The Guns of Empire

by Django Wexler

  “Winter!” Cyte was shouting something, but Winter couldn’t tear her eyes away from the enemy.

  This time, Ibsly was determined to get his shot in. His division halted, drums relaying commands, and the men raised their weapons. “Ready,” the sergeants would shout, echoing up and down the line. “Level! Fire!” The crackle of musketry ran up and down each battalion, like a spark racing along a fuse, off-white powder smoke spewing from the barrel and lock of every weapon. The crash of it set Winter’s ears ringing. Up the slope, Borelgai were falling, bodies pitching forward and rolling down the hill or dropping in their tracks.

  “Winter!” Cyte grabbed her arm. Winter blinked and turned to her.

  “What?” Her voice sounded distant in her own abused ears.

  “There’s too many!” Cyte said. “They must have reinforced!”

  Winter nodded dumbly.

  “We have to pull back!” Cyte shouted.

  The Borelgai fired, a simultaneous volley from a dozen battalions. Men in blue uniforms were punched off their feet, or stumbled and clutched at a wound, or collapsed into the man next to them. Screams were faintly audible for a moment, and then were obliterated by the return volley, a wall of noise and smoke.

  She’s right. There was no way they’d win this fight, uphill against a fresh enemy in triple the strength they’d expected. Winter turned, mouth feeling like it was full of dry cotton, and looked for a messenger.

  “Tell Ibsly to fall back!” she shouted. “Fall back to where we started! Go!”

  The girl spurred her horse, riding toward the fight and the mounted general. She was nearly there when the third Borelgai volley slammed out, almost as neat as the first. The lines were difficult to make out in the rising haze of smoke, but Winter saw the messenger girl twist in the saddle, then slide off her horse, one foot still caught in the stirrup as her body hit the ground.

  Fuck. “Bobby!” Winter shouted desperately. Saints and martyrs. “Go to Ibsly now!” It’s going to be a massacre—

  The Borelgai charged with a roar, bayonets fixed, emerging from the cloud their own volleys had created trailing little wisps of powder smoke. Fire stabbed back at them from the Vordanai line, dropping men up and down the front rank, but it wasn’t enough. Ibsly’s men broke first, their line dissolving into a rearward flood before the wave of bayonets reached them. Panic was contagious. Each man, however brave he might be alone, saw his neighbor turn away and decided he should do the same, lest he be standing by himself when the hammer fell. Soon it had spread to the Second Division as well, Blackstream’s men and de Koste’s and even Sevran’s veterans. The entire line became a mass of running, shouting men. Anyone who tripped or hesitated was swallowed up by the onrushing wave of red.

  What do I do? Winter’s hand went to her sword. What would Janus do? “I should rally them. We can form—”

  “Much too late for that,” Cyte said. She looked at Bobby, who nodded grimly and grabbed Edgar’s reins. Bobby yanked the gelding around and kicked her own horse into a gallop, pulling the stunned Winter along with her.

  —

  It was the Girls’ Own who stopped the Borelgai counterattack.

  It had nearly run out of momentum in any case, units becoming disordered and mixed together as they charged off the hill and across the flats. Abby, seeing the wave coming, set her skirmishers in a fighting withdrawal, forcing the Borelgai to halt and return fire. The Girls’ Own pulled back to the woods, losing soldiers at every step until they’d reached the comparative safety of the tree line. From there, they prepared to resist another advance, but the Borelgai commander apparently considered his work well done, and his units withdrew across the field to their starting positions.

  There was no question of a third attack. The fleeing men of both divisions had mostly headed for the woods as well, and the long ridge was thick with bewildered, disorganized soldiers. Sorting them back out into their units would take days.

  In any event, it was too late. Winter returned numbly to her perch on the rock, and through her spyglass she saw heavy clouds of dust rising from behind the hill that had seemed so near just a few hours ago. One of Erdine’s cavalry came up to report that long columns of red-coated infantry were filing past, along with an enormous train of wagons. Dorsay’s army was pulling out in good order.

  There was nothing to do but try to help the wounded and collect the dead. Small teams ventured onto the field, well within range of the Borelgai cannon, but the enemy made no move to harass them. They came back with those they thought they could save, and the cutters went to work. Once again the bone saws sang, and the pile of hacked-off limbs outside the medical tents grew ever larger.

  As darkness gathered, they worked by torchlight. Just after sunset, there was a deep, reverberant boom from the direction of Gilphaite, as though a dozen cannon had fired at once, and then a rising tower of smoke. It took Winter a moment to understand what had happened. The Borelgai had blown up the bridge behind the last of their troops, putting the Ytolin between themselves and any possibility of pursuit.

  Duke Dorsay had escaped from Janus’ trap.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MARCUS

  “I offer my apologies, sir,” Ihernglass said. His back was as straight as a musket barrel. “And my resignation, if you want it.”

  Marcus recognized his expression. It was one he’d worn himself, the look of a man who expected punishment but no longer cared, because what he was doing to himself was worse than anything his superiors could inflict.

  Carefully, he glanced at Janus. The First Consul was unpredictable; for the most part, he accepted bad news phlegmatically, but on very rare occasions his temper could flare spectacularly when he was thwarted. In the tunnels under Ashe-Katarion, when Janus thought he’d lost the Thousand Names, Marcus had been forced to restrain him from ordering a helpless old woman hacked to pieces on the spot.

  There was no sign of that volcanic rage now, though. Janus shook his head slightly and tapped one finger on his worktable.

  “Resignation?” he said. “Don’t be silly. I am not the Directory, sending any commander who fails in his objective to the Spike.” He sighed. “In all honesty, the fault was mine. The Duke of Brookspring is cannier than I gave him credit for.”

  “He certainly knows how to conduct a retreat,” Marcus said. He remembered that from the War of the Princes, where the Vordanai army had struggled for weeks to bring Dorsay to battle, only to fall neatly into his trap at Vansfeldt.

  “Thank you, sir,” Ihernglass said. “But it was my command. The fault is mine.”

  “I’d rather not split hairs over it,” Janus said. “Just know that you will get no reproaches from me. Nor will you ever for attempting to execute a task to the best of your ability.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Ihernglass’ expression softened a little, but he still looked exhausted.

  “See to your division. I’ll need a detailed strength report once you can make a count.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ihernglass saluted, turned, and left the command tent. Janus glanced up at Marcus.

  “What do you think?”

  Marcus scratched his beard. “Ihernglass is a good officer. It would have been easy to put the blame for everything on Ibsly, but he didn’t even try.”

  “Indeed.”

  Ibsly, conveniently, was no longer around to defend himself. He’d fallen during the rout, shot down while attempting to rally his men, along with two of his four colonels. Casualties in both divisions had been high, but the Sixth was badly shattered, while the Second had mostly reconstituted itself by the time the rest of the army had made the roundabout upriver march to circumvent the shattered bridge.

  “Winter Ihernglass has been something of a special project of mine, for a variety of reasons,” Janus said.

  “Because he’s got that . . . thing inside him?” Marcus glanced
around and lowered his voice. “The demon-eater?”

  “In part. But also because I believe he has potential. I worry I have brought him too far, too fast.” Janus stared pensively at the tent flap. “I hope he will recover from this. The ability to absorb defeats is as vital a skill in a leader as temperance after victory.” Janus leaned back in his chair and looked at Marcus. “The next time someone suggests I am infallible, remind them that I appointed General Ibsly.”

  “I didn’t know him well, but he seemed competent.”

  “He was. But competence is not the same as temperament.” Janus sighed. “If I could have a dozen copies of you, or Winter Ihernglass, or Fitz Warus, to lead all of my divisions, my life would be greatly simplified. But, alas, we must make do with what we have. Sometimes leadership forges men hard, and sometimes it reveals the dross.”

  “Thank you for your trust, sir,” Marcus said, grinning.

  “Please. My trust in you is one of the bedrocks underneath this army.” He gestured at the chair Winter had spurned, across the table from him. “Sit. You once accused me of keeping things to myself too long, and let it never be said I refused to welcome valid criticism.”

  He unrolled a parchment map, a large-scale one that covered most of western Murnsk. The river Ytolin was near the bottom, with Gilphaite—too small to be noted in the legend—marked out in pencil. Janus traced the jagged line of the Votindri Range north with his finger, then tapped a tiny stylized tower.

  “Elysium,” he said. “The untaken fortress of the Sworn Church. Not much of a fortress, in truth, but its greatest shield has always been hundreds of miles of Murnsk in every direction. Not good country for an overland march.”

  “That’s putting it lightly,” Marcus muttered. He checked the scale and reckoned distances. “Four hundred and some miles, as the crow flies.” On the way from Antova to Vordan, the Army of the East had covered prodigious distances, marching faster than perhaps any army ever had; some days they’d covered close to thirty miles. With good roads, and all the heavy gear traveling mostly by river. Moving over the notoriously terrible Murnskai roads, dragging guns and supplies behind them, wouldn’t be anywhere near as quick. “Call it ten miles a day and be generous. That’s a month and a half just to get there, even without anyone trying to stop us.”

  “A month and a half would be excellent time,” Janus said. He ran his finger along a thin black line, paralleling the mountains north before swinging east to slip through the passes toward the edge of the map. A spur reached up to connect to Elysium. “The Pilgrim’s Road is barely a track in most places, and every spring flood takes a toll on it. A more conventional approach would be to advance along the coast.” His finger moved west, to where another road ran along the edge of the sea, connecting the cities that clung to the mouths of Murnsk’s rivers. “If we could capture Salavask, for example, we could ascend the river Kovria to within a hundred miles of Elysium, with our lines of supply secure.”

  “It would take too long,” Marcus said. “We’d have to winter in Salavask and attack Elysium next year.”

  “And I have no desire to spend a winter in Murnsk,” Janus said. “In any event, the Borelgai fleet controls the Borel Sea, and they can land troops anywhere on the Split Coast. Moving west would play right into their hands.”

  “Is that why Dorsay is pulling back to Yatterny?” The port city was at the mouth of the Ytolin, well to the west of Gilphaite. The Duke of Brookspring showed no sign of making a stand anywhere short of its walls. “You think he wants you to follow?”

  “Primarily, I imagine he is eager to find a secure position with an easy retreat,” Janus said, a touch of contempt in his tone. “But yes, I’m sure he would be delighted if I came after him. A siege somewhere his fleet can resupply him would be just to his taste.” He shook his head and shifted his finger back to the east. “No. We will stay as far from the sea as we can. Washed-out or not, the Pilgrim’s Road is the best path. We’ll leave two divisions behind, to keep an eye on Dorsay and secure our line of supply to the south bank of the Ytolin. The rest of the army will follow the northern branch east to Vantzolk, then north to Tsivny and the Norilia crossing.”

  “What if Dorsay pushes hard and tries to cut in behind us?”

  “He won’t. That would give us a chance to cut him off from the sea, and he doesn’t dare risk it. No, I expect he’ll shadow us north along the coast and wait for his chance like a vulture. I am more concerned about the emperor.”

  “We haven’t seen much of the Murnskai other than local garrisons.”

  “Our reports say the emperor has dispatched his forces from Mohkba.” Janus tapped the Murnskai capital, well to the east of the mountains. “A huge army, perhaps a hundred and fifty thousand strong if rumors are to be believed. He will come south to defend Elysium. He has no choice—an emperor who lets a foreign army sack the holy city will not be emperor for long. Somewhere between Tsivny and the Kovria, he will make a stand.”

  “You think we can beat him?” Marcus said.

  “I expect so,” Janus said with a nonchalant shrug. “It depends who is in command, of course, but neither the emperor nor his sons are noted for their military talent. The Murnskai army is designed to keep the emperor’s dominions under his control, and it is not well suited to producing great minds. But we will surmount that difficulty when we come to it.” He laid his hands on the table. “We march for Vantzolk, Column-General. Please prepare the army to depart in the morning. I will send instructions for our supply lines to be shifted east, through Gium, and for a depot to be built at Vantzolk. We must bring as much forward as we can.”

  “Yes, sir.” Marcus stood. “Any special instructions?”

  “We will send out flying columns, escorted by cavalry,” Janus said. “No undue looting or unnecessary violence, please, but I want you to gather every horse, ox, and mule within a hundred miles of the river, along with everything with wheels. Transportation is going to be a problem as we push north, and we had best be prepared. Draw up a rota to make sure the various regiments share the duty.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Marcus smiled inwardly. No undue looting. Janus was, above all else, practical. Soldiers were soldiers, after all, and it was highly unlikely that they could be sent to gather horses and carts without picking up the odd ham or bottle of wine along the way. It was easier just to put up with it, while making it clear that wholesale pillage and murder would be punished. The “duty” that had to be shared would undoubtedly be a privilege the regiments would fight for. Once again, he was impressed at his commander’s understanding of the common soldier.

  “One more thing.”

  “Sir?”

  Janus frowned and tapped his finger on the table. “I would like you to talk to the queen.”

  “You want me to deliver a message?”

  “Not exactly. I have urged her to return to Vordan, but she refuses. She seems to have become somewhat . . . suspicious of me. But I believe you still have her trust. If there’s anything you can do to convince her to remain behind . . .”

  “I can try.” Marcus grimaced. “She may trust me, but my record of getting Raesinia to stay behind where it’s safe isn’t a strong one. She’s awfully hard to shift when her mind is made up.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Janus said. “Make the attempt. If you can’t convince her, I won’t hold it against you.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  Marcus saluted and left the tent. Outside, a pair of corporals from the Colonials guarded the door. A bit farther away, squatting in the dirt, Lieutenant Andria Dracht and three young rankers were staring intently at an upside-down tin bowl.

  “All right, who’s in for three bits?” Andy said. “Come on, my grandmother would go to three bits, and she’s been dead for years.” Coins clinked against the bowl, and she grinned. “There we go. Four bits? Thank you. Who wants to go to an eagle? Who w
ants to play with the big boys? Come on, come on, what are you going to spend it on? Right. Anyone going to two? You’re a bunch of cheapskates, you know that?” She faced the tallest of the three boys. “So, what do you want?”

  “Low,” he said, shifting nervously.

  “Low it is. Does low feel lucky?” Andy swept the bowl off the ground to reveal a pair of dice. After a moment of silence, the three boys groaned, and she grinned even wider. “No it does not!”

  She swept the coins off the ground with a practiced motion and bounced to her feet. The three soldiers rose, too.

  “Well, gentlemen,” Andy said, “it’s been entertaining, but—”

  “Go another round!” one of them said.

  “Yeah,” said another. “You have to give us a chance to win some of it back.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Andy said.

  “Another round,” said the tallest. “Get down and roll the dice. Now.” He reached out to grab Andy’s arm, and Marcus cleared his throat.

  “Lieutenant?” he said.

  “Ah.” Andy straightened up and gave a sloppy salute. “Hello, Column-General.”

  “Don’t think you’re going to fool me with that—” The tall ranker turned, saw Marcus, and went pale as a bedsheet. He saluted so hard Marcus winced. “Column-General! Sir!”

  “Thank you, Ranker,” Marcus said. “Lieutenant, with me, if you please?”

  They walked away, leaving the young men behind.

  “It’s not considered seemly for officers to take money from rankers,” Marcus said.

  Andy fingered the lieutenant’s stripe on her shoulder and made a face. “It’s not like I was cheating,” she said. “Not much, anyway. It’s not my fault they don’t know how to figure odds. And I hope you don’t think you did me a favor there. You know I can take care of myself.”

  “Of course,” Marcus said. “I was more worried you’d crack that boy’s skull and I’d end up explaining it to Janus.”