The Guns of Empire (41 page)

Once they reached the other side of the river, the infantry deployed from column into line, forming one long formation nearly a thousand yards wide. As they came out of the water, the bone men marched forward to meet them, groups of spearmen moving at a trot in spite of the snow, bowmen behind them in looser formation. At some unseen signal, a dozen individual units broke into a run, shields held in front of them as they came at the Vordanai line. Muskets came up in neat ranks, and Marcus mouthed the order along with every sergeant and lieutenant in the battalions.

“First rank,
fire
!”

From this distance, the musketry sounded more like a string of firecrackers, but there was no missing the effect. The front ranks of the spearmen went down all at once, as though an invisible scythe had swept over the battlefield. Seconds later, as the momentum of the charge carried the rest of the attackers over the bodies of their dead, a second volley slammed out. Hide shields, Marcus imagined, provided little protection against musket balls. The attack stopped as though it had hit a brick wall, and the survivors fled, snow puffing around their legs as they desperately tried to escape the withering fire. A third volley hastened them on their way, adding more bodies to those already sprawled in the reddening snow.

Behind them, the bowmen spread out, launching their arrows in high, arcing flights that descended onto the Vordanai line. The infantry shifted their aim and the next volley cut down a few of the archers, but they were at longer range and in a looser formation, which made the musket-fire much less effective. Also, the bowmen crouched in the snow between shots, making them difficult targets. Soon, as always, the coordinated volleys had dissolved into rapid, individual fire, muzzle flashes cutting through the smoke as arrows continued to fall among the Vordanai. Wounded men were already stumbling away from the line, back through the river and out of the deadly rain.

Marcus pursed his lips. Ordinarily, the thing to do now would be to charge, dispersing the skirmishing bowmen, or else push them back with his own skirmishers or light cavalry. But he had no cavalry to spare, and a charge was out of the question; they could not afford to advance so far from the river as to endanger their flanks. He'd impressed this on Fitz, who had taken it to heart with his usual diligence. But it meant the Vordanai line was trapped in a draining stalemate.
Hold on. It won't be long.

Give-Em-Hell's small column had reached the bank and broke into a trot as they cleared the water. A band of mounted bone men had seen them and started forward, too, and the two cavalry forces raced toward a collision. At the last moment, those Vordanai who had pistols or carbines fired them, bringing down men in the front line of the enemy and causing considerable confusion. The bone men spread out, while Give-Em-Hell kept his men in a tight wedge, slamming into them like a spearhead. The Vordanai cut their way through, losing men on the flanks to axes and close-range bow fire, but always moving forward.

A group of bone men charged, cutting into the side of the wedge and splitting it open. Part of the formation dissolved into a knot of struggling soldiers and horses, sabers and axes rising and falling. The front of the wedge kept moving, and in a few moments it burst out the other side of the mass of tribesmen, much reduced but still in well-ordered ranks. Through his spyglass, Marcus could see Give-Em-Hell at the head of the wedge, his bicorn askew, saber waving in the air. He looked around, and Marcus held his breath.

Come on, come on.
It would go against the cavalryman's every instinct not to turn back. Some of his men were still embroiled in the fight, unable to break free, and with a simple turn Give-Em-Hell's troops could have plunged into the rear of the bone men's line. Cavalry commanders had the same instinctive attraction to unguarded flanks and rear attacks as cats had to mice.
Remember, Henry, just this once . . .

Give-Em-Hell applied his spurs, and his horse broke into a gallop. His men followed suit, riding away from the golden opportunity and the comrades dying behind them. They rode to the west, snow flying around the horses' hooves, keeping to the riverbank.

They made it.
Barring more enemy forces out of sight, impassable terrain, or a thousand other things.
Eight days, he said.
That would be a killing pace, but Marcus had no doubt Give-Em-Hell would try.
Eight days to reach the army and return.

The cavalry rounded a copse of trees and passed out of sight. Marcus returned his attention to the battle in front of him and found that there was movement in the forest. Murnskai cuirassiers, large men with gleaming breastplates and tall white shakos, were emerging from the woods in a neat column. There weren't many of them, but there didn't need to be, not if they circled to attack in the infantry side-on. Forming square would only leave them under the deadly rain of arrows, without much opportunity to strike back.
Get out of there, Fitz.

All at once the long Vordanai line came apart. At the shouted command of their officers, the men turned their backs on the enemy and ran, splashing back into the shallows of the river. Marcus was pleased to see that they didn't throw down their weapons, but they ran with a silent determination, throwing up big sprays of water with every step. Behind them, the bowmen advanced, but it was the cuirassiers that Marcus kept his eyes on. The sight of fleeing men made them come on faster, pounding down the snowy slope.
Like a cat after a mouse.
Marcus' lip curved slightly, imagining the shouts of their officers.

Viera's guns opened fire again as soon as the last Vordanai infantry were back in the ford. Unlike the bone men archers, the dense clumps of cuirassiers made a splendid target, cannonballs bowling over men and horses with equal ease. Disordered by the fire, they milled in confusion, taking further casualties before their commander finally got them under control and pulled back out of range.

The cannon stopped firing as the first of the infantry waded ashore. The artillerymen and the two battalions who'd stayed behind raised a cheer, which was taken up by the rest of the men as they milled about at the water's edge. They'd done what they'd set out to do, which in combination with the flight of the cuirassiers made it feel like a victory. Marcus kept his eye on the knot of struggling cavalry until the fighting finally ceased, the last of Give-Em-Hell's cutoff troopers hacked down or pulled from his saddle.

Not much of a victory.
The best that could be said was that it had worked, and that Marcus' judgment had been vindicated.
If we'd tried to push through them,
we'd have gotten slaughtered.
With no cavalry of their own to counter the cuirassiers, infantry squares were their only defense, and then the archers would have slowly whittled the ranks to nothing.

So Give-Em-Hell is on his way to Raesinia, and we're stuck here.
Marcus forced himself to grin and gave Viera an encouraging wave, then hurried down to the shore in search of Fitz. He found him directing his excited, disorganized men, sorting them back out into their companies.

“Nicely timed,” Marcus said. “That was perfect.”

“General Stokes got away, then?” Fitz said.

“He did. Now we just have to hold out until he gets back.”

“That's not going to be easy. Those archers know their business. We lost quite a few.” Fitz paused. “You may want to pass the word. The contingents with spears seem to be made up almost entirely of women, though it's hard to tell until they get up close. I wouldn't want any of our men to be shocked and hesitate.”

Once Marcus would have said that only savages would engage in such a barbaric practice. Now . . .
Maybe the savages are just ahead of their time.
He sighed.
Or maybe the rest of the world is turning savage to match them.

He shrugged. “Let's get some bonfires built and dry your men out. I've got some ideas I want to go over with you.”

W
inter knew they were catching up long before they got their first sight of the Penitent.

Alex reported that her feel for the location of their prey had firmed up throughout the day, and even Winter's more limited senses began to respond. It was difficult to ignore Alex's powerful presence nearby, but when she stared in the direction they were headed, Winter could feel Infernivore's interest perk up, just slightly. Margaret and Farah still led the way, following the trail of the white riders through the snow, but whenever they seemed uncertain Alex or Winter would indicate the right direction.

The rest of the Girls' Own soldiers didn't question this guidance, which made Winter wonder how much they knew. Rumors had spread, of course, after the assassination attempt in Desland and Marcus' battle against the Penitent in Vordan City. There were always tales of magic and demons going around, but these were both more specific and closer to home than usual, and surely some of the women believed them. But nothing was ever said about it openly, at least in Winter's presence.

In the morning of the fourth day, they broke out of the tree line at the top of a ridge, overlooking a narrow river valley. Farah called a halt, shading her eyes and scanning the terrain below. The river wouldn't be an obstacle, Winter decided—it was narrow and frozen over, barely visible through the snow. But there were steep slopes that would be tricky to pick their way down.

“There!” Farah pointed. Winter followed her finger and saw movement, the white-on-white shapes nearly invisible. Riders, disappearing into the trees on the opposite side of the valley, no more than a few miles away.

“How much longer?” Winter said.

Farah frowned and looked at Margaret. “Hard to say. At the rate we've been going, another day or two at least.”

“Alex, how close are we to Elysium?”

The girl, deeply bundled in her too-large greatcoat, gave a shrug. “Maybe another three or four days? We're still going more or less the right way.”

Winter frowned. “That's closer than I'd like. Any way we can cut them off?”

Alex shook her head. “They're not quite on the direct route, but if we leave their trail, odds are we'll be slowed down by hills or bad ground.”

“At least if we stay close, we know they're running into the same problems we are,” Farah said.

Winter blew out a breath, steam floating up and away. “All right. Let's make as much ground as we can, then. Red!”

The sergeant took up the call, and the small column started moving again. The soldiers led their horses for most of the day, picking their way down the rocky ridgeline, alert for patches of loose snow. Even so, they lost one pack animal when it put a foot wrong and slid over the edge, screaming in terror until it hit the rocks below. They'd turned two more horses loose the previous day when minor injuries kept them from keeping up the pace; Winter couldn't bring herself to put them down, though she didn't hold out much hope for their survival in the snow. The remaining animals were suffering, growing thinner and less energetic as the days went on. The temperature had begun dropping on the second day and kept falling, until it hurt just to breathe.

The enemy have to be suffering, too.
The white riders were better equipped for this sort of weather, but they were still human.
We're catching up.

After a brief, joyless lunch of cold hardtack and dried meat, they crossed the frozen river and started up the gentler slope toward the forest on the other side. Here, piles of large rocks broke up the trees, and the trail veered to pass between two large snow-covered formations. Winter brought her mount alongside Alex's.

“You've still got the Penitent?” she said.

Alex nodded. “Well ahead of us. Why?”

“This would be a good spot for an ambush. Be careful.” Winter raised her voice. “Red! Carbines out. Take it slow!”

Margaret led the way into the rocks, keeping her eyes on the trail while Winter and the others followed with their weapons ready. There was no sign of any white riders, though, and Winter let out a long breath in relief when Margaret reached the edge of the rocks and turned around.

“The trail keeps straight on,” she said, as the rest of the column advanced to meet her. “No sign anyone broke off.”

“Good.” Winter glanced at the sky.
Three or four hours of daylight left
.
If we push on—

Something flickered at the edge of her vision. She ducked automatically, and an arrow whirred past overhead, thunking into the snow a few feet beyond her.

“Down!” Red shouted. “Take cover!”

“Maggie!” This was Farah, a rising scream. Winter looked up to see Margaret with an arrow protruding sideways from her throat, fletching pressed against the skin and bloody broad head emerging from the other side. She blinked, uncomprehending, and clutched at the wound, reeling in her saddle.

Winter vaulted from her horse, landing clumsily in the snow as the animal shied. A carbine went off, and then another, but she couldn't see what they were shooting at. More arrows hissed down, raising puffs of snow or sparking as they ricocheted from bare rock. Winter stumbled to a hummock in the snow and flopped behind it, while another shaft purred by just overhead. Finally, she got a glimpse of one of her attackers—a small man in white furs, crouching atop a boulder while he notched another arrow to his bow. Where his cloak met the snow, the boundary was nearly invisible.
No wonder we didn't spot them.

Two more Girls' Own soldiers lay motionless in the snow. Another woman, an arrow through her leg, was crawling toward cover on hands and knees. The rest had abandoned their mounts and gotten into the cover of the rocks, leaving the narrow path full of rearing, terrified horses. Red raised her head and fired her carbine, and a body toppled from its perch in a spray of snow, but she barely ducked two arrows shot back her way.

This is bad.
It had taken Winter's mind this long to come up with that fairly obvious assessment. Arrows were falling not only among the soldiers but also among the horses, and the animals were starting to scatter. The white riders were damnably accurate, and even the short-barreled carbines were difficult to load while lying flat behind a rock. She couldn't even tell how many attackers there were—they kept changing position, their camouflage nearly perfect.

“Winter!” Bobby's voice. Winter risked a look and saw her waving from a rock on the other side of the trail. “I'll flush them out!”

“Right!” Winter answered.

Winter took a breath, counted to ten, and then sprinted from behind cover in a spray of snow. Arrows zipped past, but she made it to the large rock where Red had taken shelter with several other soldiers. They were frantically
reloading the awkward carbines, one holding the weapon while the other worked the ramrod.

“Bobby's going to spook them,” she told the sergeant. “Get ready to pick them off when they run.”

“She's going to get herself killed,” Red said. “They're good shots with those bows.”

“Just watch.”

Winter took another glance, in time to see Bobby rise from cover and draw her sword. She hopped up to the top of a rock, dislodging enough snow to create a minor avalanche. Two arrows found her, one from the front and one from behind, sticking in her greatcoat. She ignored them, gathered her legs under her, and
jumped
. Winter heard Red's startled intake of breath; Bobby had bounded to the top of the rocks in a single leap, landing in an undignified sprawl beside a startled archer. He scrambled to draw a knife, but Bobby grabbed his wrist, snapped his arm with a casual twist, and hurled him screaming to the trail below.

“Now!” Winter said. “Fire!”

Other white riders were on the move, backing away from this strange soldier. Another arrow lodged just beneath Bobby's collar, and she pulled it out and tossed it away as though it were an irritating thorn. A few long steps brought her in range of the next archer, and the force of her sword batted his parry aside and cut deep through his furs. He fell, slithering down the rocks. As other bowmen fled, carbines blazed away, and several enemies dropped to sprawl amid the snow.

A sound like a watery
hiss
drew Winter's attention. On the other side of the trail, Alex leaned out from behind a rock, globes of darkness encircling her hands. A lance of pure shadow cut through the air, spearing a figure on the opposite heights through the chest. He collapsed without a sound, and another black beam flicked out to catch a second bowman when he rose to fire.

A few minutes later it was all over. The remaining white riders had tried to run only to be cut down by carbine fire, no quarter asked and none offered. For a few moments after, no one wanted to move, until Red's booming voice pushed the survivors from their paralysis. She divided them up, one team gathering the corpses and the wounded, the other rounding up the scattered horses.

Winter hurried up through the rocks to where Bobby had vanished, collapsing after bringing down a third archer. She found the girl sitting against a rock, beside a corpse whose head had been twisted completely around, so he stared upward from where he lay sprawled on his front.

“Bobby!” Winter hissed. “Can you hear me?” Sometimes the healing process took a while, leaving Bobby unconscious while her wounds changed to strange, marble-colored skin.

This time, though, she nodded. An arrow still stuck out from her chest, wobbling as she breathed. Bobby looked down at it, grunted, and pulled it out. The tip was bloody.

“I'm okay,” she said. “It's getting faster, you know. Healing. Especially if I concentrate on it.” She leaned back. “Those things still hurt, though.”

“You probably just saved all our lives,” Winter said. “But you're getting awfully reckless.”

Bobby laughed. “Better that I take the arrows than any of you, right?”

“What are you going to tell the rest of them, though?”

“The truth, more or less. That I went to Khandar and something strange happened to me.” Bobby grinned. “You were the one who told me that people will believe anything as long as far-off lands are involved.”

Winter grabbed Bobby's hand and pulled her to her feet. There was something shaky in Bobby's smile that Winter didn't like, but she did her best to return the grin.

—

Four women were dead, including Margaret. Farah sat beside her partner's corpse, head bowed, and said nothing when the rest of the soldiers dragged the body away. Three more were wounded, one with a cut to the arm and another with an arrow in her leg. Red pushed the shaft through, while two other soldiers restrained the victim, and afterward proclaimed that she'd live if the wound stayed clean.

The last injured soldier was Ranker Litton, who'd greeted Winter with such enthusiasm. They'd propped her against a rock, with an arrow sticking out of her belly. It shifted with every fast, shaky breath. Red examined her for a moment, then took Winter aside.

“She's dead,” the sergeant said bluntly. “It's torn her bowels, and that'll fester, sure as sunrise. We could strap her to a horse and bring her with us, but that'll slow us down, and it'll all be the same in a few days.”

“Damn,” Winter said quietly. She'd guessed as much, from her experience of battle wounds, but had hoped the sergeant would contradict her.

“We can leave her here,” Red said. “The cold . . . it's not supposed to be such a bad way to go. Or else . . .”

“We can't leave her.” Winter looked up at the rest of the soldiers, who were now gathering the white rider corpses. “I'll talk to her. You . . .”

Red nodded. Winter circled around and knelt in front of Litton, who looked up at her with wide eyes.

“Sir.” Her voice was a rasp. “Did we win?”

“We won.” Winter took the girl's hand, which was chilled to the bone, as though she were already dead. “You did well.”

“I got shot, is what I did.” Litton coughed, and turned her head as Red knelt down beside her. “Sergeant—”

“Look at me, Ranker,” Winter said. “That's right. Just be calm. It'll be fine.”

Litton smiled. A moment later Red's long knife went into her side, slipping smoothly between the ribs to find the heart. The girl's body jerked, and her hand tightened on Winter's for a moment. Then it fell away, and the breath sighed out of her.

“Thank you,” Winter said to Red, blinking back tears.

“She would have done the same for me,” Red muttered, staring down at the slack young face.

There was no question of burying the bodies, so they left them under a mound of snow and rocks instead. The white riders were piled up beside them, stripped naked, their furs and leathers parceled out to the surviving soldiers. The women looked monstrous, wrapped in so many layers they could hardly walk, army-issue blankets mixed with rough furs and cured hide. The dead enemy had no mounts and very little food, which made Winter sure this had been a suicide mission, intended to buy time.

“They broke off farther up,” Farah said in a flat voice. “Circled back behind the rocks, well clear of the trail, so we wouldn't spot them.”

“It was well planned,” Winter said in a consoling tone. “I didn't see a thing until they started shooting.”

“I had a nasty feeling,” Farah said. “I should have said something.”

Red snorted. “I don't think there's anything in this Beast-damned country that I have a
good
feeling about.”

They set off again, twenty now instead of twenty-five, with fewer than sixty horses. Some animals had been injured or killed by arrows, but more had simply run off beyond the soldiers' ability to track them down. On this side of the river, the forest was mostly pines, and the canopy had kept the snow on the
ground light. They made good time, halting in the shelter of a boulder as the sun sank below the horizon.