Chapter Twenty-Four
The Front
Kolakolvia
Illarion Glazkov
Illarion peered out past Object 12’s legs in the direction of Trench 303, still marveling at the clarity of vision he had now. Even no-man’s-land was beautiful in its own stark way. The loops of barbed wire. The reflection of the sky off the surface of the pools of fetid water. Being able to see outside the Object was a gift, even if the view was one of desolation and danger.
Almacian artillery rumbled. Shells burst above them. There were hundreds of flashes as shrapnel smashed into the barriers. The Kolakolvian artillery answered. Only theirs wasn’t nearly as accurate, and shells landed in no-man’s-land, or far behind the enemy trench.
The barrage continued.
Illarion alone could see the lingering energy. The barriers above each of the Objects flared bright blue, and the light never quite faded away before pulsing back to life from another hit.
They want to burn us out.
“We need to move forward!” Dostoy yelled from inside Object 12, and the magic magnified the sound enough that it would be heard at Sotnik Chankov’s position. “We need to close the gap before they make the Objects too hot to drive!”
Illarion didn’t disagree. But no orders had been given to advance.
“Hold, 12. The Wall moves as one or not at all,” Chankov shouted back. “Like the Kapitan says, it’s better to spread the love.”
Which meant that if their platoon jumped the gun and got out of the trench first, the Almacians would concentrate fire on them alone, and they’d quickly get burned out. Illarion looked back beyond the 302, to where the armored command bunkers sat on a hill, just out of sniper range. Officers at the bunker would wave flags of different colors to pass on commands.
“Why aren’t they signaling?” Lourens picked up a bucket, filled it with the filthy water collected around their ankles. “At this rate we’ll have to change drivers before we even get moving!”
How many volleys had the big Almacian guns fired? Ten? Fifteen? How many shells did those bastards have?
A green flag began to wave at the bunker.
Farther down the trench, Spartok must have seen it, because the order was shouted, and then relayed down the line.
“About damn time!” Chankov yelled. “3rd Platoon advance!”
The trenches were deep and the walls slick and crumbling everywhere else, but the spots directly in front of their Objects had already been prepared with piled beams and rocks so the great machines could effortlessly walk up and out.
As the Objects appeared, hundreds of Almacians put their rifles over the edge and fired. The sound, even at this distance, was a massive continuous roar. As the first group dropped, another took their place, firing. Like clockwork, the Almacian infantry rotated, shooting at the Wall.
Every ponderous step was marked by two or three shots from the Almacian line. The distance to the next trench seemed an eternity.
“Crews up,” Chankov shouted. “Commence clearing.”
What had been a couple of easy steps for the Objects was a scrambling climb for the dismounts. Filthy men, armed with shovels, chains, and pry bars went up over the edge, trying hard to stay behind their Object’s protective shields.
Illarion, Wallen, and Lourens began checking the ground at Object 12’s feet as best they could.
The noise was endless, unbearable, but the Wall marched on. The ground was firm enough no Objects fell. But there was more gunfire and shelling than he’d ever imagined possible. Thousands of projectiles flashed blue all around them. The air was dense with screaming lead.
“It’s getting bad in here!” Dostoy warned.
Up and down the line, other crews were already being forced to make their first driver changes. The enemy trench was still hundreds of yards away. They weren’t anywhere near engagement range yet.
Most of the Almacian cannon shells air-burst, a technology that the Kolakolvians lacked, but this one failed to detonate, and Illarion watched it hit right in front of their Object’s head. There was a flash as the big shell bounced off, and Illarion watched, astounded, as it flipped through the air to land in the trench they’d just vacated. He could have sworn he could still hear it making a sizzling noise, but then it detonated a moment later, obliterating the infantry still huddled there.
Dostoy cried out as he was stabbed in the face with heat. But better to be burned in the Wall than dead in the infantry.
“12 switch,” Chankov ordered.
Illarion reached the back of Object 12 and grabbed the right handle to the hatch as Lourens grabbed the left handle. Illarion’s side turned easy, but it took Lourens a bit longer to get his turned. They pulled open the hatch doors, releasing a gout of steam. Illarion reached in, grabbed Dostoy’s arm, and helped him out. Wallen hit the inside of the Object with a bucket of water, then climbed inside.
That was when Illarion saw the raven circling overhead. Damn it.
“It’s gonna be a long day,” Wallen said as he buckled in.
Illarion closed the hatch, not having the heart to tell Wallen he was probably right.
The Western Front
Kolakolvia
Kristoph Vals
Kristoph watched, fascinated, at the display of firepower the Almacians were hurling against the Wall. At this rate he wouldn’t have to wait too long to see if the stories about Illarion Glazkov were exaggerated or not.
He heard the creaking of the wooden steps behind him and lifted his head from the telescope. Petra Banic was being led into the room by one of the commissars. “Mr. Vals is in here, ma’am.”
“Hello, Petra.” Kristoph gave her a polite nod. Then he glanced at the commissar, who was sweating in the presence of two Section 7 agents. He looked vaguely familiar. “Bosko, isn’t it? As a commissar shouldn’t you be down behind the battle? Ready to gun down any of our soldiers who panic and flee?”
“I am assigned to monitor the Wall, sir. They never retreat unless ordered to.”
A fine excuse to stay in a concrete bunker far from danger. “Not all commissars are so lucky to supervise such brave units. You should go help them be ready to shoot their deserters. You are dismissed.”
Bosko saluted both of them, and then quickly fled from the room. Kristoph turned his attention back to Petra. Vasily was ignoring her. And her own Cursed, another unfortunate giant, went to guard the stairs.
“Kristoph, how goes the battle?” Petra walked over to the view port and looked outside. Unfortunately they were out of sniper range, even for the new Almacian needle guns, so no one shot her. He wasn’t surprised to see Petra here. She was interested in whatever he was up to, and he was interested in this battle, so she was as well.
“The Wall has made its first pilot change.”
“So soon? It seems like they just barely started.”
“The Almacians are attempting to burn them out. It appears to be a sound strategy.”
“Tell me, Kristoph, why don’t you seem worried at all?”
He smiled. “What is there to be worried about? This is just like any other battle. Or do you know something that I don’t?”
“Many things, darling. But not about this. All indications suggest the Almacians will be making a big push today. What makes today different?”
“I wouldn’t know.” Only Kristoph did know. He suspected the Almacians here had been reinforced by the large group Natalya Baston had spotted, which meant their gas troops were probably here as well. Why the Chancellor hadn’t seen fit to share the information about that threat with the army was the real mystery. He assumed it had something to do with the Chancellor’s interest in the strange blood storm gates. What their connection remained to be revealed.
“Would you mind terribly if I kept you company during the battle?” Petra asked. “I’m sure the Chancellor would love a personal report on you afterwards?”
“On me?”
“Forgive me. I misspoke. On the battle.”
“Of course.” He moved to the side, making room for her to use the telescope, but he bumped it on the way, so it was no longer pointing toward Glazkov and Object 12. “I hope you find this as enlightening as I do.”
The Western Front
Kolakolvia
Illarion Glazkov
The Wall had been making slow, steady progress, but they were paying for it.
Illarion felt the hiss of a bullet as it went by his head and heard the ping as it hit Object 12’s steel. It seemed the more the barrier got hit, the more likely it was for something to make it through, and they were getting hit a lot. There had to be thousands of Almacians firing at them. Illarion instinctively ducked as another bullet cracked off the Object’s leg.
Lourens threw himself down next to Illarion. “This is madness!”
Madness or not, they still had a job to do. There was barbed wire curled ahead of them. Just the sort of thing to entangle an Object’s feet. And Wallen was nearly there. “Bring up the ammo sled before it gets out of the shield. Give me the wire cutters.” Lourens tossed the tool at Illarion. He caught them by the handle and began crawling forward. As soon as he reached the tangle of wire he began cutting. The loops of wire weren’t nearly as elegant up close as they’d seemed when he’d been looking at them from the safety of the trench.
Dostoy was still staggered from being roasted in the suit, but he joined in and began pulling handfuls of wire aside, oblivious to how it was cutting his hands. Like Spartok had warned them, heat exhaustion makes you stupid. “I’ve got this,” Illarion told him. “Rest a m—” An explosion went off just ahead of them. The barrier stopped the fast-moving shrapnel, but it did nothing for the concussion, and both crewmen were knocked back.
Illarion realized he was outside the blue, and quickly scrambled back beneath the barrier, but Dostoy, delirious, got to his knees outside of it, not even realizing he was about to die.
“Dostoy! Move to me!”
Dostoy looked to Illarion, confused. “What?” But it was too late. A shell went off above them and hot metal shredded Dostoy’s skull. He collapsed face-first in the mud.
Illarion screamed something incoherent.
“Switch!” Wallen yelled from inside Object 12. “Get me out of here!”
Illarion and Lourens leapt up, grabbed the levers and hauled them down. Illarion pulled Wallen out while Lourens splashed two buckets’ worth of water inside the armor. Wallen hit the ground and immediately began rubbing cooling mud on the cracked and blackened skin of his arm.
12 stood there, gigantic, surrounded by flashing sparks. The bits of dead golem were giving off an eerie, beckoning light. The suit called to him. Whispering promises of aid.
He grabbed the handle and was about to haul himself in when he heard Chankov call his name. “Glazkov! Get your ass over here and help 74!”
He looked over and saw that Chankov’s crew was in a bad way. He didn’t even know what had happened but there was blood everywhere.
Illarion shoved Lourens toward the hatch. “Get in. I’ll close it when I get back!” Lourens nodded and did what he was told.
There was a ten-foot gap between the barriers of 12 and 74. He took a deep breath, and then ran as fast as he could between them. Bullets snapped past, sounding like angry bees, and as he reached the safety of 74’s shield, all he could think was I have to do that again.
Chankov was dismounted, and from the fresh red burns, he’d not been out for long. The other dismounts were down, dead or unconscious, he couldn’t tell.
“Shell got through,” Chankov shouted as he grabbed the handles on the back of 74.
“We’ve got to retreat,” Illarion said, because it was clear 3rd Platoon was getting beat to pieces.
“Not until Spartok says so. If this flank folds the whole Wall gets rolled. Help me.” The latches didn’t turn as easily as 12’s did for him, but they got the hatch open; an oven blast of heat came out, and the two of them began unbuckling the driver—a woman Illarion didn’t know with a tattooed serpent coiled around her middle. She was drenched in sweat and incoherent. Illarion carried her down.
“Sisters, this is the worst I’ve ever seen.” Even though Chankov had been the previous driver, he started getting in again. “Glazkov, water.”
Illarion grabbed 74’s bucket and started scraping from a puddle and tossing it on Chankov and the interior. The water was pink with blood. Metal hissed and it flashed into steam, so Illarion kept throwing. Their bucket had a bullet hole in it, but he was going so fast it didn’t have time to leak much.
“Button me up,” Chankov said as he cinched his harness. “We need to pick up the pace again or we’re all going to die out here.”
“Yes, sir!” Illarion slammed the hatch shut behind Chankov, then looked to where the previous pilot was on the ground smearing handfuls of mud onto her burned neck.
“Go,” she said.
“You’re all he’s got left.”
“We’ll be fine.”
Illarion nodded, but then he ran back and grabbed their ammo sled by the ropes and hauled it closer to her. Then he waited for the moment between volleys from the Almacians to run back between the Objects. Except Chankov’s Object was already moving and Lourens was still stopped, so the gap had gotten wider. He was in the middle of the dead space between when the Almacians fired. A bullet ripped a hole in his pants, and another burned a line across his scalp. He nearly lost his glasses but managed to catch them as they fell.
Wallen was laying in the mud, panting. “Where’s Dostoy?”
“Dead.” He ran past Wallen and went to the open hatch. “You alive, Lourens?”
“For now.” Illarion began swinging the door shut when Lourens hurried and asked, “Is Svetlana still alive?”
He looked over and saw Svetlana was throwing water into the open back of 110, shouting angry insults about how this iron tub was hotter than her father’s forge. “Alive and well. Now shut up and keep your mind on your work.” That sort of emotional hesitation was why fraternization was banned.
Lourens gave him a determined nod. “Lock me up.”
Chankov was getting too far ahead of the others. “3rd Platoon, increase pace!” he ordered.
Illarion shut the suit, then yelled as loud as he could manage, “Increase pace!” For a moment he wondered if anyone would even listen, but without hesitation the word passed down the line. The Wall moved forward, still cumbersome, but faster than before. Which meant they were too fast for Illarion or anyone else to clear the ground in front of the Objects. All he could do was stay behind the barrier and ready himself to pull the doors open and take over for Lourens.
Without warning, Chankov began firing the massive gun on Object 74. Mud kicked up just in front of the Almacians. They weren’t quite in their good range to see down into the trench, but a little bit further would get them there. Lourens began firing his own weapon, and soon the deafening sound of the Wall’s arm cannons was louder than the Almacians. Some Objects had a better angle, and shells began exploding inside the 303.
Normally, the Wall’s gunfire would have been enough to make the enemy cower.
Instead, the Almacians continued shooting, actually increasing their rate of fire.
Why don’t they flee?
The Western Front
Kolakolvia
Natalya Baston
Each time more Almacians rose up to fire at the Wall, Natalya sent one of them to Hell.
She had as good a position as she could get, stable, with sandbags to rest her rifle on. There was a fallen tree ahead of her, and the skeletal branches helped hide her from the Almacians. Heat waves were rising off her barrel and causing distortion in her scope, but the Goddess of the Hunt let her aim be true. She fired through the gap between the Objects and another Almacian died. That was the last of the precision rounds she’d gotten from Davi. Working the heavy bolt, she shouted at the infantry, “Bring me more ammo!”
They did. They hardly had much of their own to spare, but the nearby infantry knew she’d get more use out of it than they would. “Sniper, here.” She stuck one hand back and felt a cloth bandolier strike her palm. She snatched it away.
All the ammunition in the world wouldn’t have been enough for Natalya to stop the Almacian infantry. There were a multitude of them. She’d started the day with forty of Davi’s cartridges, had used the majority of them over the last few minutes, and had only missed a couple of times.
The Wall was close to the enemy. The Objects were shooting down into their trenches.
A whistle blew. The officers behind her began shouting, “Prepare to charge.”
“Alright, boys, we’ve got this.” That voice was familiar. She’d met that one earlier, the brave one, Darus. “For Kolakolvia! For our families! Let’s gut these Almacian swine!”
By the time the whistle blew again, she’d loaded another shell, and blasted another Almacian. It wasn’t even the one she’d been aiming at, though, damn the Tsar’s garbage ammunition.
Soldiers climbed up past her and began to run across no-man’s-land. Some were screaming battle cries. Others were just screaming. Just as she had fired through the gaps in the Wall, so did the Almacians. It only took a few moments for the artillery to adjust from dropping on the Objects, to falling on the infantry behind them.
Trenchers died—no, were slaughtered—by the dozens, then hundreds.
Would young Darus be among the dead? She hoped not. If the Tsar lost many more like him, the Almacians would win the war in short order.
But would that be so bad?
Not for the first time—not even the hundredth—she asked herself that question. She’d heard the rumors of Almacian wealth. No rationing. Clean water everywhere. Electricity in most towns. Natalya couldn’t imagine the average person being able to go to a bakery and just buy a loaf of bread.
Yet despite all that supposed wealth—and they had the bullets and rifles to prove the rumors at least partially true—they couldn’t win this war either. Almacia and Kolakolvia, both fighting to stop the other from conquering Praja. One small city, that neither knew if they’d be able to capture anyway because of their magic.
The Almacians must have grown tired of being killed in their holes, because they ordered a charge as well, trying to swarm the Wall before the Kolak infantry fell upon them. The Objects’ cannons mowed down the waves of attackers. A pack of the Kommandant’s war dogs appeared, loping across the battlefield, directly into a group of Almacian infantry. The animals ripped limbs from bodies and crushed throats. Natalya had seen more violence than most—and had caused more than her fair share—but even this was too much to watch.
But the Almacians kept coming. All of them were fleeing the safety of their trench, which made no sense. They threw themselves forward with reckless abandon. Almost as if . . .
Almost as if they were trying to escape something.
She shifted her scope from the trench they were trying to take, to the next one in the distance behind it. There were more gray soldiers marching from it, only these Almacians all wore masks and bulky suits that covered every inch of skin.
The flags that hadn’t been torn down by artillery were all blowing east, directly toward Trench 302.
She began shooting at the gas troopers, but they were too far away for this inferior, inaccurate ammunition. At best, she could take down a small handful. But there were hundreds of them, and the wind would carry their toxins right into the 302 and beyond, killing everything it came into contact with.
She’d warned the Oprichnik this was coming, yet there had been no precautions taken. The truth of the situation sunk in instantly.
Kristoph had never passed on her intelligence.
Thousands would die, and they would die horribly.
The Front
Kolakolvia
Illarion Glazkov
Hundreds of Almacians were running toward them, bayonets mounted on the ends of their rifles. All Illarion could do was feed another clip into the hopper as fast as possible so Lourens could start shooting again. Once the giant brass cartridges were slid into place, he slammed the tray shut and shouted, “Loaded! Go!” And then he dove out of the way.
Lourens turned Object 12, lifted the cannon, and opened up on the Almacians. Illarion barely had time to cover his ears. Bodies were hurled through the air, sometimes whole, sometimes in pieces.
There was another sound from behind them. The Kolakolvian infantry was on the way. Except he didn’t know if they’d get here in time to keep them from being impaled on dozens of bayonets.
The Object’s call was almost unbearable. His eyes were constantly pulled up to the back hatch. The suit promised him safety. Power.
The whispers weren’t actual words, but impressions that resolved into clear thoughts in his mind. With each step 12 had taken closer to the trench, the whispers had grown more insistent. Now they even drowned out the sound of the gunfire and screams of the dying. Now he was feeling the same impression over and over again.
Take control or you all die.
He didn’t know if the message was from the suit or the Witch, but it was real, it was incessant, and he knew it was telling the truth. “Lourens, switch.”
“I know you don’t want to be in the open when those Almacians get here, but now is not the time for 12 to go down!” Wallen shouted.
But Illarion ignored him and hammered on 12’s leg with his fist. “Lourens! Swap out.”
Except Lourens must not have heard him over the arm cannon that was ringing Object 12 like a bell.
It was only because of his new spectacles, dirty as they were, that he saw there were more Almacian soldiers on the other side of the enemy trench. These looked different. Their uniforms covered them from head to toe, and they wore strange masks over their faces, with glass circles for eyes, and two large cylinders protruding from either side of where their mouths would be. They were moving double time, and as they grew closer, the details of their uniforms cleared, and Illarion could see that they each wore a bandolier of spherical grenades.
Gas.
Their cannon was empty. “Illarion!” Lourens yelled from inside. “Get me out before I cook to death!”
Wallen grabbed their bucket while Illarion ripped the hatch open. Lourens threw himself out of the machine. Wallen tossed a bucket of water inside in a vain attempt to cool it down.
Illarion pointed at the approaching bug-eyed Almacians. “They have gas. You have to run.”
Wallen and Lourens looked confused. They’d all been exposed to Almacian gas before—it was part of training. It made the lungs burn, eyes water, and gave a terrible headache, but it wasn’t too big of a deal as long as you got out of it fairly quickly.
He vaulted into the suit and started strapping his legs in. “It’ll eat your skin! Close the hatch and run!”
“You still need a reload,” Lourens shouted.
“No time. Just go!”
They slammed the hatch behind him and all he could do was hope they listened. He pulled the glasses off and put them in the leather pouch he kept in his pocket. He could see even clearer now without them. Clear wasn’t the right word. Illarion could see perfectly.
And the first thing he saw once he lifted his head into 12’s helmet was that Lourens and Wallen had ignored his pleas and were reloading the arm cannon. He could only hope that their bravery didn’t get them killed. With his face in the right place, he said, “Chankov, poison gas incoming!” and knew that his words would be magically amplified by the suit. “Gas troops west of the trench.” Then he concentrated on tightening the belts around his arms with his teeth.
By the time he looked out the view port again, the fastest and most sure-footed of the Almacians were upon them. Illarion had to be careful, because if he moved his left too suddenly it could easily injure or kill his crew. So he carefully planted his feet, and then lifted 12’s halberd.
As a screaming Almacian was about to spear Wallen through the back, Illarion swatted him with the mighty blade and sent the body flying.
Kolakolvian trenchers rushed past his Object on both sides, violently colliding with the Almacians. Rifles fired, and then turned into clubs. Bodies were pierced. Skulls were crushed.
He felt the thump as the ammo hopper was slammed shut. “Reloaded!”
“Get out of here. Run!”
He could see down into the enemy trench. It was as flooded as the Kolakolvians’ and now filled with floating corpses. Limbs, heads, and chunks of torso covered nearly every bit of visible ground. What wasn’t covered in body parts dripped in blood and viscera. Almacians were stumbling and slipping on their comrades’ remains. But they were no longer the real threat.
The gas troops had stopped on just the other side of the 303. Each calmly pulled one of the orbs from the bandolier. Almost in unison, they pulled back their arms to throw.
Illarion blasted them. Broken bodies were hurled in every direction.
Some of the grenades were dropped at the gas troop’s feet, but many more were successfully hurled toward the Wall. The distance was too great to reach them, but the orbs burst when they hit the ground. The gas was a putrid yellow, like a disease made visible. And the wind began pushing it inexorably their way.
The smoke wafted over the clashing infantry ahead of him. He saw many of them instinctively take a deep breath.
Illarion suspected it wouldn’t matter.
Chankov was bellowing orders. “Dismounts withdraw. Objects close hatches. Move!”
Soldiers—Kolak and Almac both—dropped to the ground screaming and clawing at their faces. They tore at their own throats where they’d breathed in the gas.
It was only the beginning.
Seeing burns was common in the Wall. Every soldier that piloted one of the suits eventually experienced it. It was never pretty, but they all became jaded to the look and smell. Becoming accustomed to it couldn’t be helped.
This gas was different.
Skin and tissue dissolved, sloughing off and hitting the ground like candle wax. The entire side of one soldier’s face—ear and all—slid away, exposing the bone beneath. Illarion watched a different soldier rip his own eyes out, which promptly melted in his hands. The hands themselves turned into skeletal ruins. The gas ate at the joints, and limbs stretched, then fell to the ground. The screams of the dying didn’t last, as the gas ate them from the inside as well. All within moments.
Illarion disengaged the Object’s arm so he could reach back and close the vent.
“Dead Sister take us,” Chankov said. “Retreat! Retreat!”
Spartok had taught them to never try and walk backwards in an Object. It was a sure way to trip and fall. Except Illarion did so without conscious thought, that way he could keep firing his cannon at the damnable gas troops. He watched them explode into clouds of meat and blood with great satisfaction, as their poison orbs burst amidst their own instead of among his comrades.
He risked turning his head. The Wall was falling back. Objects were moving as quickly as they could, but they seemed cumbersome, clumsy things, not at all how he felt in his Object 12, and he watched in horror as one of the others slipped and fell, crushing a few trenchers beneath. The dismounted crews were scattered among the fleeing infantry. There was no time to help it up.
The blue flares of bullets hitting his Object’s barrier sputtered and became inconsistent. The Almacians were fleeing to the north and south, abandoning their trench and trying in vain to escape the terror of the gas.
The gas troops were moving up, hurling more grenades. The more Almacian death smoke was released, the more of his friends would die. He fired, worked the charging handle, and fired again. Not at the individual grenadiers, but at the ground between their feet. That way the blast and debris would kill or cripple multiple targets.
One of the gas grenades struck the side of his Object. Then they hit from all sides, orb after orb, until he was completely enveloped in gas.
The Front
Kolakolvia
Kristoph Vals
Kristoph had never observed a battle before. He found the whole bloody affair rather fascinating.
“How can you smile at a time like this?”
He took his eyes from the telescope. Petra’s horrified expression made Kristoph laugh, which only made her look of terror increase.
“This is no time for laughter. We need to make our reserve troops aware. We need to inform the Kommandant. We need—”
“We need to stand here and let the military do its job. Look around, Petra. Surely you can hear the officers panicking below? You see those signal flags waving outside? You see the riders rushing to the east? The messages are already being relayed. If I know the Kommandant, he is already rearranging his forces to counter this. Witch’s eyes, Petra, if you are that worried, send a message back to the Chancellor and ask for some of his Cursed.”
Petra nodded. “Perhaps I should.”
So easy to manipulate. Her reaction told him all he needed to know. She could contact the Chancellor easily, and perhaps even instantly, he assumed through the Cursed. He resisted the urge to tell her to ask their superior why he’d failed to warn the army about the deadly new gas.
“Give it a moment, though. Let us see how our forces react. The manner in which they respond could very well determine if we will find ourselves in an Almacian prison tomorrow. I hear the food there is far better than our own gulags.” He said that simply to placate her. She’d not been looking through the telescope, so didn’t know that it was far worse than she imagined. “See for yourself.”
Petra moved to the telescope and peered through it. “I’ve not seen that color before.” This was one of the few areas where Kristoph was utterly outclassed by the woman. If there was a single person in the empire best suited to understanding toxins, poisons, and liquids that could make a body disappear, it was Petra.
Except she gasped, moved away from the telescope, and covering her mouth with her hand.
That bad then . . .
He put his eye back to the lens and swiveled it across the battlefield, carefully noting how sluggishly the heavy gas was moving, and deciding whether he needed to flee the bunker or not. Probably not yet. He hoped it would dissipate before it drifted this far.
Where the gas touched the flesh of any soldier, it melted. Indiscriminate, it killed Kolakolvian and Almacian alike. He now understood the enemy’s frantic push from before. They must have been told at the last minute what was coming. Someone in the Almacian command must have had the glimmer of a soul remaining to bother warning them what would happen if they failed to hold.
Would I have given such warning in their place? Unlikely. Perhaps once upon a time, when I still had a soul to save.
As the infantry ran from the death fog, their commissars gunned them down for cowardice. How dare they retreat without orders? But the gas was far more frightening than the commissars and they pushed aside or trampled . . . only to die horribly as the gas wafted over them. Some of the great war dogs had been set free earlier. The Kommandant surely loved those savage beasts more than he loved any of his men. The dogs nearest the expanding cloud sniffed at the air, tucked their tails, and fled. The ones that weren’t fast enough collapsed when the gas touched them, melting like fleshy candles.
That this was an atrocity, Kristoph couldn’t deny, but why would Nicodemus Firsch allow this to happen? What answers did he seek to make this worth it?
The frustrating part was the yellow fog was so thick he’d lost sight of Glazkov’s Object. The boy was probably dead now, which was unfortunate, because he really could have gotten a great deal of use out of his own magi, especially one the Chancellor didn’t know about. He kept swiveling the telescope across the plain.
He must have made a noise. “What? What is it, Kristoph?”
“It appears there’s a large number of Almacians approaching from the west.” The troops in front appeared to be wearing the strange bulky masks, but the rest of the marching legion behind them appeared to be regular Almacs with nothing more than strips of cloth tied around their faces. Even the wealthiest nation in Novimir could only afford so much complicated protective gear. “I assume once their gas settles, they’ll advance to take advantage of our disarray.”
“Then we need to warn them!”
“Oh I don’t disagree. But I fail to see how we can at this stage of the battle. This will be most unpleasant.”
She went to the stairs and began shouting a warning to whoever among the command staff would listen, even though by now they surely already knew of the new threat. Kristoph wasn’t the only one manning a telescope.
“Do be quiet, Petra. Are you truly so new to war that you are unaware that this is the most important part of the battle? I would very much like to see how it plays out.”
“Plays out? This isn’t a game!”
“I am fully aware, I assure you.”
“You knew,” Petra said. Her voice shook. It surprised Kristoph to hear, since she was normally as unflappable as he was. “You knew this was coming, and you warned no one. I knew you were up to something.”
“Such an accusation.” He turned his back on the carnage to face her, eye to eye. “You should really make sure you have proof before saying such things. I have had people better than you executed for far less.”
“You deny it?”
“I deny nothing. Nor do I admit to anything. A skill learned by being a full member of the Directorate for as long as I have, which is far longer than you. I have no doubt you will come to understand one day. If you live that long.”
He thought she might try to kill him right there, which would have been a terrible mistake on her part. Except instead she walked to the side of Vasily, stood on her tiptoes, and began whispering in the monster’s ear. Kristoph couldn’t make out her words, but he was surprised to see his bodyguard tilt his head in understanding.
That was troubling.
Petra stopped talking. Surprisingly, Vasily bent over so that his mouth was pressed to her ear. Cursed never spoke and his lips didn’t so much as move, but it looked like she was listening to something. So that was how the Chancellor used his Cursed. The man had many secrets.
Her eyes snapped open, expression warring between fear and shock.
“Petra, dear. Is something amiss? I do hope you gave the Chancellor more than just your vague suspicions as proof that I have committed some crime.” He kept his voice light. The truth was, he did feel a seed of fear take root inside him then.
Someone would have to pay for this defeat. Kristoph had been suspicious why the Chancellor didn’t warn the army about the new poison gas. He would not be alone. The Kommandant and the Tsar would demand answers . . . and all Nicodemus Firsch would have to do was blame intelligence failure on one of his underlings. And who better than the only other agent who knew the truth?
Was that why Petra had been sent here to harass him? Had Firsch desired this massacre all along, and Kristoph was to be his convenient scapegoat?
His normally calm demeanor slipped, just a bit. “What did you tell him? Is he going to come to the front?”
“No.” She looked back toward the east, out the view port toward the staging area. “The Chancellor is already here.”