“Any idea how the battle is going?” Idrian asked. By all rights he shouldn’t linger. He should get to the front line immediately and see what he could do to help.
Glory shook his head and then produced a piece of pain-deadening milkglass, slipping it into one of the piercings in Braileer’s ear. He jerked his head for Idrian to follow. Idrian squeezed Braileer’s hand once, then followed the surgeon a few feet away. He could feel his heart fall at the look on Glory’s face. Glory said, “He has a crushed windpipe and no small amount of internal bleeding, not to mention two broken fingers. Probably cracked ribs as well.”
“Can he be saved?” Idrian demanded.
“Can he, or will he? The answer to the second question is no.”
Idrian inhaled sharply. “What the piss is that supposed to mean? He’s a corporal and my armorer. Whatever needs to be done you better get to it now!”
Glory took Idrian’s arm, his expression hardening. “Look, we have a massive deficit of cureglass right now. I’ve got a single piece of high-resonance, and orders from both the Ministry of the Legion and the Inner Assembly say I can’t give it to anyone but glassdancers, high-ranking officers, and breachers.”
“Then pretend it’s for me.”
“I can’t. Those provosts over there are watching for exactly that. My hands are tied. Not even General Grappo can overrule those orders.”
Idrian’s stomach hurt from worry and anger. Another damned kid dead in another damned war thanks to the orders of rich assholes well away from the fighting. “Who can authorize it?” he demanded.
“Lieutenant Prosotsi is just over there. She has the tiniest amount of discretion but she’s terrified to use it. She’s turned down dozens of requests to use high-resonance cureglass on regular soldiers.”
Idrian knew the reality of war, and he sympathized with both the officers and the surgeons. Those decisions – especially when they didn’t have enough cureglass – had to be made, and it was unpleasant for everyone involved. “What’s going to be done?”
“I’m gonna leave that piece of milkglass in his ear and have him carried out back to the Dying Club.” Glory grimaced. “It’ll take him a couple hours to die, but he’s not going to feel much pain while he does it.”
The Dying Club was what the soldiers darkly called the spot designated for those who couldn’t be saved. “And how,” Idrian asked slowly, “would we keep him from dying?”
“Immediate surgery. Puncture his throat to get him air, open him up to drain excess blood and stitch up whatever is torn, then put him back together again. High-resonance cureglass might keep him alive during all that, but there’s no guarantee.”
Idrian looked over at Braileer, then clutched at the little chain he wore around his own neck. What had Jorfax told him? That he was too soft, willing to raise his shield to protect people he didn’t even know? Perhaps it made him a less efficient killer, but it did let him sleep at night. Idrian could feel the madness clawing at the back of his godglass eye, auditory and visual hallucinations threatening to overwhelm him. He pressed on the godglass eye until they grew quiet, then strode over to Lieutenant Prosotsi. She was a middle-aged woman with short black hair, looking slightly queasy as she gazed across the surgery slabs.
“Ma’am,” Idrian said, “I want you to approve the use of high-resonance cureglass for that kid over there.” He pointed toward Braileer. “He’s my armorer and he can still be saved.”
Lieutenant Prosotsi shook her head regretfully. “I can’t do it, I’m sorry. Orders from the top.”
Idrian rubbed gently at the temple behind his godglass eye, his stomach falling. Suddenly, as if a candle had been smothered, all the noise in his head went quiet. He knew what he needed to do. He reached beneath his uniform collar and unclasped the little silver tag hanging there. “This is my debt marker. It expires in a few days.”
The lieutenant’s eyes widened. “You get to walk before this war is over.”
“Correct. I’ll take another year on this debt marker if you authorize the cureglass.”
“Are you sure about that?” She shifted her weight, and he could see the decision rolling around inside her head. A good Ossan would accept in a heartbeat. A good officer would turn him down, not letting him put off his retirement for something so stupid. Lieutenant Prosotsi clearly couldn’t decide which she was.
“I’m absolutely certain,” Idrian said firmly. “Make it happen.”
She walked away, briefly consulting with a nearby provost. The conversation lasted just a few seconds, and when she returned she made an affirmative gesture toward Glory. “Done. The Empire now owns another year of your life, Captain Sepulki.”
Idrian turned to fetch his sword and shield. They might need him at the battle, and there was nothing more he could do here with Braileer in Glory’s capable hands. He considered what he’d done, already missing the little silver debt marker from where it usually lay against his skin. They’d give him another, with the new dates of his service written on it. What would Jorfax say? That he was a disgrace to killers everywhere?
Let her say it. If Braileer lived, then Idrian would have nothing to regret.
Braileer lay on the slab, delirious from a new piece of dazeglass Glory had thrust into his ear. Idrian paused briefly beside him, squeezing his shoulder, then met Glory’s eyes. “Horns ready, hooves steady,” he said.
Glory nodded back. “Horns ready, hooves steady,” he replied as he lifted his scalpel.
Demir watched as the last of Kerite’s mercenaries fled the battle, his pursuing cuirassiers destroying all pretense of an organized retreat. He gritted his teeth at the slaughter, his eyes unconsciously avoiding the grisly sight of thousands of dead and wounded splayed out across the field. It was a clear victory, no less bold and dramatic than the one he’d won nine years ago outside the suburbs of Holikan, and a little part of him wondered if he had a military artist to capture the moment.
Why, though? There was no need to picture all the gore and the suffering. People would remember his victory – they’d remember when the invincible mercenary general was rebuffed from the gates of Ossa. That was all that mattered.
“Signal our cavalry to pull back,” Demir said.
“Are you sure?” Tadeas asked. Demir’s uncle was badly wounded, a saber slash cutting a bloody swath across his chest, though he proudly wore cureglass and milkglass and kept his position at Demir’s side. “We have them on the run. It’s best to press our advantage.”
“We’ve practically destroyed that mercenary company,” Demir said. “No more slaughter. If they regroup, we’ll crush them. Otherwise let them flee to the coast. They’ve served their contract and this is no longer their war.”
“I’ll send the order.”
To the northwest, the Forge still glowed and smoldered as the storm finally moved past it. He made a mental note to send his own dragoons to search for Thessa as soon as the battlefield was completely clear.
Demir caught sight of a small group on a distant hill, and searched for a looking glass to point in that direction. It was a dozen or so cuirassiers in shining breastplates, flying the three blue drakes on a green field. In their midst was a middle-aged woman with light skin and long brown hair, a helmet held under one arm. She stared directly at him, and though she had no looking glass of her own, Demir imagined she could see him just as easily as he her.
Devia Kerite. The hero of his youth. The greatest general in the world, brought low by the disgraced patriarch of a small guild-family. Demir paused that thought and amended it. No. That was not how this had gone. History was written today but not by a minor, disgraced patriarch.