around and head back the way we came, as fast as you can. If we get separated, head for General Kurot’s command post.”

  She nodded, very slightly, and didn’t ask why. Perfect.

  They were about fifty yards from the oncoming group of riders. Marcus loosened his pistol in its holster.

  “Go!” he shouted, sawing back on the reins.

  His horse objected, bucking, before he got it under control. Cyte, slightly behind him, turned in a smooth circle, accelerating rapidly up to a canter. Marcus pulled his pistol, aimed in the general direction of the approaching officers, and fired. At fifty yards, on the back of a bucking horse, they might as well have been on the moon, but the flash and bang threw them into confusion for a few moments. Once he had his mount headed in the right direction, he applied his spurs.

  Despite his instructions, Cyte had slowed long enough to let him catch up, and she came up to gallop only when he drew alongside. Behind him, he could hear shouts of alarm, and then a bellow.

  “Stop them! Fire!”

  A half dozen carbines went off at once, and Marcus ducked instinctively. He could hear the zip of balls, but nothing came close. A man on a galloping horse was a hard target. They’re going to have to try to ride us down. He looked over his shoulder, trying to assess whether pursuit was forming up—

  “General!” Cyte shouted.

  Marcus looked forward again to see the two cavalry troopers they’d passed earlier pounding out of the field and onto the road. Now he understood why they were there, and he swore as he fumbled for his saber. The weapon was designed to be used on horseback, but Marcus hadn’t been, and he barely got the sword drawn without dropping the reins. A trooper had swung in behind him, raising his carbine. Marcus jerked his horse’s head to one side in an inelegant dodge as the weapon went off, a cloud of smoke briefly enveloping the galloping trooper. The man dropped back, controlling his horse with his knees in a way Marcus could only envy, and drew his own sword.

  Cyte, up ahead, rode alongside the second trooper, weaving as he leveled his carbine. The soldier fired, and Cyte dropped sideways. For a heart-​stopping moment Marcus thought she’d been hit, but she’d only leaned over, hanging off the side of her mount like a trick rider. She swung back up, veering away from her attacker as he drew his sword.

  Oh, damn. Cyte’s weapon of choice was a slim rapier—​appropriate for her physique, but practically useless on horseback. Marcus dug his spurs in harder, trying to catch up to her, but his suffering mount was already giving him all the speed she had. Then the trooper behind him closed in, and Marcus didn’t have time to worry. It required all his attention to ride and parry at the same time, steel ringing off steel once, twice, three times before the soldier pulled to one side.

  The other trooper came at Cyte, weapon raised. As he swung, she cut in front of him, forcing his mount to stumble in the moment his attack left him off-​balance. One of his legs came free of his stirrup, and the trooper dropped his sword and clung desperately to his saddle as he tried to right himself. His horse slowed, falling behind.

  Cyte dropped back herself, toward Marcus, drawing her slim weapon. Marcus moved toward the remaining trooper before he noticed her, and sabers clashed again. With his clumsy sword work Marcus couldn’t maintain the offensive for long, and the cavalryman was getting the better of him when Cyte came alongside and slid her rapier in between his ribs. He went stiff as she whipped the sword free, then slumped forward over his mount’s neck, the horse slowing in confusion. I guess you can use a rapier from horseback if you know what you’re doing.

  “How’d you know?” Cyte said, sheathing her weapon. Marcus didn’t even try that trick at a full gallop.

  “Know what?” he said, feeling a little dazed.

  “That General Solwen had turned traitor!”

  Marcus shook his head. “He hasn’t!” It felt obscurely important to defend Val’s honor. In that moment, it first occurred to Marcus that his friend was probably dead, or at the very least a captive. His throat went tight. “I’ll explain later! General Kurot needs to know before it’s too late.”

  *

  By the time they reached Kurot, perched on the crest of the tallest hill in the area, it very much looked like it might be too late.

  From the slope, they could see the whole battlefield stretching out before them. Marcus could understand why Kurot had chosen this spot, although it was a little far from the line. It offered an unparalleled view, from Marcus’ own troops on the far right to de Manzet’s on the left. And, directly ahead of them, the camp of the “Third Division.”

  Marcus’ escape must have told whoever was in command there that the game was up. His four regiments were forming up and turning to their right, ready to descend on de Manzet’s line. At the same time, more blue columns were advancing from the front, silver eagle flags fluttering. De Manzet was about to be under attack from two directions, every commander’s worst nightmare.

  “General!” Marcus reined to a halt on the hilltop, his horse blowing. Kurot was surrounded by his staff, staring through a spyglass at the surprise attack below, looking from the map to the terrain and back again in consternation. A corporal came over to take Marcus’ reins, and he got down, legs aching. He gave his mare an apologetic look. “Take care of her, will you?”

  The corporal nodded and led the exhausted horse away. Marcus hurried in Kurot’s direction. “General Kurot!”

  “General d’Ivoire.” Kurot was staring through a spyglass. “I’m surprised to find you away from your men.”

  “I went to the Third Division, sir, to con
firm that General Solwen understood today’s plan.” Out of the corner of his eye, Marcus saw Cyte come up to his side.

  “Ah.” Kurot lowered the spyglass. “That explains the timing of his treachery. I daresay he’s sprung his trap a little early.”

  “It’s not him, sir. That’s not the Third Division. They must have been ambushed, and Janus snuck his own men into place.”

  “That’s impossible,” Kurot snapped, then frowned slightly. “He’d have to know our plans in detail. If someone is feeding him information—” The general’s brow furrowed for a moment, and then his expression cleared. “No matter. Whether it is the Third Division or a set of impostors, the damage is done, and it is for us to handle it.”

  “Tell de Manzet to retreat,” Marcus said. “Give-Em-Hell can cover him with an attack on the flanking division, and Fitz and I will fall back to match. We’ll form a solid line to meet whatever Janus has coming.”

  Kurot’s face darkened. “I appreciate the advice, General, but I believe I know my business here.” He raised the glass again. “If we retreat, without the Third Division we cannot hope to seal the gap between the rivers. Janus can maneuver around us and escape.”

  “But—”

  “Furthermore,” Kurot said, “his forces must necessarily be low on supplies, as we are now in possession of their lines of communication. This has the feel of a last, desperate gambit.”

  It doesn’t. This is how Janus fights his battles—​with every means at his disposal. Marcus shook his head. Kurot isn’t listening. He straightened up.

  “What do you want me to do, sir?”

  “Push forward. I will detach General Stokes to your assistance. You and General Warus are to break through whatever’s in front of you and advance to the Daater and the gates of Alves.”

  “What about de Manzet?”

  Kurot clearly didn’t like being questioned, but he grated, “He will be ordered to hold his ground, and the artillery reserve will support him. Once you get in the rear of the forces opposing him, they will be compelled to surrender.”

  “I don’t think Janus will surrender—”