The Guns of Empire

by Django Wexler

  “Do you know why?” Marcus said. “What happened that year?”

  The old woman paused for a moment, then barked something at Govrosk. “She says you wouldn’t believe her.”

  “Try me.”

  The old woman’s gaze went distant, staring back across the years. Slowly, she began to speak, and Govrosk frowned.

  “She says . . . the count, the local lord, had a beautiful daughter. One day strangers in black masks arrived and ordered him to give her up. The count was clearly frightened, but he refused, and locked the girl away in his tower. The strangers promised that his people would be destroyed if he didn’t cooperate, but he persisted. That year summer never came. Her mother said it was the Old Witch of the Ice Woods, that the black masks had brought her to destroy them all. Enough of the villagers believed her that they laid siege to the count’s manor. He threw himself from the highest window, and the servants handed over his daughter.”

  “And then summer came?” Marcus said.

  The old woman shook her head. “No,” Govrosk translated. “The snow lasted through summer and fall. Only the next year did it become warm, but there was hardly anyone left in the village to see it. Even the crows had frozen to death.”

  All year. It was hard to comprehend power on that scale. The Penitent Damned he’d fought in Vordan had been able to control flames, burning men alive with a glance and stopping musket balls in midair. But to bring snow at midsummer . . . If it does last until winter, we’re not the only ones who’re going to starve.

  The old woman added something more. Govrosk said, “She says it’s our fault this time. The Old Witch is cruel, but she is the heart of Murnsk. She will not tolerate an army of foreigners.”

  “Tell her she’s been very helpful,” Marcus said. “And ask if there’s anything we can do for her in return.”

  “She says that if we want to be helpful,” Govrosk translated, “we can go straight to—” There was a strange whispering noise. The lieutenant frowned, looked down. “To . . .”

  Marcus followed his gaze. Something was jutting out of Govrosk’s chest, a wooden stick about a foot long, tipped with feathers. Govrosk put his fingers on it, disbelieving, and sat down heavily in the snow.

  Something hissed through the air, just in front of Marcus’ face.

  “Attack!” Andy screamed. “We’re under attack!”

  White figures appeared from between the houses, materializing like ghosts from the windblown snow. Marcus saw fur, and galloping hooves, and long, curved bows that gleamed like ivory. Another arrow hissed into one of the troopers, catching him in the neck. The man reeled in the saddle, blood spurting in long, shockingly crimson arcs, then slid to the ground as his horse reared.

  Three of the troopers fired at once, the sound of their carbines shattering the awful silence. The ghostly warriors spurred away, turned, and came on again, snow rippling around them like a cloak. Two of them emerged from around the old woman’s house, coming directly toward Marcus, who only then thought to claw his sword from its scabbard.

  Andy stepped in front of him, pistol in hand, leveling it at the closer rider. The shot blasted Marcus to his senses. The rider tumbled, sprawling on the ground, and Marcus could see he was only a man after all, a small, pale-skinned figure wrapped around and around with furs. His horse, a shaggy, white-haired animal closer to a pony in size, reared and came to a halt, spoiling the aim of the second rider. His arrow flew wide, but he came on, directly at Andy. Marcus grabbed her with his free hand and pulled her aside, reaching out at the same time with a wild slash of his sword. He missed the rider, but drew a long cut down the flank of his mount, and the horse’s shrill, almost-human scream nearly drowned the sound of more shots.

  “We have to get out of here!” Andy said. “There’s too many!”

  Marcus nodded. Give-Em-Hell had gathered the remaining troopers in a tight bunch, sabers waving, but the riders evaded their attempts to close. As Marcus watched, one trooper broke from the pack to try to ride down one of the white-furred men, only to find his quarry twisting aside at the last moment. As the trooper reined in, another rider came in behind him and put an arrow in his back from only a few feet away. The point burst from his stomach like a horrible growth, and he pitched forward over his horse’s neck. Lieutenant Govrosk lay still, and the old woman was collapsed on top of him, the fletching of two arrows sticking up from her back.

  Marcus’ own horse was nowhere to be seen, but the rearing mount of one of the dead troopers was nearby. He ran to its side and grabbed the reins, struggling to calm the animal. Fortunately, battle-trained cavalry mounts were not prone to panic, and once he got in the saddle, the horse’s conditioning reasserted itself. He guided it over to Andy, grabbed her hand, and swung her up behind him.

  “Henry!” Marcus shouted. “We’re leaving!”

  “Retreat?” Give-Em-Hell said incredulously. He had his saber in one hand and a pistol in the other. “Why?”

  “That’s an order, damn it!” Marcus said. “Follow me, now!”

  Without waiting for a reply, he turned his mount in a half circle, aiming for a gap in the houses around the green, and applied his spurs. Andy threw her arms around him as they gathered speed, arrows hissing through the air all around. A man in white rose in front of him, swinging an ax, and Marcus ducked the blow and gave the rider a wild slash with his saber. Then they were past the edge of the village, back on the snowy track they’d followed in. The sun was still above the horizon, but the gray clouds made it seem like twilight, and wind-borne snow closed in all around. It had gotten heavier—Marcus couldn’t see more than a few dozen feet.

  There were more shots, and something flared in the darkness. Flames grew behind Marcus as he rode, rising higher and higher, dancing like strange aurora through the drifting snow.

  Give-Em-Hell caught up with them when Marcus reined his mount in a mile or so down the road. The cavalry general was breathing hard, one hand still clutching his saber. His other sleeve was damp with blood. Only two of the troopers were still with him.

  “We left some of the men still fighting those bastards,” he roared. “We should turn around and give ’em hell! Who knows what the damn savages will do to them?”

  “We have to get back to the camp,” Marcus said. “There may be more of them. Janus has to be warned.”

  —

  As it turned out, the warning was unnecessary. Everyone in the camp was already well aware of the white riders.

  They’d come from every direction at once, appearing from the snow to slaughter terrified pickets in a blur of fur and arrows. Then they’d turned away, hovering just out of musket range, as though deliberately taunting their opponents. Fortunately for the Vordanai, most of their division commanders—Winter, Fitz, Val, and Mor—had been in Khandar, where the Desoltai had nearly wiped out an entire battalion of Colonials when Adrecht Roston had fallen for a similar trap. The regiments formed up, but held their position at the edges of the camp, with only the cavalry giving chase.

  Unlike in the Colonials in the Great Desol, the Grand Army included a sizable force of both light cavalry and cuirassiers. The size and armor of the latter gave them an advantage in close combat against the white riders, but the great southern warhorses fared poorly in the snow, and the raiders could fire with astonishing accuracy from the backs of their horses. The snow and the awkward, broken ground split the combat up into a hundred tiny skirmishes in the freezing darkness, bands of horsemen riding in every direction, not sure whether the next group they encountered would be friendly or enemy.

  By the time Marcus and his diminished force returned to camp, Janus had taken things in hand, and the situation had improved. The smaller divisional guns, supplemented by detachments from the artillery reserve, were distributed around the camp at intervals, their fire chasing the white riders out of bow range. Give-Em-Hell immediately called in his cavalry from their c
onfusing, fragmented battle, a process that took most of the night. Marcus rode from point to point, reassuring nervous commanders and drawing cheers from the soldiers.

  The snow slackened with the rising sun, and the white riders withdrew. Around the camp, the corpses of men and animals were strewn like scattered toys, blue-coated Vordanai cavalry mixed with the fur-clad bodies of their enemies. A thick layer of snow covered everything, filtering down through the trees and burying the just-sprouted fields in a smothering white blanket. The sun seemed like a cold, shrunken thing, promising little relief.

  —

  “I thought it might help when the mud froze solid,” Fitz said.

  Marcus snorted. “Ever the optimist.”

  They stood with a small crowd of soldiers, backed up behind a knot in the column. A caisson had split one of its great round wheels and tipped over, trapping one of its horses. Sweating men, breath steaming, struggled to right it.

  “I’ve got to go and see Janus,” Marcus said. “Can you get this sorted out?”

  “Of course, sir,” Fitz said. “Go on ahead.”

  At least he had the sense not to ask what Janus was going to do next, which was a question Marcus was getting tired of answering. Or, more accurately, not answering, since Janus had as usual divulged nothing of his intentions.

  Marcus led his horse carefully up onto the verge, then remounted on the other side of the obstacle and continued ahead at a careful walk. The frozen ground was treacherous, especially for animals. The mud had solidified in whatever rutted, pitted shape it had been in the day before, and hardened until it was as tough as rock. Now, with the ruts and divots buried under the snow, it was far too easy for a horse to put a foot wrong, or for a wagon or gun to break its wheels in an unexpected hole.

  The infantry had its own problems. Their coats weren’t really adequate for the cold—even Marcus found it hard to blame the quartermasters for that, given the season. Overnight, the uniform appearance of the soldiers had vanished, as they stuffed their jackets with tent fabric, pieces of bedroll and blanket, and whatever else would keep them warm. The lucky ones had scavenged furs from fallen white riders. For once, looting the dead had been officially encouraged. Digging graves in the frozen ground was impossible, so last night’s corpses had been burned, a mixed bonfire of split logs and pasty, naked bodies whose smoke had cast a pall over the column for hours.

  Janus had sent for Marcus around midday. He picked his way along the column, which was stopped in a half dozen places and had gaps in as many others, and got directions from a cavalry picket to a hill just to the left of their line of march. Marcus left his horse with a soldier at the base and climbed the slope on foot, probing the snow with the tip of his boot.

  On the way, he passed a thickset man he recognized as Christopher de Manzet, commander of the Eighth Division. The general’s eyes were wide, and he descended the hill with dangerous haste, pausing only to offer Marcus a cursory salute. Several aides were waiting for him at the bottom, but de Manzet set off back toward the column without a word, his staff trailing behind him like anxious kites.

  Janus was alone on the summit, wearing a heavy wool greatcoat, a spyglass in one hand. He looked over his shoulder at Marcus and beckoned.

  “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  “Yes.” His tone put Marcus instantly on edge. There was something off there, hidden under his usual calm like a razor blade in a loaf of bread. “I’m very glad to see you made it back safely last night.”

  “It was a near thing, sir,” Marcus said. “The raiders killed our translator and half our escort, and they burned the village we were visiting.”

  “They seem to have been doing quite a bit of that.” Janus pointed. “See the smoke? There and there.”

  “Why would they do that?” Marcus said. “Burn their own village.”

  “Murnsk is a vast country, as I’ve commented before,” Janus said. “In particular, its northern boundaries are . . . disputed. Beyond the river Bataria is the great snowy waste, where winter never ends. The emperor claims dominion over the tribes who live there, but they acknowledge his authority only reluctantly.”

  “Those were the white riders who attacked us last night?”

  Janus nodded. “Trans-Batariai, for certain.”

  “If they don’t work for the emperor, what are they doing here?”

  Janus dug in his pocket and held up a crude ornament on a torn leather thong. Two carved pieces of horn or bone, rough circles, one inside the other.

  “They may not recognize the authority of the emperor, but the authority of Elysium is another matter. Especially the Pontifex of the Black. The Trans-Batariai have raided and warred with the more settled Murnskai for centuries, but they hate us heretics even more.”

  Marcus hesitated for a moment, looking around to see if any of the guards were within earshot. Satisfied he wouldn’t be overheard, he said, “We spoke with a woman in the village last night who told an interesting story. A legend, really.” Marcus repeated the tale of the Old Witch and the black-masked strangers. “I would have dismissed it as local superstition,” he concluded, “if not for the things I’ve seen fighting the Priests of the Black.”

  “Just as the Church intends,” Janus said. “The Old Witch. I’ve heard the stories, of course, but they were all hundreds of years old. I didn’t think the Black Priests had captured her.”

  “If the story’s to be believed, the snow could last all year,” Marcus said.

  “Perhaps,” Janus said. “That may be an exaggeration.”

  “What if it’s not?” Marcus took a deep breath. “Sir, even without the white riders, keeping us fed in this weather would be difficult. We can’t protect two hundred miles of supply line. Even if they never attack us directly—”

  “What are you suggesting, Marcus?” The odd tone was back, a slight burr in the velvet voice.

  “I . . .” Marcus hadn’t really thought it through until now. “I’m not sure we can continue the advance. Not without losing half the army to starvation and frostbite. If we fall back to Polkhaiz, perhaps . . .”

  He stopped as Janus’ eyes narrowed.

  “We can’t go back,” the First Consul said very quietly. “The first step back and we’ve lost. It’s precisely what they want.”

  “But—”

  “We’re so close.” Janus pointed north, where the gray shape of a river was just visible. “That’s the Kovria! Elysium is barely a hundred miles beyond!”

  A hundred miles or a thousand, it doesn’t make any difference, Marcus wanted to say. We can’t get there. But Janus’ furious gaze seemed to freeze the words in his throat.

  “You see what they’re capable of,” Janus hissed. “You think the Pontifex of the Black spared a thought for the people his raiders would plunder on their way to fight us? You think he cares about all the peasants who’ll starve when this year’s crops freeze in the fields? Do you think he will show us any mercy?”

  “Sir,” Marcus managed. “I—”

  “The hell with it,” Janus snarled. Marcus had only heard anger in his voice like that once before, in the empty tunnels under Ashe-Katarion. A cold, killing rage, sharp as shattered glass. “I don’t give a damn what you think. This army will reach Elysium, Marcus, if we have to crawl on our hands and knees. We will reach it if we have to eat the dead for food and wear their skins to keep us warm. I have not worked for so long and crossed half the world to be stopped by a little bit of fucking weather.”

  He flipped the spyglass to Marcus, end over end, and stalked away. Marcus almost fumbled the catch, the brass instrument cold against his hand.

  What did he say to poor de Manzet? he thought. No wonder the man had looked shaken.

  Marcus put the spyglass to his eye. A column of smoke jumped closer, and he could see the skeletons of broken buildings toppled amid dirty snow. Beyond was the river. I
n the center of the channel, the water still flowed freely, but fingers of ice stretched out from the bank, like they were trying to close around someone’s throat.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  WINTER

  We’re a thousand miles from home, surrounded by enemies, buried in snow on the banks of a river that’s frozen in May, Winter thought. It seems unfair for me to be happy.

  It was midafternoon, though there was no way to know it from the cold gray light that filtered through the canvas and the unbroken layer of clouds above it. Winter lay naked in her bedroll, all the blankets she owned heaped atop her. Cyte was curled up at her side, the swell of her breasts pressed against Winter’s flank, her dark hair against Winter’s chin. She was still asleep, breath a gentle tickle at Winter’s throat.

  Half the division was sleeping by day now. The white riders mostly attacked at night, sudden charges out of the darkness and volleys of arrows into the tents or the horse lines. Winter had doubled the pickets and then doubled them again, a thick line of skirmishers waiting in the cold and the darkness to confront the raiders. It was working, the white riders paying in blood for every strike, but the Second Division was being run ragged. There was no question of games anymore, much less drill. Every moment not spent on guard was devoted to eating, sleeping, or helping with the never-ending task of hauling supplies through the drifting snow.

  Officially, they were camped here on the north bank of the Kovria to build up enough reserves of food and ammunition to make the final push north, over the last hundred miles of the Pilgrim’s Road to Elysium. The track behind them was crowded with supply convoys, slogging from the well-stocked depots at Polkhaiz and Tsivny. But horses and oxen could only pull the wagons so fast through the snow, especially when the animals themselves were suffering badly from the cold. Every day, regiments trooped south to contribute their muscle to the effort, returning shaky and exhausted at nightfall. And yet every day they brought in barely enough food to keep the army going on reduced rations, let alone to build up a reserve.