The Guns of Empire

by Django Wexler

  Giforte stood in respectful silence. After Sothe had retrieved Raesinia from the crush of frantic soldiers, they’d taken over a low rise beside the road and set about restoring some kind of order. The generals were busy organizing their divisions, but thankfully Alek Giforte had crossed early along with his staff. Raesinia didn’t know the former Vice Captain of Armsmen, but Marcus had always trusted him, and the first question she’d asked was how to get back across the Kovria. Unfortunately, he wasn’t providing the answer she wanted.

  “There must be something we can do,” she said, staring at the swollen river. The flood had thrown up a mist of water and snow that hung in the air, obscuring the other side from view. “There are thousands of soldiers over there, not to mention the column-general and the First Consul. We can’t just abandon them.” Lights flickered through the mist; Raesinia couldn’t tell if they were lanterns or muzzle flashes.

  “I know,” Alek said. “But we’re running out of options. It’s going to be difficult to make it to Polkhaiz as it is, and if we wait for the water to subside . . .”

  He didn’t need to finish the thought. Six days to Polkhaiz. They had enough food to get there on reduced rations. Most of the supplies had crossed before the soldiers, which meant that the men on the north bank had next to nothing. If it takes even a few days to get across the river, we’re putting ourselves in danger. It was one thing for an army to go hungry sitting encamped; she couldn’t ask her men to slog through the snow for long with empty stomachs.

  But what else can I do?

  “Sir! Colonel Giforte!”

  A young man ran up to their little group. His uniform was drenched with spray, already freezing into tinkling droplets. He put a slip of paper into Giforte’s hand, teeth chattering.

  “We saw a light on the other side, s-s-sir!” he said. “I started counting the flashes, and someone’s using a flik-flik code! It’s a message, sir!” He glanced at Raesinia. “It’s for the queen.”

  Giforte, who’d been about to unfold the page, stopped and turned to Raesinia, who felt her heart double-thump. She took the paper and hesitated for a moment.

  “Someone get this man a blanket, please,” she said. Several of Giforte’s waiting staff leapt to obey.

  On the paper, in a hurried hand, the soldier had written,

  Your Majesty,

  Safe but attacked by white riders. Position untenable. Moving upstream to find crossing.

  Do not wait. Get the army to safety. We will find you.

  Raes, please. Don’t give up.

  —Marcus

  Raesinia blinked rapidly.

  “Your Majesty?” Giforte said.

  “Tell the generals I want to see them in half an hour,” she said. “We’re moving south.”

  —

  MARCUS

  Arrows whispered down like a quiet, deadly rain. There was something horrible about them, lacking the bluff honesty of a musket’s flash and report. They insinuated themselves, bringing death on the sly, like assassins. The cuirassier ahead of Marcus took one through the throat and toppled from his horse without a sound, tangling himself in the reins as he fell. Marcus spurred past him, toward the trio of white riders who’d blocked their way. He leveled his pistol as he came on, firing at a range of only a few yards into the first man’s chest. He slumped in his saddle, horse shying, and Marcus tossed the spent weapon away and drew his sword.

  The second white rider met him with a broad-bladed ax. The first clash of weapons nearly drove the saber from Marcus’ hand; though a head shorter, the white rider was strong, in perfect control of his mount as he circled and swung. The third man came at Marcus’ other side, and he escaped only by ducking under the sweep of an ax. He slashed up, catching the rider’s arm hard enough to hit bone, and the man reeled away. The other rider brought his ax down on the rump of Marcus’ horse, and the animal screamed and reared. Marcus slid sideways as the ax came around again, half jumping and half falling out of the saddle.

  The white rider’s horse danced backward, clear of the kicks of Marcus’ mount, the man sheathing his ax and taking up his bow again. He couldn’t possibly miss at that range, and Marcus reckoned his only chance was to spring to one side as the rider fired and hope to gut his pony before he could reload. He had a moment to reflect on how unlikely this was to work before two shots rang out, and the white rider fell sideways into the snow.

  Two light cavalry rode out of the mists, carbines still smoking.

  “Sir!” one of them said, sighting Marcus. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine.” Marcus sheathed his sword. “My horse is around here somewhere. If you can catch him, see if he’s okay and give him to someone who knows what the hell they’re doing. Is it clear up ahead?”

  “Yessir!” The man saluted as his companion hurriedly reloaded his weapon. “General Warus is with the Fourth Battalion, not far on.”

  “Thanks.”

  Marcus set off at a jog, or as much of one as he could manage in the snow. In places it had been cleared by the passage of the infantry, exposing the hardened mud underneath. Behind him, cracks and muzzle flashes attested to the continuing battle.

  The white riders had come on them before the spume of the avalanche had settled, recognizing what a golden opportunity they’d been handed. Only a handful of Vordanai cavalry remained on the north bank, what had been intended as a rear guard, and the tribesmen’s charges had cut into the disordered mobs of infantry with almost no resistance. That hadn’t lasted long, though. Fitz had quickly taken charge, forming up his battalions into rough squares and driving the raiders away while Marcus had led what horsemen they had to gather anyone left from the command tents on the hill.

  He didn’t know if his message had gotten through. They hadn’t had a proper flik-flik box, only a bonfire and a sheet of canvas to block it with, and there’d been no time to wait for a reply. When the white riders had discovered the isolated group, they’d closed in, and the Vordanai had gotten back to the main column with barely half the men and horses they’d set out with.

  Fitz was on foot as well—every officer still in possession of a horse had been required to surrender it to the cavalry—walking at the rear of the tight, slow-moving column. Up ahead, the rest of the First Division were only looming shapes in the mist and occasional flashes that marked where the white riders tested their lines.

  “Janus,” Marcus said, as he hurried to join his subordinate. “Is he—”

  “The litter’s up ahead.” Fitz shook his head. “I don’t think the cold will do him any good, though.”

  Marcus let out a long breath. “Better than leaving him for the savages.”

  “Very true, sir,” Fitz said. “We seem to have stabilized things for the moment. What’s next?”

  Marcus looked into his young, handsome face, blandly confident, and realized that he had no idea whatsoever.

  —

  Marcus had been so caught up in saving as many people as he could from the disaster that it hadn’t quite dawned on him that he would end up in command of the resulting mess. In retrospect, of course, it couldn’t have been otherwise; Janus was unconscious, and Raesinia, the only other person who could theoretically have taken charge, was with the rest of the army on the other side of the river. That left him, Column-General Marcus d’Ivoire, in charge of a few regiments of traumatized troops, an invalid commander, and a few hundred square yards of snow and ice amid woods haunted by vicious primitives.

  The first step was to take an accounting of exactly what was left of the First Division. The Fourth Regiment had already crossed the bridge at the time of the avalanche, and the Third had been about halfway through its passage. It was impossible to know how many men had been crushed or drowned by the wall of water, but those who were left on the north bank numbered perhaps four thousand in five battalions. The First’s divisional artillery had remained behin
d as well, intended to help guard the final pullout and a small cavalry reserve.

  That was a force almost as large as the Colonials had been in Khandar, but compared to the might of the Grand Army it felt pitifully small. Of more practical importance was the state of their supplies, which was perilous indeed. The army’s reserves, so critical to its survival, had gone over the river with the first regiments. Marcus’ first order had been to confiscate all food from the rankers, so that it could be rationed, but the results were not encouraging. Worse, there was no fodder for the horses beyond a few sacks individual cavalrymen had rescued and what could be gleaned from the white riders’ dead. Ammunition, at least, was plentiful, as Marcus had given it a low priority in the crossing compared to food.

  He had the maps from the command tent, but it wasn’t clear those would do much good. As the sun fell toward the horizon, Marcus convened a council of war in an ordinary rankers’ tent, one of the few that were left. Outside, Fitz’s ad-hoc squares had been converted into a ring of torch-wielding sentries, staring into the gathering darkness and waiting for the white riders’ return.

  Aside from Marcus and Fitz, the council consisted of Viera, Andy, and Give-Em-Hell. Viera, as commander of the First’s artillery, had been preparing to supervise the final crossing, and Andy had been running errands for Marcus among the rear guard. Andy’s presence made Marcus simultaneously relieved and guilty; he needed every pair of hands he could rely on, God knew, but he couldn’t help wishing she was across the river and out of danger. The presence of Give-Em-Hell was the biggest surprise. Nobody had known the cavalry general was there until he’d stormed out of a tent in his nightshirt, demanding to know what was happening. Having taken a minor wound in the morning’s skirmishes, he’d had it seen to and retired to his tent with a flask of brandy, and apparently had missed much of the subsequent excitement.

  There was no table to put the map on, and the tent was so small there wouldn’t have been room in any event. Marcus spread the leather scroll out on a blanket, and the five of them bent low to examine it in the light of a single lantern.

  “The next bridge is at Bolkanzi,” Marcus said, tracing the line of the Kovria with one finger. “That’s twelve days downstream, at least.”

  “Assuming it’s still standing,” Andy said. “The ice is shattered as far as we can see in both directions.”

  “Twelve days might as well be a year,” Fitz said. “We’re not going to last that long on the march.”

  “Our best chance is upstream,” Viera said, in her Hamveltai accent. “The thing had to start somewhere. Beyond that, the ice might be intact.”

  “Even if it isn’t, there’s a ford here.” Marcus tapped the map. “That’s only a couple of days away.”

  “The white riders will follow,” Fitz said. “If they figure out where we’re going, they’ll be ready for us. We may not be able to force a crossing.”

  “Especially if the river is still running high,” Viera said. “I don’t have enough guns to provide much cover.”

  “It’s the best chance we’re likely to get,” Marcus said. “We can’t afford to wait around.”

  “It’s got my vote,” Give-Em-Hell said. He’d been oddly subdued all night, which Marcus attributed to a hangover. “If they try to get in our way, we’ll just have to break through them!”

  “We’ll start at first light,” Marcus said. “Fitz, we’re going to need a tighter column than usual. We don’t have enough cavalry left to risk patrols to keep the white riders off of us, so we’ll have to be ready for attacks.”

  “I’ll set something up,” Fitz said. “What about the guns? Can we move them through the snow?”

  They looked at Viera, who frowned.

  “We’ve been managing so far,” she said, “but it’s been hell on the horses.”

  “We’ll need guns at the crossing,” Marcus said. “If we leave them behind and the white riders are on the south bank, we’ll never push through them.”

  “We could leave the six-pounders,” Viera said. “They haven’t got the range for that kind of work in any event.”

  “Do it,” Marcus decided. “And get teams of men from the regiments to pull what’s left.”

  Fitz winced. “They’re not going to like that.”

  “Tell them they’ll like wading through the water under arrow fire a lot less,” Marcus said. “If we can get over the river, we’ll leave everything behind but the horses and try to catch up with the rest of the army.” He made a face. “That reminds me. Any horses that are lame or can’t keep up are to be butchered. We’ll need the meat before we’re done.”

  There was a round of sour faces, especially from Give-Em-Hell, but no one objected. Marcus took a deep breath and blew it out.

  “All right,” he said. “We’ll get there. For now, go and get some sleep. It’s been a hell of a day, and it’s not going to get any easier tomorrow.”

  Andy remained seated as the rest of them left, vanishing into the darkness after a round of salutes. Marcus looked across at her as he rolled up the map.

  “Are you all right?” Marcus said. “Your leg?”

  “What?” Andy glanced down. “Oh, I’m fine. It aches sometimes, that’s all.”

  “I’m sorry you got stuck here,” Marcus said. “If I’d known what was coming, I would have sent you on ahead with the queen.”

  “If we’d known what was coming, I’d have insisted on staying with you,” Andy said with a grin. “Or, actually, if we’d known what was coming we might have done something about it.” Her smile faded. “This was the Black Priests’ work, wasn’t it?”

  “It almost has to be,” Marcus said. “Nothing natural could do that to a river.”

  “First Janus and now this.” She shook her head. “They don’t play around.”

  “I’m—”

  “Sorry?” Andy raised an eyebrow. “You have to stop apologizing for getting me into the soup, Marcus. I jumped in, remember?”

  “Actually, I think the Preacher sent you and Hayver to help run errands for me.”

  “Well, then, I’ve had plenty of chances to jump out.”

  “You’re right.” Marcus almost said I’m sorry, caught himself, and laughed. “If it’s any consolation, it’s good to have you in here with me.”

  An expression crossed Andy’s face that Marcus couldn’t identify. It was quickly gone, replaced with a frown.

  “That’s not what I wanted to ask you about, though,” she said. “What about Ihernglass? He’s expecting to come back here, isn’t he?”

  “Hell.” Marcus hadn’t even thought about that. They’d originally planned to leave a detachment to hold the bridge, at least for a while, but that obviously wasn’t practical anymore. “I don’t know. I don’t know if there’s anything we can do.”

  “We can’t just abandon him out there.”

  “He may be in better shape than we are,” Marcus said. “He left with plenty of food, fodder, and horses.”

  “But if he gets back and finds the bridge out—”

  “He’ll have to come up with something.” Marcus shook his head. “We can’t risk leaving anyone behind, and we can’t stay here.” He thought for a moment. “Once we get over the river, maybe we can send a party to circle back to the south end of the bridge. Then we might at least be able to signal him if he’s turned up.”

  That wasn’t much, and they both knew it, but Andy didn’t press the issue. Marcus didn’t bother to mention the most likely possibility—that Winter and the women who’d gone with him were dead, lost somewhere in the snow between the Kovria and Elysium. Andy left, looking pensive.

  There were barely enough tents for the senior officers, and to help with the shortage Marcus had agreed to share the tent they were using as Janus’ sickroom. It wasn’t as though the First Consul was contagious, after all, and this way he could check up on Janus
during the night. Hanna Courvier had gone over the bridge with the Second Division, leaving them only an overworked cutter’s aide to tend to Janus, and he needed all the help he could get.

  Besides, Marcus thought, I doubt I’ll be getting much sleep. It was well dark by the time he made his way to the low canvas tent, and first light was only hours away.

  A single lantern burned low, hanging from the tent pole. By its light, Marcus could see Janus curled on his side, sheets and blanket puddled around his feet. His fever remained unchanged, skin dry and hot as a kettle to the touch. Marcus bent to replace the cold cloth on his forehead and pull the bedcoverings back up. The movement seemed to disturb the commander, who shifted uneasily.

  “Mmm,” Janus muttered. “’S there?”

  “It’s me, Marcus,” Marcus said. “It’s all right. Go back to sleep.”

  “Mya.” A smile creased Janus’ face, not his usual fast grin but something warmer and more genuine. “I had a dream. I was . . . holding your hands, holding you up. And then . . .” The smile went brittle and faded. “You were falling. Falling into the dark, forever. I was screaming, but you couldn’t hear me.”

  “Janus?” Marcus said quietly. “Sir?”

  “Don’t fall, Mya. I’ll hold on.” Janus’ hands clutched convulsively at the blanket. “I swear I’ll hold on. Don’t . . . don’t leave me.”

  After a moment he settled, face smoothing. Marcus sat back, feeling the embarrassment of accidentally seeing something too private. Mya? It wasn’t a name Marcus had ever heard. A lover, maybe? As long as Marcus had known him, Janus had never expressed any interest in women, and he gave the distinct impression that such emotional affairs were beneath him. It was difficult to imagine him letting anyone close enough to provoke genuine feeling. But he is a man, after all, not a marble statue. Maybe someone from his youth? Prolonged fever, Hanna had said, could bring on delusions. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything.