The Guns of Empire (17 page)

At the peak of the hill, where the rocks broke out of the tree line, there was a crude camp, lean-tos and other makeshift shelters surrounding a circle of campfires. It took a few moments of searching to find the cave Give-Em-Hell had spoken of, a narrow cleft in the rock that led back and out of sight. Winter glared, waiting to see if Infernivore reacted, but the demon she'd sensed still seemed to be quite a ways off.

“I don't like it,” Abby said, looking at the opening. “Anybody could be waiting in there, just around the corner.”

“I know,” Winter said. “But we can't just leave it.”

She wished, feeling guilty at the thought, that she'd brought Bobby along.
If someone has to walk into an ambush, it would make sense to send the woman who can't die.
In the event, Abby asked for volunteers, and one of d'Orien's soldiers stepped forward. She was a slender girl named Liz, and from the way she moved Winter guessed this wasn't her first time sneaking into dangerous places in the dark. She crouched low, edging around the cave wall, and tossed her torch in ahead of her. When that produced no reaction, she slithered out of view in a low crouch, a brace of pistols in her hands.

A long moment passed. Two dozen soldiers had their muskets ready and trained on the opening, and Winter waited for the crack of a shot. Instead, there was a scrabble of booted feet, and Liz came running out, her eyes wild. She took two steps, fell to her knees, and vomited.

“Saints and martyrs,” Winter said. “What—”

Abby pushed forward, through the ranked soldiers, and knelt at Liz's side. They spoke in low tones, but the closest women heard, and there was a chorus of gasps. Abby stood up, white-faced, and came back to Winter.

“It's . . . There's nothing alive in there.” Abby took a deep breath. “It's the rest of the village.”

“What?” Winter said. Another soldier had stepped forward, peeking around the curve, then hastily retreating, eyes wide.

“Everyone who couldn't make the charge,” Abby said. “The old and the . . . young.” She closed her eyes. “The grandmothers killed all the rest, then cut their own throats.”

“Oh, Karis above,” Winter said. “Saints and bloody fucking martyrs . . .”

—

For some time after, Winter made no attempt to enforce discipline. The other two forces arrived, and the news of what had happened, on the slope and in the cave, spread in whispers. Some of the soldiers reacted with rage. The partisan camp was torn apart, the pathetic scraps of their belongings ripped to pieces or fed to a hastily kindled bonfire. One ranker found the bundle that had belonged to the Sworn Priest and took possession of his ragged copy of the
Wisdoms
, tearing out the pages one by one. Most, though, simply sat in silence.

Winter, sitting on the edge of the rock, could just about see the silver ribbon of the Intolin winding away to the south. Beside the river was the Grand Army.
And Janus, who brought us here.

Abby sat beside her and wordlessly offered a wooden flask. Winter took a cautious sip. Whatever was inside burned as it went down her throat. She took a longer pull, then handed it back.

“They wrote something on the wall,” Abby said. “In blood.”

“Do I want to know?” Winter said.

“My Murnskai's not so good,” Abby said. “But one of the rankers said it was, ‘You shall not have their souls.'”

“You think the Sworn Priests put them up to this?”

Abby nodded. “I don't think there's any doubt. We're here to steal souls, remember? Karis Almighty.”

Winter tipped her head back, squinting against the afternoon sun.
The Church at Elysium. Maybe Janus is right.
She'd known the Black Priests were out to get her, but in a sense she'd signed up for that, entered the war when she'd recited the Infernivore's
naath
. That was one thing.
But telling people to slaughter their own children?
She felt a sudden, indiscriminate rage.
We'll burn Elysium to the ground and dance on the ruins.
She looked at Abby, who was staring into the distance, and wondered if she was entertaining similar thoughts.

“Someone is going to have to bury them,” Winter said. “We can't just leave them in there.”

“I know.” Abby looked down. “You should go back and report to Janus. Take Give-Em-Hell and his troopers. I'll stay and attend to the . . . details.”

“Abby . . .”

Abby laid a hand on Winter's arm. “It's all right. Go.”

Winter went, with equal measures of relief and guilt. Give-Em-Hell led the way back down the hill, to where his troopers had tethered their horses. They brought a half dozen of the lightly wounded enemy with them, tied together and with their hands bound. One of them was the woman Winter had cut, her face obscured by a bandage wrapped around her head.

Winter shook her head as she approached the base of the hill, trying to rid herself of the vision of Liz's face as she'd come out of the charnel house.
How could they do it?
She wondered if they'd fought, if—

No.
It was done, whatever she imagined, and conjuring nightmares wouldn't help. She swallowed hard, trying to settle her stomach, then paused.

It wasn't her stomach that was bothering her. Infernivore had come awake again, the feeling of presence stronger now. It had been growing for some time, as the troopers led their horses down toward the destroyed village. Now she
could feel the direction, and when she turned to orient herself she felt certain the source of the sensation was somewhere among the burned-out buildings.

“Stop,” she told Give-Em-Hell. “I need to check something.”

“Here?” he said. When she nodded, he shrugged. “Very well. Lead—”

“No,” Winter said quickly. “You all stay here. If anything happens, get out of here, you understand?”

“Don't be absurd,” Give-Em-Hell said, drawing himself up to his full, diminutive height. “At the very least, I'll come myself.”

“No! Wait for me here. That's an order.” Winter recalled that Give-Em-Hell was a division-general, too, and she wasn't at all sure that she had the authority to give him orders. But he quieted, grumbling, and kept his troopers together as she walked toward what was left of the village.

If it is a Penitent Damned in there, they'll only get themselves killed.
The three Penitents who'd come for her in Desland had slaughtered a half dozen Girls' Own soldiers, and she didn't want to repeat that experience. She kept one hand on her sword and let the other hang loose.
All I have to do is get a hold on them.

The late-afternoon sun threw long shadows from the scattered beams and posts that still stood among the wreckage. Winter followed Infernivore's call, feeling like a hunter trailing after a dog with the scent of prey. Her demon was fully awake now, boiling just beneath the surface of her skin, eager.

At the edge of the clearing, one hut hadn't burned all the way through. Two walls were still standing, with a bit of roof left between them, throwing a deep shadow. Winter approached it cautiously. She thought she could make out a human form, curled up in the corner.

“Hello?” Winter said.
No sense in being quiet. If I can feel them, they can feel me.
“Come out where I can see you.”

“I don't think so.” It was a young woman's voice. Winter had unwittingly spoken in Vordanai, realizing too late that no one here was likely to understand it. But the other woman answered in the same language, though she had a Hamveltai accent. “Who are you?”

“I'm with the Grand Army of Vordan,” Winter said.

The shadowed figure let out a sigh. “And you have a demon.”

Winter nodded. There didn't seem to be much point in denying it.

“Then . . .” The other woman coughed. It sounded wet and unhealthy. “You work for Janus bet Vhalnich?”

“Who
are
you?” Winter said. “What do you want?”

“I have come . . . a long way . . . to find you.” The woman's breathing was labored. “And I think . . . I'm going to pass out again. Please. Janus . . .”

There was a long, rattling breath, and then silence.

After a moment Winter stepped forward, hand still on her sword. The shadow in the corner didn't respond. Moving closer, Winter could see a young woman lying on her side, curled in on herself as though in pain. She was in her late teens, Winter guessed, with dark, filthy hair and a strange mix of clothes—a ragged shirt and trousers, with an overcoat and boots that looked like they'd come off a much larger Murnskai soldier. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing was quick and shallow. Winter knelt beside her and put one hand against her head, finding the skin hot to the touch.

Infernivore leapt to the front of her mind, its energy surging into her arm and down to her fingers, where skin brushed skin. It would take only the tiniest effort of will, a relaxation of control, to set it loose, tearing into the girl's body and devouring her demon. As weak as she was, Winter guessed that would kill her.

Maybe it would be for the best.
This girl didn't
look
like a Penitent Damned, but neither had Jen Alhundt. The Church's assassins were subtle.
This could be a trick to get to Janus.
She pictured bringing someone like Jen into the camp, someone with the power to stop bullets and tear stone to shreds.
The safe thing to do would be to leave her here.

Winter stared down at the slight movement of the girl's chest, Infernivore still raging in her fingertips.
No. The
safe
thing to do would be to kill her, here and now.
As long as her power was unknown, she was a threat of unknown magnitude.

That's the way they think, isn't it? The Priests of the Black.
They saw the whole world like that. Every demon, every
naath
, was a threat to the precious Grace that Karis had bought for humanity, hastening the Day of Judgment when the Beast would be unleashed once more. Every bit of knowledge, every hint of opposition, every wild demon like Danton had to be gathered to Elysium or destroyed.
And they don't care who gets hurt.
She thought about the cave at the top of the hill.

She'd saved Feor, once, in a similar scene of destruction and massacre. At the time she hadn't known what she was getting into, hadn't known anything about demons or
naathem
. She'd just found someone who needed help.
But now . . .

Winter pulled her hand away slowly and got to her feet. She walked back
toward the edge of the village, where Give-Em-Hell and his troopers waited anxiously.

“There's a girl here,” she said, gesturing them over. “We've got to take her back to camp. Be careful. I think she's hurt.”

At least this time I don't have to hide what I'm doing from my commander.
Janus would want to know about this.

—

“It was . . . I don't know. Sick,” Winter said. She took a drink from her tin cup, which was half-full of something thick and purple Cyte claimed was Borelgai. “Just a whole village coming down the hill, right at us. Families. Can you imagine charging an enemy line like that, with your parents and your brothers and sisters all around you, getting killed, and you have to keep going?”

Cyte shook her head. “My father and I have never been close. But . . . no.” She sipped her own drink. “Mind you, I can certainly picture my mother charging a line of muskets with a kitchen knife.”

Winter grinned. “She sounds formidable.”

“She was.”

“Hell.” Winter sighed and lifted the bottle. “I'm sorry. More?”

“Please.” Cyte let her cup fill nearly to the rim before waving Winter off. “It's all right. It was years ago.”

“Can I ask what happened?”

Cyte shrugged. “Oh, she charged a line of muskets with a kitchen knife.”

Winter stared, not sure how to react, until Cyte gave an impish grin. Winter smiled back, and before long they both dissolved into laughter.

“That's a hell of a thing to joke about,” Winter said.

“Sorry,” Cyte said. “Couldn't help it. Mother would have approved, anyway. She was always telling me”—she took a deep breath and puffed out her cheeks—“‘Temperance, why are you always so
serious
? It's not healthy for a growing girl!'”

There was another pause.

“Temperance?” Winter said.

“Oh. Yeah.” Cyte's face went red. “That's . . . the name my parents gave me.”

“Karis Almighty. I can see why you changed it.”

“Right? Maybe you can explain it to my father.”

“I don't think anyone who names their daughter Temperance gets to complain when she turns out to be serious, though.”

“I believe I spoke those exact words to my mother on more than one occasion.”
Cyte took a long drink. “She died when I was twelve. Some kind of fever of the brain. My father was devastated. My siblings are all older, so I was the only one left in the house, and he . . . fussed over me, I guess you'd say.”

“I can see how that would be a bit smothering.”

“At the time I couldn't wait to get away.” Cyte sighed. “I should go visit the old man, I suppose, once this is all over.”

Winter nodded, her thoughts going back to the bodies tumbling down the slope, what they'd discovered in the cave. She took a hasty drink.

“Your family was very religious, then?” Winter said.

“My father was,” Cyte said. “My mother more went through the motions.”

“Free Church, I assume?”

Cyte nodded. “Why?”

“I'm just . . . trying to understand what could make someone do what they did. I never—” She hesitated. “I haven't told you much about my childhood, have I?”

“I know a little bit. Camp gossip.” Cyte smiled again. “I didn't want to pry.”