Marcus

Once again, the Army of the Republic was on the march.

The halt at the palace had given them a chance to rest and resupply, and consequently their appearance was much improved from the worn, bedraggled soldiers that had staggered down the Pale one step ahead of Janus’ pursuing legions. Uniforms had been cleaned and stitched, cannon polished, horses groomed, and beards shaved. There were still the little touches that spoke of troops who’d been in combat—​extra weapons tucked away, coats patched and repatched; here and there a shako, bicorn, or other souvenir taken from a luckless enemy on some distant battlefield.

Winter rode with the Second Division, at the head of the Girls’ Own. She’d objected, since she wasn’t going to be in command, but Marcus had insisted. Seeing her back at the head of her troops did wonders for morale, and it was visible in the bearing of the men and women who followed her, though Marcus did see a few curious glances at her new uniform. They’ll figure it out eventually. Abby and Cyte both rode beside her.

The First Division, Fitz’ men, were already on the road, forming the vanguard for the day’s march. Light cavalry from Give-Em-Hell’s command scouted the route ahead, while his cuirassiers brought up the rear. Vordan City had been scoured for cavalry remounts, every military stable emptied and civilian animals pressed into service. A joke said that the city cabbies were now running in the traces of their own carriages rather than give up fares; Marcus hadn’t been back to the city to see if it was true. From the surrounding farms, more animals had been gathered, heavy draft and cart horses that were to pull the guns and caissons. Raesinia had promoted Archer to colonel and given him command of the artillery reserve, though the guns they’d pulled out of the arsenals and garrisons didn’t come close to making up for those they’d lost at Alves.

In the center of the column, between the artillery and the cuirassiers, came the volunteers. They marched in a straggling mob rather than a formation, and they had nothing like a uniform. But there were thousands of them, men and women both. The first of them had started turning up at the gates of Ohnlei as soon as the army had returned, and as rumor got out about Janus’ approach their numbers had grown greater and greater. Marcus was dubious of their combat value—​for one thing, there weren’t enough muskets to go around—​but his plan called for a great deal of digging, and he’d told Raesinia he wasn’t going to turn away anyone who could wield a shovel.

More civilians turned out to line the road as the long column wound away from Ohnlei. A few cheered, but most seemed content to watch, as though they wanted to be able to say they’d borne witness, one way or the other. It was nearly the same route the army had taken last time. Some of us have marched a hell of a long way to end up back where we started. This time, of course, they didn’t have nearly as far to go. The enemy was coming to them.

As usual, Marcus spent the majority of his time riding up and down the column, straightening out snarls. As marches went, this one was easygoing, with the weather fair but cold and the road solid, well-​packed earth. The new Third Division, formed from fresh recruits and the scrapings of the depots, caused the most trouble. The recruits had spent a few weeks parading around with their new muskets and uniforms, but hadn’t yet been through a serious march, while the garrison troops had mostly never served together and were constantly getting in one another’s way. Marcus had sorted out a half dozen arguments about seniority between prickly colonels. He’d promoted David Sevran, one of Winter’s colonels, to command the new formation, and Marcus was determined to give him all the support he could manage.

They halted outside the village of Bellaia, a picturesque little place right out of a romantic landscape painting. A small cluster of houses huddled around a stone church, its double-​circle spire gleaming as the sun set. The villagers made no appearance, and no wonder. Even reduced as it was, the army camp spread over a vast area, covering the fields outside of town like a horde of locusts. At least the harvest will be in already.

There’d be another half day’s march tomorrow, to the spot Marcus had identified on the map. It had no official name, but the locals apparently called it Bear Ridge, a gradual rise in the ground to a rocky, wooded height that loomed in the distance. It wasn’t as large or as steep as Marcus might have liked, but he’d judged it the best of his limited options.

The command tent was already assembled by the time he rode up, and light spilled out through the flap. Marcus handed the reins of his horse to the guard and ducked inside, finding himself the last to arrive.

Raesinia was there, of course. There had been no question of telling her she couldn’t join the battle, not this time. She’d traded her somber dresses for riding leathers, without any ornamentation or jewels. Marcus guessed that most of the soldiers she passed had no idea they were within spitting distance of their monarch.

There was Fitz, imperturbable as always, and Winter, still looking less than comfortable in her new uniform, with Cyte at her side. The newly minted General Sevran looked more natural in his, the stars on his shoulders polished to a fine sheen. The quiet, competent Colonel Archer sat beside Give-Em-Hell, whose usual expansive mood had been checked by the presence of his queen.

As Marcus came in, there was a round of salutes from everyone but Raesinia. He nodded to the officers, bowed to the queen, and took his seat at the head of the table. A map was already laid out, annotated in pencil with the reports of the scouts who’d pushed ahead of the column. It showed Bear Ridge, roughly triangular in shape, with the longest side facing southwest. It rose from the plain between the rivers, only a few miles from the Marak to the west, considerably farther from the Vor in the other direction. The main road swung east to avoid it.

“Well,” Marcus said, looking down at it. “Here we are.”

Silent nods around the table.

“You all know what we’re up against,” Marcus said. “We’ll do the best we can, but I’m not going to pretend these aren’t long odds. When Janus comes against us, if we can hold until nightfall I’ll consider that a victory.”

“And after that?” Fitz said.

“There’s a plan,” Raesinia said. “You’ll have to trust us on that.”

Those who weren’t in on Winter’s part of the battle—​Fitz, Sevran, and Archer—​looked less than satisfied. Give-Em-Hell seemed oblivious.

“I must say,” he ventured, “it doesn’t seem very promising from the point of view of a cavalry charge.”

“You’ll get your chance,” Marcus promised. “I have written orders for all of you, but let me give you the short version.”

He picked up the leather bag containing the wooden counters, fumbled with the drawstring for a bit, then dumped them on the table. He picked out a few blue blocks and arranged them at the tip of Bear Ridge. One line stretched left, another right, so that the triangular shape of the ridge was extended into a V shape with the tip pointing northeast. The red markers he massed in that direction, where the main road came closest to the hill.

“Two refused flanks,” Fitz said, raising an eyebrow. “Interesting.”

“Like I said, it’s the best I can come up with.” He tapped the tip of the V. “This is the Second Division. We’ll do most of our digging here, because that’s where we’ll catch the most hell. It’ll be easiest for the enemy to focus their attack there, so we want them running uphill and into our breastworks. The volunteers will be there as well, and most of the artillery.

“This”—​he tapped the right wing—“is the First Division. If Janus gets tired of trying to punch through the center, this is the way he’ll probably swing. There’s more room. The other wing is the Third, which will hopefully have the easiest time of it. But I’m going to take a few battalions from both of you and keep them in reserve here”—​he tapped a point between the wings, inside the V—“along with the cavalry.

“The idea is that it’s faster for us to move troops around inside the formation than it is for Janus to shift his reserves around the outside. Wherever he attacks, we can get there with the reserve quickly, and hopefully between that and our fortifications we’ll be able to negate his numbers. Henry, your light cavalry will take the extreme right, down to the road, and make sure he doesn’t try to slip anything behind us. The river should keep that from happening on the left.”

“And if he refuses to engage?” Sevran said.

“If he tries to just move past, he’s giving us a perfect shot at his flank and rear. If he sits tight, then we see who can wait the other out.” Marcus shook his head. “But he’ll attack. You saw the way he was in the Pale valley.”

“Why station the volunteers at the point?” Fitz said. “That puts the least reliable troops in the most difficult position.”

“It’s also the position they’re most likely to be able to hold,” Marcus said. “Without training, they’re not going to be much good in the open field, so I want them dug in. If they won’t fight there, they won’t fight anywhere.” He looked around the table. “Any other questions?”

There were, of course. The queen excused herself early, but the officers stayed for another couple of hours, going over the details. By the time they were finished, the map was covered in fresh annotations, and Marcus had had to light several lanterns. One by one they departed, to return to their troops and pass along Marcus’ orders. The plan would be hashed out around thousands of campfires, by everyone from officers down to rankers, and they would all doubtless form their own opinions. Marcus remembered second-​guessing Janus with Adrecht, Val, and Mor, back in Khandar. It’s not so easy when you actually have to make the decision, is it?

Winter was the last one remaining, studying the map intently. Marcus watched her for a moment, awkwardly, then cleared his throat. She looked up.

“Sorry,” she said. “Just thinking about where the Beast might try to hide the core. Hopefully, it won’t see us coming, or things could get very difficult.”

“Ah.” Marcus shook his head. “That’s your department. I’m just here to handle the human side.”

“I know.”

She was so serious. It had seemed appropriate, for a general, but Ellie had always been wild and full of laughter. She must still smile, sometimes.

“You’re... ah... getting along all right?” he said.

“I’m not getting enough sleep,” Winter said. “But that’s nothing new.”

“I meant with respect to the other officers,” Marcus said. “Since you... changed your uniform.”

“Oh.” Winter looked down at herself. “Most of them haven’t mentioned it, to tell the truth. Some of them already knew, of course. And I wouldn’t be surprised if some of the others suspected. I had gotten a bit... careless.”

And only poor, stupid Marcus didn’t catch on. He shook his head. Enough. With the way you reacted, can you blame her?

“I wanted to apologize,” he said, drawing himself up. “For the way I behaved back at the palace.”

“There’s no need for that,” Winter said. “I can’t imagine how you must feel.”

“Frankly, I’m a bit confused myself.” Marcus scratched his beard. “But I was... reminded that I knew you as a soldier, and a good one, before... anything else.” He took a deep breath and blew it out. “I hope it won’t offend you if I continue to treat you like one.”

“Of course not,” Winter said.

She smiled, just slightly, and suddenly he could see Ellie in her face. The eyes were the same, the basic compassion he’d known from the little girl shining through the cynicism of the veteran soldier. He found himself momentarily unable to speak, and coughed to cover it.

“I ought to get back,” Winter said, standing from the table. “Busy day tomorrow.”

“Wait.” Marcus fought to keep his tone level. “Winter. You are my sister.”

Her face went guarded again. “I know.”

“I... may not be entirely sure what that means. Not yet.” He shook his head. “But I would like the opportunity to find out. So...” He paused. “Be careful, would you?”

That smile again, half sarcastic quirk of the lips and half good-​natured grin. “I’ll do my best. I think I’d like that, too.”

*

Bear Ridge was less impressive in person than on the map. Marcus hadn’t been expecting a craggy mountain, but the reality hardly deserved to be called a hill. It was more like a patch of rough ground, sparsely wooded and overgrown with bushes, that happened to rise slightly from the surrounding fields. Split-​rail fences divided up the land around it, more marker than obstacle. To the east, the Marak was barely visible as a shimmering line, with the ground rising sharply beyond it.

The cavalry had arrived at the ridge by midmorning, and the first of the infantry trooped up in the early afternoon, advance parties dismantling the fences in their path. The usual camp was laid out to the southwest of the ridge, in what would become the rear if the enemy advanced from the expected direction. Instead of pitching their tents right away, however, officers told off their companies to form work parties, and long lines of men slogged through the rocks and undergrowth onto the hill. The sound of axes was soon everywhere, an irregular rhythm like rain on a slate roof.

By the time Marcus had sorted out the day’s snags and made certain the baggage train was going to the right place, the work was well along. He rode up the hill on a track that the men had hacked through the thick bushes. At the top, a ranker took his mount, and Marcus hiked on foot to the crook in the ridge where the Girls’ Own would be deployed.

The forest was thinning out quickly. There were stumps everywhere, and stripped logs stacked beside the path, while the teams of axmen fanned out in search of more prey. Marcus walked past the crest of the hill and stopped, taken aback for a moment. The slope writhed, as though it were alive, like a patch of dirt crawling with ants.

Here and there were groups of soldiers in uniform, officers directing the work. The rankers carried shovels instead of muskets, and they were shifting dirt with impressive speed, digging out pits and piling the earth in front of them to make a rampart. They were far outnumbered, however, by the civilians, men and women from the city who’d come out with nothing more than work clothes and tools. They were everywhere, burrowing through the hillside like moles. As he watched, a half dozen stout women in dockworkers’ leathers roped themselves to a tree stump and yanked it out of the earth, clods of dirt clinging to the trailing roots. The rocks uncovered by the diggers were piled between the trenches and carried by relays of youths to be stacked down at the base of the hill, where they could be an obstacle.

“Enthusiastic, aren’t they?”

Marcus turned to find Abby approaching. Winter’s return had apparently done her a world of good. At the very least, the dead look had gone from her eyes, though she still had the thick, dark circles underneath.

“It’s impressive,” Marcus said. “Will it be ready by tomorrow?”

“More or less,” Abby said. “We could do more, with more time. But with all the volunteers helping, we should have a triple breastwork across the whole front, assuming we have enough timber. I’d like to dig a second line, but this ground is full of rocks.” She kicked the soil, as though it had personally offended her.

“We’ll need space for the gun pits in front, remember,” Marcus said.

“Don’t worry,” Abby said. “The Preacher and his hellion were marking out distances when we got here. And the girls are very eager to have some cannon around.”

The Preacher’s here? Marcus hadn’t realized that. I suppose I’ve been a bit preoccupied. “Good. Anything you need from me?”

“If you have a moment, it would help if some of the ax companies cut more trails up and over the crest, then down to the cutters’ stations. We don’t want to be tripping over bushes when we’re pulling casualties out of here.”

“I’ll see to it.” Marcus smiled. “It’s good to see you feeling better, Colonel.”

“Well.” Abby blushed. “I apologize for making you fret, sir.”

Marcus walked back up the hill, satisfied that section of the work was well in hand. It was the most critical part, the tip of the V, where the heaviest attack could be expected to land. More trenches lined the flanks of the hill, petering out where it sloped down onto the flats. Here the line would have to be more mobile, and they didn’t have the spare manpower to extend a full breastwork over such a distance. Still, men were digging gun pits, sloped at the back and deep enough to provide some shelter for the cannoneers. When a cannon fired, its recoil would drive it up the ramp, and then gravity would help run it back into position.

Just past the bottom of the slope was the boundary of the first plowed field, marked by a fieldstone wall that was already mostly dismantled. Immediately beyond it was the cutter’s station for the Second Division, several large tents with their sides tied open, operating tables already set up inside. Around them, lower tents were ready to shelter the wounded, at least until the beds filled up.

Hannah Courvier, the Second’s head cutter, was standing outside one of the tents, talking to a thin young man Marcus didn’t recognize. To his surprise, Raesinia was with them, accompanied by her two Girls’ Own bodyguards. Marcus went over in time to catch Hannah’s frown.

“Well.” She looked at the young man, then back to Raesinia. “I don’t hold with foreign mumbo ​jumbo, but you come highly recommended. Can you do anything with a broken foot? We’ve got a light cavalry lieutenant who fell off his horse.”

“I will do my best.” The young man glanced at Marcus and nodded. “General.”

Marcus nodded back. Hannah stomped away, and the young man followed. Raesinia looked up at Marcus. “How are the preparations going?”

“Well, for the moment. If they come tomorrow, we’ll be ready. It would be better if we had one more day...”

“But you don’t think he’ll give us that,” Raesinia said.

“I wouldn’t,” Marcus said simply.

“Winter says she’s ready as well,” Raesinia said. “But she doesn’t know how long it will take, once the battle starts.”

“I’m assuming we’re going to have to hold out until dark,” Marcus said. “After that, we should be able to break contact and retreat down the road to Vordan City.”

“It won’t come to that,” Raesinia said.

“No harm in being prepared. We don’t know exactly what will happen, even if Winter wins.”

Raesinia nodded, her eyes distant, as though she were lost in thought.

*

There were more lines to inspect, more preparations to confirm. Marcus caught up with the Preacher as the sun was setting. Torches lit the way for the final preparations of the artillery.

“Oh, Almighty Karis, preserve us.” The artilleryman’s rasping voice was audible most of the way down the hill. “Captain! What kind of cannon is this?”

The answer was impossible to hear, but the Preacher’s response was clear.

“Correct! And it fires twelve-​pound balls, is that right?” Another pause, and then, “So what, exactly, were you planning to do with these boxes of eight-​pound balls? Hurl them at the enemy with your bare hands? Do you think you might find somewhere they could be put to slightly better use?”

Marcus grinned as an anxious captain dashed past him. A moment later, he found the Preacher standing beside a cannon, running his fingers through his long gray beard.

“General!” The Preacher saluted.

“Colonel,” Marcus said with a nod. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“Well.” The Preacher rolled his shoulders with a sigh. “I said I was getting too old for this, but young Viera disagrees, and she’s a hard one to argue with.” He grinned crookedly. “Besides, your lads came to the school and hauled all the cannon away. I didn’t have anything left to teach with. Or any students, for that matter.”

“Sorry. Most of the artillery was captured at Alves. We need all the metal we can get.”

The Preacher waved a hand, then patted the barrel of the gun next to him. “This is what they’re for, not moldering away on a drill field.” His face went dark. “I only wish it were infidels we were pointing them at, and not Vordanai.”

“I think everyone here agrees with that,” Marcus said. “Let’s hope this will be the end of it.” He frowned. “Do you want a command? I’m sure—”

The Preacher shook his head. “Colonel Archer offered, but I thought I could serve best as an aide. Dispensing my expertise, as it were.” He glared at the errant boxes stacked nearby. “Ammunition is going to be a problem. Some of these guns are older than I am, and we’ve got balls in a half dozen obsolete sizes to deal with. We can’t be spendthrift.”

“You’ll manage,” Marcus said. “At least we’ve got decent ground.”

“No complaints there.” The Preacher looked out at the darkening horizon, where the flat fields stretched into the distance. “But ground isn’t everything. I’m leading a service tonight, if you have time.”

“I’ll try to make it,” Marcus said, though he knew he wouldn’t, and suspected the Preacher did, too. It was an old dance between the two of them.

“Colonel!” Viera stalked up from farther down the hill, her blue uniform spotted and stained with mud. “Are you lazing about?”

“He’s obliging the general,” Marcus said.

Viera paused at the sight of him, saluted, and then turned on the Preacher. “They’re making a mess of things down at the third battery. When I pointed it out, one of them patted me on the head.” She sniffed. “I considered tossing a torch into their caisson to administer a sharp lesson, but I didn’t want to waste the ammunition.”

“That was probably wise. Karis teaches us mercy, even for the lowest.” The Preacher sighed. “Give me a moment.”

He turned back to Marcus, who grinned. “Try not to let her blow anything up.”

“Oh, I’ve given up on that. I just try to keep her pointed in the general direction of the enemy.” His smiled faded. “I meant to ask you, when I got the chance. Do you know what happened to General Solwen?”

Val. He and his men had been taken by surprise before the Battle of Alves. Marcus shook his head. “Captured, I hope. I can’t imagine Janus ordering a slaughter, and Val at least wouldn’t fight against us.” Unless he’s out there right now with glowing red eyes...

“I will say a prayer for him,” the Preacher said. He saluted again. “With your permission?”

“Of course. Good luck.”

He walked off after Viera, whose Hamveltai-​accented Vordanai was just as loud as her mentor’s. They’re well matched, I suppose.

Raesinia found him after another hour, back down among the Girls’ Own trenches, inspecting the newly raised breastworks. The piles of earth in front of the trenches had been topped with logs, producing a makeshift fortification that would block a musket shot, if not a cannonball. Many of the soldiers hadn’t stopped there, but had hacked gaps in the logs wide enough to lay a musket in, like the arrow slits of an ancient castle.

“General,” Raesinia said, as Marcus bent to examine another trench. He heard the soldiers around him go quiet. “It’s late. Don’t you think you should get some rest?”

There were a few quiet chuckles. I suppose everyone in the army knows about us now.

“As you command, Your Highness.” He straightened and looked out across the plain.

Tomorrow. The darkness of the fields was broken by tiny points of light, like a swarm of fireflies. The campfires of Janus’ army, stretching as far as the eye could see.