Near Smolensk, Russian FrontDecember 1812
The cold had teeth.
Lucien Delacroix pulled his fur-lined coat tighter around his chest, but it did nothing against the gnawing frost that clung to his skin like rot. His breath came in ragged clouds, mingling with the faint steam rising from the dying horse beneath him. The beast had collapsed half a mile back and refused to rise.
They were on foot now.
Zoya walked beside him, rifle slung over her back, her pale face red with cold and fury. She hadn't spoken for nearly an hour, but Lucien could feel her anger in the air—anger at the silence, at the generals they were racing toward, and at the corpses that followed them through the woods.
"Another mile," he rasped.
She nodded without turning her head. "If they're still alive."
Lucien didn't answer. He didn't need to. They both knew the truth: there were few men left to receive their warning.
General Mikhail Kutuzov, supreme commander of the Russian armies, was supposed to be near Smolensk. What remained of him—or his forces—was anyone's guess. Villages between Borodino and Vyazma had gone dark. No reports. No survivors. Only the faint echoes of drums that beat without hands and fires that burned without fuel.
But they had to try.
If Kutuzov fell, if Moscow remained blind, then this new war—this war against the walking dead—would be lost before it had even begun.
Later That Day
Russian Encampment near Smolensk
It was dusk when they finally saw tents—tattered, frost-bitten cloths pinned against the earth like dying sails. Men moved among them, gaunt and nervous. A few watched the treeline with loaded muskets. Smoke rose weakly from a few scattered campfires.
But there were no songs. No laughter. No warmth of victory. Just the hushed, fearful stillness of survivors who had seen the edge of the abyss.
A Russian dragoon halted them at the edge of the camp, rifle aimed. "Identify yourselves!"
Zoya stepped forward. "Zoya Vasilyevna of Kazan, attached to Marshal Miloradovich's staff. This is Captain Lucien Delacroix of the Grande Armée—defector under protection."
"Defector?" The soldier's lips curled.
"Shut up and take us to Kutuzov," Zoya snapped. "Unless you want to die without knowing why."
The soldier hesitated, then slowly lowered his weapon.
"Follow me."
General Kutuzov's Tent
The old general sat hunched over a map, his one good eye bloodshot and tired. He looked up as they entered.
Zoya didn't wait for pleasantries.
"General, the dead are rising. Not as myth or metaphor. As soldiers. As weapons. As plague."
Kutuzov stared at her. Then his gaze moved to Lucien. "A Frenchman brings me fairy tales?"
"I bring you the end of your army," Lucien said, stepping forward. "I have seen what happened at Borodino. I buried comrades who clawed their way back out of the earth. I watched men I shot in the head rise again to kill their own horses."
He pulled a crumpled note from inside his coat. It was bloodstained, barely legible.
"They scream in French. They fight in silence. They do not freeze."—Captain Benoît, 3rd Regiment, 6th Division
Zoya laid her rifle on the table. "You're not fighting the French anymore. You're fighting a war that has no sides."
Kutuzov's face remained stone.
Then, without a word, he stood.
He walked to the flap of the tent and opened it.
Outside, a fresh group of wounded men was being dragged in from the forest—bloody, limping. One was muttering nonsense, staring at the sky. Another had no hands, yet kept flexing invisible fingers.
"I've seen their kind," the general said at last. "Three days ago, I ordered an entire regiment to be burned. Some screamed. Some… did not."
Lucien's voice was quiet. "Then you understand. This thing is spreading. Fast."
Kutuzov turned to Zoya. "Why come to me?"
"Because the Tsar won't listen," she said. "Because the Holy Synod says it's witchcraft, and the army says it's panic. But you, old man—you've buried enough soldiers to know when the dead are walking."
Silence settled.
Then Kutuzov nodded.
"I will send word to Saint Petersburg. But if this is war against death itself…" He looked at Lucien. "Then we need allies. Even French ones."
Midnight
Smolensk Outskirts
Later that night, Zoya sat by the fire with Lucien. Snow drifted softly outside the tent.
"Do you think they'll listen?" she asked.
"No," Lucien said, without looking at her. "But maybe fear will."
He stared into the flames.
"Zoya," he said quietly, "I was there when Napoleon saw his first revenant. He didn't flinch. He smiled."
Zoya turned to him. "You think he'll fight them?"
Lucien nodded. "Worse. I think he'll try to command them."