But Yehuda Leib ignored him, speaking directly to Dumah. “This is it,” he said. “We must go now.”

Dumah was still, lost in thought. From the broad chest of his deep black uniform, Yehuda Leib saw his own keen eye staring back at him, nestled in a bloom of bloody bandages.

And then, finally, Dumah gave his head a tight nod.

“Very well,” said Behemoth, and, with a sigh, he trotted off to issue orders.

It was happening.

—

Word of the coming charge rippled quickly through the camp. Everywhere the signs of preparation could be seen. Dumah had chosen a massive suit of Japanese armor for this occasion, complete with a fearsome antlered helmet, and his honor guard was busy binding its many plates and panels to him. Behemoth’s artillery teams began to harness their heavy guns to teams of rotting horses, and rifles and muskets and pistols were checked and double-checked:

Primed.

Loaded.

On his way to mount his pony, Yehuda Leib saw Behemoth stealing into his little tent, looking sharply over his shoulder as he went. In and of itself, this was unremarkable, but in the warm firelight within the tent, Yehuda Leib caught sight of another face: Mammon, one eye blackened, his arms tied behind his back.

He had almost forgotten about Mammon. As soon as all of this was over, he would have to advocate for his release.

But something tickled Yehuda Leib’s mind as he swung up into the saddle:

Why was Mammon being held in Behemoth’s tent?

The snowfall had almost entirely broken off by the time they rode, and the contours of the land were clearly visible through the clean white blanket of snow. The visibility was good enough that the entire Army of the Dead managed to mobilize without lanterns, and climbing between the deploying artillery positions to the peak of the ridge, Yehuda Leib felt the army spreading out in the darkness behind him, the chariots and rifles, the horses and soldiers, the spearmen and swordsmen and archers and all, just as if they were his own long arms.

It wasn’t fair, what had been taken away.

It wasn’t fair.

Beside him, Dumah, a hulking shadow, unsheathed his long sword and gave a nod.

The order was Yehuda Leib’s to give.

With a shock, Yehuda Leib felt himself choking up.

He had been so angry—so angry for so long.

Yehuda Leib’s vision began to swim; beneath Dumah’s massive breastplate, a single tear crept down the front of his uniform.

“I’m coming,” said Yehuda Leib softly, and with a yell, he spurred his pony on.