The Price of Valor (45 page)

WINTER

T
he river Piav was a large tributary of the Velt, running down from the Keth Mountains until it met up with the greater flow somewhere north of Desland. Rivers like it ran from east to west across the Velt Valley at regular intervals, carrying rain and snowmelt from the mountains down through the hills to nourish the lowlands and ultimately flow out to the sea. The Piav happened to flow within fifty miles of the Orlan Pass, the largest of the gaps in the mountain range and the only one capable of accommodating a large army. It was here, therefore, around the small town of Antova, that the Free Cities League had built its great fortress.

Dreiroede of Hamvelt, probably the greatest siege engineer who had ever lived, had laid it out at the very height of his powers and influence. The town itself was pressed against the riverbank, and what had once been a fishing village was now dwarfed by the system of fortifications that surrounded it. Seen from a distant overlook, as Winter was seeing it now, it resembled a massive exercise in geometry, sketched onto the land by some idle deity. On the west side of the river, around the town, six points of a great star were traced by a ditch and a massive earthen rampart, pockmarked with embrasures for defending artillery. A seventh point, like a massive spike, stretched on the other side of the river, with additional protection provided by a swampy moat created with water diverted from the Piav. Between the points of the star were the outworks, ravelins and lunettes, from which the defenders could create a vicious cross fire and slaughter the crews of any cannon trying to breach the walls.

It was Dreiroede himself, who had been as expert in attacking fortresses as
he had been at building them, who had insisted that there was no such thing as an impenetrable fortification. Given sufficient numbers, artillery, and willpower, any fortress could be reduced; bastions could be toppled, outworks seized, and eventually a breaching battery established close enough to the wall to blast a hole in it and permit an infantry assault. The fortress builder's art was therefore all down to buying time—angled walls of earth would deflect cannonballs rather than shatter beneath them, overlapping rings of defense would each cost time and lives to penetrate, and defending cannon could sweep the attackers back from the defenses until they were finally silenced. The strength of a fortress was measured in
time
, how many months the defenders could be expected to hold out without relief.

Antova, his greatest work, was a year-strong fortress. Any attacker was supposed to have to batter the walls for at least that long before gaining entry, while deflecting the efforts of the garrison and surviving a cold and hungry winter. In the meantime, relief forces would be approaching, and the attacking army risked being caught between them and the fortress like iron between a hammer and the anvil.

Janus was evidently not concerned. From where she stood, on a height in the mountain foothills, Winter could see blue-uniformed troops hard at work digging trenches. The Army of the East now numbered some thirty-five thousand. Di Pfalen's routed army had nowhere near the numbers Dreiroede's calculations required—even the strongest fortress required soldiers to man the walls—but even so the massive construction with its killing fields and siege guns seemed a daunting prospect. And to the north, approaching with the slow inexorability of a glacier, came Hamvelt's greatest living soldier, Field Marshal Jindenau, with another thirty thousand soldiers.

Janus spread a map of the Velt Valley on the grass and weighed it down with stones, explaining all of this in a slow, patient tone while he pointed out the geography with a stick. The colonels peered at the map and furrowed their foreheads, eager to impress with the depth of their understanding.

Winter felt uncomfortable in their company. Some of them were Royals—Janus' purge of the old, noble colonels meant that these were mostly younger men, War College graduates like Captain d'Ivoire, new to their posts and hungry for glory. The rest were volunteers, men who had either been elected to high rank by their troops or gained promotion on the spot in battle, who wore homemade uniforms and looked skeptical at the talk of ravelins and breaching batteries.

But none of them murmured an objection, or even a question. Janus, thin-faced, gray eyes blazing, held them rapt. Looking at the faces around her, Winter found herself able to understand Jane's qualms about Janus. After Diarach, Gaafen, and the latest Battle of Jirdos, their trust in the general was complete. They would storm the gates of hell against a legion of demons on his order, in full confidence that he would produce victory out of a hat like a street-corner conjuror.

“That about sums up the situation,” Janus said, sitting back on his heels. The others, thirteen of them including Winter, sat or knelt in the damp grass around the map. “It will take another day to fully invest the fortress, but I don't expect any interference from the garrison before our preparations are complete. It will take them some time to assemble an effective resistance.”

“We should storm the walls tonight,” one of the volunteer officers said. “They'll never expect it, and as you say, they're still disorganized. Why give them a chance to catch their breath?”

“An attractive thought, but it would be far too costly,” Janus said. “Di Pfalen's army is shattered, but the walls are strong, and they have heavy siege guns we can't match. We might be able to find a weak spot, but we'd lose half the army.”

The rest of the officers hurriedly murmured agreement, throwing nasty looks at the man who'd spoken out, who hung his head. It reminded Winter of the prefects back at Mrs. Wilmore's, competing to see who could most effectively kiss up to the mistresses. Janus looked around the circle, and when his gray eyes met hers his mouth twisted in a tiny, knowing smile, as though the two of them were sharing a joke.

“No,” he went on. “We'll invest the fortress, and dig trenches to keep the garrison from making trouble. We should be able to contain the Hamveltai and leave a substantial force free to maneuver.”

More mutters of agreement, loudest of all from the man who'd spoken out the first time. Winter cleared her throat.

“Maneuver where, sir?” she said. “Given the size of the fortress and the garrison, even dug in we'd need a sizable force here to keep them in check. That would make us substantially smaller than the field marshal's army, and he'll have the advantage that we'll be tied to the siege. If he gets too close to the fortress, he could combine with the garrison and crush us.”

“Di Pfalen outnumbered us,” one of the royal colonels said, with a touch of condescension in his voice. “And we've whipped him twice now. This Jindenau will fare no better.”

Janus has whipped him,
Winter thought.
My soldiers and I have whipped him,
marched through hell and mud to turn up on the enemy flank and beat three battalions to give the cavalry a shot at his rear. Where were you? Up on the hills, watching the artillery do the work?

It was unfair, she realized. Men had fought all along the line, though casualties had admittedly been light among the troops nearest the Girls' Own, where the Hamveltai line had given way. On the other side, where di Pfalen had led his initial attack, only desperate fighting had kept him from pushing the defenders off their hilltops, and those troops had retreated in good order when the rest of the line collapsed. It was largely thanks to the rearguard action of these disciplined Hamveltai regulars that di Pfalen had an army left at all.

But it hurt Winter to watch the way the men all around the circle nodded, with solemn pomposity. Another Royal, a big man with heavy sideburns and a neat mustache, said, “Don't worry. The general will find a way.”

None of them were in Khandar,
Winter realized. Fitz Warus, now commanding the Colonials, was conspicuous by his absence; she guessed he was down organizing the construction of the trenches. Give-Em-Hell was off with his heavy cavalry, who'd taken serious losses in their hell-for-leather ride. The Preacher and Colonel d'Ivoire were back in Vordan.

None of these men had seen Janus when his back was truly to a wall, as Winter had, the night of Adrecht's mutiny and then again in the Desoltai temple. They thought that there would always be another scheme, another gambit, that his calm facade came from deep-down certainty that he would come out on top. Winter knew different. She'd seen Janus run out of tricks, trapped under a statue and facing certain death at the hands of the Penitent Damned Jen Alhundt. His calm had never wavered.
When the day comes that he throws the dice once too often, you won't see it on his face.

“Thank you, Colonel, for your confidence,” Janus said. “For the moment, shovel-work is what is required. Colonel Warus is working to distribute the necessary orders. I need you to impress upon your men that this is just as important to our final victory as courage on the battlefield.”

“Yes, sir!” the big colonel said, followed by the others in ragged chorus. They saluted, and Winter joined in.

“Very good,” Janus said. “See to your men. Colonel Ihernglass, if you would remain a moment?”

“Sir?” Winter said, frowning.

Janus smiled at her again, but said nothing while the others walked away, down the slope of the hill to where their aides waited with the horses. His eyes
never left hers, and she wondered if her dark thoughts had been visible in her expression. Janus sometimes seemed as though he could read minds, although she was reasonably sure this was only his remarkable insight and not an actual supernatural ability. Infernivore never so much as twitched in his presence.

When they were alone, he said, “I must say, Colonel, you look worn out.”

Winter looked down at herself. She'd changed from her mud-spattered uniform into a fresh one, but there hadn't yet been time to do much else. Her hair was getting shaggy, and her face had to show the effects of several nights of poor sleep and days of exertion and fear.

“I am worn out, sir,” she said.

“And how fares the Third?”

“Worn out as well. We lost half our strength on the march. They're still trickling in, and we're hoping to recover the rest when our wagon train finally catches up.” She thought of Molly, sweating and pale. “Most of them, anyway.”

“I must apologize for the exertion I asked of you. In spite of what Colonel Gordace would have you believe, I am not infallible, and Baron di Pfalen is a canny soldier, if somewhat lacking in imagination. He behaved more aggressively than I had expected, and my timetable had to adapt accordingly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your men and women did a fine job under extremely difficult circumstances. Please convey to them my thanks, and tell them the entire army is in their debt.”

“Thank you, sir. I will.”

“As for you, Ihernglass, I see that I was not wrong in considering you an extremely promising officer, regardless of your other qualities.” He cocked his head. “May I ask you a question?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Why do you continue your . . . charade? Your current position would seem to be a good one for revealing the truth.”

“A few people know, sir. Bobby, Jane, some of the Leatherbacks. For the rest . . . it just seems easier to keep things as they are.” Winter thought of Novus and his tirade. “It would be one thing if I had just joined up, but it's been so long. People might be upset that they'd been fooled. And . . .”

Janus raised an eyebrow. Winter hesitated.

“It's all right for the Girls' Own,” she said. “They joined up because Vordan needs them, and when the war's over they'll go home. I . . . I haven't got anywhere to go.” She tugged the collar of her uniform. “This is who I am now, for
better or worse. This is my home. After the war, maybe it will be all right for a woman to keep this on, but . . . maybe not.”

Winter found her throat getting thick. She'd never put it that way before, never even thought it so bluntly.
This is my home.

“I leave it to your discretion, of course,” Janus murmured, after a moment of silence. “What of Captain Verity?”

Winter took a deep breath and blew it out. “I've put Abby Giforte in command of the Girls' Own, sir, and kept Jane on my staff. I'd appreciate your official endorsement of Abby's promotion, incidentally, on the off chance that we ever get the chance to claim any of our pay.”

“Certainly. Captain Giforte—the younger Captain Giforte, I suppose I should say—seemed a most capable young woman. But it was Captain Verity I was asking about. Have you encountered difficulties with her?”

Winter hesitated, but something about Janus' penetrating gaze made her think that trying to conceal anything from him was a lost cause. “A few, sir. But we're working them out.”

“If it would make things easier for you, I could order her back to Vordan. I'd make it clear it wasn't at your request.”

Winter's breath caught. The thought of sending Jane away made her want to curl up and die on the spot, but her immediate protest froze in her throat.
If it means no more days like yesterday . . . no more standing by and waiting to see if she stumbles out of the cloud of smoke, or if I'm going to find her sprawled and cold on some battlefield . . .

“No, sir,” she said after a long moment. “That won't be necessary.”

“As you like,” Janus said. “Now, I received your report concerning the attack in Desland. You're certain the three assassins were Penitent Damned?”

Winter blinked at the sudden change in subject. “Uh . . . no, sir, not completely certain. But they wore the obsidian masks, and all three seemed to have . . . abilities that were more than ordinary. One bore a demon for certain—I nearly devoured it with the Infernivore. I understood that only the Penitent Damned carried demons.”