“We’re not going to stop them here, damn it!” Sevran turned, his jaw set. “We’re going to get cut to pieces in another hour. And if they get their coordination right, it won’t even take that long.”
Marcus was silent. It was true, of course. The only thing that had saved the raw recruits of the Third Division was that the enemy infantry and cavalry hadn’t quite gotten their attacks timed right. It was a difficult trick, launching the cavalry assault to force the enemy into square just in time for the infantry to hammer them, but devastatingly effective. Watching the polyglot enemy force try to manage it made Marcus appreciate Give-Em-Hell, whose sense for that kind of timing was superb.
It also made him certain Janus wasn’t on this part of the field in person. He’d never tolerate that kind of bungling. Be thankful for small mercies.
“We hold,” Marcus said. “I told Fitz to send us cavalry when he can.”
Sevran took a deep breath, fighting his emotions, and saluted. “That will help, sir. If they arrive soon.”
Before Marcus could answer, drums thrilled all along the line, a quick tattoo that every infantryman knew in his bones. Emergency square. The enemy cavalry had returned.
To their credit, the scratch collection of recruits and garrison troops that made up the Third Division responded quickly. They’ve certainly had plenty of practice today. Each battalion folded in on itself by companies, transforming from a long line into a roughly symmetrical diamond shape, with a point facing toward the old front. The angle kept the sides of the adjacent squares from facing one another, which helped cut down on friendly fire. Out ahead of them, the cannoneers stayed by their guns, and the little cannon began firing. Canister flailed out blindly, storms of musket balls lashing through the smoke, searching for an enemy barely glimpsed through the swirling mists.
Then they were there, shockingly close, a squadron of cuirassiers breaking into view like a ship emerging from the fog. The closest gun let fly with a blast of canister, and the front of the cavalry formation turned into a gory mess, white-?uniformed men toppling from their saddles even as their horses collapsed in shrieking terror. The men behind came on, sabers drawn, shouting in Murnskai as they rode toward the gunners. The cannoneers ran, not in panic but in a planned retreat, leaving their guns and scurrying back to the cover of the square. The fringe of massed bayonets parted to let them inside, then closed again, presenting an unbroken wall of sharpened steel to the horsemen.
Marcus and Sevran also hurried to cover, taking shelter in one of the squares of the reserve regiment. The cuirassiers split to flow around the squares, slashing viciously at the bayonets as they passed but making little impression. A few fired pistols into the mass of infantry, and some men fell, but the answering volleys of musketry emptied many more saddles. The horsemen rode on, leaving dead and dying men and animals in their wake, passing around the reserve squares as well and receiving more punishment in their turn. They thundered by, wheeling and re-forming.
It was too soon to see if they would try another assault. Marcus’ eyes were locked forward, in the direction of the enemy lines. Cannon were still firing, the artillerists taking advantage of the better targets offered by the tight-?packed squares. If they’ve got it right, this is when the infantry will attack, with the cuirassiers still hovering on our flank. He willed the smoke to stay empty just a little longer. Come on...
Instead, a different kind of light emerged from the murk. Not the yellow-?white of a muzzle flash, or even the deeper yellow of lanterns, but a lurid, sullen red. They pierced the smoke, two by two at first, then more and more. Hundreds of them. Thousands.
Red-?eyes. The Beast’s own bodies. Immune to pain, fear, and doubt.
Marcus looked around at the Third Division, all fresh-?faced boys and old, tired garrison troops, fresh from civilian life or soft duty on the frontier. They had stood up to astonishing odds, done better than they had any right to. But he could feel them wavering, see it in the occasional glance backward or reluctance to put a musket to an already aching shoulder. Much more and they would break, just as Sevran had warned.
We’re not going to make it. He glanced at the hill, where smoke continued to rise, and then farther north, toward where Winter had gone to make the gamble that would decide everything.
I’m sorry, Ellie. Marcus took a deep breath. We’ll fight as long as we can.
“Hold the line!” he shouted as the first of the red-?eyes loped out of the smoke.
33
Winter
Winter felt something give in her right shoulder with an audible pop, sending bolts of agony through her body. She screamed, despite the pain it brought to her raw throat, her dangling feet kicking wildly.
Another sound, the harsh shriek of the desert wind, began down at the edge of hearing and rose to a rapid crescendo. The tall whirlwind of sand that surrounded the castle collapsed, the wind dying away and the flying grit falling to earth like dusty rain. A concentrated blast of the power of the Great Desol, a stream of wind and sand as dark and solid as mud, slammed directly into the face of the emaciated Penitent, sending him stumbling backward. He crossed his arms in front of his face, and distortion shimmered in the air, bending the wind around him.
At the same time, the force holding Winter up vanished. She fell in mid-?kick, landing badly, and more pain flared in her ankle. Her shoulder was agony, her right arm hanging limp and useless, and she gasped raggedly for breath. On the pile of rubble, Jane grinned.
“You can’t be everywhere at once; that’s always the problem,” she said, her smile growing wide. “Well, you can’t.”
As sand and dust filtered out of the air, dark figures became visible, climbing over the top of the ruined castle wall and pouring in through the gate. The Steel Ghost’s whirlwind had held them back, but now that he was otherwise occupied, they came on at a run, red eyes glowing. One of the two big men who flanked Jane advanced on Winter, drawing his sword. Winter’s own weapons were lying in the dust, somewhere nearby. She managed to pull herself to her feet, but even that took much of her remaining strength, and the thought of moving her right arm brought further stabs of agony. She held up her other hand, judging the distance to the brute.
If I can get to him with Infernivore before he cuts me in half, maybe...
It wasn’t much of a chance. Much easier to surrender. Close her eyes. Die. Then the pain will stop.
I won’t.
From the shadow of one of the ruined buildings, pure darkness slammed out, a finger-?thin lance that drilled neatly through the big red-?eye’s head and out the other side. The man dropped in his tracks, sword skittering across the ground, and his equally large companion standing beside Jane just had time to look for the source of the attack before he, too, was scythed down.