The Infernal Battalion

by Django Wexler

All around her, women in blue uniforms were pouring into the trench. The volunteers were with them, too, rallied or shamed into courage. The fighting was desperate, hand-to-hand, but the numbers of red-​eyes were finally thinning out. From the flanks, musket-​fire cracked.

  Did I just save the day? Raesinia thought. Or nearly get myself killed for no reason? At the moment she couldn’t have said. She blinked at Abby and took a deep breath.

  Sometimes it would be really nice to be able to faint.

  MARCUS

  Just hold out until the reserve gets back. Marcus sighed. Why did I ever think things would be that simple?

  “General Warus reports that he’s heavily engaged!” the young rider said. His mount, drooping and exhausted, barely flicked an ear at the intermittent crash of cannon. “He’s holding, but estimates at least four divisions to his front.”

  Which means he doesn’t have anything to spare to send this way. Janus shouldn’t have four divisions to use on the right without stripping the left bare. But Marcus had learned long ago not to question his former commander’s ability to pull miracles out of his pocket.

  “Tell him we’re hard-​pressed here,” Marcus said, fighting to keep his tone professional. “As soon as he feels the pressure come off, we need anything he can send us. Especially cavalry.”

  “Understood, sir!” The boy kicked his mount in motion.

  To the east, the drawn-​out grumbling of guns continued, indicating that the enemy attack on the point of the V hadn’t slackened. He can’t be strong everywhere, damn it. But here on the left, where Sevran’s hastily assembled Third Division struggled to hold out, there had been no letup in the assaults. Three regiments stood in a long line, three ranks deep, while behind them the fourth waited to push forward to plug gaps. In front of them were the divisional guns, mostly small four- and six-​pound pieces, silent for now to conserve their limited ammunition.

  A heavy pall of smoke already hung over this part of the field, and the ground in front of the division was strewn with corpses, both human and equine. Janus’ cavalry—​mostly Murnskai dragoons and cuirassiers—​was on the field in force, and the Third had already repelled two charges. At least one division of Murnskai infantry was out there, too, and one of Vordanai, re-forming for yet another assault. And, of course, the guns, which appeared to have a never-​ending supply of solid shot. Muzzle flashes winked through the smoke, and while most of the balls over- or undershot the thin line, the occasional hit would sweep away all three men in a file together. In this brief lull in the fighting, casualty teams scurried back and forth, bearing screaming or limp figures to the rear.

  Sevran was shouting to his runners, his brand-​new general’s uniform already spattered with mud and gore. Marcus walked over to him and waited until he finished dictating an order, then cleared his throat.

  “Word from Fitz?” Sevran said, without looking around. His eyes were fixed on the flashes from the enemy guns.

  “He says he’s got at least four divisions in front of him,” Marcus said. “Either Janus has got two divisions we didn’t know about, or he’s pulled something out of his hat.”

  “Maybe he’s split them,” Sevran said. “Or he’s marching them from one sector to another—”

  “It scarcely matters,” Marcus said. “Fitz can’t send help. We have to hold here.”

  “How long?” Sevran said.

  “Until dark,” Marcus said. “Or until these stupid bastards give up.”

  He looked overhead, but the sun was invisible through the smoke. Maybe that’s the soldiers’ hell, he thought. Died in battle without knowing it and now trapped waiting for a respite that never comes. It certainly had the ring of the kind of ironic punishment that filled the Wisdoms.

  “We’re not going to make it that long,” Sevran said. “These are good lads, but they can’t keep this up all day. We need to retreat.”

  “We can’t,” Marcus said. “If we fall back, the left side of the hill is open, and the whole line comes to pieces.”

  “That’s going to happen anyway if they break this division,” Sevran said, frustrated. “And then there won’t be anything left to form a new line. We’re going to have to pull off the hill and fall back to the south.”

  “We won’t get another chance at this,” Marcus said. Winter’s already gone to fight the Beast. If we fold now, she’ll lose her distraction. But he couldn’t tell Sevran that. “There’s no ground on the road south better than this. If we don’t stop them here, we’ll be fighting in the streets of Vordan.”

  “We’re not going to stop them here, damn it!” Sevran turned, his jaw set. “We’re going to get cut to pieces in another hour. And if they get their coordination right, it won’t even take that long.”

  Marcus was silent. It was true, of course. The only thing that had saved the raw recruits of the Third Division was that the enemy infantry and cavalry hadn’t quite gotten their attacks timed right. It was a difficult trick, launching the cavalry assault to force the enemy into square just in time for the infantry to hammer them, but devastatingly effective. Watching the polyglot enemy force try to manage it made Marcus appreciate Give-Em-Hell, whose sense for that kind of timing was superb.

  It also made him certain Janus wasn’t on this part of the field in person. He’d never tolerate that kind of bungling. Be thankful for small mercies.

  “We hold,” Marcus said. “I told Fitz to send us cavalry when he can.”

  Sevran took a deep breath, fighting his emotions, and saluted. “That will help, sir. If they arrive soon.”

  Before Marcus could answer, drums thrilled all along the line, a quick tattoo that every infantryman knew in his bones. Emergency square. The enemy cavalry had returned.

  To their credit, the scratch collection of recruits and garrison troops that made up the Third Division responded quickly. They’ve certainly had plenty of practice today. Each battalion folded in on itself by companies, transforming from a long line into a roughly symmetrical diamond shape, with a point facing toward the old front. The angle kept the sides of the adjacent squares from facing one another, which helped cut down on friendly fire. Out ahead of them, the cannoneers stayed by their guns, and the little cannon began firing. Canister flailed out blindly, storms of musket balls lashing through the smoke, searching for an enemy barely glimpsed through the swirling mists.

  Then they were there, shockingly close, a squadron of cuirassiers breaking into view like a ship emerging from the fog. The closest gun let fly with a blast of canister, and the front of the cavalry formation turned into a gory mess, white-​uniformed men toppling from their saddles even as their horses collapsed in shrieking terror. The men behind came on, sabers drawn, shouting in Murnskai as they rode toward the gunners. The cannoneers ran, not in panic but in a planned retreat, leaving their guns and scurrying back to the cover of the square. The fringe of massed bayonets parted to let them inside, then closed again, presenting an unbroken wall of sharpened steel to the horsemen.

  Marcus and Sevran also hurried to cover, taking shelter in one of the squares of the reserve regiment. The cuirassiers split to flow around the squares, slashing viciously at the bayonets as they passed but making little impression. A few fired pistols into the mass of infantry, and some men fell, but the answering volleys of musketry emptied many more saddles. The horsemen rode on, leaving dead and dying men and animals in their wake, passing around the reserve squares as well and receiving more punishment in their turn. They thundered by, wheeling and re-forming.

  It was too soon to see if they would try another assault. Marcus’ eyes were locked forward, in the direction of the enemy lines. Cannon were still firing, the artillerists taking advantage of the better targets offered by the tight-​packed squares. If they’ve got it right, this is when the infantry will attack, with the cuirassiers still hovering on our flank. He willed the smoke to stay empty just a little longer. Come on...

  Instead, a different kind of light emerged from the murk. Not t
he yellow-​white of a muzzle flash, or even the deeper yellow of lanterns, but a lurid, sullen red. They pierced the smoke, two by two at first, then more and more. Hundreds of them. Thousands.

  Red-​eyes. The Beast’s own bodies. Immune to pain, fear, and doubt.

  Marcus looked around at the Third Division, all fresh-​faced boys and old, tired garrison troops, fresh from civilian life or soft duty on the frontier. They had stood up to astonishing odds, done better than they had any right to. But he could feel them wavering, see it in the occasional glance backward or reluctance to put a musket to an already aching shoulder. Much more and they would break, just as Sevran had warned.

  We’re not going to make it. He glanced at the hill, where smoke continued to rise, and then farther north, toward where Winter had gone to make the gamble that would decide everything.

  I’m sorry, Ellie. Marcus took a deep breath. We’ll fight as long as we can.

  “Hold the line!” he shouted as the first of the red-​eyes loped out of the smoke.

  33

  Winter

  Winter felt something give in her right shoulder with an audible pop, sending bolts of agony through her body. She screamed, despite the pain it brought to her raw throat, her dangling feet kicking wildly.

  Another sound, the harsh shriek of the desert wind, began down at the edge of hearing and rose to a rapid crescendo. The tall whirlwind of sand that surrounded the castle collapsed, the wind dying away and the flying grit falling to earth like dusty rain. A concentrated blast of the power of the Great Desol, a stream of wind and sand as dark and solid as mud, slammed directly into the face of the emaciated Penitent, sending him stumbling backward. He crossed his arms in front of his face, and distortion shimmered in the air, bending the wind around him.

  At the same time, the force holding Winter up vanished. She fell in mid-​kick, landing badly, and more pain flared in her ankle. Her shoulder was agony, her right arm hanging limp and useless, and she gasped raggedly for breath. On the pile of rubble, Jane grinned.

  “You can’t be everywhere at once; that’s always the problem,” she said, her smile growing wide. “Well, you can’t.”

  As sand and dust filtered out of the air, dark figures became visible, climbing over the top of the ruined castle wall and pouring in through the gate. The Steel Ghost’s whirlwind had held them back, but now that he was otherwise occupied, they came on at a run, red eyes glowing. One of the two big men who flanked Jane advanced on Winter, drawing his sword. Winter’s own weapons were lying in the dust, somewhere nearby. She managed to pull herself to her feet, but even that took much of her remaining strength, and the thought of moving her right arm brought further stabs of agony. She held up her other hand, judging the distance to the brute.

  If I can get to him with Infernivore before he cuts me in half, maybe...

  It wasn’t much of a chance. Much easier to surrender. Close her eyes. Die. Then the pain will stop.

  I won’t.

  From the shadow of one of the ruined buildings, pure darkness slammed out, a finger-​thin lance that drilled neatly through the big red-​eye’s head and out the other side. The man dropped in his tracks, sword skittering across the ground, and his equally large companion standing beside Jane just had time to look for the source of the attack before he, too, was scythed down.

  Alex limped into view, one hand raised. Her hair was matted, and blood ran down her face. As Winter watched, she coughed, spilling more blood onto her chin. But she grinned defiantly, teeth stained red.

  “Winter!” she shouted hoarsely. “Do it!”

  “No,” Jane snarled. “Westeb! Kill her!”

  The tall Penitent lurched forward, his tongueless voice making a strange croaking sound. He pushed through the blast of the sandstorm and raised his hands, shimmering coronas dancing around them.

  Like a hawk diving at a rabbit, Sothe came at him, wings folded, dropping out of the sky with shocking speed. The Penitent heard her coming just in time, and twisted aside as the marble assassin executed a neat somersault and landed on her feet, her arm coming around at throat height with blade in hand. His distortion shimmered around her wrist, but her strength was far more than human, pushing the blade forward in spite of the power of his magic. Across the bottom of his mask it left a long, ragged line that drooled blood, but Sothe hadn’t had enough force left to sever the artery. The Penitent tightened his fist, and the rainbow colors around Sothe’s arm redoubled, tightening their grip.

  “Forget her!” Jane said, backing up along the ruined beam as Winter stumbled toward her. “Kill Winter. Kill her now!”

  The Penitent kept one hand pointed at Sothe while the other swung toward Winter. Sothe jerked toward him, but the distortion held her arm fast now, keeping him just beyond her reach. The assassin paused, spread her wings, then lunged, throwing all her awesome strength into the leap. Her arm, pinned to the air, was wrenched backward, the elbow first bending the wrong way and then tearing free entirely in a spray of stone chips. The Penitent barely had time to turn back to Sothe before she landed on his chest with the weight of a falling statue, bearing him to the ground as distorted colors bloomed all around her.

  The desert wind was blowing again, pushing and slashing at the approaching red-​eyes, while Alex fired bolt after ebony bolt to bring down the closest. Jane had reached the end of the beam she was standing on, her eyes now locked on Winter, and her grin seemed forced.

  “You don’t want this,” she said. “I know you don’t.”

  Winter lunged with the last of her strength. Jane shifted backward another step, missed her footing and the pile of rubble, and went sprawling, rolling over to land faceup in the dirt. Before she could rise, Winter was on her, grabbing her wrist with her left hand.

  Infernivore raged, as though it knew the scent of the prey it had once been denied. It roared through the spot where they touched, flowing from Winter’s body into Jane’s, wrapping itself around the great crimson form of the Beast. Jane snarled, and her other hand came up, grabbing Winter by the back of her neck. She forced her head down, as though for a kiss, and the red lights in her eyes flared until they obliterated the world.

  *

  Winter found herself standing... somewhere else.

  There was nothing underfoot but a swirling dark whirlwind, stretching away endlessly in every direction. Overhead, banks of black cloud streamed past, as though driven by a hurricane. Two shapes slammed and grappled against each other, sending ripples through the sky. They were serpents of light, as big as worlds, glowing with brilliant energy as they thrashed and spun. One was a bright, vibrant green, the other a deep, sullen red. Lightning of both colors crackled between them. Each serpent had a hold of the other near the tail, locking them together, each devouring the other and being devoured in turn.

  Just in front of her, staring up at the warring titans, was Jane. Her hair writhed around her, driven by the intangible wind, and her whole body was outlined in red light. Her eyes were pure crimson brilliance, from edge to edge.

  The last time Infernivore and the Beast had done battle, it had been for only an instant, but it had been nothing like this. It must have shown on Winter’s face, because Jane smiled, arcs of crimson lightning playing over her teeth.

  “Not what you were expecting?” Her voice was shot through with a roar like thunder. “I have grown since we last met, Winter.”

  “Not enough,” Winter said. “I will destroy you.”

  “Perhaps.” Jane cocked her head. “But not before I destroy you as well. Is that really what you want?”

  “It’s not about what I want,” Winter said. “It’s about what needs to be done.”

  “What needs to be done.” Jane strode closer, eyes flaring bright. When she spoke again, her voice sounded more like Jane’s and less like a monster’s. “That’s what you care about, isn’t it? Your precious duty.”

  “You never understood me,” Winter said.

  “Never understood you?” Jane’s
mouth twisted into a red-​tinged snarl. “I loved you. Back at the Prison, I gave you my heart. I forgave you, even when you left me for that monster Ganhide. Do you know what he did to me? Shall I tell you about our wedding night?”

  “I shouldn’t have run.” Winter’s voice was quiet.

  “I forgave you,” Jane repeated. “And when you came back, it made everything worthwhile. Everything I’d gone through, every awful thing I’d endured, all the blood I’d spilled. All of it! I loved you, and I thought you loved me.”

  Winter shut her eyes for a moment. “I did love you, Jane.”

  “Liar!”

  Overhead, the great serpents writhed. Red lightning slashed against green, bolts colliding and detonating in showers of sparks. The wind moaned like it was in agony.

  “If you love someone, you don’t abandon her,” Jane said. “You don’t choose your uniform and your fucking general over her.”

  “I did love you,” Winter said. She felt oddly calm amid the thunderous crash of battling demons. This, at least, she understood. “But you’re wrong. You don’t give up your own mind just because you love someone. There was more to my life than you.”

  “Fuck that,” Jane snarled. “You’re a fucking traitor.”

  “I’m sorry you can’t understand.”

  “You’re sorry.” Jane’s snarl abruptly vanished. “It’s all right. I forgive you. Again. All you have to do is give in, Winter. Just let go, and we can be together forever, here inside the Beast.”

  “What about the rest of the world?”

  “Fuck the rest of the world. I don’t care about it, and neither do you.”

  “You’re wrong,” Winter said.

  “If you keep fighting, we’ll both die,” Jane said. “The demons will devour each other, and that will be the end of everything. Is that what you want?”

  “No.” Winter took a deep breath. “I want to live. I want to kiss Cyte, and help Raesinia, and get to know my brother. I want to see what happens next, once the wars are finally over.”