Raesinia

“Another one!”

The cutter’s tent was a concentrated mass of human suffering. The air was thick with smoke, shot through with the scent of blood and shit to form a concentrated miasma. The floor was awash in vileness, mixing with dirt to make a sticky mud that spattered everyone to the thighs. Raesinia’s ears rang with screams, curses, and desperate pleading.

Hannah and her assistants strode through this morass like horrible angels, bone saws in hand. At the door, two men surveyed the incoming casualties and turned away both those who would live at least a few hours and those who would die for certain. The rejected were laid outside, where their howls added to the din. Those “lucky” enough to merit the cutter’s attention were taken to one of the tables, strapped down, and given a wooden bit to put between their teeth.

That Hannah was an expert was apparent from how few strokes of the bone saw it took her to remove a limb. Razor-​sharp teeth sliced through flesh with ease, and when they met bone they made the awful, almost musical sound that was capable of reducing any soldier to shudders. In no time at all, the ruined arm or leg tumbled to the ground and the cutter turned away, already moving on to the next victim. Her assistants tied off the stump, reducing the pumping blood to a trickle, and gathered up the discarded flesh to add to the pile outside. Transporting the patients afterward was a task for any able-​bodied people who happened to be nearby. Which, in this case, included the Queen of Vordan.

You said you wanted to help, Raesinia told herself as she grabbed a lanky young man by the ankle. Another soldier took him under the armpits, and together they walked him out the tent flap, mud squelching underfoot. The hospital tents were long since full, and they were reduced to simply laying casualties in the dirt. They maneuvered the youth into an open space between an old man whose left leg ended just above the ankle and a volunteer woman whose colorful linen dress was splashed with blood.

The young man’s breath rattled in his throat. Raesinia didn’t think he’d live. Only half of those Hannah operated on did, she’d been told, and she was one of the best cutters. The old man was either swearing or praying, so quietly it was hard to tell which. The woman was still and silent. Too silent. Raesinia watched her a moment, then nudged her partner. He glanced at her, shook his head, and grabbed her by the ankles, dragging the corpse away. A moment later, two men set a mop-​haired soldier with a splinted leg in the space thus vacated, deaf to his constant shrieks.

Underneath the screams and groans, the cannonade continued, a deep grumble like constant thunder. There was fighting on all sides of the hill now, and from the left and right came the occasional sounds of musketry. Closer, the Second Division and the volunteers had repelled three assaults, waves of Vordanai and Murnskai soldiers breaking against the breastworks like surf on a beach. Each time, after the enemy pulled back, the bombardment began again, the massive battery Janus had assembled pounding the hillside with solid shot. Howitzers joined in as well, less accurate but more deadly, throwing pot-​shaped bombs that exploded into shards of spinning metal.

Raesinia looked up to find another casualty team approaching, two girls who couldn’t be older than twelve or thirteen carrying an older woman on a stretcher. They left their burden at the tent flap and turned away. One of the pair, dark-​haired and wide-​eyed, was clutching her stomach, and her skin was pale as death under the blood and grime. Her companion had to support her through the mud. Raesinia got to her feet and stepped in front of them.

“You’re hurt,” she said, as the pair blinked at her. “You’re not going to the cutter?”

The uninjured girl’s lip twisted into a snarl, but her companion just shook her head. She tugged her shirt up a few inches to show a deep gash in her stomach, crudely stitched shut with twine.

“Gut wound,” she said. “It’ll fester by nightfall. Better they help those that might live.”

“You don’t—” the other girl said, then choked off in a sob.

Hannah would probably say the same thing. Raesinia looked around, satisfied herself that no one was paying attention to them, and put her arm on the girl’s shoulder. “Come with me.”

“I want to help,” the injured girl said. “While I can.”

“Just come here, all right?”

She didn’t put up too much resistance as Raesinia walked her around the side of one of the hospital tents, her crying friend following behind. Away from the frantic movement at the entrance, flies covered the pools of blood and discarded limbs with a thick, living carpet. They rose in a buzzing, complaining cloud as Raesinia approached; then they settled again. Somewhere, crows were cawing.

Abraham sat on a stone at the rear of the tent, eyes closed, head lowered. Raesinia told the two girls to wait and knelt in front of him. She had to poke him before he responded with a low moan.

“Too many.” His voice was breathy. “There’s too many.”

“I know.”

Raesinia felt her heart twist. She didn’t know Abraham well, but his compassion was obvious. Even a single person in pain made him want to help, let alone this nightmare. And while his gift was extraordinary, it wasn’t without limits.

“Can you handle one more?” Raesinia said. “It’s a small wound, but deep. A little girl.”

“One more.” Abraham opened his eyes. They were bloodshot, as though he’d been on a three-​day bender. “I can... handle one more.”

Raesinia beckoned the injured girl over. She hesitated at the sight of Abraham, but he mustered a smile, and she took a few stumbling steps closer. Raesinia caught her elbow and guided her forward, and Abraham put his hand against the skin of her stomach.

The wound, crusted with dried blood, closed as though it were being pulled together from underneath. The twine worked its way out, falling away. The girl gave a soft sigh, her eyes rolling up in her head, and Raesinia had to catch her under the arms before she fell. Her breathing was steady, and color was already returning to her cheeks.

“What happened?” Her friend hurried over, eyes wet with tears. “What did you do to her?”

“She’s going to be okay,” Raesinia said. “Find somewhere she can rest, and stay with her.”

“I need to get permission.” The girl was trembling. “From the lieutenant.”

“You have my permission.” Raesinia looked the girl in the eye and saw the moment recognition dawned.

“I—​I didn’t...” she stammered.

“It’s fine.” Raesinia transferred the unconscious girl to her friend. “Can you take her?”

The girl nodded. “Th-thank you. Your Highness.”

Raesinia smiled, trying to ignore the screams and the boom of the guns. The two girls moved off, one carrying the other, and she looked back at Abraham. His eyes were still open, but he didn’t seem to be looking at anything in particular. Raesinia frowned nervously.

“Abraham? Are you...? Is this hurting you?”

“Hurting?” He blinked, focusing, and shook his head. “Just... tired. So tired.”

“You should rest. At least for a few minutes.” She felt suddenly guilty for bringing the girl over.

He snorted, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. “A few minutes won’t make any difference. A week wouldn’t be enough.” He looked up at her. “I will do what I can. It’s just... worse than I ever imagined.”

“I know,” Raesinia said. “I’m sorry.”

“You did not force me to come here,” Abraham said. His hands tightened into fists. “Sometimes I wish I could fight like Alex. I could have gone with her and Winter.”

“Sothe is with them,” Raesinia said. “She’ll keep everyone safe.”

“I believe it,” Abraham said solemnly. Then, abruptly, he held up a hand.

“What’s wrong?”

“The guns have stopped.”

It was true. There were still screams from the cutter’s tent, and the more distant sounds of fighting on the other fronts, but the endless thunder of the cannonade had gone quiet. After a few moments, cannon picked up again, closer and louder. Those were Archer’s guns, Raesinia knew. Marcus had ordered the gunners not to waste ammunition trying to knock out Janus’ batteries, so if they were firing—

“They’re coming,” she said. “I have to go. Are you all right here for the moment?”

Abraham nodded, eyelids already drooping. Raesinia ran back around the cutter’s tent and up the hill, following the tracks they’d cut this morning, now a churned mess of stones and mud. She detoured around the boulder and the command post and headed for another vantage she’d discovered, a stump at the top of the trench line, high enough above Archer’s guns that she could see past the smoke.

Sure enough, down on the plain, tight-​packed columns of infantry were moving in for the assault. Smaller guns accompanied them, their sharper reports like the yapping of excited dogs. Archer’s batteries returned fire, solid shot arcing over the heads of the Second Division soldiers in the trenches to descend screaming on the plain, bouncing in wild, devastating arcs. The advancing troops were Murnskai, their white uniforms a vivid contrast with the dark earth. Whenever a ball struck, it mowed through the column, carrying away several men and leaving more broken bodies lying on a stretch of ground that was already littered with corpses.

As Marcus had said this morning, Janus was well aware that his attackers were never going to be able to win a firefight with defenders hunkered down behind breastworks. This time, four battalion columns came in at the double, breaking into a charge as soon as the first shots rang out from the trenches. They made no attempt to form into a line and maximize their firepower, but remained concentrated, relying on the momentum of thousands of bodies to carry them forward. The heads of the columns started to shrink, men falling faster and faster as they got closer to the trenches, but they kept coming. The neat formations, with one company behind the next, started to dissolve, producing a dense mass of men with bayonets fixed, huddling together against the deadly lead rain.

The Girls’ Own, who held the first trench, didn’t wait to receive them. They fired a last volley and ran, scrambling up onto the unprotected hillside. Volunteers farther up the hill continued to shoot, but the Murnskai could see their enemy fleeing and came on all the faster. Some of them stopped to fire, and blue-​uniformed women tumbled and went down across the hill. The fastest crested the breastwork and jumped down into the trench their enemies had vacated.

Somewhere down below, Cyte gave the order with her customary good timing. Raesinia couldn’t hear it, but she saw the effect. The Third Regiment, de Koste’s troops, leapt up from their trenches farther up the hill and counter-​charged, firing as they went. The Murnskai soldiers fired back, but soon discovered that the trenches, steep ​walled on the downhill side, were a gradual slope facing the other way and gave no protection at all from incoming fire. The men in white were no more eager to receive a bayonet charge than the women in blue had been, and they broke before contact, only a few stragglers being cut down with cold steel. De Koste’s men continued to fire into the fleeing Murnskai, and Archer’s guns thundered again, harassing them as they went.

Cyte had suggested the tactic, and they’d been using it all day, with the soldiers digging frantically to repair and extend their trenches even as the cannonballs fell like rain. Raesinia had watched it work three times now, smashing everything Janus had sent against them. But he seemed to have an endless supply of fresh troops to renew the struggle, while every time more of the defenders were hauled away to the horror of the cutter’s station or the growing lines of corpses.

As though the thought had summoned them, Raesinia saw more enemy soldiers coming, a long line of them, pushing over the blue- and white-​coated bodies that littered the plain. This new group was a motley bunch, with some representatives from both armies, but many in civilian clothes. Raesinia frowned at them. Does Janus have his own volunteers? Then, Winter’s story running through her mind, she suddenly understood.

Red-​eyes.

Raesinia jumped off the stump and started down the hill before she was quite aware of what she was doing. I have to warn Cyte. The bodies of the Beast were not like ordinary men and women—​they knew no pain and showed no fear. They would never break, never run, only keep coming until they were dead. And if they get too close, they can take our soldiers for their own.

The regiments had been exchanging duties with each attack. The retreating Girls’ Own had halted, now occupying the highest point on the hillside, just below the artillery. Someone recognized Raesinia despite her filthy state, and a cheer went up as she went by. It was passed on to the volunteers, in the center, men and women from the streets of Vordan without even uniform jackets to call their own. They’d started the day armed mostly with swords, spears, and a few shotguns and hunting pieces. Now most of them had muskets, looted from friendly and enemy dead. They shouted and hurrahed as Raesinia ran, her legs feeling wobbly underneath her. Would they still be cheering if their queen took a tumble and rolled down the hill?

Fortunately, she managed to avoid that embarrassment, and arrived at the leading trenches, where the Second Regiment was lining the breastworks. Raesinia looked for the flag and ran toward it, dodging around bits of broken log, stones, and corpses. A woman, shot in the act of trying to run, lay half in and half out of the trench. Murnskai soldiers, huddled around wounds that turned their white uniforms pink. A teenage girl and a heavily bearded Murnskai lying in a heap, each with a hand still gripping the blade that had killed the other.

There was no sign of Cyte, but she found de Koste with one of his captains, calmly surveying the advance of this fresh batch of opponents. Archer’s guns had shifted their fire from the fleeing Murnskai to the new threat, and the cannonballs were falling on the red-​eyes. They kept no formation, which made the guns less effective.

De Koste’s eyes went wide at the sight of Raesinia, but he calmed his features at once and made a deep bow, which was echoed by all the men around him.

“Your Highness,” he said, “I, ah, didn’t expect to see you here. You’re not injured, I trust?”

“I was assisting at the cutter’s station.” Raesinia shook her head frantically. “The new attack—”

“Rabble,” the captain said. “Half of them don’t even have muskets. If this is all Janus has left, we can hold here until the Beast comes again.”

It took Raesinia a moment to realize he was being figurative. “They’re not just rabble; they’re fanatics. Maniacs. They’re not going to stop. You have to be ready.”

“We’ll stop them,” de Koste said. “But please, Your Highness. For your own safety...”

Raesinia turned away, back to the oncoming red-​eyes. They were still coming, thousands of them. Those in the lead spread out and came on a dead sprint.

“They’re certainly bearing the cannon-​fire well,” de Koste muttered.

“We’ll see how they like musketry,” the captain said, voice full of confidence. “Fire at will!”

Sergeants passed the command up and down the trench. Moments later, muskets started to crack, the shots coming singly at first and then running together into a rolling, rattling crush of sound. Smoke billowed up around the trench, intermittently obscuring the view, but Raesinia could see red-​eyes falling by the dozen, spinning or pitching forward as the musket balls struck them, while their comrades pressed on over their corpses.

They’re not going to break. Marcus had told her once that a bayonet charge basically came down to a contest of nerves. If the defenders really believed the attackers would press the charge home, through the storm of shot, then they wouldn’t stand to receive it. But if it was the attackers who lost their courage first, the charge would founder and break in blood. But the red-​eyes don’t have any nerve to lose.

“You’re going to have to fight them hand-to-hand,” she told de Koste urgently. “Warn your men—”

Too late, and in any event she wasn’t sure he heard over the racket. The red-​eyes took a last volley of fire at a range of only a dozen yards, and it inflicted horrific damage. A whole line of them went down, corpses falling among the dead soldiers already piling up at the base of the slope. But the charge rolled on, unstoppable, men and women leaping over the bodies and scrambling past the earth-and-log barrier. In a few moments, they were into the trench, and the world went mad.

Men were fighting everywhere, soldiers in blue against erstwhile comrades, or Murnskai in mud-​stained white; or men, women, and children in civilian clothes. A Third Regiment soldier opened the throat of a Murnskai with his bayonet, nimbly sidestepping the dying man’s riposte. The next red-​eye was a young woman, ragged ​haired and dressed in rags, and he hesitated long enough for her to gut him with a skinning knife. Three children, in long formal dresses already torn and stained with blood, worked together to overwhelm another soldier, two grabbing his legs while the third pulled him to the floor of the trench and pressed her face close to his. A moment later he rose, a red glow in his eyes, and rammed his bayonet into the back of the man fighting beside him.

Raesinia saw the captain go down, shot at close range by a thick-​bearded fisherman who held a pistol in his left hand, his right having been carried away by a cannon-​shot. The stump drooled blood, but it didn’t seem to impair him. De Koste drew his sword as an old woman, gray hair wild and filthy, scrambled over the trench wall. He ran her neatly through the stomach, then gaped as her clawlike hands grabbed the hilt of his sword and pulled him close. A young boy in the remnants of a smart page’s uniform leapt from the breastwork and landed on de Koste’s back, stabbing over and over with a long dirk.

The ferocity of the assault was too much. Some soldiers fought and were overwhelmed, torn to pieces or taken by the Beast and turned against their comrades. The rest scrambled up the slope, toward the second trench, trying to stay ahead of the wave of madness and death. One of them, thinking of his duty even in the midst of panic, grabbed Raesinia by the arm and dragged her along, stumbling up the rocky ground between the trenches to where the volunteers waited. Musket-​fire was crackling again, balls zipping past despite the danger of hitting a friend.

“Charge!” someone was shouting. Raesinia caught a glimpse of a uniformed soldier standing beside a knot of volunteers who’d gathered around their makeshift flag, a Vordanai eagle sewn on a blue field by awkward, untrained hands. “We have to charge!”

No one was charging. The volunteers stood behind their breastwork, firing as fast as they could load, smoke billowing along the trench. Below, men were scrambling out of the way, but enough of the attackers wore blue uniforms that they were impossible to distinguish from those who’d taken flight. The terrified volunteers shot at anything that moved, cutting down Third Regiment men and red-​eyes alike. Raesinia tumbled over the breastwork and lay for a moment in the bottom of the trench, half-​stunned. She pulled herself to her feet just in time to see the next wave of red-​eyes break from the smoke and come up the hillside at a dead sprint. There were screams and shots, and then the volunteers were running, throwing down their weapons and scrambling up the hill to stay ahead of their pursuers.

We have to stop them. Raesinia gritted her teeth and ran for the flag just as the man who held it tossed it aside and took to his heels. The officer who’d been leading the volunteers was long gone, and only a few men remained, frozen in place by terror. Raesinia grabbed the flagpole and brought it back up, the blue and silver now smeared with mud.

“Here!” she screamed, scraping her throat raw. “Stand here!”

Shots zipped past in both directions. Almost alone in the trench, Raesinia watched the shadows of the red-​eyes approach through the smoke. Very brave of me. Her thoughts felt detached. Or it would be, if I could die. She wondered what would happen if the red-​eyes ripped her to pieces. Would I have to go find my arms and legs? Or would they grow back?

Except. Winter had told her what had happened when the Beast had taken Elysium. The Penitent Damned, who’d had demons of their own, had been absorbed just like any of its other bodies. It had banished their demons, taken their minds.

For the first time since that awful night beneath the palace half a decade ago, Raesinia realized, she was in real danger. Not from a musket ball or a sword stroke, but from the horrible, annihilating light of those red eyes. If they caught her, she would end, cease to be once and for all. Or else be stuck in some horrible half-​life, like Janus.

Her knees suddenly refused to hold her weight, and her bowels churned. She sat down heavily, barely keeping the flag upright.

What’s wrong with me? It took a moment to figure it out. Oh. I’m terrified.

Is this how ordinary people feel all the time?

The first red-​eye—a lanky man with a fur cap and a hunter’s look, a long knife in one hand—leapt into the trench. Raesinia screamed and swung the flagpole, the staff cracking him on the head and sending him stumbling sideways. She surged back to her feet, fighting the desperate urge to throw the stupid thing down and flee. It’s just a flag. Just cloth and thread. What the hell is it good for?

“Stand here!” Her voice cracked. “Stand here!”

More red-​eyes were crossing the breastwork, soldiers and civilians, some who’d been fighting for the other side minutes before. A Third Regiment soldier, eyes aglow, jumped down in front of Raesinia with bayonet raised, while the hunter came at her from the left. She managed to block the bayonet thrust with the flagpole, but the hunter grabbed her by the arm and collar, lifting her easily off the ground. She kicked him in the groin, hard, but he barely flinched, and pulled her close to his face.

“The queen!” someone was shouting in the distance. All of Raesinia’s attention was on the hunter’s eyes, the dark pupils replaced with a rising red glow, growing brighter and brighter until it filled the world.

“Rally to the queen!”

A bayonet entered the side of the hunter’s head with such force that it embedded itself to the hilt in his skull. The red glow died, and the grip on Raesinia’s collar slackened. The flagstaff fell from her numb fingers, but she saw it taken up again before it hit the ground, muddy banner waving.

“Your Highness!” A woman’s voice. Raesinia looked at her. Abby. Her freckled face was splashed with gore. “Are you all right?”

All around her, women in blue uniforms were pouring into the trench. The volunteers were with them, too, rallied or shamed into courage. The fighting was desperate, hand-to-hand, but the numbers of red-​eyes were finally thinning out. From the flanks, musket-​fire cracked.

Did I just save the day? Raesinia thought. Or nearly get myself killed for no reason? At the moment she couldn’t have said. She blinked at Abby and took a deep breath.

Sometimes it would be really nice to be able to faint.

MARCUS

Just hold out until the reserve gets back. Marcus sighed. Why did I ever think things would be that simple?

“General Warus reports that he’s heavily engaged!” the young rider said. His mount, drooping and exhausted, barely flicked an ear at the intermittent crash of cannon. “He’s holding, but estimates at least four divisions to his front.”

Which means he doesn’t have anything to spare to send this way. Janus shouldn’t have four divisions to use on the right without stripping the left bare. But Marcus had learned long ago not to question his former commander’s ability to pull miracles out of his pocket.

“Tell him we’re hard-​pressed here,” Marcus said, fighting to keep his tone professional. “As soon as he feels the pressure come off, we need anything he can send us. Especially cavalry.”

“Understood, sir!” The boy kicked his mount in motion.

To the east, the drawn-​out grumbling of guns continued, indicating that the enemy attack on the point of the V hadn’t slackened. He can’t be strong everywhere, damn it. But here on the left, where Sevran’s hastily assembled Third Division struggled to hold out, there had been no letup in the assaults. Three regiments stood in a long line, three ranks deep, while behind them the fourth waited to push forward to plug gaps. In front of them were the divisional guns, mostly small four- and six-​pound pieces, silent for now to conserve their limited ammunition.

A heavy pall of smoke already hung over this part of the field, and the ground in front of the division was strewn with corpses, both human and equine. Janus’ cavalry—​mostly Murnskai dragoons and cuirassiers—​was on the field in force, and the Third had already repelled two charges. At least one division of Murnskai infantry was out there, too, and one of Vordanai, re-forming for yet another assault. And, of course, the guns, which appeared to have a never-​ending supply of solid shot. Muzzle flashes winked through the smoke, and while most of the balls over- or undershot the thin line, the occasional hit would sweep away all three men in a file together. In this brief lull in the fighting, casualty teams scurried back and forth, bearing screaming or limp figures to the rear.

Sevran was shouting to his runners, his brand-​new general’s uniform already spattered with mud and gore. Marcus walked over to him and waited until he finished dictating an order, then cleared his throat.

“Word from Fitz?” Sevran said, without looking around. His eyes were fixed on the flashes from the enemy guns.

“He says he’s got at least four divisions in front of him,” Marcus said. “Either Janus has got two divisions we didn’t know about, or he’s pulled something out of his hat.”

“Maybe he’s split them,” Sevran said. “Or he’s marching them from one sector to another—”

“It scarcely matters,” Marcus said. “Fitz can’t send help. We have to hold here.”

“How long?” Sevran said.

“Until dark,” Marcus said. “Or until these stupid bastards give up.”

He looked overhead, but the sun was invisible through the smoke. Maybe that’s the soldiers’ hell, he thought. Died in battle without knowing it and now trapped waiting for a respite that never comes. It certainly had the ring of the kind of ironic punishment that filled the Wisdoms.

“We’re not going to make it that long,” Sevran said. “These are good lads, but they can’t keep this up all day. We need to retreat.”

“We can’t,” Marcus said. “If we fall back, the left side of the hill is open, and the whole line comes to pieces.”

“That’s going to happen anyway if they break this division,” Sevran said, frustrated. “And then there won’t be anything left to form a new line. We’re going to have to pull off the hill and fall back to the south.”

“We won’t get another chance at this,” Marcus said. Winter’s already gone to fight the Beast. If we fold now, she’ll lose her distraction. But he couldn’t tell Sevran that. “There’s no ground on the road south better than this. If we don’t stop them here, we’ll be fighting in the streets of Vordan.”

“We’re not going to stop them here, damn it!” Sevran turned, his jaw set. “We’re going to get cut to pieces in another hour. And if they get their coordination right, it won’t even take that long.”

Marcus was silent. It was true, of course. The only thing that had saved the raw recruits of the Third Division was that the enemy infantry and cavalry hadn’t quite gotten their attacks timed right. It was a difficult trick, launching the cavalry assault to force the enemy into square just in time for the infantry to hammer them, but devastatingly effective. Watching the polyglot enemy force try to manage it made Marcus appreciate Give-Em-Hell, whose sense for that kind of timing was superb.

It also made him certain Janus wasn’t on this part of the field in person. He’d never tolerate that kind of bungling. Be thankful for small mercies.

“We hold,” Marcus said. “I told Fitz to send us cavalry when he can.”

Sevran took a deep breath, fighting his emotions, and saluted. “That will help, sir. If they arrive soon.”

Before Marcus could answer, drums thrilled all along the line, a quick tattoo that every infantryman knew in his bones. Emergency square. The enemy cavalry had returned.

To their credit, the scratch collection of recruits and garrison troops that made up the Third Division responded quickly. They’ve certainly had plenty of practice today. Each battalion folded in on itself by companies, transforming from a long line into a roughly symmetrical diamond shape, with a point facing toward the old front. The angle kept the sides of the adjacent squares from facing one another, which helped cut down on friendly fire. Out ahead of them, the cannoneers stayed by their guns, and the little cannon began firing. Canister flailed out blindly, storms of musket balls lashing through the smoke, searching for an enemy barely glimpsed through the swirling mists.

Then they were there, shockingly close, a squadron of cuirassiers breaking into view like a ship emerging from the fog. The closest gun let fly with a blast of canister, and the front of the cavalry formation turned into a gory mess, white-​uniformed men toppling from their saddles even as their horses collapsed in shrieking terror. The men behind came on, sabers drawn, shouting in Murnskai as they rode toward the gunners. The cannoneers ran, not in panic but in a planned retreat, leaving their guns and scurrying back to the cover of the square. The fringe of massed bayonets parted to let them inside, then closed again, presenting an unbroken wall of sharpened steel to the horsemen.

Marcus and Sevran also hurried to cover, taking shelter in one of the squares of the reserve regiment. The cuirassiers split to flow around the squares, slashing viciously at the bayonets as they passed but making little impression. A few fired pistols into the mass of infantry, and some men fell, but the answering volleys of musketry emptied many more saddles. The horsemen rode on, leaving dead and dying men and animals in their wake, passing around the reserve squares as well and receiving more punishment in their turn. They thundered by, wheeling and re-forming.

It was too soon to see if they would try another assault. Marcus’ eyes were locked forward, in the direction of the enemy lines. Cannon were still firing, the artillerists taking advantage of the better targets offered by the tight-​packed squares. If they’ve got it right, this is when the infantry will attack, with the cuirassiers still hovering on our flank. He willed the smoke to stay empty just a little longer. Come on...

Instead, a different kind of light emerged from the murk. Not the yellow-​white of a muzzle flash, or even the deeper yellow of lanterns, but a lurid, sullen red. They pierced the smoke, two by two at first, then more and more. Hundreds of them. Thousands.

Red-​eyes. The Beast’s own bodies. Immune to pain, fear, and doubt.

Marcus looked around at the Third Division, all fresh-​faced boys and old, tired garrison troops, fresh from civilian life or soft duty on the frontier. They had stood up to astonishing odds, done better than they had any right to. But he could feel them wavering, see it in the occasional glance backward or reluctance to put a musket to an already aching shoulder. Much more and they would break, just as Sevran had warned.

We’re not going to make it. He glanced at the hill, where smoke continued to rise, and then farther north, toward where Winter had gone to make the gamble that would decide everything.

I’m sorry, Ellie. Marcus took a deep breath. We’ll fight as long as we can.

“Hold the line!” he shouted as the first of the red-​eyes loped out of the smoke.