The Guns of Empire

by Django Wexler

  “You’re not the only one who has studied Janus’ record.”

  “Ha.” Dorsay let out a sigh and ran his hands through the wild frizz of hair at the back of his skull. “It’s a chance, in any case. All right. For my part, we will observe the battle—not that we are in a position to interfere—and, if things go as you hope, I will send Whaler to you afterward.”

  “Good.” Raesinia paused, then added, “I am glad I decided to trust you, Duke Dorsay.”

  “So am I.” Dorsay hesitated, wrestling with something. After a moment he said, “I never meant to kill your brother, you know.”

  Raesinia blinked. “What?”

  “At Vansfeldt. Georg was something of a young hot-head at the time, but I respected Prince Dominic. I’d avoided open battle, because I knew it wouldn’t be decisive. When I stood on the defensive at Vansfeldt, I thought Dominic would see that the position was impossible. If we’d managed to postpone a decision on the battlefield until the armies entered winter quarters, I thought your father would see the folly of continuing the war.” He sighed. “Instead Dominic decided he had to lead the last charge himself. I always thought about you afterward. I thought that if I ever met you again, I would say . . . I don’t know. This, I suppose.”

  Raesinia looked at him in silence, not sure what to say. Dorsay colored slightly, his protruding nose flushing.

  “In any case,” he said. “I had best return before I’m missed. I hope we will meet again in better circumstances.”

  He turned away before Raesinia could respond, trudging back through the empty village with a slight stoop to his shoulders. Raesinia looked after him for a moment, then turned herself and walked back to Sothe and the two Girls’ Own soldiers.

  “It doesn’t seem to have been a trap, at least,” Sothe said, peering at the departing Borelgai.

  “No,” Raesinia said. “Not exactly.”

  “What did he ask for?”

  “It’s . . . complicated. I’ll explain later.”

  Sothe caught Raesinia’s expression, nodded curtly, and went to fetch the horses. Raesinia looked up at Barely and Joanna.

  “What would you do,” Raesinia said suddenly, “if Janus told you one thing and I said another? Who would you believe?”

  Barely frowned. “I can’t imagine how that would happen, Your Majesty.”

  Raesinia’s shoulders slumped. “Sorry. It’s a stupid question.” Of course they’re not going to tell me to my face that they’d obey Janus.

  Joanna tapped Barely on the shoulder and made a few quick signs with her hands. Barely looked up at Raesinia and shrugged.

  “She asked what Winter was saying about it,” Barely said. “Division-General Ihernglass, I mean. He’s the one we signed up to follow.” She scratched her nose. “I reckon she’s right. No offense to you or the First Consul, of course.”

  “None taken,” Raesinia murmured, as Sothe returned leading their mounts. Maybe . . .

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  MARCUS

  For two days no messenger had arrived from the queen with the usual note inviting him to dinner, and Marcus found that he was more disappointed than he expected. It was hard to deny he could use the hours elsewhere, of course. He spent his days riding from place to place, adjudicating between feuding officers and straightening out snarls on the road. But dinner with the queen was a nice respite, a place where only the boldest of messengers would dare to bother him.

  And, a traitorous part of his mind insisted, she’s pretty. Which was a ridiculous thing to think—she’s the Queen of Vordan, for heaven’s sake—and served mostly as a reminder of how long it had been since Marcus had enjoyed any sort of female company. There had a been a few girls in Ashe-Katarion, and then Jen Alhundt, the Concordat agent and Penitent Damned who’d cold-bloodedly seduced him to get the information she wanted. After her death, which felt like a lifetime ago, he’d been . . . distracted.

  The next river line was the Syzria, which the Pilgrim’s Road crossed at a town called Polkhaiz. Rumor had it that the emperor’s army was close, although Give-Em-Hell’s scouts had yet to catch sight of it. After spending his third straight day shepherding the column through the forests and bogs, Marcus was just resigning himself to another meal alone when a messenger did arrive. The summons wasn’t to the queen’s tent, though, but to the First Consul’s, and Marcus hurriedly gulped down some bread and water, put on his uniform coat, and followed the corporal.

  So far, so good, he thought, with some satisfaction, as they threaded their way through the tents and past the lines of horses. Farther out, livestock bleated and artillery lay parked in neat rows. The supply system is holding up. Wagons could make only a modest speed over the bad roads, but they’d compensated by sheer volume of vehicles, long supply convoys rolling north from Vantzolk, unloading, and turning around again to repeat the trip. The Borelgai army had been quiescent, too, apparently content to bide its time somewhere to the west, and while partisan attacks had become irritating, the patrols were keeping losses at acceptable levels. If you’d told me at the beginning we’d be this far into Murnsk and doing well, I wouldn’t have believed it.

  The Colonials guarding Janus’ tent saluted and let Marcus pass in silence. He was surprised to find the big table empty except for the First Consul himself. Not a general strategy conference, then.

  “Sir,” Marcus said, offering his own salute. “My apologies if I kept you waiting.”

  Janus waved him off and gestured to a chair on the other side of the map table. “I’m sorry to interrupt your supper,” he said. “There’s a great deal to do, I’m afraid.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Division-General Stokes reports he’s made contact with Murnskai patrols,” Janus said. “We’ve yet to get close enough to see their main force, but there’s no doubt they’re there.” He indicated Polkhaiz on the map, a simple dot along the crooked blue line of the Syzria. “Either at the river or south of it, standing between us and Elysium.”

  “Not too far south, I hope,” Marcus said, peering at the map. “I’d like to get clear of this damned forest before we fight them.”

  “They won’t come too far,” Janus said. “The best intelligence we have is that Prince Vasil, the emperor’s oldest son, is in command. He’s supposed to be pious to a fault, but not stupid. He knows we have to come to him—not only can we not supply ourselves here indefinitely, but we can’t risk getting caught when the weather turns.”

  “All right. So we attack?”

  “Of course. But not head-on, if we can avoid it. Even if we force the Murnskai to retreat by weight of numbers, they can fall back and try again, and again, taking a toll in blood each time. Unlike the Borelgai, the Murnskai cavalry is both numerous and capable, so we’re unlikely to be able to mousetrap them. A different approach is required.”

  Marcus nodded. “What, then?”

  “Prince Vasil is in an odd position,” Janus said. He moved his finger along the Pilgrim’s Road, north and east toward Elysium. “His goal is to keep us from advancing in this direction, to Elysium and Mohkba. But the roads that way are much too poor to bear the supplies that support his army, given the antiquated state of Murnskai logistics. Instead, he relies on the river.” The pointing finger shifted west, tracing the Syzria as it ran toward the coast. “River transport is more reliable, and the Borelgai fleet controls the coastal outlets. So it is the river we must attack.”

  He tapped another dot on the map. Marcus leaned in and read the label—Bskor.

  “The Murnskai have always been concerned about invasion from the sea,” Janus said. “There are defenses all along the rivers, as far east as they are navigable to deep-draft ships. Bskor is the last major work on the Syzria.”

  “It’s a fortress?”

  “A lightly guarded one, at present. Its main strength is in a water battery of heavy guns that can effectively clos
e the river to anything smaller than a ship of the line. From the land side, the defenses are not so formidable. We’ve also learned that it’s a major staging point in the Murnskai supply system, so its depots should be well stocked.” Janus looked up and grinned. “You’re going to take it for us.”

  “Hmm,” Marcus said. “It may be lightly defended now, but if we move in that direction, won’t the Murnskai reinforce it? The prince can shift his army along the river faster than we can march.”

  “Indeed. The bulk of the Grand Army will continue to advance northeast, threatening to attack the prince. That should keep the Murnskai close to whatever defenses they’ve devised. In the meantime, you will take Fitz Warus’ First Division northwest, seize Bskor, and dig in. When we get word that you’ve succeeded, we’ll temporarily cut loose from our supply line and come after you. Between the depots and intercepting Murnskai shipments downriver, we should have enough to sustain us, but the Murnskai will quickly starve.”

  “You think they’ll retreat?”

  “It’s possible. They could reestablish a supply line on the Kovria, or march upriver and try to bypass us. But that would take time, and they won’t have it. Remember, their army isn’t volunteer, like ours. They’re conscripts, not much better than feudal levies. If food runs low, they’ll start to melt away, as I’m sure the prince is aware.”

  “Which means he’ll attack,” Marcus said.

  “He’ll have no choice,” Janus agreed. “And, knowing that, we can arrange the situation to be neatly in our favor. That part is my responsibility, of course. All I want from you is to take Bskor and stop traffic on the river.”

  Marcus felt a tingle of excitement. “Understood, sir. When do we split off?”

  “Tomorrow. The cavalry have found—well, ‘road’ would be too strong a term, but it will take your men where they need to go. You’ll have a strong detachment of light cavalry in addition to the First Division’s forces.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I want to impress something on you, Marcus.” Janus tapped the map again. “Bskor must fall quickly. There’s no time for a siege. If it takes too long, this will all be worse than useless, and you could have the entire Murnskai army on your back. You’ll carry your supplies with you and stop for nothing. If the men go hungry, tell them there’s food in the enemy depots. No foraging or anything else that might slow you down. Is that clear?”

  “Very clear, sir.”

  “Fitz will get his orders tomorrow morning. Until then, don’t tell anyone outside your staff. The Murnskai will pick up this movement eventually, but the longer it takes them, the better our chances. You and Fitz can work out the details on the road.”

  “Yes, sir. We won’t let you down.”

  Janus grinned again. “You never have, Marcus. And the Colonials are our best troops. I’m sure you won’t have any problems.”

  —

  Andy was waiting when Marcus returned to his tent.

  “Evening, sir,” she said, with her usual slapdash salute. “There was a messenger from the queen. She wanted to see you.”

  “Damn,” Marcus said.

  “What’s going on? More colonels feuding?”

  “Orders.” Marcus lowered his voice. “We’re leaving the column tomorrow. Tell Giforte and his people they’ll be staying to keep things running here.”

  “Got it,” Andy said. She was already looking excited.

  “What are you grinning about? I haven’t told you what we’re doing yet.”

  “It’s got to be better than riding back and forth all day,” Andy said. “What should I tell the queen?”

  “Ask her if she’ll see me in the morning.”

  Andy raised an eyebrow. “It’s considered rude to keep a lady waiting.”

  Marcus sighed. “Just go, would you?”

  The next morning the messages came in one after another. Fitz had been given his orders and had sent to say the First Division was loading up supplies and would be ready to march by noon. Marcus ate a hurried breakfast and briefed Giforte, signing orders that gave him authority to resolve the disputes between divisions until Marcus returned. He probably knows better than I do, anyway. When he came back, a squad of First Division rankers was efficiently packing his things and tearing down his tent under Andy’s supervision. Some of the heavier gear was set aside. If they had to travel light, Marcus intended to lead by example.

  “Anything from the queen?” he said, watching the men work. His hands itched to join in—Marcus had never gotten used to the way his elevated position freed him from helping with hard work.

  “Not yet,” Andy said. “The rest of the army has a late morning; she may not—never mind, here she comes.”

  “What?” Marcus said, but Andy was already bowing. He turned and found Raesinia herself standing behind him, with her two bodyguards from the Girls’ Own. Marcus made his own, belated bow, fighting back the feeling of being a child caught in the midst of an indiscretion.

  “Your Majesty,” he said gravely.

  “Column-General d’Ivoire,” Raesinia said. “I know you’re busy this morning, but could you spare me a moment?”

  “Of course.” Marcus straightened and waved Andy to get on with it. She flashed him an inappropriate grin that he desperately hoped Raesinia couldn’t see. The queen nodded to the two Girls’ Own soldiers, and they stepped away, giving the pair of them a clear space.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to dine with you the past few days,” Raesinia said. “I’ve been . . . preoccupied.”

  “It’s Your Majesty’s prerogative to dine however you wish,” Marcus said. “We’re here to serve.”

  She cocked her head, looking at him for a long moment. Marcus lowered his gaze, uncomfortable. The force of her personality sometimes made you forget how small she was. Marcus had an image of his hand against her cheek, her delicate features contrasted with his rough, calloused fingers. He gritted his teeth.

  “You’re leaving, then?” she said.

  “For a short time, I hope,” Marcus said. “I’m sorry I can’t give you the details.”

  “I understand. I hope you’ll be careful. I consider you quite as valuable to the army as the First Consul.”

  Marcus flushed under his beard, and bowed again. “Thank you, Your Majesty. It’s an honor to hear you say so, though I’m sure it isn’t true.”

  “Don’t contradict the queen,” Raesinia said, a hint of the old playfulness in her voice. “When you get back, there are things we need to discuss.”

  “Of course. Whatever you require.”

  Again, something about his response seemed to give her pause. After a moment she shook her head and patted him gently on the shoulder. “Good luck, General.”

  —

  “Sir!” Fitz snapped into the crisp salute Marcus remembered so well, in spite of the fact that he was on horseback. The silver scorpion of the Colonials gleamed below the star of a division-general.

  He waited by the side of the road, the long column of the First Division already moving past him. Up ahead, a cavalry officer directed traffic, indicating the small break in the trees that led to the trail the scouts had marked out, where the troops left the narrow, rutted track of the Pilgrim’s Road and veered off to the northwest. Three captains Marcus didn’t know, all young and well turned out, sat their horses just to the rear of Fitz himself.

  “Welcome to the First Division,” Fitz said, when Marcus acknowledged his salute.

  “It’s good to be working with you again,” Marcus said.

  “Yes, sir. Likewise.”

  “I don’t know if you’ve met Andy Dracht,” Marcus said. “She’s all the staff I’ll be bringing along, so I’ll mostly be relying on your people.”

  “It’s good to meet you, sir,” Andy said.

  Fitz nodded and gestured his own entourage forward. “Th
ese are my staff officers,” he said. “Captain Adlo Ritter, Captain Mandua Gortei, and—”

  “Viera!” Andy burst out. “I knew you looked familiar.”

  Viera? Marcus looked at the third figure, and his perspective shifted. The severe-looking young woman was in uniform now, and she’d cut her dark hair to little more than fuzz. When she saw recognition on his face, a slight smile tugged at her lips, quickly suppressed.

  “Captain Viera Galiel,” Fitz finished. “Whom I believe you already know. She commands our artillery.”

  “Commands?” Marcus said. “Last time I saw you, you were still studying with the Preacher.” She’d been a student at the artillery school back at the University in Vordan City, one of several whom Marcus had rescued from a mob. Her bombs and grenades had made the difference when Marcus had led his ragged band against the flame-wielding Penitent Cinder.

  “Colonel Vahkerson is very pleased with my progress,” Viera said. Her Vordanai still had a strong Hamveltai accent. “I have not blown myself up for months now, which he said puts me at the top of the class.”

  “Always a good trait in an artilleryman,” Marcus said. “Or artillerywoman, in this case. It’s good to see you again, too.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She looked at Fitz. “With your permission, sir, I’d like to ride herd on my teams. Over this ground, the hardest part is going to be getting the damn cannons to the battlefield.”

  “Granted,” Fitz said. “In fact, sir, if you’ll follow me, I think the best place for us is near the front of the column, in case any problems arise. I hope you don’t mind that I’ve taken the liberty of getting things started.”

  “Of course not,” Marcus said, grinning. Fitz’s cool, soothing competence was something he’d missed since Khandar. “Lead the way.”

  As Marcus would have expected, the march was exquisitely organized. More cavalrymen sat their horses at intervals, anywhere the path wasn’t entirely clear, directing the infantry and wagons down the right trail. Other horsemen ranged ahead, reporting back with clockwork regularity that no enemy had been sighted. They passed Viera and her guns, a full battery each of six- and twelve-pounders, the bronze tubes of the cannon dwarfed by their own wide-rimmed wheels and the heavy wooden caissons that held their ammunition.