The Guns of Empire (38 page)

T
he wheeled vehicles, which would be the hardest to move, had been the first to recross the bridge. They were leaving many of the wagons and other transports, but Marcus adamantly refused to abandon the guns. Whole battalions of infantry had been assigned to shepherd them, alternately pushing and dragging them over the snowy ground, laying down broken branches to add traction when they sank too deep, and in the worst cases simply lifting the cannon and carrying them a few quivering steps to firmer ground.

Raesinia, standing cloaked and hooded at the south end of the bridge, had witnessed most of the crossing. The Second Division, under the command of Winter's staff officer Cyte, had filed across the bridge to form the army's new vanguard. The First Division remained in the shrinking camp as the rest of the army marched past, the long column grinding slowly through the narrow space. Some of the men, frustrated with waiting for the units ahead of them to clear the bridge, simply slogged through the snow across the frozen surface of the river, to shouts of encouragement from their fellows. Here and there, snowballs were thrown.

The somber mood of the past several days had lifted somewhat. The fact of Janus' wounding had hit morale hard, but Marcus' standing with the soldiers was nearly as high. More important, the news that the army would march back to Polkhaiz, where vast depots of stores were waiting, did much to raise spirits.

“It doesn't count as a retreat, not really,” one sergeant had told his company as they filed past. “'Cause we beat the Borels and beat the Murnskai even with all their nasty tricks. It's just the weather, an' we can't be blamed for the weather.” When the snow cleared, everyone agreed, and Janus was fully recovered, they'd come back this way and put paid to Elysium for good and all.

Let's hope not,
Raesinia thought. She'd still had no word from Dorsay, but
it would be easier for his messengers to reach her south of the Kovria. Once the immediate danger of starvation was past, then it would be time to broach the subject of peace talks again.
I just hope we can get the emperor to see reason.

Colonial guards still bustled around the command tent on the hill. Marcus had decided to leave Janus there until all but the rear guard had crossed. Theoretically this was in deference to his delicate condition, though Raesinia suspected that Marcus still hoped that his commander would make a miraculous recovery before the withdrawal was complete. She felt a pang of sympathy every time she saw Marcus, pulled cruelly between his obvious devotion to Janus and his equally obvious care for the welfare of his soldiers.

As though summoned by her thoughts, Marcus himself appeared, riding in the narrow space beside the marching column of soldiers. She waved, and he picked up the pace, his mount trotting until he was clear of the crush. He swung out of the saddle beside Raesinia, acknowledging the salutes of the nearest soldiers with a wave of his hand.

“That's the last of the Third,” he said. “The First is crossing now. We should have everyone over by nightfall.”

“I never would have believed it,” Raesinia said. It was the truth—the organizational ability of the army Janus had created, even in these dire straits, was astonishing. The tent city on the north bank was gone, leaving only debris to mark its passing. “No trouble from the white riders?”

“Not so far,” Marcus said. “They're there, for certain—we can see a few scouts now and then. The last bit will be the hardest, if they try to attack the rear guard. But we'll be ready for them.”

“Good.” Raesinia watched his eyes; they kept flicking north, toward the command tent. “You made the right decision, Marcus.”

“I know,” he muttered. “I just can't help but think that he would have found another way.”

“Or he wouldn't have,” Raesinia said. “Even Janus eventually has to throw the dice, and sometimes they don't come up sixes.”

Marcus grunted.

“It may be,” Raesinia said, with only a little hesitation, “that it's for the best.”

Marcus looked down at her, frowning.

“This way we'll get another chance to make peace,” she said. “If we destroy Elysium, we're kicking off a war that could last the rest of our lives.”

“But you won't have peace,” Marcus said. “That's the whole point.” He lowered his voice. “The Black Priests . . .”

“
I
might not have peace,” Raesinia said. “But Vordan could.”

His face darkened further. “You can't be serious.”

“I have to be realistic,” Raesinia said. “I'm not going to throw away everything we've done, throw away thousands of lives, just for my own personal safety.”

“You're the
queen
,” Marcus said. “We swear our oaths to protect you. And I—” He stopped, looking down. “I . . . wouldn't want that for you. For you to have to leave Vordan, or surrender to those monsters. I . . .”

He shook his head and glanced up the river, staring into the distance. Raesinia watched, her throat thick.

Say something.
She felt like they were on opposite sides of a chasm, a canyon made of rank and social position and circumstance. He'd reached across, holding his hand out as far as he dared.
If I reach back, just a little ways—

She closed her eyes for a moment, opened them, took a deep breath. Her heart was beating fast.

“What the
hell
is that?” Marcus said.

Raesinia turned to follow his gaze.

Something
was coming down the river, washing around a forested bend. It looked like a wall of white, a hillside on the move, deceptively slow until she realized how
big
it was. A mass of frothing water and churning, crunching chunks of ice, rolling downstream with the weight and speed of a landslide.

“Oh, God Almighty,” Raesinia swore.

“Brass Balls of the
fucking
Beast!” Marcus ran, pounding out onto the bridge, where some of the soldiers had begun to gawk at the approaching disaster. “Run! Go, go, go, go!”

“Marcus!” Raesinia shouted.

“Get clear!” he screamed back over his shoulder. “Get out of here!”

She wanted to run after him. But he was already a quarter of the way across the bridge, which was jammed with fleeing, frightened soldiers. Men down in the snow on the river itself were running, too, stumbling and thrashing on the ice. Marcus was still shouting, but his voice was drowned in rising screams of panic. She saw him waving his arms, urging the men not past the halfway point back toward the north bank.

“Marcus!”
Raesinia's own voice was lost in the whirl, the screams of the men merging with the cracks and groans from the ice, a shattering sound like a constant artillery barrage. Men shoved her as the crowd thickened, unaware or uncaring that they were manhandling their sovereign. Marcus was a tiny blue figure among
a mass of blue figures, struggling to reach the north end of the bridge. She lost sight of him as the crowd grew tighter around her, lost sight of everything except a wall of blue uniforms and coat buttons. She clawed at the men around her, elbowed and punched, but all that accomplished was nearly getting her shoved off her feet.

The avalanche arrived, blowing out a wave of snow and flying water that settled over the struggling crowds. The wooden timbers of the bridge offered no resistance whatsoever, shattering at the first impact and adding their splintered fragments to the cascade of destruction. Men down in the riverbed, those who'd been unable to get clear in time, simply vanished, their deaths mercifully concealed under the raging torrent.

By then Raesinia had stopped trying to fight the human tide that dragged her along. She let them carry her, eyes stinging with tears.

—

“Boats, then,” Raesinia said.

“The river's still running fast, and it's full of drifting ice,” Giforte said. “Even if we
had
the boats, which we don't, we couldn't get them across until it calms, and who knows how long that will take? None of this weather is right.”

It's not natural,
Raesinia thought. She felt numb. The flood was the work of the Penitents, she was sure of it, as much as the ice and snow were their doing in the first place.
We were fools to come here, so close to the seat of their power. They haven't held Elysium for a thousand years for nothing.

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

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

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

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

But what else can I do?

“Sir! Colonel Giforte!”

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

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

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

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

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

Your Majesty,

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

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

Raes, please. Don't give up.

—Marcus

Raesinia blinked rapidly.

“Your Majesty?” Giforte said.

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks.”

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

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