The Guns of Empire

by Django Wexler

  “Believe me, I’m trying not to think about it,” Andy said.

  “Assuming we live,” Marcus said, “remind me that I need to thank you.”

  “What for?”

  “Something you said last night,” Marcus said. “It . . . clarified things.”

  “You know me,” Andy said cheerfully. “Always clarifying things.”

  “They’re moving,” Fitz said. “We’d better get to the reserve.”

  Marcus clapped Andy on the shoulder and moved off. The center of the camp was on higher ground than the wall near the river, so their command position was just an old wagon bed resting on a couple of hardtack boxes. It was tall enough to see over the wall and give a good view of the ford beyond, where the bone people were already wading into the freezing water. The spearwomen had split into a number of bands, each a thousand or two strong, stretched into a long, thin formation covering the width of the ford. There were considerable gaps between them, so they would reach the Vordanai line in successive waves. Bands of archers prowled the spaces between.

  “Smart,” Fitz said. “If one unit breaks, it can flee without sweeping away the ones behind it, like it would if they were packed tight.”

  “And it doesn’t make such a nice target for our cannon.” Marcus frowned. “This is going to be bad.” Not that there was much chance it would ever be any other way.

  Viera started firing solid shot at long range, cannonballs plowing into the shallow river and throwing up giant waterspouts. It didn’t do much damage to the loose formations, but as she’d remarked to Marcus the night before, there wasn’t much point in conserving ammunition. Once the leading formation of spearwomen advanced to within five hundred yards, the guns switched to canister and the firing became more serious. Once again mangled bodies thrashed in the water or floated limply with the current.

  Viera’s gunners kept firing until the very last moment, slamming double canister into the enemy lines until the charging spearwomen were practically on top of them. More than one man was cut down in turn, hit by an arrow or simply a little bit too slow getting back over the wall. Perhaps because of their bravery, however, the first line of bone women was wavering before it even reached the wall, newly coated in ice to repair the cracks from yesterday’s assault. Arrows stuck in the canvas overhead until it sagged under their weight, and some broke through or found gaps and hit the defenders, but the ragged volleys of musketry from behind the ramparts quickly broke up the wave of attackers. Before long they were fleeing back into the ford, passing through the loosely ordered ranks of the next wave. Marcus hoped these new attackers would be discouraged, but they only shouted jeeringly at the broken troops as they ran.

  “White riders making a nuisance of themselves, as usual.” Fitz pointed to the north, where pale-coated men on ponies had emerged to challenge the rear defenses of the fortress. They didn’t have the numbers to mount a close-in assault, but their constant harrying kept the defenders from pulling men from the other walls to reinforce the troops facing the ford.

  “Bastards just wait for the guns to start up,” Marcus spat. “They know we don’t have any cavalry to go after them.”

  Fitz nodded. “We haven’t seen much of the Murnskai cuirassiers, either. I wonder if they’re still out there.”

  “Not if they have any sense,” Marcus muttered. “They’d be wasted here.” He sent up a silent prayer of thanks that the bone people’s Murnskai allies apparently didn’t have any cannon. Even the smallest field-gun would have smashed his snow-and-ice fortification like it was made of matchsticks.

  The second wave of bone women charged, flowing around the stationary clumps of archers who were now exchanging fire with the muskets on the wall. As usual, the enemy were getting the worst of it, with no cover and inferior weapons, but they had more than enough lives to spend to even the scales. Marcus saw Andy shouting and waving her sword, and the troops shifted fire to the advancing spearwomen as they reached the bank. There hadn’t been enough time for Viera and her cannoneers to return to their pieces, so the second wave didn’t have to run the deadly gamut of canister to reach the wall. Smoke rolled down and across them when they got to the bottom, once again hammering axes, knives, or wooden spikes into the icy surface to make it climbable.

  Fighting with desperate fury, the defenders pushed the bone women back over the rampart wherever they found purchase. The second wave was still milling about the base of the wall when the third wave arrived, and the combination of increased pressure and mounting losses from the arrows drove the Vordanai back. Fitz, without a word, led the reserve forward at a trot, charging up the snow-ramps and slamming into the enemy in a wave of flashing bayonets. Once again the spearwomen were thrown from the wall. But this time, secure in the knowledge that fresh troops were coming up behind them, they didn’t break, only tried again, a dense-packed mass of screaming warriors held at bay only by a dozen feet of ice and packed snow. The fight turned and turned again, fallen bodies trampled into the churned mix of mud and snow at the base of the wall or unceremoniously rolled aside to make room for fresh defenders.

  One more card to play before we throw the dice. The mixed metaphor made Marcus smile for a moment. He nodded to Fossard, the regimental cutter, and the man and his assistants fanned out through the infirmary, pushing and prodding and pleading. Marcus drew his sword and held it in the air, to serve as a rallying point. In a few moments they started to trickle in, men who were pale with fever or mottled with bruises, men wrapped in bandages or with sleeves freshly pinned up. Every man who could still walk, Marcus had said, and the cutters had taken him at his word. A few collapsed in the snow, and others lacked even the strength to pick up a weapon. The rest collected bayoneted muskets and captured spears from a pile near Marcus’ feet and gathered into some semblance of a formation. It was more of a rough blob than anything with ranks, but Marcus saluted them with his sword anyway, and got a ragged cheer.

  It was probably time for a rousing speech, but he’d never been good at those, and in any case the rattle and bang of musketry all along the walls and the scream of combat would have drowned out his words. Marcus swept his sword down, pointing at the wall, and hopped down from his vantage point. No use staying at the command post when there’s nothing left to command.

  He ran, aiming for where he could see the blue line bulging. The men behind him, a couple of hundred cripples and sick, raised a shout that would have done credit to twice their number. The bone women turned to receive them in a horrible clash of spears and bayonets, blades tearing flesh on all sides. Marcus ducked low, slipping beneath the initial shock, then popped up inside the reach of the first rank of bone women, laying about him for all he was worth. Blood flew, and where the spears fell away his men pressed into the gap, shoving and punching when the press got too close for weapons.

  Time disappeared into a red haze. There was only an ocean of bodies, men and women, Vordanai and bone people, sometimes pressed together so tight he could hardly breathe, sometimes receding enough that he could dodge and fence with his enemies. At first they’d been fighting on the ramps, but step by step they pushed the enemy back toward the rampart. Some bone women were jumping off, risking the spikes and bodies below to get away. They’re breaking—

  Then, with a hoarse scream, a fresh tide of spearwomen surged up and over the defenses. Glancing over the rampart, Marcus could see that the fourth wave had paused, waiting for the fifth, and the two units had hit the wall together. The defenders were exhausted, and these new attackers hadn’t suffered any musketry on their approach; they were fresh and screaming for blood, and they shattered the Vordanai line like glass.

  The fact that there was nowhere to run was forgotten in the heat of the moment, overwhelmed by the desperate need to get away. Men ran in ones and twos, then whole groups together, backing away in a fighting retreat or simply throwing their weapons down and fleeing for their lives. Some officers tried to h
old them, calling them cowards and hurling threats, while others simply joined in with the tide. Those who held firm were quickly surrounded and cut down by the bone women, who pressed on as fast as they could get over the wall.

  Marcus, sword still in hand, slashed a woman across the belly and jumped down from the wall before her companion could get around her. He saw Viera nearby, two of her cannoneers fighting at her side, wielding long sponge-staffs as though they were spears. She held a lit torch, and as their eyes locked Marcus jerked his head toward the base of the wall. Do it.

  “Andy!” Marcus shouted, his voice nearly inaudible over the din. “Get clear! Everyone run!”

  Viera bent, running the torch along a length of line, then tossed it aside as the fuse took fire. She turned on her heel and sprinted, long-legged strides catching up with the fleeing soldiers. Marcus lagged close to the back of the pack, looking for Andy. Fitz shouted something at him from the middle of a group of soldiers executing a slower, more controlled retreat, but Marcus couldn’t understand and waved him on.

  Finally, he saw Andy, jumping down from the wall with the last half dozen Vordanai. A cut on her cheek had coated her face in blood, but her sword still flashed, fending off the spears that stabbed down at her. The men around her started to run, but she paused, looking for something. Marcus saw her mouth go wide as she shouted an unheard oath. He followed her gaze and realized that the sparking, hissing fuse had gone dark.

  “Andy!” Marcus skidded to a halt in a spray of snow. “Viera, Fitz—it’s gone out. We have to—”

  But there was no time, no time for anything. The bone people were over the wall, victorious spearwomen spreading out through the makeshift fortress, attacking the other walls from behind. There was nothing left to stop them. We’re all going to die.

  Andy dove, rolled, came up with Viera’s torch in her hand. It flared to life, embers reignited by the rush of wind. Andy ran along the fuse, looking for the place where it had gone out. She barely saw the bone woman in front of her, fierce-looking with her blood-stiffened hair and rattling fetishes, until it was much too late. The steel-headed spear went into Andy’s belly and came out through her back, trailing blood. The bone woman yanked it free with another crimson spray and spun away, looking for another victim as Andy collapsed to her knees.

  “Andy!” Marcus’ shout rose to a scream. He saw her turn her head, eyes meeting his, and she gave him a broad smile. Then she turned away, eyes following the fuse to where it disappeared into a dark cavity in the snow. As she fell forward, she hurled the torch, fire describing a circle in the air as it spun end over end into the hole and out of sight.

  There was a moment of silence, and then the world went white.

  Gunpowder had been the one resource the Grand Army had had more than enough of, and much of it had been left behind with the First Division. Viera had hoarded as much as she could, and her cannoneers had buried barrels of the stuff underneath the south wall, scooping out the snow and replacing it with hard wooden kegs. They’d packed the space around them with spare musket balls from canister rounds, but this turned out to be an unnecessary addition. The layers of ice on the wall shattered in the colossal blast, transformed instantly into a million flying, deadly fragments. They scythed through the tight-packed mass of bone women at the base of the wall, the cheering spearwomen and archers atop it, and the wounded Vordanai who’d been unable to get clear in time. The explosion lofted snow hundreds of feet into the air, a white spray that was followed almost at once by a rising cloud of black smoke. Viera’s precious guns were tossed like toys, splintered wreckage landing in the river. Beyond, the masses of bone people waiting to cross broke up, fleeing for their lives.

  —

  Marcus sat on the wagon bed, looking out at the crater where the southern wall of his fortress had been. The survivors of the First Division mostly seemed stunned, unprepared for their good fortune; they sat in small groups, staring, or talked in low, reverent tones. The white riders had retreated, too, spooked by the blast.

  But they’ll be back. It wouldn’t be enough. The explosion, and the subsequent counterattack against the shattered remnants who’d survived, had slaughtered most of the bone people who’d made it into the fortress. Call it five or six thousand. But there were still tens of thousands of enemy left, and Marcus hardly had enough bodies to man the walls, even if he’d still had walls. Which I don’t. There was no way the dazed, shocked survivors could repair the damage overnight, and in the morning the bone people would resume their assault.

  Andy and Viera were right. It bought us a day. He looked at the sun, which was just touching the horizon. The light was slowly turning golden. For however much good that does us.

  Andy . . .

  “Sir?” It was Fitz. “Do you want me to get the men started rebuilding the wall?”

  “We don’t have time.”

  “The enemy may hesitate. If they give us another day—”

  “They won’t.” Marcus sighed. “Let them rest, Fitz. They’ve earned it, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, sir.” He paused. “I’m sorry, sir. She was a good soldier.”

  “She might have disagreed with you,” Marcus said with a slight smile. “But you’re right. In the end it’s not all about crisp salutes and shiny boots.”

  Fitz, who had both, kept a diplomatic silence.

  As always, Marcus felt guilty in his grief. Thousands had died today, men whom he had ordered into battle, men whose names he hadn’t even known. But he hadn’t lived beside those men, hadn’t watched while they bore up after losing friends, hadn’t known them. One familiar face seemed more precious than a thousand anonymous graves, for all that he knew that was wrong.

  The sun slipped slowly below the horizon, and the sky went from orange to red to black. The men began to feel the cold, and it roused them from their stupor. Even if they would die in the morning, there was still the night to make it through: fires to light, meals to cook, long-hoarded liquor to drink for a lucky few. I wonder if the blast woke Janus up and what he thought of it. If he’d been in charge, Marcus was certain, he’d have come up with something better. But he’s lost in dreams of Mya, whoever she is.

  “Marcus!” At first he thought the voice was part of his reverie. “Marcus, is that you?”

  “Sir?” Marcus turned to find Janus standing in the snow, wearing boots, his dressing gown, and a coat wrapped around his shoulders. “Sir! You shouldn’t be out here! You’re not well.”

  “Marcus!” Janus took a careful step up onto the wagon bed. “Under ordinary circumstances I’d agree with you, but I seem to be recovered—” He lost his balance and wobbled, and Marcus hurriedly caught him by the arm. “At least somewhat,” he added a little sheepishly. “And since no one had come to see me, I thought I’d venture forth and see what all the commotion was.” He waved a hand. “It’s a nice fortress, but it seems to be missing a wall.”

  “We were forced to blow it up,” Marcus mumbled, grief and astonishment at war in his face. “Sir, are you really all right?”

  “I suspect it will take some time to regain my good health,” Janus said. “But yes, for the moment.”

  Ihernglass must have succeeded. Marcus had long since written Winter and her company off for dead. God Almighty, they could have gotten all the way to Elysium and back by now!

  If Janus is awake, then maybe . . . But no. Even Janus couldn’t perform miracles. With what they had left, there was no way to resist the bone people’s next attack, no matter who was in command. Marcus slumped.

  “I’m . . . glad, sir,” he said finally. “I wish I had better news for you. About all I can offer is that we can die together, on our feet.”

  Janus smiled his summer-lightning smile. “A noble sentiment, Marcus. But in this case a touch premature. That is what I came to tell you.” He pointed out into the darkness. “You see?”

  Marcus struggl
ed to follow his finger. Then, from the darkening tree line to the south, there was a bright flash and then another. Two long, one short, one long—

  “That’s a flik-flik,” Marcus whispered.

  “Indeed.” Janus peered at it intently. “I only caught part of the message, but it seems—”

  But Marcus didn’t need a translation. Deep in his chest a tight knot let go.

  “It’s Raesinia.”

  PART FOUR

  SHADE

  “I don’t believe it,” Duke Orlanko said. “There must be some mistake.”

  “No mistake,” Ionkovo said. You sniveling coward, he added to himself. “We’ve had several reports, all saying the same thing. Vhalnich and d’Ivoire are alive and coming south.”

  “Again.” The Last Duke’s plump face was going purple with rage, matching the color of his robe. His spectacles were askew. “Will nothing rid us of these heretics?” He rounded on Ionkovo. “You told me they were going to be dealt with!”

  “So the pontifex informed me,” Ionkovo said. “But Vhalnich has proven most resourceful in the past.”

  He was not about to tell Orlanko that he now received no answer at all from Elysium. Something had gone badly wrong.

  For the last month he’d been stuck here, playing nursemaid to the ex-spymaster. In Ionkovo’s opinion, the Last Duke’s grip on sanity had been shattered by the revolution, and he’d been sliding steadily further into delusion ever since. Unfortunately, the Pontifex of the Black wanted him for a puppet king of Vordan, so Ionkovo’s orders were to stay by his side.

  “If Dorsay hadn’t been so eager to cut a deal, Vhalnich wouldn’t have an army to come back to,” Orlanko fumed. “He’s a damned traitor.”

  “Do you want him removed?” Ionkovo said. He yawned ostentatiously.

  “Not yet,” the Last Duke said. “Let me think.”