The Guns of Empire

by Django Wexler

  “Column-General, do not let that creature escape.”

  “Sir!” Marcus drew himself up, then looked to Raesinia. “Raes, are you all right?”

  Raesinia had sagged against the tent wall, clutching the fabric to keep herself standing. The dose of poison had been so large that her heart had stopped almost immediately, nerves burning out in a sympathetic cascade that went beyond pain and into blissful numbness. It took her a moment to get it going again, the binding wrapping itself around the twitching, dying organ.

  “I’ll be fine,” she croaked. “Immortal, remember?”

  Marcus nodded and turned to the tent flap. Before he could leave, however, there was a clatter, and he turned back to find that Janus had dropped his rapier.

  “Sir?” he said.

  “Ah.” Janus’ hand went to his cheek. There was the tiniest scratch there, little more than a paper cut, leaking a single drop of blood. A muscle in his face jumped. “It appears I may be in need of some assistance.”

  Then his eyes rolled up in his head, and he collapsed.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  MARCUS

  “I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” Sothe said, head bowed.

  “It’s all right.” Raesinia’s voice was still a croaking rasp. “You were up against a Penitent Damned.”

  Sothe’s lips pressed tight, but she didn’t argue.

  The Penitent had escaped. She’d cut through a horse line, and a quick jab of her poisoned nails had sent several of the animals into a maddened frenzy, causing chaos. In the confusion, she’d taken a mount and ridden hard for the edge of camp, where the white riders were still skirmishing with the picket line. Once she’d joined them, the northerners had melted away, leaving only spent arrows and bodies.

  Ihernglass had arrived at the command tent only a minute after the Penitent had made her break. He’d immediately sent for the Girls’ Own regimental cutter, Hanna Courvier, who he assured Marcus was among the best in the army. When the woman had arrived, wearing only a jacket over her nightshirt, she’d immediately kicked everyone else out of Janus’ sleeping tent. They’d reconvened in the command tent beside it, around the big map table.

  No one who didn’t already know what had happened was there. Rumors of an assassination attempt were racing through the camp, already on edge after the white riders’ attacks. Marcus had told the generals to put their divisions on alert, hoping that standing guard would keep the soldiers from spreading gossip. It wasn’t working; he could feel the tension in every messenger who came to the command tent. They peered discreetly around, looking for Janus or some evidence of what had happened.

  In the tent were himself, Raesinia, Sothe, and Ihernglass. Sothe raised her head slowly and took a seat beside the queen. Ihernglass cleared his throat.

  “I ought to have known,” he said. His right hand balled into a fist, and he winced. His other hand was heavily bandaged. “The second Penitent sacrificed herself to bait me out to the edge of camp and keep me busy. If not for that, I might have sensed what was going on here.”

  “Assigning blame isn’t important,” Raesinia rasped. “We need to worry about what happens next.”

  As though the words had been a summons, there was a scratch at the tent flap. Andy’s voice came from outside.

  “Sir? The cutter wants you.” She sounded worried. Marcus hadn’t let her in on the truth of the attack yet, but she could hardly miss the mood, or the half dozen dead Colonials.

  “Send her in,” Marcus said.

  Hanna was a solid, competent-looking woman, but her expression made Marcus’ heart skip. She shook her head as she came in, apparently unintimidated by the presence of the column-general and the Queen of Vordan.

  “Is he—” Marcus began.

  “He’s alive,” Hanna said. “But that may be about all I can tell you. I’ve never seen anything quite like this.”

  Marcus let out a long breath in unison with everyone around the table. Raesinia said, “You’d better elaborate.”

  “I looked at the cut on his cheek,” Hanna said. “It’s not deep, obviously, but from what you’ve told me, there was some kind of poison involved. Ordinarily there’d be some residue of the substance used, on the skin or in the wound itself, but I couldn’t find anything. I opened the cut a little wider, and the blood looks healthy.”

  “It may have been an . . . unusual poison,” Sothe said.

  Hanna nodded. “It’d have to be. Most poisons either act fast and wear off quickly or take a long time to work. I examined the guards, and it’s clear that this substance has an extraordinarily rapid effect. But there’s no evidence that it’s wearing off in the First Consul.”

  Marcus coughed. “What exactly is his condition?”

  “He’s unconscious with a high fever,” Hanna said bluntly. “The effect looks more like a festering wound than a poison, but I’ve examined him thoroughly and found no evidence of any other injury.”

  “And what is your prognosis?” Raesinia said. In the brief pause that followed, the world seemed to be holding its breath.

  “I have no idea,” Hanna said. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but as I said, I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ll do what I can for the symptoms, but as to whether he will ultimately recover or worsen, your guess is as good as mine.” She shrugged. “If the assassin could be interrogated about what poison she used, or if I could have a sample, that might help. Otherwise, all I can do is wait.”

  “All right,” Marcus said. “Thank you, Miss Courvier. Please continue doing your best.”

  Hanna gave a brief bow and withdrew. Marcus looked around the table.

  “It’s no surprise she doesn’t know what she’s looking at,” Raesinia said, and coughed. “It’s magic, after all.”

  “Ihernglass, you have the demon-eater, don’t you?” Marcus said, with an uncomfortable frown. “Could that help?”

  “Not here,” Ihernglass said. “Infernivore needs to come in contact with the demon itself, and that’s in the body of the Penitent who fled.”

  Sothe bent her head a fraction further, saying nothing.

  “Do we have any idea if he’ll recover on his own?” Marcus said. “He clearly survived the initial attack, unlike the others.”

  “He got a much lower dose,” Raesinia said. “But . . . I don’t think so.” She glanced at Ihernglass, who was looking at her quizzically. “From what I felt when it attacked me, the poison seemed almost alive. Like a fragment of a demon. I think it will keep attacking him until he . . . dies.”

  “There must be something we can do,” Marcus said, looking back and forth between the two of them. “I don’t pretend to understand demons and magic, but isn’t there a . . . spell, or a potion, or something?” He paused. “I could send word to Vordan, ask Feor to look at the Thousand Names.”

  “It would take too long,” Sothe said. “The flik-flik line hasn’t been able to operate past Polkhaiz, and who knows what the snow has done to it. It could be weeks before we got an answer.”

  “And even if the Names could help,” Raesinia said, “I can’t see what Feor could do from Vordan.”

  “There’s only one thing I can think of,” Ihernglass said. “We have to find the Penitent and kill her.”

  They all looked at him for a moment. Sothe said, “Are you sure that would work?”

  “Of course not,” Ihernglass said. “But most of the time, when a demon-host dies, everything they’ve done stops.”

  Marcus nodded, remembering the temple under the Great Desol. When Jen had killed the Khandarai boy, all the green-eyed corpses had collapsed.

  “If I could use Infernivore on the assassin,” Ihernglass went on, “that might be even better. It devours every scrap of the other demon. I don’t know if Janus would recover immediately, but at least the poison would disappear.”

  “But the assassin’s gone,” Sothe sa
id.

  “Then we go after her,” Ihernglass said.

  There was another moment of silence.

  “She’s wounded,” Ihernglass said. “She won’t be able to travel as quickly. If we start soon, with a small force, we might be able to catch up.”

  “Through the snow and whatever else is out there,” Marcus said. “Not to mention the white riders. You’d never make it.”

  “Then Janus is dead,” Ihernglass said. “If this is the only chance we have, I’m willing to take it.”

  “You mentioned using Infernivore on the assassin,” Raesinia said. “Are you volunteering to lead the pursuit?”

  Ihernglass blinked, as though he hadn’t thought of that. He let out a long, weary breath. “Yes. I guess I am.”

  “If anyone’s going, it should be me,” Marcus began, but Raesinia shook her head.

  “You’re in command of the army for as long as Janus is incapacitated,” she said. “We need you here.”

  “She’s right,” Ihernglass said.

  “Who will you take with you?” Sothe said.

  “Some of my own people,” Ihernglass said. “I’ll put out a call for anyone with wilderness experience. We’ll need plenty of horses and as much food as you can spare.”

  “Volunteers only,” Marcus said. “You can’t order anyone on this kind of mission.”

  Ihernglass sighed. “I don’t think that will be a problem.”

  —

  WINTER

  “You can’t just leave me here,” Cyte said. “You don’t get to make that decision.”

  “I do, actually,” Winter said, rummaging through her trunk. “That’s what being a division-general means.”

  “But . . .” Cyte stood in the center of the tent, biting her lip.

  “Look at it logically,” Winter said. “That’s what you’re good at, right? I’m going because I have Infernivore. Bobby’s coming because she can bend steel with her bare hands. I’m not leaving you behind. I’m leaving you in command, you understand?”

  “Abby should be in command,” Cyte said. “She outranks me.”

  “Abby has her own responsibilities to worry about. You know that you’ve been running this division as much as I have since we started marching. Marcus is going to need all the help he can get.”

  Cyte blinked, fighting back tears. It was logical, and Winter knew she could see that. Sometimes that’s not enough.

  “The way you talked about it,” Cyte said, her voice almost a whisper. “That you were only taking volunteers. It sounded like you’re not expecting to come back.”

  “It’s going to be dangerous,” Winter said. She closed the trunk slowly and got to her feet. Pain flared from her left hand, still bandaged and oozing. “But we’re at war. Everything’s dangerous.”

  “There’s a difference between dangerous and suicidal,” Cyte said. “Winter, please. Look me in the eye and tell me you think you can make it back from this.”

  Winter crossed the tent and stood in front of Cyte, their faces inches apart. Cyte’s lip was trembling.

  “It took me so long to . . . figure things out,” Cyte whispered. “After all that . . . if you . . .”

  “I’m not going to make any promises,” Winter said. “You’re too smart for that. But I will do everything I possibly can.”

  “You don’t have to.” Cyte’s voice was barely audible, as though the thought were too dangerous to speak. “I know Janus is your friend, but—”

  Winter kissed her, hard. Cyte drew in close, arms wrapping around Winter’s shoulders.

  “I have to go,” Winter said, when they finally drew apart.

  “I know,” Cyte said. Her voice was steady, though her eyes still glittered with tears. “Good luck.”

  —

  “I checked over the list,” Abby said. “They’re all good people. None of them will let you down.”

  There were only a few hours of daylight left, but Winter was determined to make as much ground as she could. The Penitent might be slowed by her wound, but she had a head start. For the moment the snow had stopped, and following her trail would be simple enough. But that could change at any time—even a few inches of fresh snow might be enough for the pursuers to lose their quarry. Their only advantage was the strange sense that one demon-host had of another, and that faded quickly with distance. Winter was determined to make up enough ground to be able to feel the Penitent in her mind before more snow obliterated the physical traces.

  Of course, that same sense meant that the Penitent would be able to feel her. But that couldn’t be helped.

  They were taking twenty-five soldiers, all from the Girls’ Own. Abby knew her people better than most of the regimental commanders, and she’d quickly sorted out a group of volunteers she thought would be useful. The Girls’ Own were also among the most dedicated to Janus, and hopefully less likely to react badly if things got strange. A side benefit was that Winter’s gender was an open secret among them, which meant that she wouldn’t need to keep up the charade—it could get tricky in close quarters.

  “Thanks,” Winter said. “I’ll do everything I can to bring everybody back.”

  Abby nodded. “Bring yourself back, too.”

  Winter smiled, a bit wanly. “Try to help Cyte, would you? She’s up to this, but she may not believe she is. Don’t let de Koste shout her down.”

  “I’ll keep him under control,” Abby said. “You’re sure you don’t want to talk to him yourself?”

  “I haven’t got the time.” De Koste would insist that he ought to go along out of sheer gallantry, and the prospect of arguing with him was exhausting. “Cyte’s got written orders, and Marcus will back her up.”

  “All right.” Abby clapped Winter on the shoulder, a little harder than was necessary, then saluted. “Good luck, sir.”

  Some of the party, those who had experience with tracking, had already gone ahead to begin finding the Penitent’s trail. The rest were mounting up near the edge of the Second Division camp. Marcus had scoured the army for the strongest, healthiest horses, ignoring the protests of the officers and cavalrymen he took them from. Each of Winter’s twenty-five had two extra mounts, loaded with provisions—mostly fodder—and other supplies. A similar ransacking of private stores had provided everyone with greatcoats, though in wildly varying sizes.

  At the edge of the group, Bobby was checking the load of a packhorse while Alex fought her way into a coat three sizes too large for her. When she finally got her arms the right way around, Winter almost laughed; the hem dragged on the ground, and the sleeves flopped over her hands.

  “Needs a little stitching,” Alex said, seeing her expression. “But it’s warm.”

  “It looks like it,” Winter said, then paused. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

  “I came here to help Janus,” Alex said. “Saving his life seems like helping. Besides, you said I can sense other demons better than you can, and I know at least a little bit of the country we’re going through. You need me.”

  Winter nodded and turned to Bobby. “And you’re sure you’re feeling well enough?”

  Bobby patted her stomach. “All closed up. Don’t worry.” She grinned at Alex, the two of them sharing some private joke. “We’ll catch up to her, no problem.”

  “I hope so. I don’t know how long we have.” She took a deep breath, feeling the icy cold in her lungs. “Where’s the sergeant?”

  Bobby pointed to a broad-shouldered woman with a mass of frizzy orange-red hair, only barely tamed by a leather cord. She was in the middle of retying the pack on one of the horses while simultaneously berating the hapless ranker who’d gotten it wrong in the first place. As Winter came over, the sergeant ended her harangue, and both women saluted.

  “Sergeant Taring?” Winter said.

  “Yes, sir!” She grinned. “Feel free to c
all me Red; most of the rest of them do.”

  “And what’s your name, ranker?”

  “Videlia Litton, sir!” The young woman, a rangy teen, looked at Winter in awe. “It’s an honor, sir!”

  You may regret that honor before long. Winter tried to banish the thought. None of the soldiers could be unaware of the risks they faced, venturing beyond the camp. They know what they’re getting into as well as I do.

  “Sergeant,” Winter said, “let’s get this company mounted up. I want us ready to move out in ten minutes.”

  “Yes, sir!” Red raised her voice. “Let’s move! Packs tied up and ready to go! Ivers, what the hell are you doing?”

  Not more than a quarter hour later, they were on the move, a slim column of women and heavily laden horses. They circumvented the more crowded parts of the camp, moving around the perimeter to where the Penitent had made her breakout. One of the trackers, Ranker Margaret Jacks, was waiting there beside her own horse. She saluted as they approached, and pointed to the northeast.

  “It’s still pretty clear, sir!” she said. Even Winter could see that—the Penitent’s mad gallop had left rents like wounds in the gentle curves of snow. “Farah’s gone ahead to mark the trail. That way we should be able to keep on past dark.”

  “Good thinking,” Winter said. Abby had told her the two trackers, Margaret and Farah, knew their business; while most of the Girls’ Own had come from the streets of Vordan City, the pair of them had been poachers and thieves before they’d taken shelter from the law with the Leatherbacks.

  Margaret swung into her saddle and led the way, following the trail. Before long they came across a wooden stake driven into the snow, just long enough for the tracker to reach down and grab. Another few minutes and they reached the line of pickets, the last boundary of the camp. The men saluted as they rode past, standing at attention until the company was out of sight.

  More stakes followed, at regular intervals. As the invisible sun slid past the horizon, they lit lanterns, following the trail and the markers laid down by Farah. North of the Kovria, the strip of civilized country was thin, and after only a few miles they were out of the fields and snow-buried hedgerows and back into the forest.