It was midday, the weather cold but sunny, and the camp bustled with the activity of some fifteen thousand soldiers and twice that number of support staff. Demir had just arrived, and columns were still marching in from Ossa while a steady stream of scouts reported the enemy’s positions on a regular basis. That steady stream, he noted as he stared across at the crateloads of information gleaned from spymasters, gossipmongers, and the Ministry of the Legion, seemed to have flagged since this morning. He needed to know why, and soon.
But then again, he needed to know a lot of things.
He sat in his big commander’s tent on the only piece of furniture – a folding stool – staring at the cork box balanced on his knee. He imagined he could hear the resonance of the powerful witglass within. He needed that sorcery. He needed his mind to work like it used to; to be the human thinking machine that could carve circles around the next-best strategist. He flipped open the box to reveal a little piece of purple godglass, the same color as his family crest, in a crescent-roll shape with a hook at one end.
He took a deep breath, snatched up the earring, and threaded the hook through one of his piercings.
The pain started immediately – an ache at the base of his skull, creeping up the back of his head and then stabbing inward, like hot lances through his brain and into the backs of his eye sockets. He gritted his teeth, bearing the pain, waiting for it to subside enough for him to actually think. But it didn’t subside. It intensified, growing with each passing second, a sweet agony that wouldn’t let him get a thought in edgewise.
When he finally tore the witglass from his ear and thrust it back into the box, he felt like someone had burned through his soul from the inside. His mouth was parched, every nerve tingling at the memory of suffering. He raised a hand to see that it was trembling.
“Well,” he said to himself, “that isn’t going to work.” And if it didn’t work, how could he possibly win the war? His enemy commanders would all have witglass. Even the least of them would be able to think faster and more capably than he – and Kerite was far from the least of them. He was outnumbered and facing the greatest general in the world, and he didn’t have the wherewithal to plan.
“General Grappo!” a voice called from outside. “Major Grappo and Captain Sepulki are here to see you.”
Demir tossed the little box across the room and folded his hands to keep them from shaking. “Show them in.”
Uncle Tadeas and Idrian entered, pausing as one to look across the myriad of reports that covered the ground. “No chairs, huh?” Tadeas asked.
“I can send for some.”
Idrian grunted at Tadeas and pulled one of the crates over next to Demir, dropping onto it and popping his jaw. “Don’t be prissy, Tad.”
“Please, have a seat,” Demir said sarcastically. “Is everyone here?”
Tadeas raised an eyebrow. “Who else did you want at this meeting?”
“I meant the glassdamned Ironhorns, and those cuirassiers that were at Fort Alameda.”
“Oh, yeah.” Tadeas snorted. “Yeah, everyone is here.” He peered at Demir. “How are you here? Last communiqué I received from Breenen said you were locked up in the Maerhorn.”
“It was … smoothed over,” Demir said.
“Is that it?”
“Long story. I’ll tell you sometime. Where’s Mika?”
“She’s off working over the supply runners from Ossa as we speak, stealing every last ounce of gunpowder that they’ll let her get away with.” Tadeas tapped a fingernail against one tooth, watching Demir with an expression that said he wanted to know more about the business with the Maerhorn. Well, gossip would filter into camp soon enough.
Demir plowed onward. “Good. I want her engineers making grenades between now and the moment we next join battle.” Demir cleared his throat, shifting on the little stool, trying to ignore the little pit of despair that the witglass had left behind with all that pain.
“Do we know when that is?” Idrian asked.
“Within the next three days. No longer. I–” He was cut off by some very creative swearing outside his tent. The flap was thrown back and Colonel Jorfax strode inside, taking all three of them in with her icy stare. She looked just as immaculate as she had on their last meeting, her uniform pressed, not a hair out of place, hands clasped behind her back. Demir started, realizing he hadn’t even sensed her approach through his sorcery. He needed to pay better attention, or the assassins that killed General Stavri would get him, too.
“Colonel,” he greeted her, “good to see you again. I trust you didn’t murder my bodyguards outside?”
“If anyone ever tries to keep me from seeing you again, I will,” she snapped. “What are you going to do about this? What actions have you taken?”
“Wait, wait.” Demir realized he had stood by pure instinct, his sorcery grasping at the glassdancer egg in his pocket. He forced himself to untense. “What the piss are you talking about? I’ve been in camp all of twenty minutes.”
Jorfax’s gaze swept around the tent as if she were examining a concert hall full of her enemies. Her gaze lingered briefly on Idrian before returning to Demir. “That should have been enough. My glassdancers – the sorcerers you appropriated to act as scouts – are dying.”
“Oh shit,” Demir said, wiping a hand across his face. He glanced at his uncle, who just shook his head. No help there. “I thought the system was working. We blinded the Grent, we washed them out with that flood. Have they countered us already?”
“I told you not to underestimate Kerite.”
“I think,” Idrian spoke up suddenly, matching Jorfax’s stare with a cool one of his own, “that you’d better explain.”
Jorfax seemed to genuinely get a grip on herself, and when she spoke next some of the anger had gone out of her words. “It started yesterday. First one, then two – now eight of those scouting parties, each accompanied by one of my glassdancers, have gone missing. We finally found one just a couple of hours ago. Completely eviscerated – torn to pieces, taken completely by surprise. My subordinate’s glassdancer egg was still in his pocket.”
“And you think the same thing has happened to seven other scouting parties?” Demir asked carefully. This was bad. Very bad. If the Grent, or Kerite, or whoever, had already turned the tables on that little maneuver, then the Foreign Legion might be damned.
“It’s the only explanation for their disappearance. I’ve sent out riders to make contact and warn all the remaining scouts to be on the alert. I don’t want anyone to go down without a fight – but you should recall them immediately.”
Demir was surprised she hadn’t recalled them herself. Was that an oversight on her part, or did she actually respect his command after the Grappo Torrent? It didn’t matter. He said, “Keep four of them out there doing circles around the camp – just enough to deal with anyone who tries to get a close look. We’ll recall the rest.”
For a moment he thought Jorfax would protest, but she gave a sharp nod. “Agreed.”
“We should tell them,” Idrian suddenly said.
Demir turned toward him. “Eh?”
“Including her?” Tadeas asked.
“Yes. She has a right to know. It’s her people out there getting killed.”
Demir glanced between his three companions quickly, and could see that Jorfax was just as confused as himself. “What’s going on? Tad?”
Tadeas cleared his throat and leaned back on his crate. “We haven’t made a full report yet – no reason for the Ministry of the Legion to recall us because they think we’re insane – but you’re going to start hearing rumors. Both of you. We were attacked at Fort Alameda the night you went back into Ossa.”
“Attacked?” Demir said. Every glassdamn word was another piece of bad news. He didn’t think he could wind himself any tighter at this point. “Why didn’t I hear about this sooner?”