Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Front
Kolakolvia
Illarion Glazkov
The Wall had been ordered back to the relative safety of their camp behind Trench 298 so the mechanics could do repairs. The day’s battle had been one of the worst losses their unit had seen in years. Many were dead. More were missing. Worse, two Objects had been irreparably damaged. Crew could be replaced but Objects were precious.
Illarion had used 12 to haul broken machines back to the repair area. He’d done so with the hatch open to vent heat, and he accepted canteens from every group of soldiers he passed in a vain attempt to replenish his strength. Everyone asked him if this was the infamous Object that had gone back into the gas, over and over again to retrieve his fallen comrades? Each time Illarion answered them truthfully—that he’d done what any of them would have done in his place—then drank their water and moved on.
When there were no more damaged Objects to move, Illarion knew that he was too physically and emotionally exhausted to keep going. Being this fatigued, it was only a matter of time before he stepped on someone on accident. He didn’t know where his crew was, or if they lived. He didn’t know where his officers were. So he’d parked, climbed out, and then gone to sleep in the shade beneath his Object.
His nightmares were about wandering through an endless bank of poison fog as the Witch of the Woods cackled madly in the distance. The same monsters that had killed Hana came for Natalya, and when he tried to save her, his armor was frozen in place.
Someone shook him awake. It was near sundown and the camp was quiet. The first thing Illarion did was pull the spectacles from their leather pouch and put them on, bringing the world into focus. It was Wallen and Lourens.
“You’re alive.”
“I’m glad to see you too, Glazkov.” Wallen clasped his arm. “But there’s no time for rejoicing. There’s a runner here for you. You’re supposed to report to the command staff as fast as you can.”
A terrible unease came over him. He’d spoken to no one about surging the Object’s barrier to disperse the gas. All the talk he’d heard from the soldiers was about how they’d been saved by a fortunate turn of the wind, thank the Sisters.
But what if the secret police had been watching?
“Report to who?”
“Orders direct from the Kommandant himself.” Wallen looked nervous as he said that. The Supreme Commander of the Tsar’s army didn’t usually send for a lowly Strelet from an Object crew. “We’ll be here when you get back.”
Illarion nodded. He’d been expecting this. Well, maybe not a direct summons from the Kommandant, but something. “If I come back.”
“Are you kidding? Haven’t you heard? You’re the big hero. Spartok said he doesn’t know if he should put you in for a commendation for rescuing other Objects or have you executed for risking ours.”
Lourens said nothing this whole time. He just stared at his boots.
“Lourens? What’s wrong?”
Lourens just shook his head and walked away.
“It’s Svetlana,” Wallen said. “She didn’t make it.”
No, that couldn’t be right. “But I . . . I found her. The gas didn’t get her.”
“No, it didn’t. But she must not have had enough air. I was told she suffocated in her suit. Lourens never even got to see her . . . I’m sorry. You better go. I’m going to stay with Lourens. Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”
Illarion nodded dully and watched Wallen jog off after their friend.
After all that, Svetlana had still died. He should have felt something, but he was numb.
As he looked around at the faces of the living, he saw nothing but shock and grief. It appeared every crew was missing at least one member. Some of them had been wiped out entirely. How long would it be until the Wall got more replacements? Without them, the army didn’t stand a chance. He didn’t see how they could withstand another assault.
An infantryman in a blood-spattered uniform waved to get Illarion’s attention. The trencher looked familiar, but Illarion couldn’t place him. “You’re the messenger from the Kommandant?”
“Yes. I am Kapral Albert Darus. Please come with me.” He extended a hand to help Illarion up, which proved difficult since Illarion was nearly twice his size. Then they began walking between the wounded. Other members of the Wall gave Illarion nods of respect for what he’d done today. They walked by the damaged Objects as the mechanics worked. Sparks fell around them.
The name the soldier said finally registered. “Darus?”
“Yes.”
“I know you. You were there in Cobetsnya the day I enlisted.”
Darus gave him an exhausted smile. “I was wondering if you would remember. It’s been a while.”
Illarion gestured at Darus’ Kapral’s patch. “And you’ve moved up in the world.”
“Eh, just recently. Our last Kapral tripped and fell on his own knife. When I was given the order to find you, I was surprised you . . . well . . . ”
“Survived?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m a bit surprised too.”
“I just remember how overwhelmed you seemed in the city. I thought for sure this bumpkin isn’t going to last long in the Tsar’s army. No offense.”
“None taken. It appears you had a hard day too.”
Darus looked down at his blood-crusted uniform. “It’s not mine.”
Illarion didn’t press the issue. Neither of them needed to say anything else. He didn’t envy the trenchers. They were so ill equipped that groups of them often had to share one rifle. Most relied on whatever weapons they could scavenge off the dead. Many of them didn’t even have shoes. They never had enough food. At least the army kept the Wall well fed.
“What does the Kommandant want? Do you know?”
“I’m not sure. I’m just a runner, but the rumor is command is formulating a new plan of attack.”
“Attack? We can barely walk, much less take more trenches. If it weren’t for that blood storm erupting, we’d all be dead.” The red anomaly was still visible, flickering in the distance, having not moved from where it had first appeared. Nobody in their right mind from either side would go anywhere near that thing as long as it lasted.
Darus stopped. “You’re probably right, but I don’t think being right matters here. Have you dealt with the command staff before?”
“Not really.”
“Then my friendly advice would be to mind your tone. If the Kommandant says we advance, we advance. I know the Wall thinks the infantry does nothing, but we go where we are told.”
“That is not what—”
“You are in the thick of every battle, but a lot of the Wall is dead or incapacitated. All it will take is the storm dying and the wind shifting back in Almacia’s favor, and we’ll lose all the ground we’ve taken this year. If they use that gas all along the front, we’re done. We’ll likely lose Cobetsnya shortly after. All of us will either die or end up in a camp somewhere.”
Illarion wanted to argue, wanted to refute the other man’s words, but he couldn’t. After a long moment of silence, he nodded his understanding.
Darus started walking again. “Just don’t say anything like that in front of the Kommandant. Whatever they say the situation is, agree with them.”
“Why do they want me?”
“Sorry, I don’t know. My squad had been ordered to guard a tent while the Kommandant had a meeting, and then they told me to go find you.”
“Did you recognize anyone else there?”
“Not really.” Darus glanced around nervous, before whispering, “Word is Nicodemus Firsch is in camp.”
“The Chancellor?” Illarion asked, incredulous, because the Tsar’s shadowy advisor seemed nearly as much a legend as the Baba Yaga. Illarion had never even heard of the Chancellor before coming to Cobetsnya, but all the soldiers swore up and down that the wizard who had invented their Objects could not be killed. Assassins’ bullets bounced off his skin and he could drink poison for breakfast, and if he suspected you were a traitor his minions would make you vanish in the middle of the night.
“Keep your voice down,” Darus hissed. “My friends say he looks just like the tales, tall, thin as a spindle, and white as a corpse.”
“That’s just a rumor.”
“Who else would be guarded by four blindfolded giants?”
Illarion had no idea why the Chancellor would be here. The way everyone talked, men of such importance were never near the danger. According to Spartok the closest anyone in the Tsar’s inner circle ever got to the front was a map table in the palace with little toy soldiers on it.
“But I did notice two of the men in the Kommandant’s tent were from the Wall. Big fellows with shaved heads. But I don’t know their names.”
“Did you see their tattoos?”
“One had a giant wolf’s head on his chest, and the other had a ghoul climbing up his neck.”
That was good news, at least. The wolf was almost certainly Kapitan Spartok. Several members of the Wall had ghoul tattoos, but the other sounded like Sotnik Chankov. At least I won’t be alone.
Darus led Illarion through the camp, across the bridges that had been erected over the trenches, and up a hill toward a huge tent. The color of the tent had once been a brilliant red but was all now faded and stained by rain and mud. Normally they would have used the area’s command bunker for such a meeting, but they must have decided it was too close to the raging blood storm or the Almacians’ gas to keep the Kommandant safe. A flag at the top of the tent blew in the wind, pointing west. Darus saluted the officer standing by the entrance.
“About time, Albert.” He jerked his head indicating the two of them should enter.
There were a dozen men standing inside the tent, but it was so large there was still room to spare. Kapitan Spartok saw him enter and nodded in greeting. Chankov gave him a wide grin, clearly happy to see Illarion alive.
Kommandant Tyrankov was standing at the head of the table. Unlike the first time he’d seen the man, when his uniform had been immaculate and covered in medals and ribbons, the uniform he wore at the front was plain and utilitarian, except for his sleeve which had the unique cluster of five stars inside a stack of five V’s marking him as the Supreme Commander of the Tsar’s army. Tyrankov scowled as he looked to see who had interrupted his speech.
“Here is our war hero now!” Tyrankov boomed.
Darus saluted. “I have retrieved Strelet Glazkov as directed.”
Illarion felt very uncomfortable as everyone in the tent stared at him. There was enough metal pinned on all their chests to build another Object. He saluted the Supreme Commander and hoped for the best.
Darus wisely tried to escape, but Tyrankov said, “Remain, Kapral. I may have need of a messenger again.”
“Yes, Kommandant.”
“Now.” Tyrankov returned his attention to Illarion. “Second Kapral Illarion Glazkov. Who would have ever thought that the boy I met in training because I enjoyed the spectacle of him holding off his challengers with a flagpole, would come so far in such a short time? Have you read the memoir I gifted you?”
Did he just promote me? “I’m in the process of reading your memoir, Kommandant.” He didn’t dare say he could barely read any of it at all.
“Good, good. All the men have been talking about your actions today. On a dark day it’s nice for the soldiers to have some shining moments to remember instead. It certainly helps you look like the living embodiment of strong, handsome Kolakolvian youth. We may as well capitalize on that. Sotnik Golbov, make a note to have the artists use Glazkov’s image for the next recruiting poster.”
One of the other officers immediately said, “Yes, sir,” and began writing that down.
“Have the artists lose the glasses, but make sure they keep the tattoos visible this time. I know the Tsar thinks the Wall’s markings look barbaric, but the northern regions are behind in their conscription quotas, and northerners still believe in the Sisters. The raven is the Witch’s symbol.”
The Kommandant was serious. Was that why Illarion had been summoned? To be a model for the propagandists? “I am from the north, sir.”
“Even better. Some new posters showing that we respect the old ways should help get our numbers up there . . . Ah, the Chancellor has arrived. We may begin.”
Two gigantic figures entered the tent, both of them blindfolded, and took up protective positions near the entrance. Illarion could see the magic pulsing through their veins. Even if nobody else here could, surely, they must have instinctively recognized that these were unnatural beings, because most of the officers took an uneasy step back. Not the Kommandant, however, who must have been used to the presence of such creatures.
Next was the Chancellor. He was so tall he had to duck to get through the flap. Scarecrow thin, he had long, greasy hair, and skin nearly as white as that of the ghouls. His pale nature was accentuated by all his clothing being pitch black. Just looking at the man, Illarion felt more uncomfortable than he had about the Cursed bodyguards. There were many rumors about the Chancellor, most of them hinting that displeasing the powerful wizard meant certain death, or worse.
Behind the Chancellor trailed a beautiful woman in a long coat adorned with a badge he did not recognize, and last was Kristoph Vals, who smiled with what appeared to be genuine joy at seeing Illarion alive. Which made Illarion even more nervous.
“Welcome to the front, Chancellor Firsch,” the Kommandant said stiffly.
“Otbara.” The Chancellor was probably one of the few in the empire who could address the Kommandant by his first name in a formal setting and get away with it. “Always a pleasure.”
The Kommandant scowled, because nothing about today could be described as a pleasure. “I will introduce my staff and our regional commanders—”
“A waste of time. Which ones are from the Wall?”
“I present Kapitan Spartok, Sotnik Chankov, and Kapral Glazkov, as you requested. All good men. Heroes of the Tsardom.”
As the Chancellor had requested? Illarion wanted nothing more than to go hide behind Spartok, but unfortunately, from the look on his face, that revelation had come as a surprise to the Kapitan as well.
“Heroes, you say? Well, I am afraid I will require the aid of these heroes on a special mission for the Tsar.”
The Kommandant’s scowl deepened. “You may have given life to their Objects, Nicodemus, but the Wall belongs to the army, not Directorate S.”
“Both the army and the Directorate belong to the Tsar, who I speak on behalf of today.” The Chancellor spread his arms in mock apology. “But there is no need for such rivalry. If this mission is successful, it will benefit both of us greatly.”
These powerful men spoke of the “benefits” this situation could bring them, while Illarion grew sick of the cost in lives their selfishness produced.
The Kommandant was quiet for a long time. It was clear he was displeased but weighing his options. “Then they will happily accept this mission.” Of course the soldiers got no say in the matter. “What would you have them do? They will see it done.”
Illarion wondered what mission he had just been volunteered—or voluntold as Chankov often put it—for.
“While we have won this battle, it came at terrible cost. It was only through Almacian hubris that they killed more of their own men than ours. The enemy will be too afraid to use this new weapon until they figure out what went wrong today and adjust accordingly, but they will strike again, using the same—or worse. The army will break. The front will fall. And then Praja will fall to the Almacians. That, gentlemen, the Tsar cannot allow.”
“The army will not break,” Tyrankov stated flatly.
“No. I suppose in this case they will melt,” the Chancellor sneered.
“We will be ready. I have already had scouts retrieve some of their dead gas troopers. We will study their protective clothing and make our own to match. We’ll be ready.”
“Of course you will. Because Kolakolvian science moves at such an astonishing rate.”
It was clear that Tyrankov was growing genuinely angry. “If any other Prajan spoke about my country that way—”
“Ah, but I am no longer a Prajan. The Tsar has pronounced me as Kolakolvian as you, if not by blood and ancestry, then by spirit. Give one of these gas suits to the Directorate to study. My people are faster.”
Tyrankov was a proud man, but Illarion was glad to see that he put the lives of his soldiers ahead of his pride. “Very well. You will have one. We will work in parallel. In the meantime, what is this mission of yours that requires robbing me of some of my best troops?”
The Chancellor raised his hand. “Bring in the scout.”
For a moment, Illarion got his hopes up that it would be Natalya, because he knew she’d been assigned to Vals, but instead a man was escorted into the tent. He was unshaven and gaunt as a trencher.
“Identify yourself,” the Kommandant commanded.
The scout flinched but straightened and saluted. The salute looked . . . unsure. Like he hadn’t done it for some time. “Strelet Ganus Eliv.”
The Kommandant nodded. “Report.”
Eliv’s eyes darted about with obvious suspicion. His upper lip curled into the beginnings of a feral snarl. The Chancellor placed his hand on Eliv’s shoulder, and the scout seemed to calm. “Speak freely, Strelet.”
Eliv took a deep breath and began speaking, his voice was so soft Illarion found he was unconsciously leaning forward to hear better. “My platoon was seconded to Directorate S and ordered to scout the other side of the gates. We crossed over through a blood storm that appeared near Trench 101—”
“You did what?” Tyrankov asked, astonished, as the officers shared a confused looked.
“We crossed over during a blood storm. It appeared during a winter battle. It . . . we . . . I . . . ” The scout seemed to lose his nerve to speak.
“The point of Eliv’s mission,” the Chancellor interjected, “was, among many things, to see if the gates could be traversed. To see if we can cross to the other side and return. This man’s survival proves traversing the gates is possible, as is survival.”
“I knew this was a project of yours, Nicodemus, but sending men into Hell?”
“That’s merely a term created out of fear and ignorance. It’s simply another world, like Novimir, or the Earth of our ancestors. Man has been to two, what bars us from three? I have studied these gates for decades, and how the beings from the other realms traverse them. The blood storms are man’s only way in, but the exits the fae use are everywhere. You may have seen the many old stone doorways which litter this land. Some have been destroyed, but most are left alone because the peasants consider them bad luck.”
Illarion swallowed hard, remembering that it was Balan’s trespass over the marking stones that had preceded the destruction of their village.
“Superstitions about piles of rock left behind by fairy folk are no way to plan a war,” one of Tyrankov’s staff said.
The Chancellor looked amused by the interruption. “Only a fool declares anything he can’t understand to be superstition. The stone cairns are how old races traveled about. I have cataloged a multitude of these sites, both inside our empire, and beyond our borders.”
“We’re going through the storm . . . ” Every head turned Illarion’s way. The woman next to Kristoph looked annoyed that Illarion had dared speak, but Kristoph just looked at him and nodded.
“Our young hero is correct. We know that blood storms tend to appear only at scenes where there is sufficient death and horror. My theory is that it is because certain . . . entities on the other side consider it an opportunity to feast. While today’s violence was . . . extreme . . . such extensive bloodletting will anchor the gates in place for a time, allowing us entry to the other realm. Now is the time to strike. A small unit will enter the gate, traverse through that realm, thereby bypassing all of the Almacian lines, and then exit at a cairn which I know to be very near the location where we believe the Almacians are making their gas. Once they return to our world, they will be in position to destroy the factory.”
“How do you know where that is?” asked another officer.
“Indeed, Nicodemus,” said Tyrankov suspiciously. “More importantly when did you know of this place?”
“Sadly, I only just received word from a spy.” The Chancellor shrugged. “The timing was most unfortunate. The target is in Transellia, near the ruined village of Dalhmun.”
It was clear that the officers were holding their tongues and not saying what they actually thought about the Chancellor’s insanity. One of them said, “Why don’t we just send a unit from the 17th Snipers across the mountains to hit this place?”
The Chancellor looked toward his subordinate. “Mr. Vals?”
“The border there is heavily patrolled by the Almacians, but more importantly, the journey would take a few weeks on foot, or at least a week by river.”
The Chancellor smiled. “It is not without risk, but go through the blood storm, and you would reach their factory by tomorrow.”
No one spoke. No one hardly breathed. It was madness, but Illarion knew better than to fight against fate.
Spartok broke the silence hesitantly. “How many men were on your scouting mission?”
“I do not quite recall—” the Chancellor began before the scout Eliv cut him off.
“Fifty-three.”
The Chancellor did not look pleased at the interruption, but Spartok continued.
“How many of you survived?”
“I was the only one.”
The Chancellor nodded. “The Kapitan brings up a valid concern about attrition, but this time we will have the advantage of learning from the previous expedition’s mistakes. For example, time and distance do not work the same on that side. To us, our scouts were only gone for ten days. How long were you on the other side, Eliv?”
“Day and night isn’t the same there, but one of us was tasked with keeping time. He tracked it with a watch and made notes and . . . and died.”
“How long?” the Chancellor asked again, an edge of impatience was in his voice now.
“Oh . . . uh . . . when Sergi died, we had been there six months.”
“How long ago did Sergi die?” Illarion asked.
“A long time ago,” Eliv answered.
“But they wandered about quite a bit.” The Chancellor spread his hands in a poor apology. “In the time it takes you to traverse the gate and march the equivalent distance to Transellia, barely any time will pass here at all.”
“Even if we make it across and come out near the target, how do we get home?” Chankov asked. “Walk?”
Vals spoke up. “We will be picked up at a predetermined location by a riverboat disguised to look Transellian. I’ve already dispatched it.”
“Do not worry,” the Chancellor said. “Most of the things the scouts died from, you’ll not be there nearly so long, and with Objects to protect you, it should hardly be any trouble at all.”
The Kommandant clapped his hands once. “If such a thing could actually work, the Almacians would never know what hit them.”
“Indeed,” the Chancellor said proudly.
Tyrankov’s excitement had been an act. “But parlor tricks are no way to win wars. You can have this suicide mission, Nicodemus. In the meantime I will have the 17th send a mission across the mountains, for when you fail.”
“It never hurts to be sure, but according to my calculations the golem magic which powers the Objects will be far greater on the other side. The machines will be forever invigorated. Once you send the Wall through the storm, your skirmishers will have marched all that way for nothing.”
“Oh . . . I’m not sacrificing my best unit on this mad gamble, Nicodemus. You do not get the Wall.”
“I do not ask for all of it. Merely one platoon.”
“I can’t spare a whole platoon.”
“I made them. Ten Objects is nothing in the grand scheme of things.”
“I’m sure the crews I’d be sending to their certain death would disagree. But that’s not even a possibility at this time. You were not here while Kapitan Spartok was telling me about today’s losses.”
The Chancellor’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “The Tsar will be displeased by your lack of cooperation.”
“And I do not believe the Tsar would wish for me to throw away his most valuable assets on a mad errand. Perhaps we could ask him for clarification? Sadly, by the time a messenger gets to Cobetsnya and back, your blood storm will have stopped, so you’d get nothing.”
Illarion understood now why this man was their Kommandant. I really need to read that book.
“You play a dangerous game, Otbara.”
“It’s not a game to me, Nicodemus.”
As two of the most powerful men in the empire stared each other down, everyone else tried to look as unimportant as possible. It appeared neither of them was used to being told no.
“Kommandant, if I may.” Surprisingly it was Kristoph Vals who spoke up. “I will be the one leading this mission through the storm, and I have a small request.”
“Proceed.”
“Before we came here, I was interviewing this scout about the details of his experience. I am confident that even a single Object would greatly increase our chance of traversing the nether realm successfully and make it that much more likely that we would be able to destroy the gas factory once we return to this one. Surely, risking a single Object is worth it, if it means potentially sparing all your troops from the horror of another attack like today’s.”
“One Object?”
“Yes.” Kristoph looked right at Illarion as he said that.
The bastard knows. The Chancellor might not know what Illarion was capable of, but Kristoph certainly did. He knew that it was Illarion who had driven the gas right into the Almacians. He knew that this blood storm was Illarion’s fault. So that’s why I’m here. The Chancellor had wanted the Wall. Kristoph had wanted Illarion specifically. Damn it.
“A reasonable calculation of risk versus reward.” The Kommandant turned toward Spartok. “Is this feasible, Kapitan?”
“Due to casualties I’d have to pull from several crews to make a full one. Considering the nature of this particular mission, I’d take volunteers only.”
Illarion knew it was better for him to perish than one of his comrades. “I’ll go. Object 12 is fully operational.”
Chankov looked at Illarion as if he was insane, but Spartok didn’t seemed surprised in the least. Annoyingly, Kristoph looked pleased, probably assuming the reason Illarion had volunteered had been because he felt threatened Kristoph would reveal he had magic to the Chancellor. Let the secret policeman believe whatever he wanted. He wasn’t a real soldier, so his opinion meant nothing.
“Very well,” the Kommandant said. “Kapitan Spartok, I see that gleam in your eye. Despite any mad ideas you may have about being the first man to drive an Object across another world, I need you here. You will remain to lead what’s left of the Wall in case the Almacians attack again.”
“And the soldiers who will be accompanying Object 12?” Spartok asked.
The Kommandant looked to one of the other officers, who immediately said, “I can spare an infantry platoon, and whatever support you see fit. They will be ready to leave in the morning.”
“Have them be ready to leave tonight. Time is of the essence.” The Chancellor made a dismissive gesture. “And you will take Eliv as your guide. He—”
The scout shrieked with rage and leapt at the Chancellor. Except one of the Cursed moved with astonishing speed and slammed Eliv to the ground so hard it knocked the feral man unconscious. The Chancellor held up one hand to stop his monster before it could finish him off.
“Apologies, Chancellor,” the woman said. “I will execute him publicly tomorrow.”
“No need, Petra. He has been under significant stress. Tie him up and make sure he makes the trip with the assault team. He simply needs time to calm down. Kristoph will handle it from here. I must go.” The Chancellor left the pavilion without another word, followed by the woman and his bodyguards.
Kristoph remained. He was a very good actor, but it was clear to all the soldiers that he was out of his element as he declared, “Let’s get started then.”