The Guns of Empire (40 page)

Off to the right, the river was still high, though most of the broken ice had been swept downstream. Now there was just the dark, freezing water, rushing by in a torrent. New ice was forming at the edges, but it would be days at the least before the surface crusted over, and days more before it could take the
weight of a man, much less an army. The curtain of snowflakes disappeared into the swirling waters.

They made camp, if it could be called that, on a height overlooking the river. Dinner was army soup, with a great deal more water and fewer ingredients than usual.
At least we don't have to worry about water.
In the Great Desol that had been their primary concern; here all they had to do was heap snow in a cauldron and heat it to a boil.

A great many men were sick, mostly with the flux, and the First's regimental cutters were working overtime to keep them on their feet. The few spaces on the carts were jealously guarded, and feverish, half-dead soldiers were pushed off as soon as they could make it a few paces, to stumble onward as best they could. Frostbite was also becoming a real problem, with a number of fingers and toes lost already.

Marcus had volunteered to tend Janus, as long as they were sharing a tent. The warmth and smell of the army soup seemed to bring him out of his stupor slightly, and he was able to sit up and manage the spoon himself. Marcus watched him cautiously, offering a canteen full of cold water at intervals.

“Marcus?” Janus' thin face had grown even thinner, his cheeks marred by stubble, his gray eyes baggy and dark. “Marcus, you're still here?”

“I'm here,” Marcus said. “Finish eating, sir.”

Janus took another few bites mechanically, then put the spoon down. “I have had a revelation,” he said. “The world is . . . Do you know the nature of the world?”

“No, sir. But please eat some more.”

“The world is the
ocean
.” Janus blinked slowly. “The surface is light and clear. Ships, birds, fish. We draw
maps
of the light and say, this is the world. This is all there is.” He laughed, and it turned into a cough. “Hubris. All vanity.”

“Sir, please.”

Janus took another bite of soup, then stared down into the bowl. “There's the rest of it, you see. Down below. It's dark, on and on, all the way down to the very bottom. There's so
much
darkness. Much, much more than there is of the light. You understand? Continents of shadow, far below the surface, never seeing the sun. The light is just the thinnest layer, like the scum on the surface of a pond.” He prodded the soup with his spoon, where a thin layer of fat had floated to the top. “That's the world.”

“It's the ocean, anyway.”

“It's the
world
!” Janus twisted in his bedroll, and Marcus hurriedly grabbed the bowl of soup before it spilled. “You don't understand. Listen, Marcus. There's so much darkness down there. It goes on forever. And she's down there somewhere. I have to find her. There's . . . a fishing line.” He giggled. “A fishing line! It's not far now. Just a little farther . . .”

His eyes closed. Marcus set the soup aside and caught Janus' shoulders as he sank back down onto the bedroll, laying him out carefully. His breath was too warm and too fast. Marcus stared at his still, sleeping face.

What is it like in there?
When he pictured Janus' mind, it was something sharp and cold, an endless machine made of ice. Gears and wheels and pendulums with edges like razors, sweeping back and forth in terrifying, ordered precision. Now he imagined fire raging unchecked, melting the pistons and the shafts, bringing the machine to a rattling, screeching halt.

Even if he recovers, will there be anything left? Is he really trying to tell me something with this talk of oceans and fishing lines, or is it just . . . fragments?
Marcus closed his eyes.

“Come back,” he said quietly. “Please.”

—

By the middle of the next day's march, they reached the ford. The river was still high. Marcus had hoped for something ankle-deep, but the water was two to three feet in places, and running dangerously fast. That was nothing, though, compared to what awaited them on the other side.

“The white riders,” Fitz said grimly, looking through the spyglass. He handed it to Marcus, who put it to his eyes.

In truth, Marcus thought they looked a bit different—the same pale faces and furs, but fashioned into coats instead of bound wraps, and with a great deal of bone and horn ornamentation.
A different tribe, maybe?
He knew nothing about the northern wastes except that they were vast and inhospitable. But it was too much to hope that these people might have a friendlier disposition than those they'd fought so far; they were clearly drawn up for battle. Long lines of spearmen with big stretched-hide shields lined the ford, with groups of bowmen behind them.

“Not riders, for the most part,” Marcus said. Unlike their opponents so far, these people seemed to fight mostly on foot. A few bands of cavalry hovered at the edges of their formation, riding the same small ponies. In the tree line beyond the river, movement caught Marcus' attention, and he refocused the glass. “But they're not alone. Look in the trees.”

Fitz took the spyglass back to see for himself. “Those are Murnskai cavalry.”

“Cuirassiers,” Marcus said. “Keeping well back out of range.”

All in all, it didn't make for an encouraging picture. Another man might have dismissed the threat of primitives with bows and spears, but Marcus had been in Khandar and had atmost respect for what “primitive” weapons could do in the right hands. Especially when there were so
many
of them—he guessed at least eight thousand in front of the ford, more than twice the Vordanai numbers, with who knew how many more waiting in the trees.
And the white riders still behind us.

“Tell Viera to get her guns moving,” Marcus said. “Then get everyone together. This changes things.”

Half an hour later they were gathered in a newly erected tent, huddled around a meager fire. Though Fitz was as imperturbable as ever and Viera's scowls were nothing unusual, there was definitely a dark mood in the air.

“Savages,” Give-Em-Hell muttered. “Give me a thousand hussars and I could clear out the lot of them.”

“If I had a thousand hussars, I'd gladly let you,” Marcus said. “But we need to work with what we've got. Viera, are the guns in position?”

She nodded. “Just about.”

“Then we give them a taste of shot!” Give-Em-Hell said. “No doubt they'll break at the first blast.”

“I doubt that,” Marcus said. “These aren't Khandarai peasants who've never been in a fight before. The white riders certainly didn't run away at the sight of muskets.”

“So what, then?” The cavalry general frowned. “You can't mean to retreat?”

“We don't have the supplies,” Marcus said. “And there's no guarantee they wouldn't shadow us.” He took a deep breath. “We can't go around, and we don't have the strength to punch through. If we don't get help from the rest of the army, we'll never get across the river.”

The flat statement hung in the air like an unwelcome stench. Andy coughed.

“The trouble is,” she said, “the rest of the army doesn't know we need help, or even where we are.”

“Right,” Marcus said. “So this is what we're going to do.”

They listened in silence as he explained the plan. When he'd finished, even Give-Em-Hell was frowning.

“That's going to be . . . very tight,” Fitz said. “Even if it works. Five days, maybe, to Polkhaiz, five days back.”

“
If
it works,” Andy said, glancing at Give-Em-Hell.

“Eight days,” the cavalry general said. “I swear it, on my honor.”

Your honor, against ice and snow and eight thousand men.
Marcus smiled inwardly. The damned thing was, he wouldn't necessarily lay odds against Give-Em-Hell. “It's the best chance we've got,” he said aloud. “If anyone has anything better to suggest, I'm all ears. But say it quickly. We're burning daylight.”

No one spoke.

“Okay,” Marcus said, feeling something tighten in his chest. “Captain Galiel, see if you can convince our friends to give us a little more room to breathe.”

—

After they had abandoned the six-pounders, the First Division's artillery reserve consisted of a battery of a dozen twelve-pounder field-guns. These were parked in a loose formation on the rising ground above the riverbank, with the caissons containing the majority of their ammunition well back, in case of misfire. Viera's cannoneers bustled around them, carefully adjusting their position and elevation, until one by one the teams stepped away from their pieces. When they were all ready, Viera looked up at Marcus and nodded.

Marcus narrowed his eyes at the dense formation of tribesmen across the river. He felt the eyes on him, not just the cannoneers but the men in the ranks drawn up behind them, and he filled his lungs for a bellow.

“Open
fire
!”

The cannons flashed, one after another from left to right, twelve almighty
bangs
like the tolling of some apocalyptic clock. It was a good seven hundred yards across the river, so the trajectory of the balls had a considerable arc to it, and they were briefly visible in midair before they plunged toward their targets. Two fell short, raising spouts of water, but the rest landed among the enemy lines. Fountains of snow marked where they hit, making it difficult to assess the effect.

“The snow is going to be a problem,” Viera said, looking with a spyglass. “The balls won't bounce. That cuts the effectiveness of solid shot considerably.”

“We were never going to seriously damage them at this range in any case,” Marcus said. “Keep it up for a quarter of an hour, and we'll see if they still feel like standing out in the open.”

“Yes, sir!” Viera turned back to her gunners, who were already rushing to reload their cannons, and began shouting at those whose accuracy had been less than perfect. Marcus walked up the slight incline, past where the infantry waited, to what remained of the cavalry.

It was a sorry sight. Barely two hundred horses, most of them simple riding animals or officers' mounts rather than true cavalry horses. The riders looked just as haphazard, mostly light cavalry from the First's detachment, with a scattering of volunteers from the infantry. They'd all supplemented their light coats with blankets, furs, tent canvas, and whatever else came to hand, making them look more like a band of highwaymen than proper soldiers. Give-Em-Hell, in the lead, was proudly unencumbered by anything save his regulation jacket, silver stars sparkling on his shoulders and breath steaming in the cold. He was standing by the side of his horse, fussing with the saddle.

“Henry,” Marcus said. It sometimes took him a moment to remember the man's given name.

“Sir!” Give-Em-Hell turned, eyes gleaming. “We're ready, when you give the word.”

There were streaks of gray at the cavalryman's temples, Marcus noticed. He wondered how old Give-Em-Hell was. He'd seemed as eternal as war itself.
We're all of us only human.

“Listen,” Marcus said. “Once you punch through, you can't stop for
anything
, you understand? No matter what happens here, keep going.”

“I heard the plan,” Give-Em-Hell said with a sniff.

“I know. But I know how hard it is to keep you out of a fight.” Marcus grinned. “We've been at this a long time, remember?”

“We have indeed.” Give-Em-Hell drew himself up, shoulders quivering with the effort of standing at attention, and saluted. “I won't let you down, sir. None of us will.”

“I know it.” Marcus clapped him on the shoulder. “Good luck.”

“Marcus!” Andy appeared, breath puffing. “They're moving back.”

“That didn't take long.” Marcus glanced at the sky.
Still a few hours left before dark.
Long enough. “Tell Fitz to go forward. I'll be with the artillery.”

That was a concession on his part, but both Fitz and Andy had been adamant that Marcus' place wasn't with the advancing line. Instead, he took position on the height, far enough from the pounding guns that he could hear himself think and avoid getting caught in their smoke. A batch of young soldiers from the Third Regiment waited nearby, ready to carry his orders, but the truth was that there weren't many orders he could give that would make a difference. Once launched, the attack was out of his hands.

The tribesmen—the soldiers had started calling them the “bone men,” for the way they decorated themselves—were indeed falling back from the riverbank.
It wasn't a disorganized rout, as Marcus had secretly hoped, but a well-conducted withdrawal, and they didn't go far. Either they knew a bit about cannon, in spite of their primitive appearance, or their Murnskai allies had advised them; either way, the bone men reestablished their line only a few hundred yards farther back, far enough to be at the extreme range of the twelve-pounders. In accordance with Marcus' instructions, Viera halted her fire.

Three battalions of infantry from the First and Second Regiments started forward, slogging through the snow and into the freezing water. These were the Colonials, the men who'd fought with Janus through Khandar and the Velt campaign, though the formations had been brought up to strength with new drafts before the invasion of Murnsk. They were generally accounted the best infantry in the Grand Army, with the possible exception of Ihernglass' Girls' Own. Marcus barely recognized them—like the cavalry, they'd covered themselves in whatever they could find to stay warm, making the columns a motley of grays and browns instead of Vordanai blue. But their discipline was impressive; they maintained a good formation in spite of the difficult footing of the river. Give-Em-Hell and the cavalry followed after, splashing slowly through the shallow water.