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Chapter Twenty-One

The Front

Kolakolvia

Natalya Baston

It was raining in no-man’s-land.

Rain never bothered Natalya. The sound of the drops hitting the ground had always been soothing to her. She remembered when she was young, before her parents had been taken, the patter of rain against the roof of their wagon. She slept better on those days. Thunderstorms had always been her favorite. She loved counting the time between lightning and thunder.

There weren’t many bodies in the aftermath of the most recent battle. Rain streamed off the hood of her poncho. She didn’t have her rifle with her—the mud would only cause it problems—but she did have a long knife. She used it to prod at the bodies before trying to move them. It was a habit she had picked up after seeing a fellow scout killed by an Almacian playing dead.

The current body didn’t move when she stabbed it. Dead then. She stabbed it again, just in case. Nothing. Good. Natalya rummaged through the corpse’s pockets, looking for valuables, information . . . anything she could sell or report. There was nothing of value. Not even a weapon. It must have been lost in the mud. She straightened up, sighed, and moved on to the next body.

Stab.

Wait.

Stab again.

Nothing. Proceed.

This corpse had a wound in the center of its face where a sniper’s bullet had found its mark. Had it been her own? Hard to say. The marksmanship was solid, so the chances were high, but she was hardly the only sniper who had taken part that day. She dug into the dead soldier’s pockets, her hand meeting a small oilcloth-wrapped bundle. She pulled it out, saw it was wrapped in twine, and had high hopes for her find. Soldiers only wrapped items of importance this way. She stored the package under her poncho and moved on.

Stab.

Wait.

She was about to stab again when the Almacian body lurched up and went for a knife, but Natalya buried her blade under the man’s chin, and held it there until he stopped twitching.

He must have been knocked out during the battle, and been here ever since, too hurt to get up and try for his trench. He’d probably been asleep when she’d stabbed him. She didn’t begrudge the soldier for trying to kill her. In his spot she would have done the same.

Natalya wiped her knife off on the soldier’s uniform, then pried the enemy’s blade from his death grip. She undid the man’s belt and pulled at it so she could get the sheath. Weapons—even things as simple as knives—were in short supply. She could easily get a few weeks of extra rations for an Almacian knife if it was in good condition. When she searched the body she found a pair of spectacles in his pocket. Natalya nodded in satisfaction. To the right buyer, spectacles were gold. Generally they were bought by the wealthy in Cobetsnya. Hardly anyone could afford them at the front, so she’d built up quite a collection from her scavenging.

She quickly moved away from that body, just in case the fresh blood stirred up the ghouls again, and continued her search. Since Natalya had been assigned to Vals’ command, she had nothing else to do until he summoned her. So she had decided to use that time combing through the remains of the dead looking for riches. She had quite the treasure stash going.

Eventually a small letup in the downpour allowed her to see all the way to the enemy lines. A handful of Almacian soldiers were working parallel to her. Occasionally they bent down, rummaged around in the mud, then stood back up, holding something unidentifiable at this distance. One spotted her watching and gave her a mock salute. She returned it.

Scavengers in this war had a wordless understanding. In a war that had gone on far longer than any of them had been alive, there were many such unwritten rules. Scavengers were off-limits. In the rare event ghouls appeared, a wordless cease-fire was enacted for several days afterwards. They couldn’t risk more violence drawing the ghouls back. She shuddered at the thought.

Natalya had never seen so many of the creatures before. From what the survivors had said—the ones who had felt like talking, anyway—there had been even more than were visible at a distance. Illarion had walked by her without so much as a word. She wasn’t even sure he had seen her. His face had been pale, drawn, and distant. She’d let him go. There would be time to talk later.

Maybe I should go by their camp to see how he’s doing?

An odd thought. Never once had she ever thought of visiting a Kolakolvian soldier before. What had changed?

I have.

The answer came unbidden to her mind. Fate had its coils wrapped around her, dragging her down the path of change whether she wanted it or not. Those coils had tied her to people she would normally have never wanted to associate with, like Kristoph Vals, or with those she never previously would have given thought to, like Illarion Glazkov.

She couldn’t find any more corpses to loot, though she knew many more had died in the last battle. The ghouls must have taken them away. What was it like on the other side of that hole that had appeared? She’d heard of such things but had never been close to one before. It was unnerving to watch the air soundlessly split open to someplace else. She had never heard of anyone going through one willingly, much less coming back to tell the tale.

Scavenging complete for the day, Natalya trudged back across the mire toward the most recently taken trench. Even keeping her head down in case an Almacian rifleman didn’t feel like obeying their unwritten rules today, she made good time.

Natalya called out the day’s phrase to keep from getting shot by the Kolakolvians. Luckily the ones on watch weren’t deaf or stupid, because they didn’t immediately shoot her—not that they could spare the ammunition. She’d been mistaken for an Almacian and shot at by her own side coming back from scavenging no-man’s-land before, but luckily since most of the Tsar’s men couldn’t shoot worth a damn, they’d missed.

She reached the edge of the trench and climbed down the ladder into the awful pits the trenchers called home. Most of them huddled against the stretches of wall reinforced by wooden planks, with threadbare tarps stretched over the top for protection from the elements. They did little to keep out the rain, but some respite was better than none.

Someone was having a coughing fit. Pneumonia was one of the more common ways to die here. It was perpetually damp, endlessly filthy, and crawling with fleas. Most uniforms rotted off bodies. The trench was truly a miserable existence, possibly the only thing she could imagine worse than living in the Tsar’s gulags. She despised the big cities, but at least Cobetsnya was dry.

This section was only a few feet wide, so she was forced to wait to the side whenever anyone came from the other direction. It was a frustrating way to travel.

An infantryman approached her.

“Are you Scout Specialist Baston?”

“What do you want?” she snapped.

Her tone must have taken the soldier by surprise because his face darkened a little, but he was quick to smooth it over. She had little respect for the infantry, spending all their time hiding and decaying, waiting for the Wall to clear the way for them so they wouldn’t get shot. Far more of them died from disease or poor nutrition than from actual battle. That was no way to live.

“I have a message for you.”

“From whom?”

“He looked like an agent from Directorate S, but I couldn’t say for certain.”

“Fine. Hand it over.” She stretched out her hand and snapped a finger.

After the soldier gave her the note, she cracked open the wax seal and quickly skimmed the letter. There wasn’t much to it.


Keep track of your friend, Glazkov. Find out more about the gates that open in the blood storm. See if he has any oddities in his past which suggest some manner of supernatural influence. I expect regular reports.

—Vals


So she was to spy on her friends now. It wasn’t a surprise since that was how the Tsar got his information—by getting citizens to report on their neighbors. It was a filthy business. The part about supernatural influence was especially galling, considering the last time they’d spoken he’d confided in her that he had met the Baba Yaga face to face. She certainly couldn’t tell Kristoph that!

She noticed the trencher was still standing there. “Is there something else?”

“Do you require me to return a message, Specialist?”

“Do I look like I can sit down to write a letter right now?”

“Well, no, but—”

“But what? Gods’ tears, you trenchers are all useless.” She pointed back in the direction of the battlefield. “While your countrymen in the Wall were fighting barehanded against the Almacians and ghouls, you all sat here safe from harm. Are you all just messenger boys now? Never mind. You’re dismissed. Go get trench foot or something.”

She brushed past him, already angry with herself for the outburst. Useless though they may be, these soldiers deserved better. Most of them didn’t want to be here anymore than she did. They were all trapped, just in different ways.

“It wasn’t my choice!”

Natalya stopped in her tracks and turned back. “You have something to say?”

“I said it wasn’t my choice, Specialist.” He turned smartly on his heal to face her. “You can insult me all you want, but do not question the bravery of my comrades. I saw what was happening out there. I wanted to fight. Many of us wanted to help. We asked for permission from our commanding officer.”

“And?”

“And he told us no.”

Natalya didn’t say anything. It shouldn’t have been surprising. A soldier generally didn’t become an officer in the Tsar’s army through acts of courage. Family money was the most common qualification for that. Cowardice and ineptitude were acceptable for the connected. It was no wonder the war had stagnated. It might have ended a long time ago if more Kolakolvians were like this one.

“What’s your name, soldier?”

He paled, and Natalya again regretted her words. That phrase usually meant someone was about to get reprimanded or shot. Infantry liked to be nameless. They didn’t want to stand out for good reason, and all he knew about her was she was obviously a foreigner and she was somehow connected to the dreaded Directorate S, who made accused traitors disappear in the middle of the night.

“Strelet Albert Darus.”

“Thank you, Strelet Darus. Your orders were to stand down?”

“Yes, Specialist.”

“Then you did the right thing. Obeying orders is always the correct thing in the Tsar’s army.” Then she leaned in close so nobody else might overhear her subversive words. “But we both know doing the right thing doesn’t make it the right thing. Maybe next time your comrades are on the edge of victory, and your cowardly officer is too scared to do his job, he’ll accidentally trip and fall on a knife.”

A small smile touched the corners of Darus’ mouth, and he nodded. “We should be so lucky, Specialist.”

“Just don’t get caught.” Then Natalya raised her voice just enough to be heard by the nearby clusters of soldiers and tried to sound official. “Good. You’re a good soldier, Strelet Darus. If more soldiers follow your lead, maybe less of our brothers will die pointlessly like they did the other day. Remember that.”

“Yes, Specialist.”

Natalya again turned away and left Darus standing there, his back a little straighter. Her words might not have meant anything, but maybe they would someday. Natalya enjoyed fomenting rebellion.

* * *

Natalya wandered aimlessly through the streets of the town that didn’t officially exist. Until she found herself in front of the same bar she usually went to, hand on the door to push it open. She could already see what would happen for the next few hours. She would sit at the same table, in the same corner. Maybe even with the same glass. She would drink until the bottle was empty, maybe spill bones onto the table for a little divination. Then she would go back to her assigned barracks, strip, and fall asleep.

Maybe she would do it all over again tomorrow too.

Maybe not.

She pushed the door open and approached the bar. What was the barkeep’s name? Rahn? Rulf? Rolf? She knocked on the surface of the bar with a knuckle. “Barkeep.”

“Name’s still Rolf.” He smiled as he said it to take the sting out of the words. Leave it to the barkeep—Rolf—to be one of the few decent people on the front. “The usual, my Rolmani friend?”

“Sure.” She looked over and saw that some of the furniture had been broken. “Anything interesting happen lately?”

“One of those big boys from the Wall nearly killed a guy who was claiming to be from the Wall.”

“So not your normal day?”

“No. As long as there are gullible men and women there will be fakes claiming to be heroes, but it’s rare to find one dumb enough to not check which units are in town before lying about it. I think I’m getting too old for this. I should sell this place and buy a farm.”

Natalya laughed. “But then I’d have to find a new favorite barkeep whose name I can never remember.”

Rolf pointed a finger at her and smiled. “You’re probably right. I’ll keep at it, just for my favorite sniper who drinks more than entire platoons. But it was one of the Wall you drank with the other night, the young handsome lad. I thought for sure he was going to murder the fool right there in front of all of us, but then the secret policeman arrived and had his monster break it up.”

“Did Glazkov get in trouble?” she asked, too quickly.

“I couldn’t tell. They talked after. The Directorate man didn’t have your soldier executed on the spot, so I assume everything worked out.”

With Vals, talking was trouble. And the bones never lied. The gods had said Glazkov would need her help, so be it. She rummaged around under her poncho and pulled out the oilcloth-wrapped bundle and untied it. Inside she found a small stack of blank papers, a pot of ink, and a silver pen. It was etched with elaborate scrollwork. A gorgeous piece, really. In Cobetsnya, she could sell this for quite the sum.

“Well now,” Rolf said. “Where’d you get that beauty?”

Natalya shrugged.

“Ah. A little post-battle requisitioning, then? Well, that’s surely a bit out of my price range.”

“Today that isn’t a problem. Could you find a use for it?”

“I have a friend in one of the conquered regions to the south who wants to be a writer. I keep telling him there’s no money in that under the Tsar, but he insists he’ll be a real writer one day.”

“Seems doubtful.”

“That’s what I say, but Lavrenty always was stubborn. What do you want for the whole set?”

“How about two glasses, and a bottle of your finest. And don’t try to rip me off. I mean the kind you typically save for the Oprichniks or commissars when they come in. I know what you’ve got back there. And I’ll take it to go.”

“To go? You aren’t cheating and sneaking off to another bar are you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re the only barkeep for me. No, I’m taking it to someone who’s having a rough time.”

“There are plenty of soldiers fit that description.”

“But not too many I’d consider a friend, I suppose. Do we have a deal?”

“For a change, this is an easy deal to make. I’m used to you badgering me more.”

“And I’m used to you eventually caving in.”

Rolf chuckled and put a bottle of crystal-clear vodka on the bar and two cups. “From the Lenknov distillery in Volgodarsk. The Tsar himself drinks this stuff—at least that’s what the distillery says.” Then he changed his mind, took away the tin cups, and grabbed two made from glass. They were even clean. “So I feel better about the trade, it tastes better out of glass or crystal.”

“Well, who am I to turn down your generosity?” Natalya took the items, then headed for the door. “A pleasure doing business with you . . . uh . . . barkeep.”

“I know you remember my name now. You’re just being an ass.”

She waved over her shoulder and left the bar, laughing all the while.

* * *

It was easy to find the Wall’s camp. That unit was legend in this place. From there though it took her a while to find where Glazkov slept. While she had been searching, other members of the Wall eyed her as she passed by, often whistling and asking if she felt like cutting her journey short to spend time with them. She brushed them off with a wink or a vulgar insult to draw laughs from their companions. The Wall were a rough bunch, but they had honor. They took as good as they gave, none of it serious.

Even in the rain many were shirtless or exposing as much skin as they could get away with without getting shot for breaking what few uniform protocols applied to them. The tattoos they displayed were marvelous, and she could feel the residue of divination in them. A dragon on a man’s chest with the monster’s tongue curling up his neck, onto his face and over an eye. A woman with a serpent coiling around her middle, going under her shirt. All the handiwork of Katia Goya. There were even designs she didn’t understand or recognize, and to ask felt like prying on something far too personal.

The dichotomy of the Wall’s tattoos was fascinating. They displayed them openly for all to see, but never talked about them outside of their own ranks. Kapitan Spartok had only invited her along to Glazkov’s divination because of her Rolmani heritage, which made her wonder if he knew more about her peoples’ gifts than he let on.

The Wall was lucky in one respect. Because their giant steel machines were in constant danger of rust, the army was smart enough to not make them stay in the trenches for long. They fought, then withdrew to someplace their precious Objects could be protected from the elements until the next attack. If it looked like the Almacians were about to go on the offensive, the Wall would be sent the short distance back to the front, but that meant in the meantime the crews got to sleep someplace dry and out of artillery range.

Lost in a land of tattooed giants, she had to ask for directions, and she was pointed in the direction of Object 12’s crew.

Natalya went to the indicated barracks. It being built from bricks meant it had been around for quite some time. Newer structures closer to the front were made out of wood so they could be easily torn down should a retreat be ordered. The barracks here all looked the same, rectangular, with a steep, peaked roof to handle the winter snow. Once a year the outer walls were whitewashed though the rain stripped away the most recent coating. She turned the handle to the open door and pushed her way in out of the rain. None of the barracks had locks on the doors—all in the name of security, according to the Oprichniks. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim light of a single small oil lamp.

The room was lined with bunks on both sides and smelled like old sweat. Only a few people currently occupied it, so Illarion was easy to spot. He sat on a bunk, nearly motionless, staring at something in his hands. He was shirtless, the massive tattoo of the raven visible for all to see, and opposite it was the scar Katia’s ink couldn’t penetrate.

He looked . . . lost. The thing in his hand turned out to be a closed book.

Natalya approached, then knocked on the wall when she got close.

Illarion blinked, stared at her for a moment, then said, “Natalya?”

“So you remember my name?” The irony of the phrase wasn’t lost on her.

“Of course I do! What are you doing here?”

“I heard you could use some company. I saw you right after the battle.”

“I didn’t notice you or I would’ve said hello. My mind was . . . elsewhere.”

“You’re worried about having been insufficiently polite, after barely surviving a ghoul attack?”

He shrugged. “It’s how my mother raised me.”

That made her laugh. “I’m glad you made it out.”

“A lot didn’t.”

Neither spoke for a while. Illarion went back to staring at his book, but he didn’t open it.

“Doing some light reading?”

Illarion looked up again. “What?”

“The book. You know, they’re easier to read if you open them.”

“I imagine that’s true.” Illarion frowned at the cover. “Kommandant Tyrankov gave it to me. He said it was a copy of his memoirs and that I should study it.”

She remembered them talking about it before, but part of her had assumed it was some kind of Wall teasing. “The Kommandant personally gave it to you.”

Illarion nodded and extended it for Natalya to take. “Yes.”

She took the book, opened it to the first page and saw Kommandant Tyrankov’s signature. “Are you holding out on me, Glazkov? Are you a secret bastard child of his or something?”

“I doubt he ever made it that far north.”

Natalya pushed Illarion’s feet to the side and sat down on his bunk. “Seriously, though, why did he give you a copy of his memoirs?”

“He liked the way I fought during training.”

“Must have been some fight.”

“I beat a bunch of my future comrades with a flagpole.”

Natalya laughed again, and this time it drew a smile from Illarion.

She noticed how the spine of the book wasn’t so much as cracked. “Have you not read any of this?” He shook his head. “Why not? It’s a gift from one of the most important men in the empire. Are you trying to offend him?”

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean can’t? Who’s stopping you?”

“Me.”

Realization settled on her. Of course, he didn’t, because he couldn’t. “You don’t know how to read?”

He seemed embarrassed. “I never learned.”

“Your parents never taught you?”

“My mother couldn’t read either. Hardly anyone in Ilyushka could. We had other things to worry about.”

Natalya hadn’t meant it as an insult. It was taken for granted that everyone in her caravan could read, but being illiterate was common in Kolakolvia, especially among the peasants.

“Hana . . . she was . . . our Starosta’s daughter. She was going to teach me, but . . . ” He trailed off.

“What happened?”

“Monsters slaughtered everyone in my village.”

He said it so matter-of-fact that Natalya was momentarily taken aback. “Yeah . . . That’s right.” Just because the things that had lived here before man arrived had been pushed back into the darkness didn’t mean they didn’t occasionally come back. The Rolmani were careful not to give offense to such things, but the Kolakolvians weren’t as clever as her people. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “And then I was in the army. Learning wouldn’t do me much good anyway. I don’t see good enough anyway. I was born with bad eyes. Far is worse than close, but close isn’t very good either. I can’t really make out letters this small. But as my mother used to say, there’s a place for a strong back as well as the sharp eye.”

That sounded like the sort of thing a mother would tell her big but nearly blind son to make him feel better about being a terrible hunter. “Having poor vision isn’t a problem anymore as long as you have a little money. Haven’t you seen people wearing spectacles? Like these . . . ” She took some out of her pack. Almacians were wealthy enough they were fairly common, so she’d found a couple of pairs today. She had others in her treasure stash, ready to sell on her next trip back to the city.

“Yeah.” He gently took one by the wire frame. “Commissar Bosko sometimes wears something like this. What does that have to do with seeing?”

Did he think their commissar hung glass on his face for fashion? “Did no one in your village have these?”

“I don’t think you realize just how far away Ilyushka was from the rest of the world.”

“They help you see better. Here, try them on. They may not be quite right for you, but maybe you’ll understand.”

He squinted hard at one of the lenses. “Is that blood? Where did you get these?”

“That isn’t relevant. Just . . . yes, just unfold the long parts . . . right. The middle rests on the bridge of your nose and the back parts go over your ears. There.”

Illarion’s eyes widened, and he stared around the room. “I . . . I can see.” He blinked several times and took them off. “They hurt my eyes, though.”

“But it was clearer?”

He put the spectacles back on and nodded, excited. “The pain is worth it. How much do these cost? How do I get some?”

“You would have to go see a special craftsman in Cobetsnya. They are fairly expensive, though. Far too much for a regular soldier’s pay.”

“Of course.” His disappointment was obvious.

“Don’t worry. I have several that I’ve . . . found. You can try them all until we find one that works and doesn’t hurt.”

“If they’re so expensive, how do you have them?”

“I take them off people who don’t need them anymore to sell when I go back to the city.”

“Who doesn’t need to see . . . Oh . . . ”

It was amusing to see someone who—by all accounts—was a terror in battle, be surprised about looting the corpses he left in his wake. “When it’s quiet I go out and scavenge for anything the army can use, or I can trade. Otherwise, it would just go to waste. Does that offend you?”

“No. It makes sense. I come from pragmatic people. I see things out on the battlefield all the time, but I don’t get much chance to pick them up. I should have grabbed one of the Almacian knives when I had the chance. Their steel cuts better than ours.”

Natalya smiled broadly and pulled out the Almacian knife she’d stolen today. “You mean like this? Take it. It’s too heavy for what I do. I was going to trade it for more rations, but I’d rather you have something to protect yourself with out there.”

“Thank you.” Illarion seemed honestly moved by her generosity. “A fine knife and spectacles that cost a fortune, I wish I had something to give you in return.”

“Oh you do.” When Illarion looked confused, she produced the bottle of alcohol and glasses. “I require company while I drink this.”

“I’ve had bad experiences with that lately.”

“I have bad experiences with it on a weekly basis. You just need to build up your tolerance.”

“To the vodka?”

“To the bad experiences.” She poured him a glass and passed it over.

He took a small sip, then looked at it with suspicion. “Why is this so much better than usual?”

“Because I overpaid for it.”

He took another sip, and visibly relaxed. “Worth it.”

Illarion Glazkov was an interesting sort. What she’d originally mistaken for a simple nature, was actually just someone who was direct and without guile. He was actually kindhearted, which was a rare thing in this land. The two of them spent the next hour just talking about frivolous things as they drank and temporarily forgot they were in the middle of a war. Natalya found it rather nice.

At one point, Illarion paused, as if screwing up his courage. “You’ve shown me great kindness, Natalya, but could I ask you for one other favor?”

“Depends on the favor. What are we talking about?”

“How well do you know how to read?”

“Pretty well. I was taught early. I can even read and speak a little Almacian, and half a dozen other dying languages. Rolmani are wanderers without a kingdom, so we take every advantage we can get. Why, do you want me to read the Kommandant’s book to you?”

Illarion’s face went red with embarrassment. “With these spectacles I can see all the letters well enough to tell them apart. I was hoping you could teach me to read it for myself.”

“Hmm.” Was that what the gods had meant when the bones had directed her to help the raven? “That’s a pretty steep favor. I’ll require compensation.”

“Of course. On a Strelet’s pay I doubt I could make it worth your time. Well, it isn’t a big deal. I haven’t needed to know how to read up until now. Shouldn’t be too hard to continue.”

“Not so fast, farm boy. I think we could work out an arrangement.”

Illarion met her eyes, a glimmer of hope in his expression. “What do you have in mind?”

Natalya kept her expression as serious as she could manage. “I’m in need of a long-term drinking companion.” When he looked down at the glass full of expensive alcohol she added, “But it won’t be as good as this. It’ll be the usual swill. And you may have to carry me on the rare occasion I drink too much and pass out. Do we have a deal?”

He held his glass up to clink it against hers. “We have a deal.”



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