Chapter Twenty-Three
The Front
Kolakolvia
Illarion Glazkov
After weeks of rain, it was over in a single day. The clouds dissipated, and the warmth of spring turned the mud and pools of water into stinking mires covered in biting flies and mosquitos. The heat and humidity were a stark contrast to the cold they’d been experiencing. The ground was so saturated it simply couldn’t absorb any more of the rain, so walking anywhere in the trenches became a slog through standing water.
The Almacians must have been eager for the fight, because the cease-fire ended with a vengeance. Random shelling had gone on all through the night. Potshots taken by Almacian snipers echoed constantly. Anyone careless enough to lift their head above the trench walls lost it.
The Wall had been called up, prepared for the potential fight. But until that fight happened, they simply waited there in the mud and heat, never straying too far from their Objects. If the Almacians attacked first, their job would be to defend Trench 302. If Kolakolvia moved first, their job would be to conquer the 303.
“This is stupid,” Lourens said. “We’ve been waiting for hours. Why are we just standing here?”
“Orders,” Illarion answered.
Their crew was still short. They had only Wallen, Dostoy, Lourens, and himself. They had never found Bricks’ body after the ghoul attack. No more replacements would be assigned to their crew until more trainees were sent from Cobetsnya, or another Object, went down and freed up its crew.
The wind swirled, which made Illarion think of Natalya’s words and her fears about poison gas. With his new spectacles he could clearly see that on the embankment had been planted poles with bits of cloth tied to them fluttering in the breeze. They never blew in one direction for very long. If that changed, they might be in trouble.
To their right was Chankov’s Object 74. To their left Object 110, to which Svetlana was assigned. Illarion caught Lourens looking her way more than once.
“Keep your focus on what’s ahead. You’ll be able to be with Svetlana after the battle, if it ever comes.”
“I think I liked you better when you couldn’t see very good . . . And like you have room to talk.”
“Yeah, Glazkov, at least Lourens here had the sense to fall for a Kolak girl who isn’t going to steal the gold from his teeth while he sleeps,” teased Dostoy. “What’s the Queen of the Rolmani up to?”
Possibly informing on me to the secret police, Illarion sullenly thought to himself, but he just said, “Shut up, Ivan.”
“Plus, with Svetlana for a wife, if his plow horse ever goes lame, Lourens could just hook her up to the plow inst—ow!” Dostoy didn’t finish that crack because Lourens threw a rock at him. “I outrank you. That’s insubordination.”
“Write me up, fatty.”
Dostoy threw the rock back, but missed. Then they both laughed and went back to the miserable tense wait. You knew you were truly part of a crew if they teased and mocked each other like family.
A minute later Wallen said, “I don’t like this delay. We should just move forward and take the 303.”
“Orders,” Illarion replied, for probably the hundredth time that day.
Wallen shook his head in disgust but didn’t argue.
A sniper fired, and Illarion saw a flare of blue light just above Object 12 as the bullet was deflected away.
“I wonder where that one went?” Wallen said.
“It hit our shield,” Illarion answered before he could stop himself.
“Maybe,” Dostoy said. Illarion didn’t correct him. Now that he knew for certain that he alone could see the colors when the Object’s barrier was struck, he had to remind himself to never let that slip, so as to not draw even more attention from Kristoph.
The sun beat down on them while the mosquitos feasted. Illarion found that the hotter it got, the more he agreed with Wallen. He just wanted the battle to begin. The waiting was worse than the actual fight.
The Western Front
Kolakolvia
Kristoph Vals
Kristoph had gone to the command bunker overlooking the area to oversee the day’s excitement. The unexpected presence of a Section 7 agent had made the command staff there very uncomfortable. With good reason. Officers who did poorly while one of the Chancellor’s elite was present tended to end up fed to the war dogs, but Kristoph wasn’t here for them.
Through the giant telescope aimed out the armored slit, Kristoph could barely make out Object 12 and its crew. They were huddled around the giant metal figure, protected by the magical barrier that repelled incoming fire. It was hard to tell, but Glazkov appeared nervous. He must not like waiting. Interesting. Kristoph never had much of an issue with waiting. Patience was a weapon all operatives of Directorate S had to learn—and they either learned, or they died.
Since his conversation with Glazkov, Kristoph had learned much about the boy. It was obvious Natalya was withholding information. The sniper and the soldier spent every moment possible together, and yet she hadn’t reported anything useful to him. Baston had not struck him as the romantic type, but he respected her loyalty, however misplaced.
Except with a promise here, and a threat there, Kristoph had learned all he needed to from other members of the Wall. Illarion Glazkov was known for saying odd things, like he could see the Object’s magical barrier, or that he felt like he heard whispers while inside the suit. Together with his comment about hearing the blood storm, a full picture was coming into focus.
Strelet Glazkov was undeniably special. Kristoph hated even thinking that word. No one was truly special. Some people were just better at getting what they wanted. Not special, just better.
Illarion was better.
True magi were incredibly rare, and a valuable resource if they could be properly harnessed. That was one area where the Chancellor had a huge advantage over Kristoph, who had no such gifts himself. Anyone else discovered with such abilities either ended up under the Chancellor’s direct control or executed.
Imagine what I could accomplish with my own wizard . . .
However, Kristoph still needed to confirm his suspicions. He wanted to see what happened when Glazkov drove the Object today. When the battle finally began, Illarion would end up in that suit, one way or the other. Even if it meant a little friendly fire to thin the ranks of his crew.
All Kristoph could do at this point was wait.
He was an expert at waiting.
The Western Front
Kolakolvia
Natalya Baston
Through her scope, Natalya barely saw the cap of an Almacian poke up above the rim of Trench 303. It was nearly four hundred yards away, but she knew exactly how much to hold over to drop one of the heavy Kolakolvian bullets onto her target. The flags provided a convenient wind gauge, and she shifted her aim a foot to the right. She exhaled, then gently squeezed the trigger. The steel plate of her rifle’s stock thumped her shoulder. A puff of red mist was her reward, and the Almacian dropped. She slid quickly back into the trench in case one of the hidden Almacian counter-snipers had spotted her muzzle blast.
This brutal game of cat and mouse had been going on all day.
Natalya reloaded her single-shot rifle as she moved to her next position, sloshing through the muck, past dozens of crouched and waiting Kolakolvians. She would have loved to have an elevated platform. Stable. Dry. Where she would have a free and easy line of sight on the Almacian trenches. Except they’d tried that before, and whatever the superior Almacian artillery hadn’t shelled into splinters, the new Almacian needle guns had outranged. A visible sniper was a dead sniper.
She picked another spot. There were stable beams to stand on, sandbags she could use for support, and some debris just outside the lip of the trench that might provide her a bit of concealment. The trenchers there were happy to get out of her way. It seemed her reputation preceded her. The Rolmani woman was a destroying angel. And every Almacian rifleman, lookout, or artillery spotter she removed made their lives a little less miserable.
Mud covered her face. Cloth had been tied around the muzzle of her rifle and her lumpy hood would help break up her silhouette. Natalya climbed up the logs and slowly slid her body into position. Sudden movement would be the death of her. One day she’d surely catch the attention of a sharp-eyed Almacian and lose her head. She waited a moment, but didn’t die, so this would not be that day.
Once she had a visual on Trench 303, she slowly scanned for targets, moving nothing but her eyes.
The flags were too still.
None of the trenchers she’d seen so far today had been equipped with gas masks. In fact, the only protective equipment she’d seen recently had been in the hands of higher-ranking officers. With the change in weather, she’d sent a message to Kristoph Vals asking what the plan was for the new gas the Almacians were sure to employ at the first opportunity. The weeks of rain may have quelled the fighting on the front, but it also had given the massive Almacian force she’d spied on plenty of time to arrive and prepare.
Kristoph’s response had been simple. All appropriate parties have been notified.
The appropriate parties were either fools, or Kristoph was a liar. Both were likely.
The trenches did not run in perfectly straight lines. They curved with the natural terrain, and sometimes they had sections that jutted out at right angles. To her side and a little ahead of her, she could see where some of the Wall was waiting. She picked out the one she thought was Object 12.
Illarion was a good man. Maybe one of the few remaining in this fading, sinking country. When last they’d spoken, she’d left him feeling confused and betrayed. What had started out as an assignment from her gods had changed into something else entirely. Now she just had to make sure he lived so they could sort through everything together.
Focus. Now is not the time.
Her eyes moved back to the enemy trench. But nobody over there was foolish enough to offer her another target just yet.
She felt it before she saw it. The wind was changing directions again. It was now blowing east. The flags held steady. She watched intently for several minutes, willing them to drop or shift back to the west.
The wind never wavered.
A black shadow passed over her. Natalya glanced upwards.
The raven flew by, banked, and began circling over Illarion and his crew.
“Here we go,” she whispered.