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Chapter Twenty-Eight

The Front

Kolakolvia

Illarion Glazkov


The edges of the storm from the other world were etched in angry crimson, casting the moonlight like blood. Hot air leaked out of the gate, making the air shimmer before it. There were flashes of lightning inside the roiling clouds. The storm stayed rooted in place, never straying from its fixed position, frightening . . . yet somehow inviting.

“You don’t seem too bothered by what we’re about to do, Glazkov,” Chankov said.

“Should I be?”

“I sure am. You realize this is a suicide mission, right? Even the Kommandant said so. Let’s say we manage to cross over safely. Then we don’t die at the hands of some monster over there—and you know that place will be crawling with ghouls and Sisters know what else. And then we have to find the way out based on a map made by a crazy man. We’re then supposed to just stroll in, blow up the Almacians’ secret weapon, give them a salute, and make it out alive?”

“I see the wisdom of your point . . . yet you still volunteered too?”

“Eh.” Chankov shrugged. “What was I supposed to do? Sit around waiting while my Object got repaired?”

It never ceased to amaze Illarion how brave some of his comrades were. When Spartok had told the Wall that he needed volunteers to fill a reinforced crew for a mission they probably wouldn’t be coming back from, there had been many who had stepped forward anyway. Even after Spartok had told them the outlandish nature of this assignment, most of those had remained. Spartok had picked some of his best, and Chankov had pulled rank to take one spot, declaring that somebody responsible had to watch out for this rabble.

The raiding party was gathering at the now abandoned Trench 303. After the meeting had concluded they had barely had time to gather their supplies and Object 12. Half their infantry escort was already there, nervously watching the storm to make sure nothing came out of it to try and eat them. While the rest of the Object crew were inventorying the extra munitions their escort would have to carry on their backs, Illarion and Chankov performed a maintenance check on the armor.

12 seemed even more ominous than usual in the red light of the storm. “I’ve got to be honest, Chankov. I’m not uneasy about this because I believe I’m destined to be here.”

“Don’t tell me you’re still going on about that fate horseshit? We make our own choices. I’m no marionette, and neither are you.”

“But I can feel the Witch’s strings. I’ve been dancing to someone else’s tune since my village was destroyed. Since that day, everything has pushed me here.”

“You’re a damned good driver, Glazkov, but don’t you dare say a word about any of your crazy witch business in front of the others. It makes you sound fatalistic even by Kolakolvian standards.”

Illarion grinned. “We have to make it through. How else are you going to meet that woman from your dreams?”

Chankov laughed but didn’t say anything else as he went back to tightening bolts. He was one of the few people that Illarion had told about what had happened in Ilyushka. Despite Chankov being his superior, they’d become good friends. Even though Chankov probably still thought much of his tale about the Sister was the result of a wounded fever instead of reality.

“Are you two ladies about done?”

Out of the darkness emerged Natalya Baston, rifle slung over one shoulder and a traveling pack over the other. Illarion hadn’t seen her since the rain had stopped. He hadn’t realized how worried he had been about her until he saw her, alive, in front of him. “Natalya!”

“Don’t sound so surprised to see me. Haven’t you heard, Rolmani are too stubborn to die?”

“Specialist Baston,” Chankov greeted her cheerfully. “What are you doing here?”

“Word reached me a gang of idiots were going through the blood storm. I should have known you two would be among them.”

“Heh. We’re the smart ones. Glazkov here was just telling me how this was the Sister’s will that our journey through the underworld will be a triumphant one.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Good. Because I’m the scout who knows where the gas factory is, so I’ll be your guide through Transellia.”

“What?” Illarion wanted to protest, to tell her that this was too dangerous, even as he realized that was foolish. He was thinking as a man, not as a soldier. It wasn’t his decision to make. It was Kristoph Val’s. Nothing he said would matter.

“Don’t look so sad, Illarion,” Natalya said. “You’re going to make a girl think you aren’t happy to see her.”

Chankov stepped in. “I’m sure Glazkov is just glad that we’ve got an experienced scout with us. The other scout assigned to our expedition is currently in shackles and gagged so his screaming in terror doesn’t upset morale.”

Natalya gave them a confused look.

“He’s been to the other side before,” Illarion explained. “I think the Chancellor promised him he wouldn’t have to go back. Except the Chancellor changed his mind.”

“Ah . . . ” Natalya nodded. “That builds confidence.”

Illarion looked back toward the storm and had the strange sensation he had done this all before. It took a moment, but the memory came to him. It was like that morning in the snow, when he and Balan were talking near the old stones outside the village, when Hana had joined them. He thought back, trying to remember Balan’s face, or even the sound of his voice. Nothing. Hana was an indistinct blur with golden hair. That day seemed a lifetime ago, when things had been innocent and simple.

Only that Illarion was gone, as dead as everyone else in Ilyushka.

“What’s wrong?” Natalya asked him.

Illarion shook his head and forced a smile. “This moment reminds me of home. Of when all this”—he waved his hand in a circle to encompass the battlefield, the storm, everything—“started for me. Only instead of the monsters coming into our world. We’ll be going into theirs.”

Natalya had also heard Illarion’s story before, only unlike Chankov, she believed all of it because the bones had told her to. “We’re far more formidable than a village of peasant farmers.”

“True. We’ll have a mighty Object and a platoon of hardened soldiers to support it. Almost everyone in Ilyushka perished within minutes. We are not them.”

“Almost everyone?” Chankov asked.

“The fae took the babies, I think.”

They were all silent for a moment, before Chankov asked, “Out of curiosity, in this scenario, am I the best friend or the betrothed?”

They all laughed, which broke the tension. Chankov was good at making nervous soldiers laugh. It was one of the things that made him a good officer.

“There’s a familiar face.” Natalya pointed toward where a man on a donkey cart was approaching the trench. Illarion squinted, but even with his new glasses his eyes were no match for Natalya’s keen vision. “It’s Davi.”

It took the quartermaster a while to get there, because the animal pulling his cart was extremely nervous about the storm, but when he neared the Object he shouted, “Hello, my friends. I bring gifts.”

“Is a master gunsmith joining us?” Chankov asked incredulously.

“Of course not. I’m too old to march very far on this planet, let alone another one.” Davi got off his cart and pulled the canvas cover back, revealing several clips loaded with ammunition for the Object’s cannon.

“We’ve already got about as many shells as the infantry can pack as it is.”

“Not like these you don’t.” Davi patted one, which ended with an odd brass cap instead of the regular conical nose. “These are the new close-range antipersonnel shells designed for trench sweeping. Instead of the explosive penetrator, each one is loaded with a hundred lead balls. The spread is rather unforgiving. By twenty yards the pattern is wide enough to fill a trench, wall to wall, and shred everything in its path.”

“Like a giant shotgun,” Illarion said.

“Exactly. But instead of ducks, you’re hunting Almacians. Thank Spartok. He thought they may be of use. He told me to hurry and find you before you go, and he also sent very specific orders that you’re not allowed to perish.”

“Thoughtful of the Kapitan . . . ” Chankov trailed off as he spotted two figures walking toward them. It was Kristoph and his Cursed bodyguard. “You’d better go, Gunsmith.” He signaled for some of the trenchers to come over and unload the new ammunition from the cart.

Davi took one last look at Natalya, his eyes tender. “I expected you would be here. Good luck, girl.”

“I’ll see you when I get back, old man.”

“You’d better,” Davi said as he returned to his cart.

Kristoph arrived, wearing a mask of obviously feigned enthusiasm. “Illarion Glazkov, we meet again. There is no one I would rather have accompany me on this mission of certain death.” He nodded at Natalya. “And Ms. Baston. I sent a message requesting your presence here but was informed no one could find you.”

“I was already here. I don’t shirk my agreements, Mr. Vals.”

“Thank you for the not-so-subtle reminder, my dear. Once this mission is complete, I will send a letter regarding your parents’ situation.”

“Considering the dangers we’re about to face, maybe you should post that letter before we leave?”

“Alas, there’s no time. I’m afraid you’ll just have to do your best to make sure I survive so I can fulfill my end of our agreement.”

Natalya couldn’t hide her scowl, but she held her tongue.

Kristoph looked toward the other member of the Wall. “Ah, and First Sotnik Arnost Chankov. I know you only by reputation.”

Chankov eyed the Cursed monster at Kristoph’s side warily. “I am happy to keep it that way, Mr. Vals.”

“Please, call me Kristoph.” He gestured toward the infantry, most of whom were still uneasily eyeing the storm. “The rest of our escort are right behind me. I didn’t have to look very far for more volunteers, much to my relief.”

Illarion saw someone he knew at the head of the approaching troops. “Albert Darus?”

The soldier waved, then broke away from his comrades and walked toward where the Object was waiting. “We heard you needed some trenchers.”

It was hard to miss the shining new Sotnik rank pinned on Darus’ collar. It turned out Illarion wasn’t the only one who got a rushed promotion today. It also meant that Darus would be in charge of their infantry platoon. The fact that someone so relatively inexperienced had been put in command wasn’t a surprise. Most of the officers of the Tsar’s army were cunning enough to avoid an assignment this insane.

“The Tsar will be pleased by your obedience,” Kristoph said.

Darus looked toward Natalya as he said, “Recently someone gave me some good advice on what this country really needed.”

“Excellent,” Kristoph replied. “We will depart as soon as the supplies are distributed among your men. We should have enough provisions for two weeks, which should be double what we need for our journey.”

“We have a rifle and plenty of ammunition for every man. Plus good boots and clothing.” Darus seemed rather excited about all his men being able to wear shoes. “I think they may even be new.”

“Indeed. They were all still in the crate,” Kristoph said. “Army supplies have a way of vanishing in the staging area. I confiscated these from one of the local crime bosses.”

“They just let you take their loot?” Chankov asked.

“No. They resisted. Vasily made them aware of the Tsar’s feelings about thieves.” Kristoph had a chilling smile as he nodded toward his silent Cursed. “Proceed when ready, gentlemen. The sooner we leave the sooner we get back.”

“We really could use more information about what’s on the other side,” Chankov said.

“Unfortunately our guide is currently indisposed.” Kristoph was proving to be a master of understatement. “However, from what I’ve gleaned, though the trappings are different, in function it is not so very different than what we are familiar with. The water is drinkable. The weather is unpleasant but manageable. The wildlife is . . . aggressive, but killable. According to the Chancellor, golem-based magic should be even stronger there, so your Object will be more agile than you are used to.”

“What will that do to him?” Illarion gestured toward the Cursed, because the fragments of magic grafted onto those bodies came from the same source as what powered their Objects. It seemed to Illarion that flesh would be more unpredictable than steel.

Kristoph scowled. “I do not actually know.”

“Then leave him behind,” Chankov suggested.

“I do wish I could,” Kristoph muttered under his breath, before continuing. “Vasily is not your concern. In the meantime I have a map. What will seem a week’s journey to us should take but a few hours in the real world. We will strike the unsuspecting Almacians. Destroy their factory, and then proceed to Dalhmun, where we will exfiltrate by riverboat.”

“Have you ever done anything like this before, Mr. Vals?”

“No one has done anything like this before, Sotnik Chankov.”


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