The broad road by which they made their entry was flanked on either side by row after row of narrow canvas tents, each bearing a layer of accumulated snow to the windward side. There were no campfires here, no braziers or lanterns or even candles to give light or warmth to the cold soldiers, and as a consequence, the men did not gather, did not huddle together and talk—they stewed and paced and chewed their cheeks, polished and double-checked their weapons, in anticipation of orders that could come at any moment, to fight, fight, fight for their lost lives.

Any development, any occurrence that could provide distraction from this thick stew of dread, was seized upon immediately.

And this is why, as Yehuda Leib was paraded down the camp’s main road, it seemed as if the entire Army of the Dead made its way out to gawk at him.

One small unit of Dumah’s dead soldiers was horror enough to behold—bloodied and bandaged, their eyes dim and empty.

The army at large was exponentially worse: crowds of the Tsar’s dead infantry jumbled together with bleeding Prussian jägers and fallen French grenadiers. Among them, several creaking Roman legionnaires, dusty Spartan hoplites, Assyrian lancers, even bare-chested Egyptian charioteers gathered in order to watch Yehuda Leib pass by.

As one, compressed beneath the heavy weight of an impending battle that they were sure must come, they stared.

Not a whisper broke the silence of the camp.

The army was vast, and the road was long, but Yehuda Leib soon saw where they were headed.

At the very center of the camp was a massive tent of rich scarlet.

Inside, a long draped corridor led toward the central peak of the tent. Plinths and pedestals on all sides held up great weapons and trophies of war: Durendal, the sword of Roland; the spear of Lugh; Zulfiqar, the split-bladed scimitar of Ali ibn Abi Talib; even the sling stone that felled the giant Goliath.

“Here,” said the gold-toothed officer, pulling back the flap of a small holding cell off the main corridor. “Two inside, two out.”

Yehuda Leib was pushed roughly into the small red room, and only looking back did he realize that he had not been taken alone: a second bound figure was slung over the shoulder of a large soldier in the corridor.

The little shape was unmistakable.

Mammon.

A knot rose in Yehuda Leib’s throat. He could hardly use Mammon’s assistance to bargain if the demon was bound and gagged in the next cell over.

Yehuda Leib was in worse trouble than he’d thought.

“Stay sharp,” barked the voice of the gold-toothed officer to his soldiers. “The general is coming.”

Yehuda Leib’s heart began to pound.

The general is coming.

—

If the Nameless Girl had not become so accustomed to leaving everything behind and fleeing, she might’ve been taken then and there.