The Guns of Empire (28 page)

“Also,” Bobby said, “Alex asked if you had a few moments to talk.”

“Right,” Winter said, grateful for the distraction. “Have you had any problems with her?”

“None, sir. She's been very well behaved. Anne-Marie and some of the others are quite taken with her.”

Winter nodded. She'd debated leaving the girl back with the supply train. But if she
was
a Penitent—something Winter had a harder time believing every time they talked—then the best chance of stopping her when she made her move would be if Winter and Bobby were nearby. So she'd ridden with the cross-country march to Bskor, uncomplaining in the face of bad roads and mud.
From the looks of her when she first arrived, she's come through worse.

“I'll see her now,” Winter said. “Is she still in her tent?”

“She wanted to meet out in the woods,” Bobby said. “Something about a demonstration. I'll fetch her myself, if that's all right. Just to be safe.”

Winter nodded. Bobby saluted again and slipped out, to be replaced by the ranker with a full kettle of ice-cold spring water. After another long drink, and a visit to the latrines, Winter was feeling halfway human again. Her head still throbbed, but she could at least open her eyes in the light.

Bobby and Alex met her at the edge of the camp, and together they walked out past the sentry ring and into the rocky woodlands that stretched along the spine of the hills. Alex seemed much improved; she wore a grab bag of Murnskai civilian clothing and a blue army coat, but her color was healthy, and if she was pained by the wound in her side she gave no sign of it.

“I take it I should congratulate you,” she said.

Winter glanced at the girl. “Why?”

“You won the battle, didn't you?”

“Oh.” Winter shrugged. “The battle was over as soon as Janus put us across the Murnskai line of supply. It just took a while for Prince Vasil to realize it.”
A while, and a whole lot of corpses.

“Janus is really that good?”

“
Good
isn't the word. He's . . .” Winter groped for a description. “It's like watching a grown man play handball against a bunch of children.”

“It sounds like I made the right decision, then, coming down here.” Alex looked around. “This ought to be far enough.”

“All right.” Winter crossed her arms. “What do you want to show me?”

“My demon. I'm not a soldier, um . . .” Alex hesitated. “What do I call you, properly?”

Winter laughed. “Properly? Division-General Ihernglass. But you may as well keep calling me Winter.”

“Right. I promised you a demonstration, I think. I came here to help fight the Priests of the Black and the Penitent Damned. So you need to know what I can do, and I think I'm recovered enough by now to show you.”

“Fair enough. So what can you do?”

“I told you I was a thief.” Alex flashed a sunny grin. “I was pretty good at it, even without a demon. But this helped.”

She raised her hands, the slightly overlong sleeves of the blue coat falling loose on her skinny arms. Globes of darkness grew under her palms, expanding from pinpoints of black to spheres that obscured her hands to the wrists. At the bottom of her mind, Winter felt Infernivore stirring.

From one of the globes, a black tendril shot out, faster than Winter's eyes could follow. It wrapped around the trunk of a nearby pine, about twenty feet off the ground. Alex ran directly at the tree, jumped, and let the thread of darkness take her weight, running
up
the trunk until she was braced against it well off the ground. She hung there for a few moments, scanning the forest around her. Then she raised her other hand, letting another black whip lick out and grasp another tree. Winter gasped involuntarily as she jumped, swinging past with a gleeful
whoop
at the end of her unnatural rope. When she reached the other tree, the black line vanished, and Alex kicked off the trunk into a neat backflip and landed on her feet.

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn't mean to get carried away. It's just been a while. I forgot how fun that is.”

“It's very impressive,” Winter said.

“There's a bit more,” Alex said. Her expression darkened, but she turned, pointing at a dead stump. Two spears of darkness lanced out, punching through the old wood and out the other side. They hung still for a moment, then flexed, producing a rising groan that ended with the stump exploding into splinters. Alex let her hand fall, the globes of darkness fading, and turned back to Winter.

“Ah,” Winter said. She paused for a moment. “You could do that to a person?”

Bobby glanced at Winter uncertainly. Winter kept her eyes on Alex, who looked down at the forest floor for a long moment.

Finally, she took a deep breath and nodded. “I have.”

“And would you, if I asked you to?”

“I . . .” Alex began, then trailed off.

“You're not a soldier,” Winter said. “But if you want to help us, you might have to become one.”

“I don't want to fight some poor Murnskai bastard who never did anything to me,” Alex said. “But if it's the Black Priests or their people, then I'll do whatever needs to be done.”

“I suppose I can't argue with that.” After considering for a long moment, Winter held out her hand. “Welcome to the Second Division.”

“Thanks.”

When they shook, Infernivore twitched at the contact. Then there was something else, the beast in Winter's soul turning, just slightly, like an animal seeing something on the horizon.

Alex half turned, looking over her shoulder. “Did you feel something?”

“I'm not sure.” Winter looked to Bobby, who shook her head. “We'd better get back to camp.”

“Yeah.” Alex pulled her coat a little tighter. “It's cold today, for
spring.”

“
D
estroyed?”
The Pontifex of the White's voice carried a quaver of disbelief.

“Destroyed,” the Pontifex of the Black said. In spite of the dire circumstances, he couldn't help but take pleasure in seeing the old man's confident facade shaken. “A few cavalry may have escaped. Prince Vasil's fate is unknown.”

“Could your sources be mistaken?”

“Unlikely,” the Pontifex of the Red broke in. “I'm beginning to get similar reports, although obviously my methods are not as fast as those of our Brother of the Black. It appears that the emperor's army has been decisively defeated.”

The White and the Red sat on their respective sides of the triangular table. The Black, too keyed up to stay in a chair, paced back and forth across the length of the room.

“Vhalnich will come to Elysium,” he said. “He's said as much, and there's no reason to doubt him.”

“Elysium has stood for a thousand years,” the White said, regaining some of his poise. “One battle is not a war. Dorsay is still in the field, and the emperor will assemble another army. No matter how Vhalnich struggles, he cannot hope to defy history forever.”

You blind fool,
the Black thought.
Just as the Beast predicted.
“He doesn't
have
to defy history forever,” he said, keeping his anger under control. “He's not fighting Borel, or Murnsk. He's coming for
us
. He has the legacy of the Demon King, and he wants to raze Elysium and set free all the fiends we've spent so long putting in chains. At a stroke, every bit of the progress the Church has made since the days of Saint Ligamenti would be erased.”

“You don't think you're being a little overdramatic?” the White said.

“While I don't pretend to understand Vhalnich's motives,” the Red said, “I have to admit the situation seems grave. I'm not a general, but I can read a map. Polkhaiz is barely a hundred and fifty miles from here as the crow flies, and there's no significant force in a position to stop him. A strike at his rear might slow him down, but Duke Dorsay seems disinclined to make one.”

“For which he will be punished, once all this is over,” the White snapped. “Very well. My Brother of the Black, since you seem so incensed, may I assume you have some plan in mind?”

“The time for holding anything back has long since passed,” the Black said. “The Penitent Damned will do what they can, but it may not be enough. I have no choice but to unleash the Old Witch.”

There was silence around the table for a moment.

“The Old Witch of the Ice Woods,” the White said flatly. “The Heart of Murnsk.”

“A creature that, if our records are to be believed, it took a hundred years and the lives of a thousand men to subdue,” the Red said. “You want to use it as a
weapon
?”

“It is the most effective weapon in our arsenal,” the Black said.

“Can it be controlled?” the White said.

“To a point,” the Black said. “It has spent a very long time in our power, and its current incarnation is at least . . . biddable. But its effect is . . . ah . . . indiscriminate.”

“Again, if the records are to be believed, that is an understatement,” the Red said. “You're talking about the deaths of thousands.”

“Tens of thousands,” the Black said. “At least.”

“This is absurd,” the White screeched. “These are our own people.”

“And they would give up their lives for the Church, if we asked them,” the Black said. “This is no different.”

“There is no alternative?” the Red said hopelessly.

“My bag of tricks is not bottomless, brothers,” the Black said. “This is my last card to play.”

There was a long silence.

“Then we must play it,” the Red said. “God have mercy on all of us.”

Under his mask, the Pontifex of the Black grinned. “God have mercy on Janus bet Vhalnich.”
I intend to have none.

—

“Send messages to the tundra tribes beyond the Bataria,” the Black said as he walked down the spiraling corridors under the earth. “Call in every debt we're owed. I want all the riders they can muster.”

“Yes, Your Excellence,” the scribe said. “Will they reach us before Vhalnich does?”

“Just do it.”
Vhalnich will never reach Elysium.

“As you command.” The scribe shuffled his papers. “Mirror has rendezvoused with Shade, in the vicinity of Dorsay's army. He asks if you wish Dorsay removed.”

“Not yet.” Dorsay was working against Church interests at the present, but when Vhalnich was destroyed he would still have his uses.
His reckoning will come later.
“Tell him to stand by.”

“What should he tell Duke Orlanko?”

“Whatever shuts him up,” the Black snapped. He deeply wished circumstances had allowed him to dispose of the pompous Vordanai duke. Unfortunately, Orlanko was the only plausible candidate to rule Vordan once the revolution was crushed and Raesinia was in a cell where she belonged.
I never should have listened to him in the first place.
Orlanko was a transparently self-serving toad, but once he was in power he would at least be easy to manipulate.

“Yes, Your Excellence.”

“Wait here,” the Black said. “I won't be long.”

There were three doors to the cell under the mountain, one after another, each locked and opened by a separate key held by a Black Priest sworn to defend it with his life. When they were all open, the Pontifex of the Black strode through, into a narrow rock-walled cell only a few feet across. The prisoner hung on one wall, shackles on her wrists connected by chains to pitons driven into the stone. An iron ring encircled her head, like a crown a bit too big for its bearer, holding a metal plate across her eyes. In spite of living in this permanent darkness, she looked up as the Black came into her prison, sensitive to the slight scuff of his slippers on the stone.

“Hello, Zakhar,” said the Beast.

The Pontifex of the Black pointedly did not flinch. The Beast liked to remind him of what it was, that in spite of this fresh young body it had the knowledge of a demon, going back centuries. It knew his real name, which he'd given up on becoming head of his order, because it had known him as a young man in service to the previous Pontifex of the Black.

“How was the conference with your brothers?” the creature said.

“The Pontifex of the White was reluctant,” the Black said.

“As I warned,” the Beast said. “Your predecessor gave a very clear description of him. The man likes nothing more than an argument. I trust you persuaded him?”

“I did.” The Black frowned. “You knew Vhalnich would defeat the emperor's army. How?”

“Because Janus bet Vhalnich is obsessed.” The Beast leaned forward slightly, chains rattling against their pitons. “He will sacrifice anything to get what he wants, and that gives him an edge. He's coming for you, my dear Zakhar.”

“He won't reach Elysium,” the Black said.

“I wouldn't be so certain,” the Beast crooned. “Underestimate Vhalnich's resolve at your peril.”

“I do not plan to underestimate anything,” the Black said. “Do you have anything
useful
to say?”

“So ungrateful,” the Beast said, blind, masked eyes running over him. Though he wore his full regalia, and the creature was naked and chained to a wall, something in its voice made the pontifex feel as though the situation were reversed. “Haven't I been
useful
so far?”

“You have provided . . . some insight.” The Beast's knowledge was immense. Tapping that knowledge without endangering his soul was walking a razor's edge, but in these desperate times the pontifex dared not ignore any advantage. Already, it had helped him outmaneuver his brothers in council.
And it
knows
Vhalnich!
“But not, I think, everything you know.”

“Everything I know is quite a long list, Zakhar,” the Beast said. “You need to ask the right questions.”

“Enough.” He turned away, gesturing for the jailers.

“You'll come see me again,” the Beast said. It wasn't a request, or even a command.
A prediction.
“When the enemy is at the walls.”

“I give the orders, not you,” the Black muttered. “Monster.”

The Beast laughed.

—

Spring had come, even to Elysium. The tops of the peaks were still shrouded in white, but halfway up, where the fortress-city clung to the shoulder of the mountain, a fragile warmth coaxed out the sparse grasses and hardy wildflowers. The sun hung in a cloudless sky. Swathed as he was in his thick robes and obsidian mask, the Pontifex of the Black was sweating.

It had to be worse for the two women standing in front of him, but if they were uncomfortable they gave no sign of it. One of them was tall and slender, the other shorter and compact, layered with muscle. Both wore heavy fur coats on top of layers of leather, along with thick gloves and boots. Their faces were invisible, covered by black cloth studded with thousands of chips of obsidian to create a glittering mask. Behind them, four heavily laden packhorses stood waiting.

“You understand your assignment?” the pontifex said. The rest of his entourage stood some distance away, out of earshot. It was unlikely that Vhalnich had spies in Elysium itself, but not impossible.
Best to be certain.

Both women nodded.

“Be cautious,” he said. “I understand you are eager to complete your duty. But you may be the last chance for the Church, and perhaps for the world. Wait for the proper moment.”

“Yes, Your Excellence,” the shorter one said, her voice flat. “We will not fail you.”

“It is not only me you serve; it is all of us.” The pontifex inclined his head respectfully. “We honor your sacrifice.”

They spoke in unison.
“Ahdon ivahnt vi, ignahta sempria.”
God bless us, the Penitent Damned.

“Go.”

They went, leading the small, sure-footed horses away. The pontifex watched with a gloomy feeling. From the beginning he'd tried to avoid risking his valuable Penitents by not confronting Vhalnich directly. But the time for restraint was over. As he'd told his brothers on the council, he intended to play every card he had remaining.

There were many gates to Elysium, most of them long since sealed and forgotten, a fact which the Priests of the Black found useful. The one they'd used had been a servants' entrance, hundreds of years ago, and its existence was recalled only by a few. It led to a narrow, rocky trail, which crossed a fast-running stream before following a meandering path halfway down the mountain, where it joined the main road. It was ideal for those who wanted to come and go from the fortress without attracting notice.

Two Priests of the Black held the small door open. Two more waited just inside, holding a thin, ragged man between them. The prisoner didn't look dangerous; indeed, without the priests' support, he didn't seem like he could have taken a step on his own. He certainly didn't resemble the fairy-tale villain who'd been the terror of a nation for more than a thousand years.

Since before the time of Karis, even before the arrival of the Mithradacii Tyrants, the peasants of Murnsk had told stories about the Old Witch of the Ice Woods. Mothers warned their children that the Old Witch would take them away if they disobeyed, and villages left offerings by her shrines in the darkest part of the local forest. Any community that failed to propitiate her, they said, would find itself obliterated by endless, cruel winter, buried in snow and ice even while summer came to the rest of the world.

Many centuries before, while pursuing their endless attempts to root out the last vestiges of the Mages' Heresy from remote parts of the north, the pontifex's predecessors had searched for the truth behind the legends. They'd expected to find nothing—even in the days of the Demon King, there were a hundred myths and ghost stories for every true sorcerer or demon. Instead, they'd found themselves in a war with a secretive cult that lived among the frozen forests, whose heart was the name of a demon passed from mother to daughter down through the generations.

The Black Priests had won, though it had taken a hundred years. They'd broken the cult and dragged the Old Witch, spitting and screaming, back to Elysium. As the worst winter in living memory battered the fortress, the torturers had dragged the name of the demon from the wretched woman, and since then it had been among the most powerful beasts imprisoned in the Church's menagerie.

The young man who currently bore the creature was weak-minded, his spirit broken by the agony of pronouncing the demon's name. Looking at his wasted frame, ribs clearly visible in a shrunken chest, the pontifex guessed they'd be searching for a new host before too much longer.
If the Church survives.
He shook his head. All that mattered now was that the pathetic creature was reasonably compliant—far too weak, in body and soul, to be a Penitent Damned, but willing to perform for food and kind treatment like a trained animal.

One of the two priests who were his keepers stepped away from his charge, bowed, and addressed the pontifex.

“Your Excellence.” He sounded nervous. “You understand that he is not capable of controlling his manifestation as precisely as some of the past hosts. If the Old Witch is unleashed, it will be at full strength. The consequences—”

“I'm aware of the consequences,” the pontifex said. “Do it.”

“Yes, Your Excellence.”

The priest waved to his fellow, who bent to whisper in the ear of the prisoner. The wretch made a face, and the priest spoke again, making him cower.
Finally the prisoner nodded miserably. He closed his eyes and raised his arms, trembling visibly with the effort.