Marcus

The orders had come in just after dark, as the Second Division was settling back into camp. Marcus scanned through them, suppressing a groan. Another dawn march. Another battle tomorrow. He turned the page. At least we won’t be right in the middle of it.

“Thank you,” he told the young lieutenant who’d brought the pages. “Tell General Kurot I understand, and we’ll be ready.”

“Yes, sir.” The young man looked around curiously. Cyte and Abby were in the tent with them, looking over the big map, along with several Girls’ Own sentries. This courier clearly found the idea of women in uniform fascinating.

Marcus cleared his throat. “That’ll be all.”

“Ah. Yes, sir.” He straightened, saluted, and left the tent. Marcus glared after him.

He should go visit the cutters. Casualties from the fighting at Satinvol were still being brought in by the stretcher teams combing the town. Those who could be saved had been evacuated already, so now the work mostly came down to giving the badly wounded a somewhat more comfortable place to die. Meanwhile, Hannah Courvier and the other cutters worked nonstop, the floor of their tent slick with blood, the pile of amputated limbs outside growing ever larger as the bone saws sang.

All of the Second’s regiments had lost soldiers, but it was the casualties among the Girls’ Own that hit Marcus the hardest. I can’t help it, damn it. I’m supposed to protect them, not march them into danger. Thinking about it made him angry with himself, angry with Janus, angry with everyone. It was almost enough to make him forget what had happened on the enemy’s last charge.

Magic. It had to be magic. That Girls’ Own ranker had turned on him, and he was certain the glow in her eyes had been real. Janus must have... something. Some power. Maybe he found what he was looking for. The voice at the back of his mind—​the one he tried to ignore, because he knew he wanted what it said to be true—​said, Maybe something got to him. Maybe he’s not to blame for all this after all.

“More good news, sir?” Abby said.

Marcus blinked and shook his head. He handed her the orders, and while she read he said, “We’re going to be moving out at first light again. You’d better spread the word.”

“Understood, sir.” Cyte saluted. “I’ll make sure the colonels get the message.”

“You believe this, sir?” Abby said, when Cyte had slipped out of the tent.

“Which part?”

“That we’re going to be able to trap Janus against Alves.”

The orders called for a fast march southwest, pushing through whatever got in their way. With the Satinvol bridge destroyed and the Alves bridge presumably still in friendly hands or at least demolished, Janus would be left with no way out, and his supplies would be diminished by days of siege and fighting. The Army of the Republic, by contrast, was still receiving supplies and reinforcements over the passes. Kurot had carefully assigned forces to guard those lines, but Janus had made no attempt to interfere. As though he doesn’t mind walking into the trap.

“It seems... possible.” Marcus shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t want to speak against a superior directly, but... “Janus is tricky. You know that. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s got something up his sleeve.”

“Me either.” Abby sighed. “We gave about as good as we got yesterday. It’s not easy, fighting our own people.”

“No, it isn’t,” Marcus said. “Is morale holding up in your regiment?”

“I think so. The girls feel... not good, never good after something like this, but happy to have done their part.” She cocked her head. “Thank you, by the way. For keeping your promise.”

“It’s... only fair.” Even if it does give me nightmares. “Your performance was excellent. General Ihernglass would have been proud.”

“I’m only sorry you were in danger,” Abby said. “I never expected those mad bastards to try to break out.”

“No one did, myself least of all.” Marcus hesitated. “Any idea who they were? They seemed to have a mix of uniforms—​I saw Vordanai, Murnskai, and some in civilian clothes.”

“Nobody seems to know,” Abby said. “We didn’t capture any of them alive, not one. And the Vordanai soldiers from other regiments just know they’re some kind of personal guard for Janus, but not the name of their unit or how many there are.”

It feels wrong. Janus’ old Mierantai Volunteers had been almost fanatical in their master’s defense, but he didn’t think even they would have thrown away their lives like that. It has to be magic. He wished Raesinia were here. Cyte knows. Maybe I can talk to her about what she’s seen.

That would have to wait for tomorrow, though. The light was draining from the sky, and fatigue from the day’s fighting dragged at Marcus’ limbs like lead weights. He made his apologies to Abby, and she saluted and left the tent. Once she was gone, the full force of exhaustion fell on Marcus, and he barely made it to his bedroll before he was asleep.

The drums woke him what felt like minutes later. He sat up with a groan, blood pounding in his head. Before he managed to push himself to his feet, there was a scratch at the tent flap.

“Sir?” Cyte’s voice, sounding inhumanly good-​natured for this early in the morning. “Are you awake?”

“Getting there,” Marcus said. Maybe I’m getting old.

Blessedly, Cyte had brought coffee. His favorite was still Khandarai style, dark and thick with a kick like a mule, but when he was feeling fragile he had to admit the milder Vordanai variety had its appeal. Breathing in the rich scent and taking the first few scalding sips had an almost magical effect, and by the time he reached the bottom of the cup he felt almost human again. Cyte stood to one side, quietly watching his transformation.

“Thank you,” he said. “I needed that.”

She smiled only slightly. “Of course, sir.” Has she been taking lessons from Fitz?

“Everything on schedule?”

“We should be ready to break camp in the next half an hour, sir.”

“I’d like to have a word with the colonels before we take the command tent down.”

“I’ll let them know, sir.”

Within a few minutes, they had all gathered: Abby, Sevran, de Koste, and Blackstream, Erdine for the cavalry and Archer for the artillery. Cyte joined them, too, and stood quietly by the tent flap. Even the large command tent felt crowded with so many gathered around the table.

“In another half an hour, we’ll start our advance,” Marcus said. “We’re the far right of the line, so our flank should line up on the Pale. Colonel Blackstream, that’s you. Colonel Giforte, the First Regiment will be skirmishing in front. Colonel Sevran, you’ll be on our left. General Warus’ division is next in line, so make sure to maintain contact.”

He drew their attention to the map. The field on which the battle would be fought—​always assuming there was a battle, of course—​was roughly triangular, a wedge formed by the convergence of two rivers. The top was the wide, deep Pale, uncrossable except at a bridge. The bottom was the smaller Daater, narrower but still a significant barrier. The city of Alves with its fortifications occupied the tip of the wedge, pointing west. The open end of the triangle was held by Kurot’s army, stretching in a line from Satinvol on the Pale to the Daater. Somewhere in that narrowing triangle, Janus’ army was waiting for them.

On the map, a position somewhat ahead of the line was marked in pencil. That was where Val’s Third Division had made camp the night before. They’d marched farther than expected, surprised by the lack of resistance. Now they were dangerously overextended, and Marcus was glad Kurot was moving quickly to bring the rest of the army up in support. He tapped the map with his finger.

“We’re to advance into line with the Third Division, then hold position and wait for orders.” He looked around the room at the colonels. “General Kurot knows we fought hard yesterday, and he’s planning to make the main effort with his left.” The two divisions there, under de Manzet, hadn’t fired a shot the day before. “Our job is just going to be to hold the line and keep Janus’ left in play. No heroics, understand?”

“We seem to be stretched a little thin,” Blackstream said, frowning at the map. “Kurot hasn’t left much of a reserve.”

“He hasn’t got a choice,” Sevran said. “It’s a wide front, and he has to cover it or else risk Janus slipping past.”

“It’ll narrow as we advance,” Erdine said. “We’ll be fine.”

“None of that is our concern,” Marcus said. “Let General Kurot worry about it. We need to make sure everything goes well here. You should all have the written copies of your orders. Any questions?”

There was a brief silence.

“Well, then,” Marcus said. “Let’s get moving.”

*

Dawn broke to find the division on the move, long columns winding southwest, with the baggage train still packing up the camp behind them. Erdine’s horsemen were out front, probing for the enemy, and behind them was the Girls’ Own, sweeping through the fields in skirmish order.

Marcus, riding beside Cyte, was glad to see that yesterday’s fighting hadn’t cracked the division’s discipline. Despite the casualties, and the fatigue the soldiers had to feel, their formations were clean and they made good time. It helped that the sun was out and the mud had finally started to dry. While the Girls’ Own were spread out, picking their way through harvested fields and over the drystone walls that separated them, the other three regiments stuck to the Alves-​Satinvol road, which ran more or less parallel to the river.

For the moment there was no sign of the enemy. Marcus kept looking across the river, expecting to see troops on the move there, but either the Pale was too wide or there was nothing to see. There was no sign of Alves yet, either. The only other force he could see was Fitz Warus’ First Division, advancing roughly in the same direction a mile or two to Marcus’ left. That was heartening, too. Not that he’d had any doubt about Fitz’ punctuality, of course, but it was always good to know the allies who were supposed to be covering your flanks were actually in place.

“Do you really think there’ll be a fight today, sir?” Cyte said.

“You doubt it?” Marcus said, looking back at her. “The enemy certainly showed willing at Satinvol.”

“If Kurot is right, then we’ve got Janus cornered.” She shrugged. “I suppose that just seems a little too easy.”

“Even Janus makes mistakes, Captain,” Marcus said. Though, truth be told, he’d been thinking the same thing. “But let’s be careful anyway.”

By nine in the morning, it was clear the day would be hot, a last breath of summer as fall wore on. The advance was leisurely, with regular halts for water. Kurot hadn’t expressed any urgency, and after their exertions yesterday Marcus didn’t want to overstrain his soldiers. Still, he found himself fretting. When the smoke from the Third Division’s camp became visible beyond Fitz, he breathed a sigh of relief. His biggest worry had been that Janus would take the chance to snap at Val while he was stuck out on a limb.

“Come on,” he told Cyte. “We’re going to see General Solwen. If the enemy have been up to anything, he’ll know the latest.”

Barking a brief order putting Abby in command until he returned, Marcus turned his horse up a convenient farm track, threading between stone walls and making his way parallel to the front. Cyte followed him, as usual much more comfortable in the saddle. They got stuck briefly at a junction clogged by First Division baggage wagons, but after a bit of swearing on the part of the sergeant directing traffic, a passage was cleared. Another back​country trail led up to where the Third Division had spent the night.

“Odd,” Cyte said, as they rode closer.

“What’s odd?”

“Scouts.” She nodded at a pair of cavalrymen, carbines in hand, sitting on their horses in the middle of a field. “Seems a waste of manpower to have scouts facing east.”

“Val can be a little paranoid,” Marcus said. “Besides, he doesn’t know for sure when the rest of us will turn up. You’re not the only one who worries about Janus trying something tricky.” He waved at the pair of troopers, who didn’t seem to notice.

The Third Division’s four regiments were still forming up around their camp, soldiers filing into formation, the regimental flags snapping in the slight breeze. Sentries had spotted Marcus and Cyte, and a small delegation of officers accompanied by a couple of troopers mounted up and came out to meet them. Marcus didn’t see Val among them.

He’s busy. Got a late start, as usual. Marcus looked back at Cyte again. She was watching the approaching riders with an odd expression. Something seems...

Marcus looked closer, and felt the blood drain from his face.

The banners are wrong. Not the flags themselves, which were just the usual Vordanai eagles, but the banner staffs. Val, peacock that he sometimes was, had paid out of his own pocket for bronze-​banded staffs with silver caps before the Murnskai campaign had begun. All four regiments here were holding ordinary wooden staffs.

He looked back at the approaching party. There was a captain and two lieutenants, none of whom he recognized. He didn’t know every officer in the Third Division by sight, but he was familiar with most of the members of Val’s staff. So where are they?

This isn’t the Third Division.

The simplicity of the ruse took his breath away. But why not? Both sides of the war used the same uniforms, the same flags. From a distance it was impossible to tell one body of men from another. And anyone who gets up close...

“Cyte,” Marcus hissed under his breath. When she didn’t look around, he repeated it a little louder. “Cyte, keep looking ahead.”

Sir? Cyte mouthed, eyes locked.

“When I say go, I want you to turn your horse around and head back the way we came, as fast as you can. If we get separated, head for General Kurot’s command post.”

She nodded, very slightly, and didn’t ask why. Perfect.

They were about fifty yards from the oncoming group of riders. Marcus loosened his pistol in its holster.

“Go!” he shouted, sawing back on the reins.

His horse objected, bucking, before he got it under control. Cyte, slightly behind him, turned in a smooth circle, accelerating rapidly up to a canter. Marcus pulled his pistol, aimed in the general direction of the approaching officers, and fired. At fifty yards, on the back of a bucking horse, they might as well have been on the moon, but the flash and bang threw them into confusion for a few moments. Once he had his mount headed in the right direction, he applied his spurs.

Despite his instructions, Cyte had slowed long enough to let him catch up, and she came up to gallop only when he drew alongside. Behind him, he could hear shouts of alarm, and then a bellow.

“Stop them! Fire!”

A half dozen carbines went off at once, and Marcus ducked instinctively. He could hear the zip of balls, but nothing came close. A man on a galloping horse was a hard target. They’re going to have to try to ride us down. He looked over his shoulder, trying to assess whether pursuit was forming up—

“General!” Cyte shouted.

Marcus looked forward again to see the two cavalry troopers they’d passed earlier pounding out of the field and onto the road. Now he understood why they were there, and he swore as he fumbled for his saber. The weapon was designed to be used on horseback, but Marcus hadn’t been, and he barely got the sword drawn without dropping the reins. A trooper had swung in behind him, raising his carbine. Marcus jerked his horse’s head to one side in an inelegant dodge as the weapon went off, a cloud of smoke briefly enveloping the galloping trooper. The man dropped back, controlling his horse with his knees in a way Marcus could only envy, and drew his own sword.

Cyte, up ahead, rode alongside the second trooper, weaving as he leveled his carbine. The soldier fired, and Cyte dropped sideways. For a heart-​stopping moment Marcus thought she’d been hit, but she’d only leaned over, hanging off the side of her mount like a trick rider. She swung back up, veering away from her attacker as he drew his sword.

Oh, damn. Cyte’s weapon of choice was a slim rapier—​appropriate for her physique, but practically useless on horseback. Marcus dug his spurs in harder, trying to catch up to her, but his suffering mount was already giving him all the speed she had. Then the trooper behind him closed in, and Marcus didn’t have time to worry. It required all his attention to ride and parry at the same time, steel ringing off steel once, twice, three times before the soldier pulled to one side.

The other trooper came at Cyte, weapon raised. As he swung, she cut in front of him, forcing his mount to stumble in the moment his attack left him off-​balance. One of his legs came free of his stirrup, and the trooper dropped his sword and clung desperately to his saddle as he tried to right himself. His horse slowed, falling behind.

Cyte dropped back herself, toward Marcus, drawing her slim weapon. Marcus moved toward the remaining trooper before he noticed her, and sabers clashed again. With his clumsy sword work Marcus couldn’t maintain the offensive for long, and the cavalryman was getting the better of him when Cyte came alongside and slid her rapier in between his ribs. He went stiff as she whipped the sword free, then slumped forward over his mount’s neck, the horse slowing in confusion. I guess you can use a rapier from horseback if you know what you’re doing.

“How’d you know?” Cyte said, sheathing her weapon. Marcus didn’t even try that trick at a full gallop.

“Know what?” he said, feeling a little dazed.

“That General Solwen had turned traitor!”

Marcus shook his head. “He hasn’t!” It felt obscurely important to defend Val’s honor. In that moment, it first occurred to Marcus that his friend was probably dead, or at the very least a captive. His throat went tight. “I’ll explain later! General Kurot needs to know before it’s too late.”

*

By the time they reached Kurot, perched on the crest of the tallest hill in the area, it very much looked like it might be too late.

From the slope, they could see the whole battlefield stretching out before them. Marcus could understand why Kurot had chosen this spot, although it was a little far from the line. It offered an unparalleled view, from Marcus’ own troops on the far right to de Manzet’s on the left. And, directly ahead of them, the camp of the “Third Division.”

Marcus’ escape must have told whoever was in command there that the game was up. His four regiments were forming up and turning to their right, ready to descend on de Manzet’s line. At the same time, more blue columns were advancing from the front, silver eagle flags fluttering. De Manzet was about to be under attack from two directions, every commander’s worst nightmare.

“General!” Marcus reined to a halt on the hilltop, his horse blowing. Kurot was surrounded by his staff, staring through a spyglass at the surprise attack below, looking from the map to the terrain and back again in consternation. A corporal came over to take Marcus’ reins, and he got down, legs aching. He gave his mare an apologetic look. “Take care of her, will you?”

The corporal nodded and led the exhausted horse away. Marcus hurried in Kurot’s direction. “General Kurot!”

“General d’Ivoire.” Kurot was staring through a spyglass. “I’m surprised to find you away from your men.”

“I went to the Third Division, sir, to confirm that General Solwen understood today’s plan.” Out of the corner of his eye, Marcus saw Cyte come up to his side.

“Ah.” Kurot lowered the spyglass. “That explains the timing of his treachery. I daresay he’s sprung his trap a little early.”

“It’s not him, sir. That’s not the Third Division. They must have been ambushed, and Janus snuck his own men into place.”

“That’s impossible,” Kurot snapped, then frowned slightly. “He’d have to know our plans in detail. If someone is feeding him information—” The general’s brow furrowed for a moment, and then his expression cleared. “No matter. Whether it is the Third Division or a set of impostors, the damage is done, and it is for us to handle it.”

“Tell de Manzet to retreat,” Marcus said. “Give-Em-Hell can cover him with an attack on the flanking division, and Fitz and I will fall back to match. We’ll form a solid line to meet whatever Janus has coming.”

Kurot’s face darkened. “I appreciate the advice, General, but I believe I know my business here.” He raised the glass again. “If we retreat, without the Third Division we cannot hope to seal the gap between the rivers. Janus can maneuver around us and escape.”

“But—”

“Furthermore,” Kurot said, “his forces must necessarily be low on supplies, as we are now in possession of their lines of communication. This has the feel of a last, desperate gambit.”

It doesn’t. This is how Janus fights his battles—​with every means at his disposal. Marcus shook his head. Kurot isn’t listening. He straightened up.

“What do you want me to do, sir?”

“Push forward. I will detach General Stokes to your assistance. You and General Warus are to break through whatever’s in front of you and advance to the Daater and the gates of Alves.”

“What about de Manzet?”

Kurot clearly didn’t like being questioned, but he grated, “He will be ordered to hold his ground, and the artillery reserve will support him. Once you get in the rear of the forces opposing him, they will be compelled to surrender.”

“I don’t think Janus will surrender—”

“He will have to,” Kurot snapped. “He has made his move. It is a clever one; I admit it. But I have the countermove, and once he sees that he is outmatched, he will be compelled to give in. Even Janus bet Vhalnich is not immune to the rules of war!”

“Yes, sir,” Marcus said. God save us from clever officers. All he wanted now was to get back to his men before things got worse. “Understood, sir. I will convey your instructions to General Warus.”

“Please do.” Kurot stared down at the developing battle. “You are dismissed, General.”

The walk to the base of the hill was hard on Marcus’ aching thighs, burning with the unexpected strain of the chase. They got new mounts for the ride back to the Second Division, and Marcus could swear his was glaring at him suspiciously. Maybe bad news gets around, even among horses. He patted the animal, and it chuffed.

The distant rattle of musketry, broken by the deeper boom of cannon, rolled in from below. The battle was getting started.

“Sir?” Cyte said. “Do you think Kurot’s plan will work?”

“It’s our job to make it work, Captain.” Marcus sighed. “If we can.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Thanks, by the way. For saving my neck back there.”

Cyte grinned. “You’re welcome, sir.”

*

Shortly after he returned to his own troops, Marcus gathered the colonels and sent a messenger to summon Fitz. He explained the problem, and Kurot’s plan. Fitz raised one eyebrow, speaking volumes, but nobody objected. As he’d told Cyte, that wasn’t the way things were done.

“Start pushing ahead,” Marcus told Abby as the meeting broke up. “If you run into anything solid, fall back on the other regiments and wait for orders. When Give-Em-Hell gets here, we’ll see if we can press a little harder. And stay in contact with Fitz’ people on your left.”

“We’ll handle it,” Abby said. “Don’t worry.”

And they did. The Girls’ Own fanned out, pressing ahead of the columns of the other regiments. Before long, scattered musketry rose out of the gently rolling fields and stone walls, enemy skirmishers putting up a racket. It wasn’t a serious effort to stop the advance, only slow it, and as the Girls’ Own came on, the opposition fell back. Marcus told Colonel Erdine to assist, and his squadrons rode out to back up the line, charging at knots of the enemy whenever they were flushed from cover. Behind this running battle, the three columns of the formed regiments kept moving, and by watching the smoke on his left Marcus could tell Fitz was keeping pace.

They were making ground, not quickly but steadily, and only a trickle of casualties was coming back to the aid stations. Marcus watched from whatever vantage he could find, accompanied by Cyte and a swarm of young soldiers ready to carry messages. For the most part, though, he didn’t have to interfere. Which is perfect. The less I have to do, the better.

They all heard Give-Em-Hell coming before they saw him, the ground drumming with the sound of thousands of hooves. As dust rose from the road behind them, a small group of horsemen approached. Feeling a little anxious, Marcus turned his spyglass on them and was relieved to see the familiar, diminutive figure of the cavalry commander in the lead. A few minutes later, Give-Em-Hell reined up and slipped out of his saddle, accompanied by several officers Marcus didn’t recognize. The cavalry had been reinforced and reorganized since the Murnskai campaign, though Marcus knew they hadn’t completely made good their heavy losses.

“Good to see you, General,” Give-Em-Hell said. His bowlegs gave him a bit of a swagger. “Nice day for it, eh?”

“Better than rain, anyway,” Marcus said. “Did General Kurot explain things?”

“Only that I was to come to your assistance,” Give-Em-Hell said. “And that something’s happened to Val and the Third.”

Marcus had been doing his best to put that out of his mind. “That about sums it up. We’re driving on to Alves.”

“Excellent!” the cavalryman roared. “Give me a few minutes to get my lads together, and we’ll give ’em hell!”

For once, the horseman’s straightforward approach was entirely appropriate. Marcus nodded, pointing. Up ahead, the line of smoke that marked the front was climbing a low ridge.

“According to the map, that’s the last real obstacle between here and the city outworks,” he said. “Once Abby clears it, take your heavies up there and charge down the other side. If there’s nothing in the way, don’t stop until you get to Alves. If you run into squares, hold back, and I’ll send some artillery to support you.”

Give-Em-Hell nodded. “These rebels haven’t got any horsemen worth a damn. We’ll give them a good kicking.”

“I want your light cavalry over on Fitz’ left,” Marcus said. “Make sure nothing comes at us from that direction.”

That open flank had been gnawing at Marcus’ mind. His right was hard against the river Pale, but his left—​the left-​hand side of Fitz’ line—​was in the air, facing the gap where Val’s Third Division had been. The enemy who’d replaced those troops were supposed to be fully engaged with de Manzet, but he didn’t want them turning about and suddenly hitting Fitz’ line end-on. We’re getting dangerously strung out. It was an inevitable consequence of Kurot’s orders, and the same would have to apply to Janus’ forces, but to an experienced commander it felt like an itch he couldn’t quite reach, a faint premonition of danger. Sending a division of light cavalry to cover the gap was applying a flimsy patch at best, but it would at least serve to warn him if things were about to go sour.

“Easy enough,” Give-Em-Hell said. “Though they’ll be unhappy to miss out on the fun.”

“There’ll be fun enough for everyone by the time we’re done,” Marcus said.

“Right!” Give-Em-Hell roared, grinning hugely. He spun around and scrambled back on his horse. With his officers in tow, he headed back down the road, toward where the first squadrons were just coming into view. They were cuirassiers, intimidatingly big men on big horses, with steel helmets and polished breastplates like medieval knights. They sent up a cheer at the sight of their commander approaching, and Give-Em-Hell acknowledged them with a wave.

Marcus caught Cyte smiling after them. “You’ve worked with the general before, I take it?”

“Yes, sir. At Jirdos.”

It was easy to underestimate Give-Em-Hell, with his short stature and manic attitude; Marcus had, for years. But in his element, with a proper cavalry force behind him instead of the crippled remnant the Colonials had had, he was formidable. Yet another talent Janus picked off the garbage heap.

Marcus relocated his command post to the ridge, in the yard of an abandoned farmhouse, as the heavy cavalry began their attack. It was an impressive array, nearly four thousand horsemen in flashing armor, swords drawn, riding downhill in three successive lines. They passed through the Girls’ Own, who sent up a wild cheer, and bore down on the line of enemy skirmishers. There was no question of trying to hold this back. The blue-​uniformed soldiers broke and ran, or hunkered down into cover. The Girls’ Own followed on the heels of the cavalry as fast as they could, taking prisoners as enemy soldiers who’d sheltered under hedges poked their heads up.

So far, so good. From here Marcus had an excellent view. He could see the hill on which Kurot had waited, well behind them now, and the smoke rising from where de Manzet’s battle was continuing. Ahead was the Pale, and—​not too distant now—​the city of Alves. He could see into its streets: tall, narrow buildings, with church spires rising above them, silver double circles shining in the sun. Closer to them were the fortifications, including a modern star-​shaped earthen rampart with outlying ravelins, walls sloped to deflect cannon-​fire and studded with embrasures where its own guns could fire out.

Further to the left was the twisty, narrow line of the Daater. This held his attention because he could see troops moving along the river road, not skirmishers but heavy, formed columns of infantry with accompanying artillery. He guessed there were two regiments, maybe more—​most of a division, at least, apparently marching away from Alves and toward the ongoing battle with de Manzet. They seemed to be in some confusion, and Marcus could readily imagine why, scouts frantically reporting the charging cavalrymen.

“There’s no camp,” Cyte said, coming up beside him.

Marcus frowned. There was nothing to indicate where Janus’ troops had spent the night. “Maybe they packed everything.”

“We should still be able to see where they were. You know what a campsite looks like after we leave.”

Marcus nodded slowly. “You’re right.” Wherever they’d sheltered last night, it hadn’t been on the field. And that means... “Alves has fallen.”

“Oh, damn,” Cyte said. She shaded her eyes and looked down at the advancing horsemen. “Should I send a messenger to Give-Em-Hell?”

“Do it,” Marcus said. “Hurry.”

Cyte swung astride her horse and rode down the ridge. Marcus raised his spyglass again, tracking the Pale as it passed behind the city and beneath its fortifications. It was difficult to see through the clutter, but—

There. He didn’t have a view of the bridge footing itself, but a section of the span was visible, and a steady stream of wagons was passing across it. Brass balls of the fucking Beast.

That meant the worst-​case scenario, the one Kurot had dismissed yesterday, had happened: Alves had not only fallen to the enemy, but had fallen so quickly that the defenders hadn’t had time to demolish the crucial bridge. Which means all the fighting we did yesterday was for nothing. Janus already had another crossing for his supplies, closer and more convenient. He only defended Satinvol because he knew he could bleed us.

That, in turn, meant that de Manzet would be facing not opponents short on ammunition after a long siege, but fresh, well-​armed troops coming at him from two sides.

“Rider!” Marcus shouted. “Two of you!”

A young man and a woman hurried over, both wearing lieutenant’s stripes. Marcus turned to them and spoke fast and quiet.

“Ride to General Kurot. You’ll have to backtrack and swing wide. Tell him Alves is in enemy hands and they’ve got the bridge. We are not going to be able to attack Janus from behind.” Any attempt to do so would be inviting a strike at his own rear from whatever troops remained in the city.

The pair looked on with wide eyes.

“Tell him I advise—” Marcus stopped, shook his head, then said, “Tell him I request permission to withdraw and extend my left to link up with de Manzet. I should be able to take some of the pressure off him. If we can hang on until nightfall, we can pull back a little farther and stabilize the line. You’ve got all that?”

They both nodded, the girl swallowing hard.

“As soon as you get there, send two riders back with a report on what’s happening, and then wait for Kurot’s response. Go!”

They went, scrambling down the back side of the ridge. Ahead, plumes of smoke rose from the city walls, followed moments later by the dull boom of guns. Give-Em-Hell’s advancing cavalry halted, milling in confusion, as what was supposed to be a friendly fortress opened fire on them. At least they didn’t try to bait them close. At that distance, the damage to the cavalry would be slight. Unless Give-Em-Hell does something really, really stupid...

Marcus held his breath. But even the redoubtable General Stokes apparently drew the line at asking his troopers to ride against a fortress in the face of canister fire. Instead, the cuirassiers turned about smartly and fell back the way they’d come, until they were out of range of the heavy guns on the walls. Thank God.

To the south, the troops he’d glimpsed along the Daater were forming up in line but so far showed no signs of advancing. Marcus’ and Fitz’ divisions were out on a limb, with the Pale on one side, hostile Alves and that line ahead of them, and enemy on the other side with just a light cavalry screen to stop them. The only option was to fall back, but Marcus didn’t dare, not yet. He was, very roughly, where Kurot had wanted him, and if the general proceeded on that assumption, moving out of position would be a disaster.

What I wouldn’t give for a flik-​flik line right now. Marcus looked back down the hill, in the direction his messengers had departed, and waited.

*

When riders arrived, it wasn’t from General Kurot, but from the left. Fitz Warus in person led a small group of light cavalry troopers, surrounding a bedraggled-​looking lieutenant with the insignia of Kurot’s staff. Marcus hurried down to meet them, grabbing Cyte along the way.

“General,” Fitz said, swinging off his horse. He waved the troopers away, and only the lieutenant dismounted.

“Fitz.” Marcus nodded at the lieutenant. “Have we got new orders?”

“Not exactly.” Fitz was generally the definition of imperturbable, and Marcus didn’t know if he’d ever seen the younger man truly rattled. The grim tone in his voice spoke volumes. “You’d better hear this.”

Marcus exchanged a look with Cyte. The lieutenant came forward, face pale.

“Th-the last I saw General Kurot, he and the rest of his staff were falling back northward. Enemy infantry broke de Manzet’s line along the Daater and pushed in his flank. A cavalry charge came within a few minutes of getting us all.” He shook his head. “I got separated. I thought I’d had it when your cavalry found me.”

“How bad is it?” Cyte said. “Is de Manzet still in action?”

“Bad,” the lieutenant said. “At least one whole division is gone. The Eighth was still fighting, last I saw, but they were close to surrounded.” He looked on the verge of tears. “You have to attack, General d’Ivoire. Turn and break through to de Manzet.”

Too late. Much too late. That was what Marcus had suggested to Kurot hours ago, catching the false Third Division between hammer and anvil. Kurot had sent him in search of a larger victory, though, and now the chance was gone, the anvil broken. And we are well and truly fucked.

“Someone get this man some water,” he said aloud, and a corporal jumped to obey. Once the lieutenant had been led away, Marcus called for a map and unrolled the small, leather-​backed version he used in the field. It didn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know, but he stared at it anyway, in hopes of some kind of revelation.

“This is bad,” Cyte said.

“That,” Marcus said, “is a considerable understatement.”

“Indeed,” Fitz murmured.

Kurot had expected to put them across Janus’ supply line. Instead, with the entire left flank of the army swept away, Janus was now squarely astride theirs, between Marcus’ troops and the road back to the Illifen passes and Vordan City. It hadn’t even been a complicated trap, just a simple application of force at the enemy’s weakest point. Damn Kurot. I knew he was too clever for his own good.

“Under other circumstances,” Fitz said, “I’d say this was the time to start asking the enemy commander for terms of surrender.”

“No,” Marcus said. Raesinia is counting on me. I’m not giving up yet. “Not unless there’s no other choice. Are you facing any pressure yet?”

“Nothing substantial,” Fitz said. “But my flank is open. There’s nothing stopping them from circling around and attacking from three sides.”

“So we have to move before they can get themselves organized,” Marcus said.

“Move where?” Cyte said. “You can’t be thinking of attacking the city.”

“And they’ll be waiting for us to attack toward de Manzet,” Fitz added. “Those troops along the river will pounce as soon as we turn our backs.”

“So we hit them first,” Marcus said. “Push right through them and cross the Daater. Then turn about and hold the line of the river against anyone who tries to follow.”

Cyte frowned at the map. “Is there even a crossing?”

“Not a bridge,” Marcus admitted. “But there’s a couple of fords marked here.”

“We’ll never get wagons across,” Fitz said. “And even the guns will be difficult.”

“Forget the wagons. Once we’re past the river, we can get fresh supplies from the towns to the south. Janus hasn’t reached them yet. Their depots should still be full.”

“Even if we manage it,” Cyte said, “we won’t hold the river line. Not for long. If nothing else, Janus can march down the Pale and outflank us.”

“We’d have to fall back south,” Fitz said.

“Exactly,” Marcus said. “We’ll retreat, as slowly as we can manage. As long as we keep him in play, Janus can’t turn away and head for Vordan City without splitting his forces. That gives Queen Raesinia time to put together a defense.”

Cyte shook her head. “You really think she can come up with something?”

“There are still troops coming in from the frontiers, recruits in training.” Marcus gritted his teeth. “I’m not giving up unless she says so. This is the best we can do to help her.”

“I agree,” Fitz said. “But there’s still at least a division in our way.”

“Then let’s get started.”

*

Some hasty reorganization followed. The Girls’ Own, driven by Abby and the shouts of dozens of frantic sergeants, double-​timed back past the rest of the division, shifting the skirmish screen to the rear. A detachment went to the baggage troops, stripping the wagons of everything that could be carried and freeing the horses for use as pack animals. The light cavalry of the reserve remained on the left, sending regular reports on the steadily diminishing sounds of battle from the direction of de Manzet’s divisions.

One of Fitz’ regiments was assigned to the left as well, forming up to watch for any attempt by enemy infantry to push inward from that direction. Blackstream’s regiment performed a similar duty on the right, facing the walls of Alves. That left five regiments—​Sevran’s, de Koste’s, and three of Fitz’—​to push forward. Opposing them were three regiments, which Marcus’ scouts reported as being from the old Tenth Division. Marcus knew the commander, General Beaumartin, only distantly, but he wondered if the man was still in charge or if he’d been replaced with someone more pliable. Or is he doing the job with glowing red eyes?

Ten battalions against six. Not ideal odds, for an attack against a prepared enemy. Marcus’ best asset was Give-Em-Hell and his horsemen. If he can be persuaded to stick to the plan. He’d given his orders, with particular emphasis on when to charge and when not to charge, and now all he could do was hope they’d be carried out.

There was no convenient hill close enough to get a good view, so Marcus’ escort had commandeered a farmhouse, breaking down the door to find it empty. Marcus couldn’t help but wince at the tromp of muddy boots over the neat rugs and well-​swept floorboards. Upstairs, one of the two small bedrooms held a crib piled with stuffed animals, while the other was overrun with toy wooden soldiers. He wondered, briefly, where the family had gone. Alves, probably. But with Alves fallen to the enemy, who knew what was safe anymore?

Cyte found the trapdoor that led to the roof, and climbed the ladder ahead of him. The slate tiles were steeply sloped, forcing them to crawl on hands and knees to get to the edge. Then they sat, legs dangling, and Marcus produced his spyglass. In the yard below, a half dozen riders waited, ready to relay his messages.

At this point, though, that was mostly a formality. Trying to exert moment-to-moment control over an attack this size, with more than ten thousand men involved, was an exercise in futility. That was the job of the regimental and battalion commanders, and all he could do was trust that they did it properly. Marcus spent half his time looking north and east, waiting for the trouble he knew would come when Janus’ victorious troops sorted themselves out and turned in his direction.

Artillery on both sides had already opened fire. The enemy had at least two batteries, smoke billowing from where the cannon were set in front of the infantry. Marcus’ five regiments were arranged in a line, each with one battalion behind the other. For the moment they were still in column, the companies of each battalion stacked up one after the other for easy marching.

Archer’s guns responded, blasting away at the enemy from in between the advancing columns. As at Satinvol, he kept half of them on the move while the other half fired, gradually closing the distance. That meant his fire was less effective, though, compounding the effect of the enemy’s thinner formation. Columns might move faster, but when a plunging cannonball skipped through one, it could sweep away a dozen men at once, while the strung-​out line the enemy had adopted meant a hit was far less devastating. Guns were more vulnerable on the move, too—​Marcus saw one of Archer’s six-​pounder teams take a hit, the solid shot slamming through the horses and leaving gory wreckage in its wake.

A cloud of dust announced the arrival of Give-Em-Hell and his cuirassiers, their wedge-​shaped formations pounding onto the battlefield on the extreme right. He was advancing slowly, keeping pace with the infantry. One by one, the enemy gunners shifted their fire—​massed cavalry was a tempting target, even easier to hit than infantry in column. Balls crashed and bounced among the horsemen, and broken men and mounts began to litter the ground behind their advance, like a slow drip of blood from a wound. Injured men staggered away, looking for help, while broken animals ran wild or screamed their agony, their cries drowned under the ongoing cannonade.

Marcus felt his admiration for Give-Em-Hell ratchet up another notch. It couldn’t have been easy to restrain himself under that fire, but the cavalry attack would be useless if it was pressed too early, before the toiling infantry had the chance to get into range. The horsemen continued their slow, measured advance, matching their pace to that of their comrades in the ranks.

Smoke obscured much of the enemy line, but there was enough of a breeze that Marcus could get an intermittent view. The dull boom and the flash of the guns changed timbre as the infantry reached four or five hundred yards and the artillery changed to canister, switching targets back from the cavalry pressing on the flanks. Sprays of musket balls cut swathes from the oncoming battalions, leaving corpses piled in mounds of blue. The ranks tightened up, Marcus’ mind filling in the monotonous cries of the sergeants to close the gaps. Nearly there.

With Fitz’ customary timing, his battalions halted to deploy into line, and Sevran and de Koste followed suit. Companies fanned out, marching sideways and then forward to convert the squat column into a long, thin formation that could bring maximum firepower to bear on the enemy. As they went through their evolution, canister and solid shot continued to rain down. Archer’s guns moved forward while the infantry was halted, and they switched to canister themselves, spraying shot across the enemy line. They’re taking hits, too, Marcus had to remind himself. It was always easier to see the effect on your own side than on the enemy.

He glanced at Cyte. She was looking to the east, where the Girls’ Own was watching the rear.

“Anything?” he said.

“A little fighting, by the smoke,” Cyte said. “Nothing serious yet.”

Marcus nodded grimly and turned away. All right, Give-Em-Hell. This is it.

At the moment the infantry started to move forward again, Give-Em-Hell’s men spurred their mounts, plunging ahead. They swept forward from the right of the infantry in a diagonal line, spreading out into separate wedges by squadron. Blasts of canister emptied saddles and sent horses crashing down in crimson ruin, but the momentum of the charge was too much to stop. As the cuirassiers closed, the cannoneers abandoned their pieces, scrambling back to take shelter among the infantry.

Well trained as they were, the enemy infantry formed themselves into squares, each battalion closing up into a rectangular diamond shape bristling on all sides with muskets and fixed bayonets. The cavalry flowed around these tight formations, unable to press their charge home into a wall of steel, and the rattle of muskets joined the sound of cannon as the squares opened fire. More cuirassiers fell, washing over the squares like a wave around standing rocks, then falling back in much the same fashion. The cavalry retreated in good order, though losses had clearly been heavy, and they’d failed to make any impression on the squares. Give-Em-Hell’s men rallied outside of musket range, squadrons forming up again under the shouts of their officers.

The time they’d bought had been enough for the infantry to cover three hundred yards. As the enemy cannoneers hurried to return to their pieces, the lead friendly battalions halted and delivered a volley, scything through the artillerymen and sending many of them running back the way they’d come. Once they’d reloaded, the infantry continued to advance, until they were within easy musket shot of the enemy squares. Then, as the two formations faced off, the true killing began.

Marcus had been in this kind of fight before. It was like living in a nightmare, the world obscured by smoke, the enemy visible only by the flashes of their muskets. Men fell, shrieking or crying or with hardly a sound. There was no avoiding death, no dodging or parrying, just the mechanical drill of load, shoulder, and fire, hoping like hell that the enemy broke and ran.

Thanks to the cavalry charge, however, Marcus’ troops had a distinct advantage in firepower. They already had more battalions engaged, and the enemy were formed in squares, with half their weapons pointing uselessly to the rear. The opposing battalion commanders could try to re-form their units under fire, a difficult task at the best of times, but they risked opening themselves up to another sudden charge from Give-Em-Hell, whose men hovered off to one side waiting for the opportunity. To make matters worse, Archer’s guns were close now, slamming double canister into the tightly packed squares.

They didn’t have things entirely their own way—​one of Fitz’ battalions broke, formation disintegrating as its men fled for the rear—​but in the end the pressure told. One by one the squares began to waver and then to give way, walls of bayonets faltering as soldiers ran from the unrelenting storm of shot. Marcus watched them go, and found himself smiling as he mouthed words along with the distant cavalry commander.

“All right, boys, give ’em hell!”

The cuirassiers swept forward, crashing among the disorganized, routing enemy to complete their destruction, slashing left and right with their sabers. There wasn’t much room for the panicking soldiers to run, with the river Daater so close behind them. Where they bunched up, the cavalry surrounded them, and Marcus saw large groups throwing down their weapons in surrender.

“Sir,” Cyte said. “I think it’s starting.”

He turned around. Powder smoke was rising all along the line in the rear, and the sound of artillery, so lately fallen silent ahead of them, was now taken up behind.

“Saints and martyrs,” Marcus muttered. “It would have been nice to have a little rest.”

*

This late in the season, the Daater was wide but slow. Even still, what was marked on the map as a ford was barely shallower than the rest of the river, and the scouts Marcus sent across were wet to their armpits when they reached the other side.

“Not going to be easy,” Fitz said.

They were standing on the riverbank, with Give-Em-Hell, Cyte, and a small escort of troopers. The crossing was a little upriver from where the fighting had been, but there were still blue-​uniformed bodies scattered here and there, cut down by the cavalry in the pursuit. Musketry cracked and rattled behind them, as the Girls’ Own gave ground.

“We need to make sure nobody gets ahead of us.” Marcus shook out the map. “There’s a bridge upriver at Mezk, and another crossing of the Pale down at Josper. Our only safety is going to come from staying far enough ahead of Janus’ army that they can’t surround us.” He looked at Give-Em-Hell. “Pull your light cavalry back and put them across the river as fast as you can. Split them into two divisions and have them block those two bridges. Destroy them if you can, but if they’re defended, just block the crossing.” He shook his head. “I know I’m asking a lot of you and your men. Again.”

“My boys are up to it,” Give-Em-Hell said, eyes twinkling. “What about the heavy divisions?”

“They cross next and form up on the far bank. If any enemy make it to the crossing—” Marcus grinned. “You know what to do.”

“Right! Understood, sir.”

Marcus turned to Cyte. “Send to Archer. I want his guns across as soon as the cavalry is clear. If they get stuck, use men from the infantry to help haul them, whatever it takes. Set up on the far side to support the crossing.”

That wouldn’t hold for long. Two batteries of cannon could make the crossing hot, but Janus could bring up enough guns of his own to smother them with fire. The majority of the Army of the Republic’s cannon had been with the army reserve, and that had been supporting de Manzet. If Janus captured the whole thing, he won’t be short of artillery.

“After the guns,” he went on, “the infantry start crossing, carrying our supplies.” Some gear—​tents and uniforms, sealed barrels of salted meat—​could stand a ducking. Those would be easiest. Others, especially powder, the men would have to carry above their heads to keep dry. “We’ll contract the perimeters as we get men across. The Girls’ Own will bring up the rear.”

Cyte nodded and hurried off. Give-Em-Hell was already dictating orders to his own officers. Marcus caught Fitz’ eye.

“Damned fine work, that last attack,” he said. “That could have been a lot worse.”

“Thank you, sir,” Fitz said. “I’ll pass that along to my men.” He paused. “How long do you plan to stay ahead of Janus?”

“As long as we can,” Marcus said. “We’ve got plenty of room to maneuver. How far is it to Enzport?”

“Three hundred fifty miles, give or take,” Fitz said.

“If he follows us that far, then we can surrender,” Marcus said. “But he won’t. Destroying this army won’t win him the war. He won’t let himself be distracted from the prize.”

Fitz nodded. Marcus looked down at the map again.

“God damn,” he muttered. “I feel like I’m back in Murnsk.” Retreating over another river, watching a wall of water bear down on me—

“You got your men out of that,” Fitz said. “You’ll get them out of this, too.”

“I didn’t get them all out,” Marcus said quietly. Not Andy, and not a lot of the others.

“At least this time,” Fitz said, “a flash flood seems unlikely.”

Marcus refrained from saying that it had seemed unlikely then, too. In any event, the weather showed no signs of supernatural meddling as the retreat went on. The light cavalry streamed past, a river of men on horseback, each squadron with a string of remounts bringing up the rear. They saluted or waved their carbines to Marcus as they went past. The heavy cavalry followed, splashing water dampening the battle-​stained cuirassiers’ brightly colored uniforms.

As he’d predicted, getting the guns across was the biggest headache. The river bottom was soft and muddy, and the small six-​pounders were submerged to the axle. Again and again, they got stuck and had to be hauled out by teams of heaving infantrymen with ropes. In the end, though, they lost only one, a twelve-​pounder whose axle snapped when it became inextricably mired in the mud. Marcus ordered it abandoned, and the retreat went on.

All this time, from the north, the sound of musketry got closer. Fitz ordered one of his regiments to disperse as skirmishers, to thicken the line of the Girls’ Own, while the rest of the troops made the slow crossing. It wasn’t long before the smoke of the running firefight came into view, then the soldiers themselves, men and women stopping to load, fire, and then run back to the next piece of cover as answering flashes came from the hedges and fencerows.

If Janus had possessed a good cavalry division, he might have been able to punch through the skirmish screen and strike at the vulnerable, disorganized troops making the crossing. But the cavalry reserve had remained loyal to Give-Em-Hell. Marcus kept a few squadrons of cuirassiers on the near bank, to counterattack if Janus decided to try something, but the assault never came. For the most part, the enemy seemed satisfied with their day’s work. As well they might be. At least two-​thirds of the Army of the Republic was scattered or captured, with the remaining third in full flight away from the capital.

The sun was sinking toward the horizon when the last of the infantry started the crossing. The wounded who could be moved had already been evacuated with the cutters. Those who couldn’t, or who weren’t expected to survive, had been left behind in the company of a few volunteers to surrender. Abby finally arrived, with the last few companies of her soldiers, as the sky flamed red. She had a bloody bandage on one arm and was coated from head to toe in powder grime.

“Sir!” She saluted despite her injury. “This is the last of us.”

Marcus looked over the few dozen women who accompanied her. There were a few men in cavalry uniforms, too, though their horses were nowhere to be seen.

“Time to put a river between us and them, I think,” Marcus said. “Are you all right to cross, or do you need to ride?”

Abby looked at the bandage on her arm and snorted. “I’m fine, sir. Cutter just a got a little overenthusiastic.” She hesitated. “You should know, sir. Colonel Erdine brought some of his men up to reinforce the line. He was hit while we were falling back. He’s... dead, sir.”

Erdine, the cocksure cavalryman with the plumed hat. Her lover. Marcus shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Goddamned gallant idiot,” Abby said, quiet enough that Marcus wasn’t certain he’d been supposed to hear. She took a deep breath and raised her voice. “All right! Everyone, over the river!”

Marcus waded across himself with the rest of them, the water warmer than he’d expected. On the other bank, they were lighting torches as the sun faded. Cannon were parked atop the riverbank, silent sentinels watching for anyone who might try to follow.

Marcus didn’t think they would, not here and not tonight. But they’ll come. And we’ll buy time.

I just hope Raesinia can do something with it.