The Guns of Empire

by Django Wexler

  Since before the time of Karis, even before the arrival of the Mithradacii Tyrants, the peasants of Murnsk had told stories about the Old Witch of the Ice Woods. Mothers warned their children that the Old Witch would take them away if they disobeyed, and villages left offerings by her shrines in the darkest part of the local forest. Any community that failed to propitiate her, they said, would find itself obliterated by endless, cruel winter, buried in snow and ice even while summer came to the rest of the world.

  Many centuries before, while pursuing their endless attempts to root out the last vestiges of the Mages’ Heresy from remote parts of the north, the pontifex’s predecessors had searched for the truth behind the legends. They’d expected to find nothing—even in the days of the Demon King, there were a hundred myths and ghost stories for every true sorcerer or demon. Instead, they’d found themselves in a war with a secretive cult that lived among the frozen forests, whose heart was the name of a demon passed from mother to daughter down through the generations.

  The Black Priests had won, though it had taken a hundred years. They’d broken the cult and dragged the Old Witch, spitting and screaming, back to Elysium. As the worst winter in living memory battered the fortress, the torturers had dragged the name of the demon from the wretched woman, and since then it had been among the most powerful beasts imprisoned in the Church’s menagerie.

  The young man who currently bore the creature was weak-minded, his spirit broken by the agony of pronouncing the demon’s name. Looking at his wasted frame, ribs clearly visible in a shrunken chest, the pontifex guessed they’d be searching for a new host before too much longer. If the Church survives. He shook his head. All that mattered now was that the pathetic creature was reasonably compliant—far too weak, in body and soul, to be a Penitent Damned, but willing to perform for food and kind treatment like a trained animal.

  One of the two priests who were his keepers stepped away from his charge, bowed, and addressed the pontifex.

  “Your Excellence.” He sounded nervous. “You understand that he is not capable of controlling his manifestation as precisely as some of the past hosts. If the Old Witch is unleashed, it will be at full strength. The consequences—”

  “I’m aware of the consequences,” the pontifex said. “Do it.”

  “Yes, Your Excellence.”

  The priest waved to his fellow, who bent to whisper in the ear of the prisoner. The wretch made a face, and the priest spoke again, making him cower. Finally the prisoner nodded miserably. He closed his eyes and raised his arms, trembling visibly with the effort.

  For a long moment nothing happened. The pontifex started to snap a question, took a breath, and hesitated.

  It was still a sunny spring day, and he was still sweating under his robes. But a breeze had sprung up, blowing steadily out of the north, and with it came the familiar scent of snow.

  The prisoner’s hands shook with more than the spasms of his muscles. He shuddered like a sapling in a gale, eyes rolling back in his head. White mist started to rise off him, ascending into the sky like smoke. A few tendrils at first, then more, a column of roiling fog that engulfed him entirely and stretched upward as far as the pontifex could see. The few wisps of cloud above them shifted, twisting and shredding under the influence of a supernatural force.

  Then, all at once, the mist exploded outward, a wall of white that blew past the pontifex and off down the mountain in a burst of ice-cold air. It was gone in an instant, leaving cold, calm air in its wake. The prisoner slumped forward, into the arms of one of the attending priests.

  “It’s done?” the pontifex said, looking upward.

  “Yes, Your Excellence.” The priest looked at the unconscious demon-host. “Though the effects may take some time—”

  “Good. Take him inside.”

  “Yes, Your Excellence.”

  The two of them gathered their charge and carried him back through the gate. The pontifex stayed behind a moment, staring into the sky. Beneath his mask, his lips curved into a smile.

  Far away, on the northern horizon, a mass of black clouds began to spread across the blue like a stain.

  CHAPTER TEN

  RAESINIA

  Two days after the Grand Army’s triumphant reunion at Polkhaiz, it started to rain in earnest.

  Raesinia hadn’t been present for the victory, but she’d been close enough to hear the thunder of the guns. After Give-Em-Hell and the cavalry broke through, news of the triumph spread through the camp like wildfire, far in advance of any official reports. Celebrations began even as the defeated Murnskai were being chased from the field.

  The next day they moved the camp to the outskirts of Polkhaiz itself, the latest in a series of miserable little Murnskai towns made briefly important by its proximity to a decent bridge. As usual, much of the population had fled, and the vacant houses were taken over by the senior officers. Raesinia refused to claim one of her own, instead having the servants pitch her tent at the edge of the camp. This was partly because she found the idea of appropriating the home of some poor Murnskai townsman a bit ghoulish, but mostly to make it as easy as possible for Whaler or another of Dorsay’s agents to contact her.

  As the Duke of Brookspring had predicted, Janus had brushed aside the last major obstacle between him and Elysium, and in only a few days. If there was going to be a chance for peace, to avert the religious war Dorsay was so afraid of, it would come soon. Without confronting Janus, she couldn’t openly appeal to the emperor for peace, so she was forced to rely on covert means. Sothe had dispatched messengers, but with Prince Vasil missing and possibly dead, the entire Murnskai leadership was in disarray. It would be some time before her offer could be heard, much less answered.

  Time, time, time. It wasn’t on her side, she was certain. There was no longer any doubt that the Grand Army could reach Elysium before the end of the campaigning season. Instead, she was now in an invisible race, trying to create the right circumstances to broker a peace before Janus shattered the possibility by desecrating the most holy site in the Sworn Church.

  And, incidentally, destroying the Priests of the Black who want to throw me in a dungeon until I rot. She’d done her best to come to terms with that. Raesinia told herself that she had only a few more years, in any event, before her agelessness became too difficult to explain. At that point she’d have no choice but to “die” and go . . . somewhere. Before that happens, I need to be sure we’re on the right path.

  Given that, Raesinia ought to have welcomed the rain. It started to fall as the Grand Army, minus the Fifth, Seventh, and Ninth Divisions, which were staying behind to guard Polkhaiz and the supply line, began its march northeast from the Syzria. They’d been through scattered showers over the past few weeks, but this was different—not a brief, sun-warmed drizzle but a full-on downpour, bitterly cold in spite of the season. The Pilgrim’s Road, barely more than a rutted track at the best of times, instantly turned into a muddy quagmire, and the infantry was forced to march along the verges where the ground was firmer. The guns and vehicles weren’t so lucky, and the teams had to be doubled and then tripled to haul the protesting wagons through the muck.

  It made for slow going, six miles the first day and even fewer the next, which meant time for Raesinia’s side of the race. By then, though, she was as sick of the rain as everyone else, spending all day drenched to the skin and spattered with thick, yellow mud. On top of everything else, food was short, since many of the supply wagons had lagged far behind the infantry columns.

  “It’s a mess,” said Marcus, when he joined her for dinner for the first time since he’d left the column to lead the attack on Bskor. “The cavalry is out there trying to round up all the stragglers.”

  “It’s only going to get worse as long as it keeps raining,” Raesinia said. She pushed the limp green on her plate around with a fork, keeping a careful eye on Marcus. “And the supply convoys coming nor
th from Vantzolk and Tsivny can’t be having an easier time.”

  “It won’t last,” Marcus assured her. “All the locals we’ve talked to say that this is very unusual for this time of year.”

  Raesinia let it go. Ever since Joanna had inadvertently given her an idea about how to detach the army from Janus, her time with Marcus had been a good deal more difficult.

  The army will obey its commanders. That simple insight might have been obvious from the start to a military mind, but Raesinia, used to the looser world of her revolutionaries, hadn’t quite grasped it until she’d asked Joanna and Barely what they’d do in the event of conflicting orders. For all that the individual soldiers were theoretically loyal to Janus, most of them had never met him and had no real way of knowing what he wanted. It was the commanders she needed. If worse truly came to worst, and she had to confront the First Consul directly, then she wanted the generals on her side.

  It had to be all of them, though, or at least such a preponderance that any argument wouldn’t spill over into actual fighting. Raesinia couldn’t bear the thought of Vordanai turning on one another, not after so much blood had already been spilled in the revolution. With that in mind, she’d asked Sothe to investigate the leaders of the Grand Army with an eye toward how they could be pried away from Janus.

  There were five divisions remaining with the army, plus the cavalry and artillery reserves. Of those eight commanders, a few could already be relied upon, Sothe reported. Division-General Valiant Solwen of the Third was a staunch royalist, as was Give-Em-Hell. The commander of the Eighth Division, Christopher de Manzet, had been a captain appointed by Raesinia’s father, one of the few remaining “royals” of high rank.

  Others would be more difficult. The Fourth Division was under the command of Morwen Kaanos, a Colonial and inveterate hater of the nobility. According to Sothe, he was a great believer in the new government, so he might be inclined to support whoever had legitimate authority from the Deputies-General. Ephraim Tadula of the artillery was a lapsed priest and former subordinate of Janus’ old artillery commander Vahkerson, which she suspected would make him hard to influence, although the artillery was a small section compared to the other divisions.

  That left Fitz Warus of the First Division and Winter Ihernglass of the Second, and Marcus. Marcus was the crux of the matter. He commanded almost as much loyalty as Janus himself and was more involved in the day-to-day running of the army. His word would also be influential with many of the other commanders, especially those who’d been part of the Colonials, and she couldn’t think of anyone else who might be able to sway Fitz and Winter.

  Marcus was also completely, irritatingly unwilling to entertain the idea that Janus might be less than perfect. Raesinia had tried a number of subtle hints to this effect, and every time she was met by bland reassurances that might have come from the First Consul himself. By the end of the evening, she usually found herself wanting to slap some subtlety into him.

  If she came out and said it, asked him to choose a side, then she’d have crossed the line for good and all. Because he’ll feel obligated to tell Janus what happened, and that’s as good as throwing a gauntlet at his feet. That was Raesinia’s last resort, and so she continued to dance around the issue as the army slogged north, day after day, under the apparently endless rain.

  —

  “It’s good of you to meet me, Your Majesty,” Whaler said. He wore a long hooded cloak, slick and sodden with rain, though the last hour the chilly downpour had slacked to a light drizzle.

  “I’ve been half-mad waiting for news,” Raesinia said. “Have you heard from the Murnskai?”

  They were at the edge of the camp, far enough inside the sentry line that none of the guards were likely to overhear, with Sothe and a few of her people keeping watch on the other side to make sure they weren’t disturbed.

  The Borelgai spy sighed. “The rain has made everything difficult. Even for couriers on good horses, the roads are an impediment.”

  Raesinia ground her teeth in frustration. “Nothing?”

  “No good news, at any rate. It appears that Prince Vasil is dead, either killed in the fighting or lost sometime during the rout. What information we have from the Murnskai army says that the emperor has dispatched Prince Dzurk to take command of what’s left.”

  “Already?” Raesinia said. “He’s awfully careless about his sons.”

  “He does have quite a few to choose from,” Whaler said. “But this particular substitution bodes poorly for us. Vasil was well-known as a religious man, and would have put a premium on saving Elysium at any price. Dzurk is more likely to drive a hard bargain.”

  “Have your commander tell him about the horrors of uncivilized warfare,” Raesinia said. “He’s extremely passionate on the subject.”

  “Unfortunately, I doubt it would have the intended effect. Warfare in Murnsk has never been all that civilized.” Whaler cocked his head. “Any progress on your side?”

  “Not much,” Raesinia admitted. “Column-General d’Ivoire is the key, but he’s too close to Janus.”

  “Can he be bought?”

  “Marcus?” Raesinia laughed bitterly. “Not likely.”

  “A queen has a great deal to bargain with besides coin,” Whaler said. “Make him a count. Hell, make him a duke. Promise him a council seat.”

  She shook her head. “It’s not power he wants.”

  “What is it, then? Everyone wants something.”

  Most men and women are, at the very center, not terribly complex, Sothe had said. They want power, or comfort, or sex; it’s only the way they go about attaining these desires that distinguishes them. Find out a person’s deepest desire, and you have a lever to control them.

  “I don’t know,” Raesinia said slowly. “But I think I can find out.”

  —

  She broached the question after a not-very-good dinner of tough meat, crusty bread, and soup. Raesinia stared at her plate glumly and tried to work up the energy to tackle the last bit of gristly beef.

  “The cook sends his apologies,” she said. “The man was practically in tears, truth be told. When there’s not enough food to go around, even the queen’s kitchen feels the pinch.”

  “Tell him he did wonders,” Marcus said, sopping up the last of his soup with a tough heel of bread. “I’ve seen what everyone else is eating.”

  “How long can we go on like this?” she said. “If the rain keeps up, I mean. I’ve heard the convoys are having trouble moving enough supplies as far as Polkhaiz, let alone to the army.”

  “We can’t forage here,” Marcus said. As before, settlements had grown sparse as they’d gotten farther away from the river. “But even at this pace, it’ll be only another few days until we reach the valley of the Kovria. We can get food from the local towns.” He lowered his voice. “Janus is planning to send an expedition downriver, too. They’ll gather all they can and ship it back to us by boat, which should be a lot easier than these so-called roads.”

  As usual, his faith in Janus is unlimited. Raesinia stifled a sigh. She spent a moment staring at the tent ceiling, bowed slightly inward where water had pooled, and then changed tacks.

  “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  Marcus sat up a little straighter. “You may ask me anything you like, Your Majesty.”

  Raesinia rolled her eyes playfully. “I’ve told you before to stop that.”

  “Sorry,” Marcus said, grinning. “What did you want to know?”

  “Let’s say we destroy Elysium and make it home safely. What then?”

  Marcus pursed his lips. “Return to putting the country back together, I suppose. Although the Borelgai may not be inclined to make peace right away, with Dorsay’s army still in the field. We might end up having to push them off Ecco Island—”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Raesinia said. “I mean for
you, personally. You’re Column-General of the Grand Army. What do you do next?”

  “That’s for you and Janus to decide,” Marcus said. “The Column-General of the Grand Army is still a soldier, and I still take orders.”

  “What about when peace finally comes?”

  That, at last, seemed to get through to him. He looked across the table at her with an odd expression, silent for a moment.

  “It’s not something I’ve thought much about,” Marcus said. “The last time we were at peace, I was still in Khandar.”

  “I could probably arrange for you to go back there,” Raesinia said. She meant it teasingly, but Marcus took it in earnest.

  “It’s possible,” he said. “But . . . I don’t know. Do you know why I went there in the first place?”

  “Not really. I know that your family was killed in a fire.”

  He nodded. “My parents died. At the time I just wanted to get away. A friend of mine had been assigned to Khandar, and it seemed like as close to the ends of the earth as I could manage.”

  “But the revolution convinced you to come back?”

  There was a long silence.

  “It was more than that,” Marcus said. “There was . . . a spy in the Colonials. An agent of Duke Orlanko’s who got . . . close to me. When I found her out, she told me that I didn’t know the truth about what had happened to my parents and that she could tell me. After everything there was over, Janus promised that he would try to find out what she’d meant.”

  “What happened to the spy?”

  “I killed her,” Marcus said, his tone inviting no further questions. There was another silence.

  “Ah.” Raesinia hesitated. “If you don’t want to talk about it . . .”

  “It’s all right,” Marcus said. “This next part—you’re just the first person I’ve really spelled it out to. It feels odd to be making my confession to the queen.”

  “I like to think we’re friends, too,” Raesinia said quietly.