Page 10 of The Infernal Battalion

“We need more information, obviously. Alek is doing everything he can.” She shook her head. “Until we get it, we have to assume that Janus honestly intends to take the throne. What will the army do when the news gets out?”

Marcus frowned. “The soldiers will watch their commanders to see which way they jump.”

“And the commanders?”

“I’m sure of a few. We’ll have to ride herd on the rest until we know more.”

Raesinia nodded. “That’s the most important first step, then. I don’t want any violence, but we can’t afford to have troops marching away to join Janus. Not if we’re going to have to fight him.”

Fight him. Fight Janus. An involuntary shiver went through Marcus at the prospect. “Hell. Saints and fucking martyrs. I thought we’d finally—”

“I know.” She closed her eyes. “Believe me, I know.”

“I should go. If all hell is going to break loose, at the very least everyone needs to know where to find me.”

He got to his feet, then paused when Raesinia took his hand again.

“Marcus...”

He looked down at her, slim and beautiful, pale in the flickering light of the lamps. At that moment he wanted nothing more than to kiss her, the way he had in Murnsk. They’d dallied all through the return trip, snatching brief moments from official business. But she’d made it clear that she didn’t want them to be seen together. And here in Ohnlei someone was always watching.

In his worst moments Marcus wondered if Raesinia wasn’t rethinking what she’d said, the offer she’d made him. It was one thing to talk about love when battle was looming. It was another to do it in the cold light of day, with the court and the Deputies-​General looking over your shoulder. She’d certainly been more reserved since they’d returned, and Marcus had told himself that he wouldn’t blame her if she wanted to pretend none of it had ever happened.

I should have just talked to her ages ago. But that meant facing the possibility that she’d say it out loud and make it real.

“Is something wrong?” he said.

“No.” Raesinia let her gaze fall. “Just... be careful. A lot might change in the next few hours. Make sure you stick close to people you trust.”

“You too. I’ll send a report when I know the situation.”

She nodded, looking away.

*

The Grand Army—​most of it, anyway—​was encamped on the rolling countryside north of Ohnlei, busily ruining the well-​kept meadows and scenic little. They’d constructed their camp with more care than usual, since it seemed likely they were going to be there through the winter, and while the soldiers had started under canvas, they’d set to improving their situation with the typical ingenuity of veterans. Now the camp resembled a small town, with two main roads crossing at a central square and smaller streets marking off a well-​defined grid, while the tents had mostly been replaced with wooden lean-​tos and even small log cabins. Hawkers drove carts up from the city every day and set up shop in designated spaces, eager to relieve the soldiers of their surplus pay. There was even a section designated for brothel tents, well patrolled by trusted men and women.

Marcus was proud of the camp, though he had to admit that Fitz Warus had done most of the actual administrative work. He’d hoped that the army could turn it into their winter quarters, and spend their time on making good the damage of the brutal Murnskai campaign. Now—

Let’s not jump to conclusions yet.

Only roughly two-​thirds of the army had made the journey south to Vordan City—​specifically the First, Second, Third, Fourth, Sixth, and Eighth Divisions, leaving the Fifth, Seventh, Ninth, and Tenth on the frontier. The split had seemed like the right idea at the time, with the units that had seen the least fighting remaining in the north to keep an eye on the Murnskai border, while the battered divisions that had borne the brunt of the campaign went back to Vordan for reinforcement and training. Now, though, Marcus was acutely aware that he’d left four nearly fresh divisions, some thirty-​six thousand men, far beyond his immediate reach, while the six that he had to hand were either well below strength or had a high proportion of raw recruits.

On the positive side, apart from divisional batteries, the bulk of the artillery had come south with the army. The same was true of Give-Em-Hell’s cavalry, although casualties in that arm had been particularly appalling. Still. We’d better hope that Alek’s spies are wrong, or at least that not everyone in the north goes over to Janus. The odds are way too close for my liking.

The news was already loose. Marcus could feel it as he rode through the camp. The normal raucous chatter of the evening was gone, replaced with hundreds of furtive, whispered conversations. Messengers rode to and fro. Even if Raesinia hadn’t warned him, Marcus’ instinctive sense for camp life would have told him that something was badly wrong. As it was, he had to restrain himself from kicking his horse into a gallop.

His own dwelling was a tent, albeit a large and comfortable one. He’d refused Fitz’ offer to build him a more permanent shelter, wanting to set a virtuous example; now he looked at it and saw only how indefensible it was, how easy it would be for any attackers to get inside. Stop. It won’t come to that. It had better not.

A sentry outside held two horses, and saluted as Marcus dismounted.

“Division-​Generals Warus and Solwen to see you, sir! They’re waiting inside.”

“Thanks.” Marcus slid from his saddle and handed the man his reins. “Send someone for coffee, would you? I think it’s going to be a late night.”

Inside, much of the tent was taken up with a folding table, adrift in maps and paperwork. Marcus’ humble camp-​bed was concealed behind a thin curtain, leaving the rest of the space for interviews and planning. He still had most of Giforte’s old staff to help him, though he badly missed the man himself. But Raesinia had greater need of him, and until tonight it had seemed like there wasn’t any chance of action soon. Damn, damn, damn.

The two men waiting for him were some of the longest-​serving soldiers in the army, Old Colonials both. Valiant Solwen—“Val” to nearly everyone—​was a short, wide-​shouldered man with a ruddy face and a pencil mustache. He and Marcus had each commanded a battalion in Khandar, back when they’d been captains at the edge of the world. Marcus had gone there voluntarily, running from everything after he’d heard about the fire that had killed his family. Val had been banished for some slight, terrifyingly important at the time, which had long since been forgotten in the uproar that had followed.