“Even though I told you,” Ennika said. “I told you that I was broken.”
“Explain it to them,” Sothe ordered.
Ennika took a deep breath. “My sister. She’s... gone.”
“Dead?” Abraham said sympathetically.
“No,” Ennika said, voice thick with frustration. “I would feel it if she died. She was... taken. Vanished. I don’t know how to explain it. The link wasn’t severed; it’s just... empty.”
“Where was your sister?” Winter said, certainty rising in her mind.
“Elysium. One half of every link was kept in Elysium, while the other was sent out into the world.”
Winter looked at Abraham, and his eyes went wide.
“The Beast,” he said. “She was taken by the Beast.”
Sothe nodded. “We had no idea at first. I had... other tasks to perform, but I kept Ennika with me.”
“I told you to kill me,” Ennika said, sounding like a sulky child.
Sothe ignored her. “Until one day she felt something over her link again.”
There was a long silence.
“The Beast talked to you?” Winter said.
“No,” Ennika said. “It’s more complicated than that. The Beast has more than a single mind.”
“I don’t pretend to understand what’s happened,” Sothe said. “But apparently it is possible for a mind taken over by the Beast to retain its... integrity, so to speak, and some sort of independent existence. One of these independent minds discovered a way to use Ennika’s link, through some remnant of her sister.”
“She’s not dead,” Ennika said. “Worse than dead. Broken into pieces, but still knowing...” She trailed off, head bowed.
“How do you know it’s not the Beast itself, trying to trick you?” Abraham said.
“Precisely what I thought at first,” Sothe said. “The explanation he offered seemed... far-fetched. But after several conversations, I was persuaded that it was, at least, a lead worth following, especially in light of events. The entity claims to be working against the Beast, and he told me that the most important thing was that I come to help you. He kept me apprised of your progress, which he could apparently observe through the Beast’s bodies. I came here, with the Swallow, to wait until you arrived.”
“That’s...” Winter shook her head. “I don’t know. It seems mad.”
“Who was he?” Alex said. “This entity. You said he was a mind inside the Beast?”
“I can’t know for certain, obviously,” Sothe said. “But he claims to be Janus bet Vhalnich.”
22
Marcus
The Army of the Republic came to rest, at last, behind the line of the river Rhyf.
In the end, they didn’t have much choice. The sick lists had burgeoned with each dawn-to-dusk march, and more horses broke down with every passing mile. Wagons were consolidated, and then consolidated again for lack of teams to pull them, inessential supplies left behind and wounded who could barely walk turned out to fend for themselves. By the time the Rhyf came into sight, a broad ribbon of silver in the midafternoon sun, there were barely enough animals to pull the guns.
If they’d tried to keep on at that pace, Marcus was certain there’d have been a mutiny. Instead, they’d crossed the river at a midsized town called Gond and made camp in the fields outside it on the south bank, much to the dismay of the local farmers. The townspeople had been even less happy when Colonel Archer began laying powder against the bridge supports, ready for a quick demolition.
Give-Em-Hell’s light cavalry remained on the north bank, keeping the enemy scouts back. The next morning, while the exhausted infantry rested in its camp, cavalry detachments and engineers rode east and west along the river, looking for crossings. By nightfall they’d identified three more bridges and one possible ford. Marcus ordered the former prepared for destruction, and artillery dug in around the latter.
If we have to make a stand, he reflected, looking at the map that night, it’s not a bad position. The Rhyf was narrow but deep, without many easy crossings. As long as we get enough warning, we can shadow any force on the north bank and be waiting if they try to get over the river. Pushing through a river crossing in the face of determined resistance was one of the bloodiest prospects in warfare, even with a big advantage in numbers. Which Janus has, of course. But at least we can make it difficult for him.
As the reports trickled in from the scouts across the river, though, he began to think the situation had changed. The batch that was waiting for him in the morning only confirmed it. Give-Em-Hell wrote that they’d clashed with a few enemy patrols, but that Janus’ force was making no serious effort to push through their screen and reach the Rhyf. Marcus sent new orders, then went in search of Cyte.
The camp was a mess, by any standard. Instead of neat rows, the battalions had set up their tents in loose clusters, grouped only vaguely by regiment and division. A faint, nasty scent on the morning breeze made Marcus wrinkle his nose; they’d clearly gotten sloppy about latrine placement, too. We’re going to have to do something about that. Staying in a camp with bad sanitation was asking to be decimated by disease.
It could wait a day or two, though. They’d had only a day and a night so far to recover from the grueling march. Everywhere he looked, Marcus saw soldiers sitting in groups, cooking or playing cards, but generally simply enjoying not being on the move. The men were still noticeably thinner than they’d been at the start of the march, but the halt was already doing wonders for morale. Two days ago, on the other side of the river, his passage through the camp had been greeted with apathetic silence or ominous grumbling. Now soldiers cheerfully saluted as he went past, though usually without actually getting to their feet first.
Soldiers in the Girls’ Own camp directed him to the cutter’s station. This was a large tent whose sides could be rolled up for easy access, with a few long, low tents alongside where the wounded could be sheltered. After a battle, it would be a nightmarish scene—every soldier, Marcus included, shuddered at the singing of the bone saw, and he’d seen arms and legs piled up like firewood and enough blood to turn the dirt to mud.
Fortunately, at the moment there wasn’t anything so dire going on. Hannah Courvier, a middle-aged woman with the long-suffering expression of a schoolteacher, sat on a crate behind a makeshift desk while a line of Girls’ Own rankers waited to see her. Those who saw Marcus saluted, a wave that progressed down the line. The woman at the head, a solidly built sergeant, was bent over the desk whispering urgently to the cutter.
“—every time I take a shit,” Marcus heard as he got closer. “I—”
He cleared his throat, and they both looked up. The sergeant saluted, her cheeks coloring, but Hannah just sighed and leaned back.
“Problems, Captain Courvier?” Marcus said.
“About what you’d expect after a march like that,” Hannah said. “But we’ve got to do something about the latrines—”
“I know,” Marcus said. “When you’re done here, find General Warus and tell him I asked you to take care of it. He’ll get you some men to dig new ones.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Have you seen Colonel Cyte?”
Hannah nodded at the first of the tents housing the wounded. “In there.”
The tent flap was low enough that Marcus had to bend nearly double to enter. It felt like a tunnel, dimly lit, both sides lined with bedrolls. The women who occupied them were in various states of disassembly—a few seemed intact, except for bandages, but most were missing pieces, hands and feet, arms and legs. Some were unconscious, the telltale angry red of infection creeping up from their stumps. Others sat up, talking, playing cards, or reading by candlelight. Once again a wave of salutes went through them at the sight of Marcus.
Marcus took a deep breath to steady himself, then regretted it. The whole place smelled of vomit and the sick-sweet stench of rotten flesh. He nodded acknowledgment to each soldier as he passed, working his
way along the line until he found Cyte. She was kneeling beside a young ranker whose right arm ended just below the shoulder. The girl was examining a sheet of paper while Cyte took notes.
“Cynthia’s dead,” the girl said. “For sure. At Satinvol.”
Cyte nodded, pen moving.
“And someone told me Elly—Elsbeth—dropped out with a bad ankle and stayed in a village we passed.” The girl’s face clouded. “You’re not going to punish her, are you?”
“No,” Cyte said. “Don’t worry.”
“Those are the only ones I know.” The girl handed the list back. “Sorry.”
“You’ve been very helpful,” Cyte said. She looked up at Marcus, then back to the girl. “Thank you. I’ll be back.”
“Captain—” Marcus began.
“Let’s get out of here first,” Cyte said quietly. “If you don’t mind.”
That was fine with Marcus. They walked back to the flap, both hunched over, and slipped back out into the morning sun. Cyte led him a few steps away from the line of people waiting to see Hannah. She stretched, arching her back with a distinct pop.
“What are you doing?” Marcus said. “Looking for someone?”
“Just updating army records,” Cyte said. She showed him the notebook, which was covered in a list of names with little notes about their current status—dead, wounded, missing—and how certain it was. “On the march the bookkeeping fell by the wayside.”
“You can let it fall a little farther, if you like,” Marcus said. “I promise I’m not about to order a surprise inspection.”
“I’d... rather not, sir.” Cyte shook her head. “We had a similar problem in the retreat from Murnsk. By the time we got around to tallying things up, there were a lot of soldiers we just couldn’t account for. This way people have an easier time remembering. It... makes it easier when it’s time to tell the families, sir.”
“Ah,” Marcus said awkwardly. He wondered if Fitz had done something similar back when they’d worked together. Almost certainly. He just made sure I never noticed. “Well. Thank you.”
“Of course, sir. It’s my job. And... it helps, a little.” She held the notebook close, like she was worried it might escape.
War. It put people through unimaginable stresses, and they each had their own way of dealing with it. Better this than crawling into a bottle, that’s for sure.
“I’m sorry you had to come and find me, sir,” Cyte said, straightening up. “Is something wrong?”
“Nothing urgent. But we need to figure out what we’re doing next.” He put his hand in his coat pocket, where there was a single much-folded slip of paper. “And that means I need to show you something.”
*
Back in his own command tent, Marcus spent a few moments flipping through the map case. He finally selected a large-scale one that covered the whole of Vordan, laying it on the table atop the smaller-scale maps of the Pale valley. Then, while Cyte watched with interest, he fished out the piece of paper and unfolded it. The edges had gone furry with wear.
“This is...” He looked down at the page and hesitated. “I don’t know whether to believe it or not. But I think you need to see it. No one else knows.”
“Sir? Why me?”
“Because you’re the only one here who knows about... magic, and the Priests of the Black, and all that damned nonsense.” He handed her the page. “I got this, in secret, from Janus. When he came to talk to me on the bridge.”
Cyte blinked, and read the note. He couldn’t see it from where he was standing, but Marcus had read the thing so often he had it memorized. It was written in a slightly awkward hand, sometimes running letters together, sometimes stretching them out. Some of the sentences were at an angle, or above or below their neighbors, giving the impression of something that had been written in fragments by someone who couldn’t see what he was doing. But the writing was Janus’. Marcus would have known that careful script anywhere. It read,
Marcus—
I must beg your forgiveness. I have very limited freedom of action, and my mind is not my own. This note is a risk, but I must reach you.
Winter is the key. I am trying to bring him to Vordan City. Find him, help him, trust his judgment. He understands what needs to be done.
Know that I am doing what I can. The Beast is watching.
—J
“I don’t understand,” Cyte said. She let the note fall to the table, and Marcus saw her hand was trembling. “Janus gave you this?”
“In secret.”
“Who could have been watching? You were alone!”
“I know,” Marcus said. “When we stormed Satinvol, I... saw something.” He described, as calmly as he could, what had happened in the final assault, the girl who had turned on him with her eyes glowing red. Cyte didn’t immediately tell him he was insane, which he guessed was a good sign.
“At first I wondered if I’d just remembered it wrong,” Marcus said. “Things happen, in battle. Or maybe she was a genuine traitor. But that light...” He shook his head. “Then I got this. So what if it’s true? What if there is some kind of demon, something that can control people?”
“The Beast,” Cyte said flatly. “As in the Beast of Judgment?”
“Maybe.”
Cyte looked down at the note, expressions warring on her face. “It could be lies,” she said carefully. “Maybe Janus has truly gone mad.”
“It’s possible. An aftereffect of the poison.” Marcus sighed. “If not, though, it explains why he would do all of this. ‘My mind is not my own.’ Something is using him.”
“If it’s not madness, then Winter is still alive,” Cyte said. Her hand tightened on the edge of the table. “He’s alive.”
“I know.”
There was a long silence.
“I have to go to Vordan City,” Cyte said. “I have to know. If he... If he needs help, then I should be there.”
“The question is,” Marcus said, “how do we get there?”
He gestured down at the map. From their current position on the Rhyf, it was a little more than four hundred miles to Vordan City in a straight line. Unfortunately, that line crossed the densest and most impenetrable part of the Illifen Range. The shortest route, through the passes they’d crossed by on the way west, meant going through Janus’ army. That left the south, skirting the edge of the mountains before turning east to slog across the Vor valley. Call it six hundred miles.
“At any kind of reasonable pace, it would take months,” Marcus said, as Cyte’s brow furrowed in concentration. “Even forcing the marches with plenty of food, forty or forty-five days, and there’s no way this army could sustain that.”
Cyte said nothing. Marcus put a finger on their current position, then shifted it north slightly, toward where Janus’ army was lurking.
“There’s another problem,” he said. “I think Janus isn’t following us anymore.”
She looked up. “The scouts reported enemy cavalry looking for us.”
“They’re not pushing hard enough. If he really meant to hit us here, he’d be searching for a place to cross the river, and he wouldn’t let us brush him off. It’s possible he’s looping around our flank, or pulling some maneuver I haven’t thought of, but I wouldn’t bet on it.” He traced a line north, toward the passes. “I think he’s left a cavalry force and some blocking troops, and taken the bulk of his army toward Vordan City.”
“Which means that it’s not just a matter of getting there,” Cyte said. “We have to make it before Janus if we’re going to do any good.”
“It’s not possible,” Marcus said flatly. “He’s got the inside track, and we’re not going to be able to outmarch him.”
“Then what?”
“If we want to keep him out of Vordan City, there’s only one thing I can think of.” He tapped the map. “We attack. Whatever Janus has left in front of us, we smash it, and threaten to come down on his rear. He’ll either have to turn around and fight, or le
t us cut off his supply line in the pass.”
“Now you’re sounding like Kurot,” Cyte said. “I don’t think Janus is worried about supply lines. He can live off the land, the same as us.”
“It might be harder in the mountains.” Marcus pursed his lips. “If he keeps marching, we can stay behind him. If the forces in Vordan City can hold him up at all, we might be able to catch him between us.”
“Or,” Cyte said, “he’ll get irritated and annihilate us. Considering he has something like double our numbers.”
“That’s the downside,” Marcus admitted. “It would slow him a bit, but...”
“I have another idea,” Cyte said. “But I don’t think you’re going to like it.”
“I’m listening,” Marcus said.
“We head downriver until we find a boat. Take it to the Pale, and down to Enzport. Get a ship there, sail around the coast and up the Vor to Vordan City. It’d be a hell of a lot faster than marching overland.”
“Faster for a few, maybe. There probably aren’t enough boats on the Rhyf to get us to Enzport, and there definitely aren’t enough ships at Enzport to get us to Vordan. Not after the war and the Borel blockade.”
“I know.” Cyte locked eyes with him. “You and I could go. A few soldiers you trust. Leave the army with Fitz.”
“I can’t abandon my men,” Marcus said. The response was almost automatic. “Certainly not with the enemy still just over the river.”
“You said yourself that you didn’t think Janus was following us.”
“I could be wrong!”
“If they do attack, would Fitz do a worse job than you would?”
He’d probably do better. Marcus shook his head. “That’s not the point. It’s my responsibility.”
Cyte nodded, as though she’d expected that, and took a deep breath. “Then I’ll go.”
“Alone?”
“If necessary. Or with a small escort, if you’d like to assign one.”
Marcus frowned and scratched his beard. “The army needs you, too.”
“Someone has to act on this.” Cyte pushed the note across the map. “That’s why you brought me here, isn’t it?”
The Infernal Battalion Page 41
