The Guns of Empire (47 page)

Cyte was grinning. Even Giforte smiled, though his face was still haggard. Solwen's face was pinched, and de Manzet's calculating. But they both nodded, and all four of them chorused, “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Good.” Raesinia turned to Sothe. “Please fetch General Solwen's second in command, so we can inform him of the situation.”

That commander, a young colonel named Sebatish, turned out to be very understanding. Raesinia put him in charge of the Third Division and made sure that he publicly acknowledged her authority. The others were doing the same. It wasn't a guarantee against mutiny, but if the common soldiers knew who was supposed to be in command, their officers would be less likely to take their loyalty for granted.

“Neatly done,” Sothe said, when they were finally alone again.

“Never underestimate what can be accomplished by a little bacon at the right moment,” Raesinia said. “Kaanos didn't
want
to turn the army against itself, but he would have if that were the only way out I'd left him. I had to take it away before putting pressure on him.”

“Will you execute him?”

“Oh God, no. We'll find a diplomatic place to put him, assuming we get out of this at all.” Raesinia leaned back in her chair. “Speaking of which. Any word from Dorsay?”

“He's agreed to a meeting. We're working on a mutually agreeable venue.”

“Don't nitpick too hard. Kaanos was right that he's got us where he wants us. Our only advantage is that he doesn't
want
us destroyed, but if Orlanko gets control, that won't last—”

There was a frantic rap at the tent post. Sothe shot to her feet, one hand dropping to the hilt of a knife.

“Come in,” Raesinia said, sitting straighter.

“Your Majesty.” A ranker poked his head through the tent flap. “It's Division-General Stokes.”

Give-Em-Hell? But he was with Marcus—
“He's here?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. He's wounded, but he said he had to see you immediately.”

Raesinia met Sothe's gaze for a moment. “Bring him in.”

They pulled the sheets off the bedroll while two rankers carried the general in. Give-Em-Hell's uniform was filthy, crusted with blood on one side and stained with dust and sweat. His breathing came fast, and he looked around for a moment as though he didn't understand what he was seeing. Then his eyes found Raesinia.

“Your Majesty,” he gasped out. “Thank God Almighty.”

“Lie down, General,” Raesinia said. “Someone get him some water.”

Give-Em-Hell allowed himself to be lowered onto the bedroll, coughing. He took a greedy gulp from a proffered canteen, then handed it back.

“Been riding for days,” he said, mustache quivering. “Left the others behind. Very important.”

“What's important?” Raesinia said. “Where you with Marcus? What happened?”

“Marcus! Yes!” He shook his head. “Mind's not working straight. Marcus. At a ford upriver from Isket, a few days' march.”

“That's where you left him?” Raesinia said eagerly. “Was he all right?”

“Pinned down,” Give-Em-Hell muttered. “Too many. White riders, bone men. Still fighting, I hope to God. Don't know for how long.” He took a deep breath. “Help him. Please.”

Then, with a sigh, the cavalry general sank down on the bedroll and closed his eyes. A few moments later his mustache began to vibrate with a colossal snoring.

“Fetch a cutter,” Raesinia told one of the rankers. “And bring me whoever is in command of the cavalry at once.”

“Your Majesty,” Sothe said, as the two young men hurried to obey. “General Stokes didn't mention Janus.”

“You think that means he's dead?” Raesinia said.

“I think that means we don't know,” Sothe said. “And if he's
not
, and we manage to win through to them, matters might become . . . complicated.”

There was a long silence.

“We are hard-pressed as it is,” Sothe went on. “A rescue mission would be extremely risky.” She looked down, avoiding Raesinia's eyes. “This is the nature of command, Your Majesty. Difficult decisions sometimes need to be made.”

Difficult decisions.
Raesinia glanced from the sleeping Give-Em-Hell to Sothe and back again.
Is that what this is? Sacrifice thousands of men, or let things get
complicated
?

She closed her eyes, and saw Marcus holding out his hand.

W
inter awoke from a dream of an endless, freezing hell and found herself lying in a comfortable bed, covered by a warm, scratchy wool blanket.

She struggled to keep her breathing even.
Calm.
She tried to think, eyes closed.
We found . . . someplace warm. And then . . .
She remembered helping the rest of her diminished party through the crack in the rock, into the pleasant air of the strange valley. Alex had been saying something, something urgent, but Winter hadn't been able to focus. Days of exhaustion and terror, too long deferred, had come to claim their due.

So where am I?
Carefully, she cracked one eye. Her bed was at one end of a long row of beds. The room was carved from stone, with rock walls and a rough, low ceiling. Thick wool carpets covered the floor, dyed in colorful, abstract patterns. A narrow window—more like an arrow slit—gave Winter an abbreviated view of the green valley she remembered, hemmed in on all sides by massive snowcapped peaks.

Her uniform was gone, she realized. Peeking under the blanket revealed that someone had dressed her in a loose woolen shift. There were also bandages she didn't remember, one around her leg and another on her arm. The wrappings on her hand were fresh, too. She tried to flex her fingers, automatically, and a wave of pain crashed over her, so powerful that she bit her lip to keep from crying out.

There was the scrape of a chair, and footsteps. Winter hurriedly closed her eyes again and feigned sleep. Whoever had taken them might not intend immediate harm, but until she knew what was going on it was best to be cautious.

“Well?” The voice was Alex's, speaking Hamveltai. “Are they going to kill me?”

“The Eldest is very angry with you.” This was a young man's voice, grave and solemn.

“That's nothing new,” Alex said. “And?”

“Maxwell argued very passionately on your behalf. The Eldest has agreed to postpone judgment until we know what sort of trouble you have brought with you this time.”

“I told him—”

“The Eldest would prefer to hear from the strangers themselves.”

“Fine.” Alex sounded frustrated. “Can I at least go back to my room?”

“Or to Maxwell's?” There was a faint teasing note in the young man's tone.

“That's my business,” Alex sniffed.

The young man sighed. “The Eldest says you have freedom of the temple, provided you swear not to leave before the matter has been decided.”

“Fine,” Alex said. “Let me know when he's made up his damn mind. I won't hold my breath.”

“He's only trying to keep everyone safe,” the young man said. “Honestly, Alex, what the hell were you thinking?”

“I was thinking that everyone in this damn place would rather
talk
about a problem than actually
do
something about it. I was thinking that we might miss a chance that would never come again, because the Eldest would rather spend years discussing it than take the slightest risk.”

“The Eldest's first duty is to the Mountain.”

“I know,” Alex snarled, in the tones of someone who'd had the argument many times. “That's why I left.”

“But you came back. You brought
them
here.”

“What was I supposed to do? They all would have died.”

“Some would say, so much the better.”

“Fuck that.” Alex took a deep breath. “They helped me when they didn't have any reason to trust me.
She
helped me.”

“What's her name?”

“Winter.”

“That's appropriate,” the young man said, with subtle humor. “Her demon is very powerful. Do you know what it does?”

“I've never seen her use it,” Alex said.

“Has she woken up at all?”

“She thrashed a little bit, but no.”

“Her hand needs tending.” The young man sighed. “Go and see Maxwell before he explodes.”

A pause, and then more footsteps.

“Alex?”

She stopped. “What?”

“I'm glad you're all right.”

Alex snorted. “Maybe wait until the Eldest has decided not to cut my head off to say that.”

The young man crossed the room, soft slippers hissing on the carpet, to stand beside Winter's bed.

“Winter?” he said. “Winter, wake up.”

Winter opened her eyes. He was waiting a few steps away, with his hands crossed behind his back. He looked about twenty years old, with a serious face and short, dark hair. He wore a long, flowing outfit, something like a priest's robes, but made of rough-spun wool and patterned with intricate, twisting spirals and chains.

“Do you understand me?” he said, then switched to Murnskai. “Is this easier?”

“Hamveltai, please,” Winter said, trying to coax her memory to offer up that language.

“Alex has tried to teach me Vordanai, but she didn't have the patience for my slow progress,” he said.

“This is fine,” Winter said. “Where am I?”

“We call it the Mountain. It's not far from Elysium.”

“My soldiers. Bobby and the others. Are they all right?”

“Yes. You and Bobby are being kept separately, because of your powers. The rest are with the acolytes below.”

Winter let out a sigh of relief. Then, as what he'd said sank in, she stiffened. Infernivore was pressing at the edges of her mind, as it always did when she was around Alex, but now that the girl had gone she realized it wasn't only Alex who had provoked the reaction.

“You have a demon, too,” she said. “Who are you?”

“I do.” The young man inclined his head. “My name is Abraham.”

“What are you going to do with us?”

“Right now I would like to heal your hand. It is badly frostbitten, and the flesh is infected. If we leave it be, you will lose several fingers at least, and possibly the whole thing.”

Winter looked at the wrappings and grimaced. “You want to take the fingers off to save the rest?”

“That won't be necessary. My demon can repair it, if you give me permission to do so.”

She blinked. “Your demon needs permission?”

“
I
need permission.” Abraham gave a sad smile. “It's a rule I have made for myself.”

“Well, if you can do something, please go ahead. It hurts like hell already.”

“One moment.” Abraham positioned her hand palm-up on the bed, every movement sending shooting pain down her arm. He put his own hand on top of hers.

“Wait,” Winter said. She remembered Bobby, lying wounded in a tent in Khandar, and Feor's offer. “This isn't going to . . . change me, is it?”

“No. Don't worry. Just relax.”

Winter closed her eyes. Infernivore was thrashing, eager to surge through the connection and devour Abraham's demon, but her will held it back. She could feel a cold prickling in her skin, spreading under the bandages, like silver threads slipping painlessly through the inflamed flesh. Almost at once the agony began to fade, replaced by a
crawling
sensation, as though ants were marching under her skin. She gritted her teeth, fighting the urge to yank her hand away. After a long interval, the feeling faded, along with the last traces of pain. Abraham let out a sigh and lifted his hand.

“That's better,” he said. “Wash it well when you take the bandage off. You'll need to eat something, too. Do you think you can get out of bed?”

Winter nodded, feeling light-headed. She flexed her fingers and felt them respond without the stabs of agony.
Saints and martyrs.
“Your demon can . . . heal people? Can it heal
anything
?”

“It is limited by my knowledge of the body,” Abraham said. “Some wounds are easier than others. And I can do nothing for those who have already passed on.”

That's still a hell of a gift.
Winter sat up, fighting a wave of dizziness, and slipped her legs over the edge of the bed. She waited a moment, then tottered to her feet. Abraham came over, holding out a long, loose garment like a fuzzy bathrobe, which Winter gratefully shrugged into. There was a pair of slippers at the foot of the bed, and she shuffled into these as well.

“Thank you,” she said. “For everything, I mean.”

“You may wish to wait to thank me until the Eldest has made his decision,”
Abraham said. “You and your soldiers represent a serious problem. Alex should not have brought you here.”

“She saved our lives,” Winter said. “I won't tell her she was wrong.”

Abraham sighed. “I know. She is . . . impulsive.”

“So what is this Eldest likely to do with us?”

“I will let him explain. For now, come with me.”

Abraham led the way out of the long room and into a narrow corridor, floored with the same colorful carpets. At a junction, water flowed out of a carved stone pipe into a basin. There was a wooden cup, and at Abraham's nod Winter filled it and gulped down delicious, bitterly cold water. After she guzzled another few cups, he helped her untangle the bandage on her injured hand. It came away stubbornly at first, the bottom layers crusty with pus and dried blood, and the stench made Winter gag. When they had it off, the skin underneath was a ruin of cracked black and red, and she needed no urging to plunge it into the basin. The cold made her gasp, but she rubbed frantically with her other hand, dead, rotten flesh and dried skin sloughing away to reveal fresh, healthy pink underneath. At last she lifted her hand, as uncalloused as a newborn's, numb from the chilly water but completely whole.

“That's . . . wow.” Winter made a fist and blinked back tears. “I didn't realize it had gotten so bad.”

“We are familiar with such injuries in the mountains. The cold numbs pain and hides fever. A man can walk for days with his feet rotting in his boots.” He gave a very slight smile. “You are fortunate I was here to help you.”

“You've seen the others, too? Some of them had injuries.”

“Of course. Although there was one—Bobby?” When Winter nodded, he went on. “Apologies, we didn't have much language in common. Her body has been changed by another demon, in a way I've never seen, and I didn't dare interfere with it. She didn't seem to need my assistance, however.”

“She'll be fine,” Winter said. “Where is she? I need to tell the others I'm all right.”

“You must see the Eldest first,” Abraham said firmly. “Follow me.”

Winter started to protest, but she bit her tongue. She badly wanted to know what was going on, and this Eldest might have answers. She fell in behind Abraham as he walked down the twisting rock corridors, never hesitating in spite of the mazelike sameness of the halls. They passed several larger rooms with curtain doorways, but no people. Eventually they came to a long spiral stair, each step worn nearly round by the passage of endless feet. Winter climbed
carefully, ascending at least two stories, and found herself in a much larger space.

It looked like a natural cavern that had been widened and straightened, forming an irregular room with one edge open to the outside. They were a considerable height above the valley floor, and from here Winter could see almost the entirety of it. The near end was farmland, neat plots of vegetables and grain divided by fieldstone fences. The rest was given over to pasture, with several flocks of sheep grazing peacefully, watched by men and dogs.

The view was so arresting it was a moment before Winter took in the rest of the room. A large fire, tended by a robed boy, burned like a beacon on the lip of the cliff. More carpets covered the floor, strewn with broad, flat pillows. On one of these sat an old man, with a bald skull and a wispy white beard. Off to his left, Alex sat cross-legged on another pillow, with a boy about her age beside her. She radiated frustration, while his expression was one of stolid, serious determination.

“I have brought the leader of the strangers, Eldest,” Abraham said in Murnskai, bowing low. “Her name is Winter.”

“Thank you,” the old man said. His eyes, deeply set in his wrinkled face, were lively and bright. “She will be hungry. Antov, something to eat for our guest.”

A boy who'd been sitting by the stairs scrambled away. Abraham led Winter to another pair of pillows, and Winter sat, uneasily trying to imitate the others.

“My Murnskai is poor,” Winter said in that language, as best she could. “You will need to speak slowly—”

“We can speak Vordanai if you prefer,” the old man said, with a heavy accent. “Or Hamveltai. That ought to include everyone, I think.”

“Thank you,” Winter said. “And thank you for helping us. I am sorry if we've caused you any trouble.”

“I know you do not wish us harm,” the Eldest said. “But I want you to understand the danger you represent. You bear a demon. You know of the Priests of the Black?”

“Of course she does,” Alex cut in. “I told you—”

“I would remind you, young Alex, that
your
punishment is still being considered.” The old man's friendly tone hid a hint of steel. “Please be silent.”

“Yes,” Winter said. “I've fought the Black Priests many times. They want me dead.”

“Then without engaging in tedious explanation, it is enough to say that
they are just as eager to destroy us. We live in their very shadow, and our only defense is remaining hidden. Only a very few are permitted to find the Mountain, and of those only a handful can be trusted to leave again. An offhand comment in a tavern, a reference in a journal discovered in a hundred years—any of these things could destroy us like a snowflake in a bonfire. You understand this?”

“I think so.” She couldn't sense a demon from the old man, though it was hard to tell with both Alex and Abraham so close. “My soldiers and I will swear any oath of secrecy you care to name. But we have to get to Elysium.”