“About Mya.”
“Ah.”
“You mentioned her,” Marcus said, flushing a little in ridiculous embarrassment, “when you were feverish. You told me... bits and pieces.”
“I’m surprised you got her to talk. The Mierantai are a notoriously closemouthed lot.”
“Lieutenant Uhlan vouched for me.”
“Of course.” Janus’ lip quirked. “And now you think you understand me?”
“I’ll never understand everything. But it’s all for her, isn’t it? The Thousand Names, and then the march on Elysium. All of it.”
“If it had worked,” Janus said, with a hint of his old fire, “it would have been worth it. You can’t understand, Marcus.”
“Why not?”
“Because you think I’m a genius,” Janus snapped. “It’s like a cat trying to understand the works of Voulenne.”
“I appreciate the comparison,” Marcus drawled.
“I... apologize.” Janus let out a breath. Something passed over his features, some emotion Marcus couldn’t guess. It was gone in an instant, and he was himself again.
“What I can’t figure out is the point of all this,” Marcus said. “If it’s all for Mya, what does this get you?”
“The next best thing, perhaps.” Janus looked away, down at the river.
“You are...” Marcus shook his head. “Enough. We’ve established that I’m not going to surrender. Is there anything else?”
“I suppose it won’t help to remind you what you owe me,” Janus said.
“What about what you owe us? All of Vordan?”
They glared at each other, a few yards apart, and there was another awkward silence. Then Janus stepped forward, one hand extended.
“As you wish, Marcus. If this is how it has to be.”
For a moment Marcus considered ignoring him, just turning away. It would be a nice, dramatic gesture. But he still couldn’t bring himself to hate this man, who’d brought him so far. It doesn’t make sense. He stepped forward and clasped his old commander’s hand.
“I wish things were different.”
“So do I,” Janus said. Oddly, he refused to meet Marcus’ eye, fixing his gaze instead on the buttons of his coat. “So do I.”
Then he was walking away, hands tucked into his pockets. Marcus stared after him, then down at the palm of his hand, where a single much-folded sheet of paper had been pressed.
19
Winter
“Inside!” Winter shouted. “Everyone inside now!”
Lieutenant Dobraev looked at her, startled. “What—”
Fortunately, Sergeant Gorchov had more sense. “Back to the gate!” he thundered, in a voice that would have done credit to a parade-ground instructor. “At the double!”
Dobraev took the hint and started to run, and his escort followed. Vess and the Haeta needed no further urging. They sprinted for the gate, overtaking the more heavily laden Murnskai soldiers. Winter, following behind, sent up a silent prayer that the guards on the walls wouldn’t interpret this as an attack. But there was no repeat of yesterday’s disaster—either Dobraev had been careful with his instructions, or Gorchov’s shout had carried clear back to the wall.
Alex and Abraham stayed with Winter, who slowed a little as she turned to look behind them. From the trees an army had emerged, a strange, ragged force whose only common trait was their battered condition. There were Murnskai soldiers in muddy whites and Vordanai men in stained blue. Peasants—men, women, and children—in leather and homespun, their outfits ragged and torn. Hunters with fur caps, scruffy-looking bandits, priests in red and white robes whose distinctions had been erased by the mud.
Quite a few of them carried muskets, Winter was surprised to see. It must have decided it needed a stronger force to get to me. The Beast had nearly waited too long, and now its prey was on the verge of escaping.
They passed through the big timbered gate, and Dobraev waved frantically to the guards, who shoved the log barrier forward on its rope hinges. When it was in place, they slotted two iron bars across it, each the size of Winter’s arm. Deeper in the fortress, a bell was ringing, a tinny clamor of alarm.
“To the wall!” Dobraev was shouting. “Every man to the wall! We are under attack!”
There’s too many. She’d gotten only a glimpse of the Beast’s force, but there had to be hundreds of red-eyes. “You won’t be able to hold the wall,” Winter said urgently. “We have to get the ships ready and fall back—”
“With all respect, Miss Ihernglass,” the lieutenant said, his expression rigid, “I am most appreciative of your warning, and your removal of my oaf of a commanding officer. But this is an hour for soldiers, so I would appreciate it if you would stay out of my way.”
“I—” Winter shook her head, frustrated. Weren’t you just complaining about being in charge? She shook her head. Not the time. People are going to die.
She left Dobraev and went to the Haeta, who were huddled together in a clear space among the shacks and lean-tos. The soldiers who ran past gave them curious glances on their way to man the wall walk, where the cracks of musketry were already sounding. Alex and Abraham stood at the edge of the group, waiting anxiously for Winter.
“Just in time, huh?” Alex said.
“It was waiting for us,” Winter said. “It must not have been certain it had enough bodies, so it held off.”
“It certainly looked like enough,” Abraham said. “Do you think they can hold the wall?”
“No,” Winter said shortly. “We need those ships ready to sail, with everyone on board. Fyotyr said the sails and oars were taken to the keep. Abraham, do you think you can talk to the refugees? There must be a few sailors here. Get as many as you can to help you get those ships ready.”
“I... can try,” Abraham said, taken aback. “There’ll be a rush to get aboard once they know what we’re doing.”
“Let them. But no cargo, only the people. We’re getting everyone out of here.” Winter glanced over her shoulder at the wall, now wreathed in smoke. A white-coated Murnskai soldier pitched backward off the wall walk with a scream and landed hard in the mud, and others scrambled to take his place. “Alex, go with him in case anyone tries to get in the way. Do not let those ships leave until everyone’s aboard.”
“Got it.” Alex pointed to the keep. “Come on. Let’s find some oars.”
“Won’t they have everything locked up?” Abraham said.
Alex rolled her eyes. “Greatest thief in the world, remember?”
The two of them ran off. Winter turned back to the wall, watching the flashes of musketry, waiting for the inevitable.
“They’re coming over!” one of the Haeta shouted. Hands appeared above the edge of the log palisade, spindly, underfed figures lifting themselves over the barrier. The Murnskai troops converged with bayoneted muskets, driving them back, but soon more red-eyes were reaching the top at another spot, and then another.
Come on, Dobraev, Winter thought. You have to see this isn’t going to work. Under normal circumstances, a soldier at the top of a wall had a considerable advantage over one at the bottom. But this wasn’t a stone fortress wall, or even a ditch and scarp as one might find on a modern fortress, just a set of lashed-up logs. It was an easy climb for anyone with a knife or a hatchet. The defenders were harder to hit than the Beast’s musketeers lined up below, but the attackers were indifferent to wounds or casualties, and outnumbered their opponents several times over.
Making matters worse, the circuit of the wall was too long for the relatively small numbers Dobraev could call on. He had no reserve, nothing to plug a breakthrough. The first penetration of the Murnskai lines would be the end of the battle.
Unless we do something about it. One of the attacks was being pushed back, but at another spot, to the left of the gate, the Beast had made a lodgment on the top of the wall. The musketeers outside were concentrating their fire there, bringing down the white-coated so
ldiers who ran to drive the attackers back, and the few who made it found themselves struggling hand-to-hand with vicious red-eyes. More of the Beast’s bodies dropped from the wall walk into the courtyard, their path into the fortress blocked by only a handful of soldiers.
“Vess!” Winter shouted.
She expected another argument, but Vess was smarter than that. The girl raised her spear and pointed, and the Haeta charged with a roar. Winter drew her saber and went with them, reaching the knot of red-eyes just as the last of the Murnskai were cut down.
The enemy were armed as variously as they were uniformed, carrying everything from sharpened sticks and cudgels to muskets and swords. They turned, fluid as the singular creature they were, to face this new threat, but it did them little good. The front rank of Haeta girls hurled their spears in mid-sprint, a volley that hit hard enough to punch men off their feet. The warriors had time just to grab another spear from their quivers before they met the red-eyes, a solid line of spearpoints against which the Beast’s creatures hurled themselves as uselessly as the wolves had days before. Unlike the Murnskai, the Haeta had fought the red-eyes and knew their strengths. Winter, trotting up behind the line, watched as the girls carefully finished each downed opponent, knowing that the Beast’s creatures could ignore wounds that would cripple a human.
There was the sharp crack of a musket. A girl stumbled, clapping a hand to her throat, then collapsed in a heap. The shooter was on the wall, where a dozen red-eye musketeers were loading with inhuman speed. Another group was pushing down the stairs beside the gate, shoving the Murnskai soldiers back. The red-eyes were willing to accept a bayonet thrust to the gut to get their hands on an opponent, disarming the enemy with their own bodies. The Murnskai wavered, and Winter saw Lieutenant Dobraev running to steady them.
“Byr!” The scream came from Sergeant Gorchov, engaged in his own desperate fight above the gate itself. He struggled to cut himself free, but red-eyes swarmed over the wall on both sides.
Winter gestured with her sword, then charged, hoping Vess and the others would follow. She reached the stairs alongside Dobraev. The Murnskai soldier in front of her slumped to the ground, groaning, and a heavyset peasant woman with a long stick bulled right over him. Winter deflected her downward stroke with one arm and ran her through, then kicked her back into her fellows. A young man with sunken cheeks and carrying a boat hook came forward to take her place, and Winter hacked at him wildly, driving him off-balance. Dobraev, fighting beside her, managed a strike to his throat, and the young man sank to his knees with a gurgle.
A half dozen Haeta arrived, and Winter grabbed Dobraev and spun out of the way as the spearwomen pressed the red-eyes back up the stairs. The rest of them were attacking the musketeers on the wall walk with thrown spears, or climbing up the rickety shacks that backed against the wall to get a handhold and pull themselves up to the palisade. The first girl to make it got a bayonet in the eye and dropped back to the ground, where she lay twitching, but two of her companions grabbed the bearded red-eye who’d stabbed her and pulled him forward, too. He hit the ground headfirst, but the Haeta below took no chances, descending on him with knives flashing.
Winter turned Dobraev to face her. The lieutenant looked dazed, blood spattered across his face, pupils tiny pinpricks in a sea of white. She took him by the collar and shook him roughly, and he gasped, a little color returning to his cheeks.
“Get your men off the fucking wall!” Winter shouted.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about—” the lieutenant began.
Winter snarled. “I am a goddamned division-general, and I have been in more battles than you have ever fucking heard of. Now give the order before I bash you on the head and give it myself!”
Dobraev took a deep breath, pulled away from her, and shouted.
“Down from the wall! Kila, get the men down into the courtyard!”
Sergeant Gorchov answered with a roar, swinging his sword with such violence that he decapitated a red-eye entirely in a spray of gore. Winter spoke urgently into Dobraev’s ear, and the lieutenant shouted more instructions. The Beast had concentrated its attacks around the gate, where the defenders were heavily engaged, but the men farther along the wall were free to move. They came down the stairs at a run and lined up in the courtyard, muskets ready. At the lieutenant’s signal, the Haeta and Gorchov’s few remaining soldiers pulled back, ceding the wall to the red-eyes. As soon as they were clear, the Murnskai opened fire, pinning the red-eyes to their newly won position with a withering volley of musketry.
Answering shots came from the top of the wall, the few survivors using piles of the dead and dying for cover. That was more than the defenders had down in the yard, and Winter waved them back, in among the shacks and lean-tos. In the shadow of one of these insubstantial buildings, she caught her breath. The Murnskai found cover and returned fire, and musket balls thocked into earth and wood all around her.
A bloodied Gorchov staggered over to her and Dobraev and grabbed the lieutenant by the arm. Dobraev stared at him.
“Kila. Kila! Are you all right?” he said.
“I’m fine,” Gorchov snarled. “Most of the blood is Vasil’s, brave little fool. Who are these monsters? I saw a girl of twelve throw herself onto a soldier’s bayonet so an old man could dash his brains out with a footstool!”
“They’re mad,” Winter said. “I told you. They don’t value their lives, and they don’t feel pain.”
“Demons,” Gorchov muttered.
“There’s no such thing as demons, Kila,” Dobraev said. “They die the same as men.” He straightened up. “We can pull back to the keep.”
“No,” Winter said. “You’re not listening. We can’t hold them off. They’re not going to give up. They’ll keep coming until we run out of ammunition, if nothing else works. We have to get out of here.”
“The ships,” Gorchov said. “Kollowrath stripped the sails and oars.”
“I sent Abraham and Alex to get help from the refugees,” Winter said.
“It’ll take too long,” Dobraev said. “Once they get the gate open, they’ll swamp us.”
“We fall back,” Winter said. “A fighting withdrawal.” She gestured at the cluttered yard. “One shack at a time.”
“There’s still too many,” Gorchov said. “We’re down to fifty men, plus your... warriors.” He eyed the Haeta.
“I may be able to help with that,” Abraham said. Winter turned, surprised, and saw him trotting over with at least two dozen men behind him, old Fyotyr in the lead. The newcomers were all refugees, dressed raggedly, and most had only clubs and knives for weapons, but they shouted their enthusiasm.
“What about the ships?” Winter said.
“We found some sailors. Alex is keeping watch,” Abraham said. “When they saw what was happening—”
“We want to fight,” Fyotyr said. “If I am to die today, better to die like a man than huddling like a sheep.”
“Some of the women wanted to fight, too,” Abraham said quietly. “The men wouldn’t let them.”
“There are spare muskets and ammunition in the keep’s armory,” Dobraev said. “They can help run it forward.”
“Tell them,” Winter said, and added in Vordanai, “And if any of them decide they want to use those muskets themselves, I’m certainly not going to stop them.”
*
It took thirty minutes before the ships were pronounced ready for the swollen, fast-flowing river, thirty minutes purchased in blood, step-by-step. As Dobraev had predicted, the red-eyes soon got the gate open, despite concentrated fire from the Murnskai musketeers that left dozens dead in the gateway. Once they did, a tide of them flowed in from outside the fortress, and the musketry got considerably less one-sided. The Murnskai were forced back through the camp, giving ground as the red-eyes assembled and charged, a line of powder smoke marking the front.
Without the refugees, the fight woul
d have been hopeless. The civilians picked up the muskets that fell from dead soldiers, providing fresh bodies for Dobraev to throw into the line. Now that he had the right idea, he was skilled enough that Winter left him on his own, sticking close to the Haeta. She and Vess led them wherever the red-eyes threatened to break through, blunting their attacks long enough for the line to pull back. The price they paid was terrible, the girls whom Winter had come to know falling one after another, cut down by musket-fire or gutted with bayonets.
They were fighting around the base of the Keep when word finally came. The stone walls provided cover for musketeers who fired weapons reloaded by refugee women huddled in its lee. A refugee girl grabbed Winter’s arm to get her attention.
“Alex says the boats are ready!” she shouted, almost inaudible above the battle racket. “She says to come now; the sailors don’t want to wait!”
Winter locked eyes with Vess, who waited nearby with a dozen surviving, blood-stained Haeta. “Go board,” she said. “Don’t let them leave without the rest of us.”
Vess grinned savagely and pointed with her spear, and they took off at a run. Winter found Dobraev and shouted the news in his ear. The defenders disengaged, gradually at first, a few men turning to fire to keep the red-eyes at bay while the rest hurried ahead of them. When the Beast realized what was happening, its creatures surged forward, ignoring musketry and opposition, ignoring wounds, ignoring everything.
“Run!” Winter screamed. “Now!”
They ran, dodging through the camp, all organized resistance gone. A soldier tripped over a tent line and vanished, trampled by the horde of red-eyes. There was scarcely any firing now, just a mad scramble to escape. Winter thought her heart would burst, her lungs sawing at the air, Dobraev leaping nimbly over a broken crate just ahead of her.
Then there were no more shacks, and the stone pier was in view. The two ships, packed from bow to stern with a dense mass of humanity, rode dangerously low in the water. They’d pulled away from the pier, held in place by only a few straining lines, with cargo nets dangling from their sides into the rushing water. The soldiers were throwing away their muskets and jumping, swimming out to get a hold on the nets and haul themselves up.
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