The Guns of Empire

by Django Wexler

  “Two of them,” the handler said eventually. “Coming closer, very quickly. And possibly a third, very weak.”

  “And the two?”

  “One is a powerful demon. The other . . .” He swallowed. “She says it is a demon lord, Your Excellence.”

  A demon lord. That had to be Ihernglass, if reports from the last team were accurate. His power was still unknown, but it was clearly formidable. If Ihernglass is coming, Vhalnich is with him. He would not surrender that power so easily.

  “And how long until they get here?” the Black said.

  “It is hard to estimate distance precisely, Your Excellence—”

  “Get out of my sight.”

  —

  “They are still coming,” the pontifex said. “How can they still be coming?”

  “He’s crossed half a continent to get here,” the Beast said. “A little snow and ice isn’t going to stop him.”

  “Armies need bread. Horses need fodder. The tribesmen are burning everything the snow hasn’t covered.”

  “And yet,” the Beast said, smiling slyly, “he is still coming. Just as I warned you.”

  The pontifex snorted, glaring at the prisoner. It was pointless, since the Beast’s eyes were obscured by the iron helmet and the creature couldn’t see him. It couldn’t, but it raised its head anyway, as though to meet his gaze. The girl who was its host was growing thinner, her wrists chafed and blistering where the shackles rubbed them. Her red hair was growing out, the iron helmet not permitting regular, hygienic shaves. Spiky, dirty strands stuck through the gaps in the metal circlet.

  “What demon does Ihernglass bear?” the pontifex said. “What power does it grant him?”

  “Some things are beyond even my knowledge,” the Beast said, grinning like a skull. “But it must be a potent creature indeed.”

  “Then what good are you? Why am I imperiling my soul speaking with the enemy of all mankind?” The pontifex turned away. “I will leave you to rot in the dark.”

  “You know why,” the Beast said in a whisper.

  The Pontifex of the Black stiffened.

  “This is the greatest threat the Church has faced since Karis’ day,” the Beast said. “Since me.”

  Karis the Savior. The Wisdoms taught that he had interceded with God to spare humanity the final judgment, and God, moved by mercy, withdrew the Beast. But there was another history, passed down among the Priests of the Black.

  Karis saw that the Beast would be the end of humanity. So he prayed for strength and confronted the creature. And, with the Lord’s help, he mastered it.

  That had been the true beginning of the order. Everything that came after—the Wisdoms, the council, Elysium itself—had been to further that singular purpose. To guard the Beast and keep mankind safe.

  Karis mastered the Beast.

  “My master warned me,” the pontifex said, not turning. “For a thousand years, you have tempted the leaders of my order thus. And for a thousand years none of us has given in.”

  “Your master was a coward,” the Beast said. “Uncertain in his faith. He had the world in the palm of his hand and refused to take it because he feared that God would not grant to him the strength He had given Karis.”

  Karis mastered the Beast. The strongest of demons, bent to his will. Power.

  My faith is being tested. The Pontifex took a deep breath. “Vhalnich will fall. Ihernglass will fall. Elysium will stand, as it has stood for a thousand years. You have failed again, monster.”

  He strode out, closing the door behind him. Alone in the darkness, the Beast began to laugh.

  —

  “Tell him we need more.”

  “More?” The keeper of the Old Witch looked blearily at the pontifex, who had roused him from slumber in his modest cell.

  “More,” the Black said. “The snows have not stopped Vhalnich.”

  “But . . .” The keeper licked his lips. “Any more and he may not survive long. He is weak already.”

  “His survival means nothing if Vhalnich’s cannons tear the city down around our ears.”

  “And he cannot control the power, not precisely. The people—”

  “Sacrifices are necessary. You know what is at stake. Do it.”

  The keeper lowered his gaze in defeat. “Yes, Your Excellence.”

  —

  FROST

  She had known from the beginning, of course, that she was not going to survive.

  The Liar had led Twist and Wren against Vhalnich and his demons, three of the best of the Penitent Damned, and they had never returned. That bastard Shade had reported that the creatures defending Vhalnich were stronger than anything the Church had faced in hundreds of years. The Penitent Damned were a shadow of what they had been in their heyday, when they’d warred openly with the sorcerer-kings and demon cults. Magic was fading from the world, and the ranks of the Penitents had been allowed to thin as their opposition grew frail.

  A mistake. She’d always thought so, though it was not her place to question. Evil had grown strong beyond the Church’s reach, in Khandar, and now it had returned.

  She and Viper had planned carefully. Frost’s attack would draw Vhalnich’s creatures away. Viper, protected from the cold by one of her own vile concoctions, would pass under the river to make her move. A simple plan, but in Frost’s experience, the simple plans were always the best ones.

  For a moment, in the forest, she’d thought she was going to win. Ihernglass, the rumored demon lord, had seemed so weak, only human. But the other two had caught her by surprise.

  She didn’t know whether it had worked, not for certain, but she guessed it had. The tribesmen told her that Viper had escaped, that the Vordanai were riding in pursuit. And now the mighty army was striking its camps and preparing to march, not north to Elysium but south, the way they had come.

  It worked. She swallowed, fighting back the pain. Elysium is saved. My sacrifice was not in vain.

  She did not look forward to death. Her soul was forfeit, after all, sacrificed the moment she spoke the name of the icy demon that lived behind her eyes. All she had to look forward to was an eternity in a personal hell. The grace of the Lord was not for her. One soul, sacrificed to save thousands. That was what the Penitent Damned were, in the end.

  But death was coming, whether she willed it or not. She’d awoken in agony, strapped to a crude travois dragged by a pair of the tribesmen’s white ponies. They’d found her where Ihernglass and his companions had left her for dead. The tribesmen held her kind in superstitious awe, and they hadn’t dared to leave her to bleed out in the snow.

  At the time she’d cursed them. They might believe she was more than human, but Frost knew better. She could tell a mortal injury when she saw one. The strange spears of darkness had pierced her gut, through and through, and though the tribesmen had wrapped the wound as best they could, it already stank of pus and decay. Her head swam with fever, and she floated in and out of consciousness. In one of her more lucid moments, she’d ordered them to make camp within sight of the Vordanai army and wait.

  Now she understood. The Lord had guided her, of course. There was one last task she could perform, one last service for the faithful, before she abandoned her body and accepted her punishment for defying the laws of God.

  “When did they begin to cross?” she asked the tribesman who attended her. He was a short, filthy man, greasy hair bound in complex braids.

  “At first light, Blessed One,” he said, eyes averted. “Their host is vast. It has taken most of the day.”

  “But they are still crossing?”

  “Yes, Blessed One.”

  Lord be praised. She had not missed her chance. “Take me to the river.”

  He scrambled to obey. Two more tribesmen came and lifted her, as gently as they could. The jostling still brought waves of agon
y from her perforated midsection, and her vision flickered at the edges. Just a little longer. The Lord would not take her until her task was complete, she was certain.

  They had taken shelter in a shallow cave. Outside, even the weak sun made Frost blink, and her head swam. The tribesmen carried her down the slope, leather shoes crunching in the snow, and laid her reverently at the bank of the river. The snow had drifted and piled atop the frozen surface, but here the ice was visible under only a light dusting. Frost laid her hand against it and sent her vision inward.

  One more task. She called on her demon, felt it respond, drawing energy from her failing strength. She hit the limit of her power and pressed beyond, letting her entire being drain into the demon’s maw. Once more.

  Cracks spidered outward through the crust of ice. Underneath, the Kovria flowed as swiftly as ever, a vast, cold torrent. As the demon’s power took hold, the ice shifted its shape, pressing downward to impede that flow. The mighty river pushed back, roaring and thrashing, as Frost sought to choke it off.

  Something had to give, and, as she’d known it would be, it was the ice. With a series of cracks like musket shots, it broke, water blasting upward from the fantastic pressure below. The river, briefly dammed, returned to its course with a vengeance. Downstream, the crust of ice had broken up as the water level dropped, and now the returning flow slammed into it like the hammer of God.

  A wall of frothing water and tumbling, shattered ice rolled downstream, bearing down on the unsuspecting Vordanai army with all the fury of a mountain avalanche. But Frost could not see it. The demon had burned the last of her life, and the breath rattled out of her with a final, satisfied sigh.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  RAESINIA

  The wheeled vehicles, which would be the hardest to move, had been the first to recross the bridge. They were leaving many of the wagons and other transports, but Marcus adamantly refused to abandon the guns. Whole battalions of infantry had been assigned to shepherd them, alternately pushing and dragging them over the snowy ground, laying down broken branches to add traction when they sank too deep, and in the worst cases simply lifting the cannon and carrying them a few quivering steps to firmer ground.

  Raesinia, standing cloaked and hooded at the south end of the bridge, had witnessed most of the crossing. The Second Division, under the command of Winter’s staff officer Cyte, had filed across the bridge to form the army’s new vanguard. The First Division remained in the shrinking camp as the rest of the army marched past, the long column grinding slowly through the narrow space. Some of the men, frustrated with waiting for the units ahead of them to clear the bridge, simply slogged through the snow across the frozen surface of the river, to shouts of encouragement from their fellows. Here and there, snowballs were thrown.

  The somber mood of the past several days had lifted somewhat. The fact of Janus’ wounding had hit morale hard, but Marcus’ standing with the soldiers was nearly as high. More important, the news that the army would march back to Polkhaiz, where vast depots of stores were waiting, did much to raise spirits.

  “It doesn’t count as a retreat, not really,” one sergeant had told his company as they filed past. “’Cause we beat the Borels and beat the Murnskai even with all their nasty tricks. It’s just the weather, an’ we can’t be blamed for the weather.” When the snow cleared, everyone agreed, and Janus was fully recovered, they’d come back this way and put paid to Elysium for good and all.

  Let’s hope not, Raesinia thought. She’d still had no word from Dorsay, but it would be easier for his messengers to reach her south of the Kovria. Once the immediate danger of starvation was past, then it would be time to broach the subject of peace talks again. I just hope we can get the emperor to see reason.

  Colonial guards still bustled around the command tent on the hill. Marcus had decided to leave Janus there until all but the rear guard had crossed. Theoretically this was in deference to his delicate condition, though Raesinia suspected that Marcus still hoped that his commander would make a miraculous recovery before the withdrawal was complete. She felt a pang of sympathy every time she saw Marcus, pulled cruelly between his obvious devotion to Janus and his equally obvious care for the welfare of his soldiers.

  As though summoned by her thoughts, Marcus himself appeared, riding in the narrow space beside the marching column of soldiers. She waved, and he picked up the pace, his mount trotting until he was clear of the crush. He swung out of the saddle beside Raesinia, acknowledging the salutes of the nearest soldiers with a wave of his hand.

  “That’s the last of the Third,” he said. “The First is crossing now. We should have everyone over by nightfall.”

  “I never would have believed it,” Raesinia said. It was the truth—the organizational ability of the army Janus had created, even in these dire straits, was astonishing. The tent city on the north bank was gone, leaving only debris to mark its passing. “No trouble from the white riders?”

  “Not so far,” Marcus said. “They’re there, for certain—we can see a few scouts now and then. The last bit will be the hardest, if they try to attack the rear guard. But we’ll be ready for them.”

  “Good.” Raesinia watched his eyes; they kept flicking north, toward the command tent. “You made the right decision, Marcus.”

  “I know,” he muttered. “I just can’t help but think that he would have found another way.”

  “Or he wouldn’t have,” Raesinia said. “Even Janus eventually has to throw the dice, and sometimes they don’t come up sixes.”

  Marcus grunted.

  “It may be,” Raesinia said, with only a little hesitation, “that it’s for the best.”

  Marcus looked down at her, frowning.

  “This way we’ll get another chance to make peace,” she said. “If we destroy Elysium, we’re kicking off a war that could last the rest of our lives.”

  “But you won’t have peace,” Marcus said. “That’s the whole point.” He lowered his voice. “The Black Priests . . .”

  “I might not have peace,” Raesinia said. “But Vordan could.”

  His face darkened further. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I have to be realistic,” Raesinia said. “I’m not going to throw away everything we’ve done, throw away thousands of lives, just for my own personal safety.”

  “You’re the queen,” Marcus said. “We swear our oaths to protect you. And I—” He stopped, looking down. “I . . . wouldn’t want that for you. For you to have to leave Vordan, or surrender to those monsters. I . . .”

  He shook his head and glanced up the river, staring into the distance. Raesinia watched, her throat thick.

  Say something. She felt like they were on opposite sides of a chasm, a canyon made of rank and social position and circumstance. He’d reached across, holding his hand out as far as he dared. If I reach back, just a little ways—

  She closed her eyes for a moment, opened them, took a deep breath. Her heart was beating fast.

  “What the hell is that?” Marcus said.

  Raesinia turned to follow his gaze.

  Something was coming down the river, washing around a forested bend. It looked like a wall of white, a hillside on the move, deceptively slow until she realized how big it was. A mass of frothing water and churning, crunching chunks of ice, rolling downstream with the weight and speed of a landslide.

  “Oh, God Almighty,” Raesinia swore.

  “Brass Balls of the fucking Beast!” Marcus ran, pounding out onto the bridge, where some of the soldiers had begun to gawk at the approaching disaster. “Run! Go, go, go, go!”

  “Marcus!” Raesinia shouted.

  “Get clear!” he screamed back over his shoulder. “Get out of here!”

  She wanted to run after him. But he was already a quarter of the way across the bridge, which was jammed with fleeing, frightened soldiers. Men down in the snow
on the river itself were running, too, stumbling and thrashing on the ice. Marcus was still shouting, but his voice was drowned in rising screams of panic. She saw him waving his arms, urging the men not past the halfway point back toward the north bank.

  “Marcus!” Raesinia’s own voice was lost in the whirl, the screams of the men merging with the cracks and groans from the ice, a shattering sound like a constant artillery barrage. Men shoved her as the crowd thickened, unaware or uncaring that they were manhandling their sovereign. Marcus was a tiny blue figure among a mass of blue figures, struggling to reach the north end of the bridge. She lost sight of him as the crowd grew tighter around her, lost sight of everything except a wall of blue uniforms and coat buttons. She clawed at the men around her, elbowed and punched, but all that accomplished was nearly getting her shoved off her feet.

  The avalanche arrived, blowing out a wave of snow and flying water that settled over the struggling crowds. The wooden timbers of the bridge offered no resistance whatsoever, shattering at the first impact and adding their splintered fragments to the cascade of destruction. Men down in the riverbed, those who’d been unable to get clear in time, simply vanished, their deaths mercifully concealed under the raging torrent.

  By then Raesinia had stopped trying to fight the human tide that dragged her along. She let them carry her, eyes stinging with tears.

  —

  “Boats, then,” Raesinia said.

  “The river’s still running fast, and it’s full of drifting ice,” Giforte said. “Even if we had the boats, which we don’t, we couldn’t get them across until it calms, and who knows how long that will take? None of this weather is right.”

  It’s not natural, Raesinia thought. She felt numb. The flood was the work of the Penitents, she was sure of it, as much as the ice and snow were their doing in the first place. We were fools to come here, so close to the seat of their power. They haven’t held Elysium for a thousand years for nothing.