They looked at each other for a long moment. Winter was always a little uncertain around Abby. The girl had been Jane’s lover after Winter had run off to Khandar, and though Jane had returned to Winter’s bed when she’d come back, there had always been tension between them. Then Jane had betrayed them both, and neither Winter nor Abby had taken it well.
“Will you be assuming command?” Abby said. “I’ve been running the Second Division since Marcus took overall command, but I’m sure the soldiers would be happy to have you back.” She gestured at the papers. “God knows I’d be happy to have someone to push this off on to.”
“No,” Winter said. “That’s what I came to talk to you about.”
“I should have known I wouldn’t get off that easily.” Abby gestured at the chair across from her. “Sit, if you like.”
Winter cleared a stained tin plate out of the way and sat down. “There’s an... assignment,” she said carefully. “Something I need to do. It’s important.”
“Yours always are, sir,” Abby said.
“I won’t be back until after the battle,” Winter said. “Assuming I make it back at all, of course. And—”
Abby sat back in her chair. “You’ve been talking with Marcus.”
“I’ve been talking with Cyte,” Winter said. “She’s worried about you.”
“And you’re wondering whether you can trust me with the Second.”
Winter closed her eyes for a moment. “When I left the division, in Murnsk, I would have trusted you in a heartbeat. I need to know if anything has changed.”
“A lot of good men and women are dead,” Abby said. “And Parker Erdine, too, I suppose. Does that count as a change?”
“You know what I mean.”
Abby’s freckled face colored slightly. “What do you want me to say? That it hasn’t affected me? You know that’s not true. We fought our way back from Murnsk, and then after Alves...” She shook her head. “Sometimes it feels like not going mad takes everything I have.”
“I know,” Winter said. “Believe me, I understand.”
“When Parker died...” Abby swallowed. “Stupid, pretty boy. He didn’t have any illusions about what we had. It was... just comfort. I wanted to feel something that wasn’t fear or anger, that’s all. And I couldn’t even have that.”
Winter’s throat was thick. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have been there.”
“It’s not your fault. It’s nobody’s fault but mine.” Abby looked down at her hands. “I just started thinking... what am I even doing here? I joined up with Jane because... because I loved her, or thought I did. And when I realized she’d turned into someone I couldn’t love anymore, I stayed because I felt like I had to keep her girls safe. That was all she ever wanted, really. She just lost sight of it sometimes.”
“You’ve done a good job,” Winter said.
“Have I?” Abby looked up. “How many of the old Leatherbacks are left? How many arms and legs are rotting away somewhere? Am I doing them a favor by leading them into the fight, or am I just lying to them to get them to make one more charge?” Her lips tightened. “I told Marcus we wanted to fight, you know. I was afraid he’d stick us off to the rear somewhere. The girls wanted me to do it, but if I hadn’t said anything, some of the ones we buried might still be alive.”
“And someone else would be dead,” Winter said gently. “That’s why they joined up. To take danger on themselves and away from others.” She remembered Cyte’s angry retort and found herself smiling. “Give them some credit, Abby.”
Abby took a deep breath and blew it out in a rush. She nodded.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Cyte’s right. I’ve been...”
“It’s all right.” Winter paused. “If you want, I’ll find someone else to take command. There’s no shame in it. You’ve given more than anyone could ask for.”
“Don’t even think about it,” Abby said. “I’ve gotten the Girls’ Own this far. I’m not going to abandon them now.”
That felt more like the Abby who Winter remembered. She smiled.
“This really is the last time,” Winter said. “I can’t explain everything, so don’t ask me. But if we win this time, the war will finally be over.”
“There’s never a last time,” Abby said. “But at least we’ll get a chance to rest.”
29
Marcus
Once again, the Army of the Republic was on the march.
The halt at the palace had given them a chance to rest and resupply, and consequently their appearance was much improved from the worn, bedraggled soldiers that had staggered down the Pale one step ahead of Janus’ pursuing legions. Uniforms had been cleaned and stitched, cannon polished, horses groomed, and beards shaved. There were still the little touches that spoke of troops who’d been in combat—extra weapons tucked away, coats patched and repatched; here and there a shako, bicorn, or other souvenir taken from a luckless enemy on some distant battlefield.
Winter rode with the Second Division, at the head of the Girls’ Own. She’d objected, since she wasn’t going to be in command, but Marcus had insisted. Seeing her back at the head of her troops did wonders for morale, and it was visible in the bearing of the men and women who followed her, though Marcus did see a few curious glances at her new uniform. They’ll figure it out eventually. Abby and Cyte both rode beside her.
The First Division, Fitz’ men, were already on the road, forming the vanguard for the day’s march. Light cavalry from Give-Em-Hell’s command scouted the route ahead, while his cuirassiers brought up the rear. Vordan City had been scoured for cavalry remounts, every military stable emptied and civilian animals pressed into service. A joke said that the city cabbies were now running in the traces of their own carriages rather than give up fares; Marcus hadn’t been back to the city to see if it was true. From the surrounding farms, more animals had been gathered, heavy draft and cart horses that were to pull the guns and caissons. Raesinia had promoted Archer to colonel and given him command of the artillery reserve, though the guns they’d pulled out of the arsenals and garrisons didn’t come close to making up for those they’d lost at Alves.
In the center of the column, between the artillery and the cuirassiers, came the volunteers. They marched in a straggling mob rather than a formation, and they had nothing like a uniform. But there were thousands of them, men and women both. The first of them had started turning up at the gates of Ohnlei as soon as the army had returned, and as rumor got out about Janus’ approach their numbers had grown greater and greater. Marcus was dubious of their combat value—for one thing, there weren’t enough muskets to go around—but his plan called for a great deal of digging, and he’d told Raesinia he wasn’t going to turn away anyone who could wield a shovel.
More civilians turned out to line the road as the long column wound away from Ohnlei. A few cheered, but most seemed content to watch, as though they wanted to be able to say they’d borne witness, one way or the other. It was nearly the same route the army had taken last time. Some of us have marched a hell of a long way to end up back where we started. This time, of course, they didn’t have nearly as far to go. The enemy was coming to them.
As usual, Marcus spent the majority of his time riding up and down the column, straightening out snarls. As marches went, this one was easygoing, with the weather fair but cold and the road solid, well-packed earth. The new Third Division, formed from fresh recruits and the scrapings of the depots, caused the most trouble. The recruits had spent a few weeks parading around with their new muskets and uniforms, but hadn’t yet been through a serious march, while the garrison troops had mostly never served together and were constantly getting in one another’s way. Marcus had sorted out a half dozen arguments about seniority between prickly colonels. He’d promoted David Sevran, one of Winter’s colonels, to command the new formation, and Marcus was determined to give him all the support he could manage.
They halted outside the village of Bellaia, a p
icturesque little place right out of a romantic landscape painting. A small cluster of houses huddled around a stone church, its double-circle spire gleaming as the sun set. The villagers made no appearance, and no wonder. Even reduced as it was, the army camp spread over a vast area, covering the fields outside of town like a horde of locusts. At least the harvest will be in already.
There’d be another half day’s march tomorrow, to the spot Marcus had identified on the map. It had no official name, but the locals apparently called it Bear Ridge, a gradual rise in the ground to a rocky, wooded height that loomed in the distance. It wasn’t as large or as steep as Marcus might have liked, but he’d judged it the best of his limited options.
The command tent was already assembled by the time he rode up, and light spilled out through the flap. Marcus handed the reins of his horse to the guard and ducked inside, finding himself the last to arrive.
Raesinia was there, of course. There had been no question of telling her she couldn’t join the battle, not this time. She’d traded her somber dresses for riding leathers, without any ornamentation or jewels. Marcus guessed that most of the soldiers she passed had no idea they were within spitting distance of their monarch.
There was Fitz, imperturbable as always, and Winter, still looking less than comfortable in her new uniform, with Cyte at her side. The newly minted General Sevran looked more natural in his, the stars on his shoulders polished to a fine sheen. The quiet, competent Colonel Archer sat beside Give-Em-Hell, whose usual expansive mood had been checked by the presence of his queen.
As Marcus came in, there was a round of salutes from everyone but Raesinia. He nodded to the officers, bowed to the queen, and took his seat at the head of the table. A map was already laid out, annotated in pencil with the reports of the scouts who’d pushed ahead of the column. It showed Bear Ridge, roughly triangular in shape, with the longest side facing southwest. It rose from the plain between the rivers, only a few miles from the Marak to the west, considerably farther from the Vor in the other direction. The main road swung east to avoid it.
“Well,” Marcus said, looking down at it. “Here we are.”
Silent nods around the table.
“You all know what we’re up against,” Marcus said. “We’ll do the best we can, but I’m not going to pretend these aren’t long odds. When Janus comes against us, if we can hold until nightfall I’ll consider that a victory.”
“And after that?” Fitz said.
“There’s a plan,” Raesinia said. “You’ll have to trust us on that.”
Those who weren’t in on Winter’s part of the battle—Fitz, Sevran, and Archer—looked less than satisfied. Give-Em-Hell seemed oblivious.
“I must say,” he ventured, “it doesn’t seem very promising from the point of view of a cavalry charge.”
“You’ll get your chance,” Marcus promised. “I have written orders for all of you, but let me give you the short version.”
He picked up the leather bag containing the wooden counters, fumbled with the drawstring for a bit, then dumped them on the table. He picked out a few blue blocks and arranged them at the tip of Bear Ridge. One line stretched left, another right, so that the triangular shape of the ridge was extended into a V shape with the tip pointing northeast. The red markers he massed in that direction, where the main road came closest to the hill.
“Two refused flanks,” Fitz said, raising an eyebrow. “Interesting.”
“Like I said, it’s the best I can come up with.” He tapped the tip of the V. “This is the Second Division. We’ll do most of our digging here, because that’s where we’ll catch the most hell. It’ll be easiest for the enemy to focus their attack there, so we want them running uphill and into our breastworks. The volunteers will be there as well, and most of the artillery.
“This”—he tapped the right wing—“is the First Division. If Janus gets tired of trying to punch through the center, this is the way he’ll probably swing. There’s more room. The other wing is the Third, which will hopefully have the easiest time of it. But I’m going to take a few battalions from both of you and keep them in reserve here”—he tapped a point between the wings, inside the V—“along with the cavalry.
“The idea is that it’s faster for us to move troops around inside the formation than it is for Janus to shift his reserves around the outside. Wherever he attacks, we can get there with the reserve quickly, and hopefully between that and our fortifications we’ll be able to negate his numbers. Henry, your light cavalry will take the extreme right, down to the road, and make sure he doesn’t try to slip anything behind us. The river should keep that from happening on the left.”
“And if he refuses to engage?” Sevran said.
“If he tries to just move past, he’s giving us a perfect shot at his flank and rear. If he sits tight, then we see who can wait the other out.” Marcus shook his head. “But he’ll attack. You saw the way he was in the Pale valley.”
“Why station the volunteers at the point?” Fitz said. “That puts the least reliable troops in the most difficult position.”
“It’s also the position they’re most likely to be able to hold,” Marcus said. “Without training, they’re not going to be much good in the open field, so I want them dug in. If they won’t fight there, they won’t fight anywhere.” He looked around the table. “Any other questions?”
There were, of course. The queen excused herself early, but the officers stayed for another couple of hours, going over the details. By the time they were finished, the map was covered in fresh annotations, and Marcus had had to light several lanterns. One by one they departed, to return to their troops and pass along Marcus’ orders. The plan would be hashed out around thousands of campfires, by everyone from officers down to rankers, and they would all doubtless form their own opinions. Marcus remembered second-guessing Janus with Adrecht, Val, and Mor, back in Khandar. It’s not so easy when you actually have to make the decision, is it?
Winter was the last one remaining, studying the map intently. Marcus watched her for a moment, awkwardly, then cleared his throat. She looked up.
“Sorry,” she said. “Just thinking about where the Beast might try to hide the core. Hopefully, it won’t see us coming, or things could get very difficult.”
“Ah.” Marcus shook his head. “That’s your department. I’m just here to handle the human side.”
“I know.”
She was so serious. It had seemed appropriate, for a general, but Ellie had always been wild and full of laughter. She must still smile, sometimes.
“You’re... ah... getting along all right?” he said.
“I’m not getting enough sleep,” Winter said. “But that’s nothing new.”
“I meant with respect to the other officers,” Marcus said. “Since you... changed your uniform.”
“Oh.” Winter looked down at herself. “Most of them haven’t mentioned it, to tell the truth. Some of them already knew, of course. And I wouldn’t be surprised if some of the others suspected. I had gotten a bit... careless.”
And only poor, stupid Marcus didn’t catch on. He shook his head. Enough. With the way you reacted, can you blame her?
“I wanted to apologize,” he said, drawing himself up. “For the way I behaved back at the palace.”
“There’s no need for that,” Winter said. “I can’t imagine how you must feel.”
“Frankly, I’m a bit confused myself.” Marcus scratched his beard. “But I was... reminded that I knew you as a soldier, and a good one, before... anything else.” He took a deep breath and blew it out. “I hope it won’t offend you if I continue to treat you like one.”
“Of course not,” Winter said.
She smiled, just slightly, and suddenly he could see Ellie in her face. The eyes were the same, the basic compassion he’d known from the little girl shining through the cynicism of the veteran soldier. He found himself momentarily unable to speak, and coughed to cover it.
“I ought to get back,” Winter said, standing from the table. “Busy day tomorrow.”
“Wait.” Marcus fought to keep his tone level. “Winter. You are my sister.”
Her face went guarded again. “I know.”
“I... may not be entirely sure what that means. Not yet.” He shook his head. “But I would like the opportunity to find out. So...” He paused. “Be careful, would you?”
That smile again, half sarcastic quirk of the lips and half good-natured grin. “I’ll do my best. I think I’d like that, too.”
*
Bear Ridge was less impressive in person than on the map. Marcus hadn’t been expecting a craggy mountain, but the reality hardly deserved to be called a hill. It was more like a patch of rough ground, sparsely wooded and overgrown with bushes, that happened to rise slightly from the surrounding fields. Split-rail fences divided up the land around it, more marker than obstacle. To the east, the Marak was barely visible as a shimmering line, with the ground rising sharply beyond it.
The cavalry had arrived at the ridge by midmorning, and the first of the infantry trooped up in the early afternoon, advance parties dismantling the fences in their path. The usual camp was laid out to the southwest of the ridge, in what would become the rear if the enemy advanced from the expected direction. Instead of pitching their tents right away, however, officers told off their companies to form work parties, and long lines of men slogged through the rocks and undergrowth onto the hill. The sound of axes was soon everywhere, an irregular rhythm like rain on a slate roof.
By the time Marcus had sorted out the day’s snags and made certain the baggage train was going to the right place, the work was well along. He rode up the hill on a track that the men had hacked through the thick bushes. At the top, a ranker took his mount, and Marcus hiked on foot to the crook in the ridge where the Girls’ Own would be deployed.
The forest was thinning out quickly. There were stumps everywhere, and stripped logs stacked beside the path, while the teams of axmen fanned out in search of more prey. Marcus walked past the crest of the hill and stopped, taken aback for a moment. The slope writhed, as though it were alive, like a patch of dirt crawling with ants.
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