Page 129 of The Infernal Battalion

She stood, naked and beautiful, in front of Winter. Jane as she had once been, well muscled and full breasted, long hair hanging to the small of her back like a curtain of dark red silk. Jane as she ought to be, not the shaven-​headed, scrawny thing Winter had seen in the pontifex’s office in Elysium, with eyes that glowed red from the inside.

There was a dagger in Winter’s hand, long and gleaming. She raised it to Jane’s throat, her arm trembling. The point shook until it came to rest in Jane’s skin, just above her collarbone, its prick drawing a single bead of blood.

“Oh, no,” Jane said, with a playful smile that cut like a knife. “Not me. You had your chance at that.”

Her hands came up, surrounding Winter’s own, and with gentle but unstoppable strength they pushed the dagger across the space between them, until Winter felt the tip touching the skin of her throat.

“That’s it,” Jane said. “Press it in, upward, as hard as you can.”

“I can’t,” Winter said. “There’s something I have to do first.”

“Defeat the Beast?” It was Bobby’s voice, from behind her. “You think that matters to me?”

“To me?” Leti, just behind Winter’s left shoulder.

“It matters to me,” Winter said. “If I can save everyone... if I can save Cyte...”

“Even if you end up dead?” Cyte strode out from nowhere and crossed her arms. She was naked, too, her body slim beside Jane’s, her hair black instead of red. “You know that’s what it’s going to take. You felt it the first time you confronted the Beast.”

“If you’d been willing to make the sacrifice then, none of this would be necessary,” Jane said.

“I might still be alive,” Bobby mused.

“So would I,” Leti said.

“I know,” Winter hissed. “I know. This time...” She looked down at the dagger, then raised her chin, tensing her shoulders. “This time I’ll do what needs to be done.”

The blade sank into her flesh as though it belonged there.

*

Winter opened her eyes slowly, the lids gummy with sleep.

Her throat still stung from the dagger’s thrust. She brought one hand up, groggy, and felt for the wound, but there was nothing. Of course. The nightmares had followed her for years, all the way to Khandar and back again. Why should they stop now?

She shifted, shoulders aching where she was propped at an awkward angle. She lay against the rail of the ship, wedged beside a coil of rope. That she’d managed to sleep regardless was a testament to her exhaustion.

Even the slight movement brought a rumble from her stomach, and the shaky, hollow feeling that came with it. She’d had nothing but half a handful of dried meat in the last day. Everyone aboard the ships was hungry, but Winter and Dobraev had agreed to make straight for Dimiotsk, and not risk another stop looking for supplies that likely weren’t available in any case.

This close to the coast, the river had opened out into a broader, slower flow, and the sailors had agreed it was safe to continue by lantern light after dark. They’d seen no other ships, and few lights on the shore. We should reach the city early tomorrow. Winter glanced up at the sky, which was starting to lighten. Today, rather.

She stood up, thighs and calves aching, and did her best to stretch. With the departure of the Haeta and those refugees who’d decided to take their chances on land, the ships weren’t quite jammed to capacity, but it was still close. The deck was littered with sleepers, and she knew they were packed tight in the hold as well. She could see the lantern of Dobraev’s ship a few dozen yards away, sails drooping. The wind had been weak, and they’d relied mostly on the current and the oars. At least the rain has held off.

Turning to the bow, she could see more lights, twinkling in the darkness like a swarm of fireflies. Winter walked in that direction, following the rail, stepping carefully over sleeping bodies. The sun rose over the horizon, and the sky went from gray to purple and began shading into blue. Ahead, the lights started to wink out, disappearing like the constellations with the sunrise, and the prosaic reality of the city of Dimiotsk was revealed.

The river Bataria broadened at the mouth into a wide bay, letting into the Borel Sea. The northern curve of the bay was lined with tall, rocky cliffs, but south of the river the land was flatter, and there a hard-​bitten city had grown up. City was, in fact, perhaps too grand a term—​it was more like a country town writ large. The buildings were made of logs, with leather covering the window openings. With no shortage of space, they sprawled back from the riverfront with only the loosest suggestion of a street plan. Only the Sworn Church was built of brick, sporting a tall spire topped with a silver double circle.

Docks, most of them decidedly decrepit-​looking, stretched out into the river like the grasping, skeletal fingers of a corpse. Farther along, where the water was deeper, a more substantial set of moorings provided space for oceangoing ships. The harbor was somewhat protected from the sea by a string of barrier islands, barely visible as lumps in the ocean.

One whole section of the bay was devoted to lumber, a vast field of tree trunks lashed side by side and floating like a carpet stretching from the dock to the breakwater. A ship was taking some aboard with a crane, pulling them dripping out of the water and lowering them into its hold. The forests of northern Murnsk were famous, Winter knew. She wondered if the trade was hurting—​they certainly hadn’t passed any lumbermen.

A light flashed from the other ship. Sergeant Gorchov, who was in the bow, watched it for a moment and then looked over his shoulder.

“The lieutenant says we’ll dock here,” he said. “He has to proceed on to the fort afterward, to report, but there’s no need to drag this lot with us.” He gestured at the refugees.

“We don’t need to get permission from someone?” Winter said.

Gorchov snorted. “In Dimiotsk? Not likely.”