The Crimson Campaign

by Brian McClellan

  “May I help you?”

  The tailor came in from the back room. He was a dark-skinned Deliv; a small man with long, steady fingers. He wore a pair of thin-rimmed spectacles and a vest with protruding lapels stuck through with a variety of needles and pins.

  “Haime?” Adamat said, affecting an accent common in Adopest’s southern suburbs.

  “I am he,” the tailor said with a short bow. “Jackets and suits. May I take your measurements for a new jacket today?”

  “I haven’t come in search of clothing,” Adamat said. He looked down the end of his nose and made a show of perusing the mannequins. “At least, not today.”

  Haime clasped his hands behind his back. “Some other business?”

  Adamat pulled a piece of paper from his breast pocket and unfolded it. “My employers are looking to purchase a piece of property,” he said. “Records show that you are the owner.”

  Haime seemed genuinely puzzled. “I don’t own any property.”

  “You did not buy a warehouse on Donavi Street in the factory district two years ago?”

  “No, I…” Haime suddenly stopped and tapped his chin with one finger. “I did. That’s right. One of my clients asked me to make a purchase and then transfer the title into his name. He wanted to keep the affair quiet. Something about not wanting the newspapers getting wind of his employer’s purchases.”

  Adamat felt his heart jump. There were very few organizations that could make the news with a simple purchase of property. One of them was the Brudania-Gurla Trading Company. And their head was Lord Claremonte, Vetas’s employer.

  “Could I get his name, please?” Adamat said. He pulled a fountain pen from his pocket and poised it above his piece of paper.

  Haime gave him an apologetic look. “I’m very sorry, but my client requested I keep that information in confidence.”

  “My employer would very much like to purchase that building,” Adamat said. “I’m sure that something could be arranged…” He removed a checkbook from his pocket.

  “No, no,” Haime said. “I’m sorry, it’s not a matter of money. I’m a man of my word.”

  Adamat gave a long-suffering sigh. “I’m sure.” He put away the checkbook and pen and gathered his hat and cane. He paused, making a show of looking around the mannequins once more with an admiring eye. His gaze stopped on one and he almost choked.

  It was the same jacket Lord Vetas had been wearing the last time they spoke.

  “I see you’ve a fine eye,” Haime said, slipping over toward the mannequin. “This jacket is discerning and subtle. It would look fantastic on you.”

  Adamat felt his heart begin to beat faster. Vetas must have been the same client to purchase that warehouse and the jacket. If Haime knew that he knew, the tailor might become suspicious.

  “No, I don’t think it’s my style.”

  “Nonsense,” Haime said. “The jacket has a slimming effect and draws the eyes up to your face. I could make an entire suit to match.”

  Adamat pretended to think on this for several moments. The jacket was obviously tailored. He could see a slight discoloration at the waist, where a rip had been patched, and he realized that this might be the actual jacket Lord Vetas had been wearing. “This looks like the right size. Can you tailor it for me now?”

  “Unfortunately, no. This particular jacket belongs to someone. He’s picking it up in a few days. I could have a new one made up for you in…” He paused to think. “A week. Just let me take your measurements.”

  Adamat patted his pockets. “I seem to have left my own checks at home. I only have my employers’. I will not be able to make a payment today.”

  “You’re obviously a gentleman, sir,” Haime said. “You may just give me your address.”

  Adamat didn’t have an address to give to him. He didn’t want to risk any word of this reaching Vetas. That risk was already high, as Haime might mention the attempted purchase to Vetas just as a matter of course. Adamat withdrew his pocket watch. “I have an appointment in less than an hour,” he said. “I must make it. Let me come back early next week for measurements.”

  Haime’s face fell. A good salesman never let a mark go out the door without a commitment to buy. “If that works best for you.”

  “It does,” Adamat said. “I’ll be back, don’t worry.”

  Adamat hurried across the street and found SouSmith waiting at the café.

  “Any sign of Vetas or any of his eyes?”

  SouSmith shook his head.

  “Let’s go,” Adamat said.

  “Breakfast still coming.”

  Adamat checked to make sure the tailor wasn’t watching him through the window of his shop before taking a seat next to SouSmith. “The tailor isn’t involved directly,” Adamat said. “He bought and sold the property for one of his clients: I think it’s Vetas. I saw the same jacket Vetas was wearing the last time I saw him, all the way down to the tailoring.”

  “You sure?”

  “I don’t forget, remember?” Adamat tapped the side of his head. “I could tell that the lines of that jacket matched perfectly. Unfortunately, the tailor wouldn’t give me Vetas’s name or address.”

  “Dead end.”

  “No. Vetas – or, more likely, one of his men – is coming to pick up that jacket in the next few days. It was being mended. I’m going to stake out the tailor and watch for who picks up the jacket. I’ll follow them and find out where Vetas lives.”

  “Where you want me?” SouSmith’s breakfast arrived: four poached eggs with Novi goat cheese. He grinned as it was set in front of him and set about eating quickly.

  “Nowhere,” Adamat said. “I can’t risk you being recognized. I can wear a disguise. You, however, can’t.”

  SouSmith sniffed. Through a mouthful of egg, he said, “Can’t leave you to follow him alone.”

  Adamat knew the risks. If Vetas or his man was good enough to mark Adamat, he could very well be a dead man. But SouSmith was a liability in this kind of work. He was easily recognized, and even if he wasn’t, his size made him less than ideal for following someone.

  “I’ll do it alone,” Adamat said.

  Tamas lay in the tall grass of a knoll beneath the Adran Mountains and watched through his looking glass as the Kez army prepared to assault Budwiel.

  Morning dew soaked his combat uniform. The cloud cover was low on this day and a rolling fog clung to plains outside of Budwiel. The air was heavy with moisture. He knew it would foul guns on both sides, but when Tamas looked toward Budwiel, he noted a ray of sunshine peeking through the clouds to bathe the city and clear the air.

  No doubt Mihali’s indirect participation in the battle.

  And they would need every bit of his help. Tamas swung his looking glass back toward the Kez. His breath caught in his throat at the sight of their army. Rank upon rank of tan uniforms with green trim stretched for what seemed like forever. Long experience let him count their ranks with only a cursory glance.

  One hundred and twenty thousand at least. And that was just their infantry.

  They would send their recruits first to act as so much cannon fodder in order to test Budwiel’s defenses. Five, maybe ten thousand of them would pour out across the fields, tramping down the wet grass and receiving the full brunt of grapeshot. They’d be followed quickly by the more experienced men, who’d form a strong backbone to the main assault and push the recruits on hard in front of them, even at the tip of their bayonets. Sorcery-warped Wardens would accompany the front of the second wave.

  It was a foolish method of attack, in Tamas’s opinion, but the Kez commanders had always favored a massed rush – no matter the cost in lives – above guile.

  And it just might work. The key to throwing back the Kez assault would be to break the resolve of their second wave. To kill the Wardens and send the veterans running for cover. It would be hard to break such a sizable force.

  But not impossible.

  Which is where the Seventh and the Ninth ca
me in. Once the Kez committed the main body, Tamas would order his men over the knoll at a dead charge into the Kez flank.

  No matter the size of a crowd, they’d run if panic seized them.

  The Kez cannon had been moved forward before dawn. They pounded away at Budwiel’s fortifications, answered in turn by Hilanska’s heavy artillery.

  Tamas watched as the Kez infantry fell into rank a few hundred yards behind their artillery. He felt his stomach lurch.

  “That’s a lot of men, sir,” Olem said from beside him.

  “A great many,” Tamas agreed. Was that unease in Olem’s voice? Tamas couldn’t blame him if it was. That many soldiers would make anyone nervous.

  “Think we can break them?”

  “We’d better. The cavalry will help.”

  “We’ve only two hundred, though,” Olem said.

  “All we need is the illusion of a brigade of cavalry. We’re here to cause panic, and then slaughter. Not the other way around.”

  During the night, they’d had enough time to bring two hundred cavalry through the caverns. It was a testament to Tamas’s engineers that they’d managed to get the caverns wide enough to accommodate the passage of ten thousand men plus a platoon of horse in just one night.

  The real victory of the night, however, had been six field guns. Small, firing six-pound balls, and with five-foot wheels that would allow them to be moved easily, they were just enough to give the impression of an entire army on the Kez flank.

  Tamas let his mind wander to the aftermath of the battle. They could rout the Kez, but they wouldn’t be able to pursue for long. Tens of thousands would be dead, but to the Kez that was just another number. They would still have hundreds of thousands left. This battle would be to break the morale of their army. The Kez couldn’t afford another loss on the psychological level of the Battle of Shouldercrown.

  Tamas’s spies already reported that there were grumblings in Ipille’s ministry. Given enough of a spark, the army might even turn on Ipille, though that seemed too much to even hope.

  “Sir,” Olem said. “The columns are advancing.”

  Tamas pulled himself back to the present. It was bad luck to think of victory as the battle started. He had plans in place. If triumph came, then it would be time to implement them. Not now.

  “Signal the men to get ready.”

  Vlora crawled onto the knoll next to Tamas as Olem hurried away.

  “Are your men in place?” Tamas asked.

  “You mean Andriya’s men, sir?”

  Tamas could hear the bitterness in her voice. He’d given Andriya command of the powder cabal for this battle, and it irked her. Tamas fought down his own annoyance. When would she learn that, skilled though she was, she did not have the experience to be in command?

  “My powder mages,” Tamas said sternly. “Are they in place?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you’ve sighted the last of the Kez Privileged?”

  “They’re hanging back,” Vlora said. “They think we’re on Budwiel’s walls, waiting for them, so they’re well behind the columns. Quite within range of us here. You signal the attack, sir, and we’ll drop the Privileged.”

  “Excellent. Get to your position.”

  Vlora crawled off the knoll without another word. Tamas looked over his shoulder to watch her go.

  “All ready, sir.” Olem came jogging up the hill and threw himself to the ground beside Tamas. “Time to hurry up and wait.” He caught the way Tamas was looking.

  “Still thinking of punching her, sir?”

  Tamas gave Olem a wry look. Since when had his men gotten away with speaking that way to him? “No.”

  “You seem angry, sir.”

  “She has a lot of growing up to do still. I’m mostly sad. Had things gone differently, she might be my daughter-in-law by now.” He sighed and brought the looking glass back to his eye. “Taniel might not have been on that damned mountain and lying in a coma under the House of Nobles.”

  Olem’s voice was quiet. “He might not have been there to put a bullet in Kresimir’s eye and save us all, sir.”

  Tamas drummed his fingers against his looking glass. Olem was right, of course. Change one event in history, and you might as well change everything that followed. What concerned him now was trying to find a way to bring Taniel out of his coma, and to keep his body safe until he did.

  As if he could read Tamas’s thoughts, Olem said, “He’ll be all right, sir. I’ve got some of my best Riflejacks keeping an eye on him.”

  Tamas wanted to turn to Olem, to thank him for the reassurance. But now was not the time for worry or sentiment. “The lines are beginning to advance,” Tamas said. “Make sure the men hold. I don’t want the Kez to know we’re coming until the right moment.”

  “They’ll hold,” Olem said with confidence.

  “Make certain. Personally.”

  Olem moved off to check on the brigades, leaving Tamas alone on the knoll for a few precious moments. Soon, an unending stream of messengers would be requesting further orders as the battle began and raged throughout the day.

  Tamas closed his eyes and envisioned the battlefield as a crow might.

  Kez infantry formed a half circle facing Budwiel’s walls. Their ranks would tighten as they advanced to account for the terrain, and fill in the gaps from casualties caused by Adran cannon. A single line of Kez cavalry, perhaps one thousand strong, waited on the Great Northern Road for the infantry to take the walls and throw open the gates, at which time they would charge into the city. The rest of their cavalry camped over two miles behind the battlefield. Most of them weren’t even on their horses. They didn’t think they’d be needed today.

  The Kez reserves waited behind the rest of the army. Their numbers were a terrible sight, but Tamas’s looking glass and his spies told another story: They were there for show only. Only one out of five had a musket. Their uniforms were mismatched and off-color. Tamas shook his head. The Kez had more men than they had guns. The reserves would break and run at the first sign of his troops.

  The rat-tat-tat-tat of Kez drummers reverberated against the mountains, and Tamas felt the ground tremble as the mass of Kez infantry began their advance. He directed his glass toward the walls of Budwiel.

  The heavy artillery, already firing on the Kez field guns, redoubled their efforts as the wall of infantry crept closer. Tamas could see soldiers of the Second on the walls, their Adran blues looking sharp, their discipline steady.

  As the lines of Kez infantry reached the killing field, artillery blasted holes in their ranks. Those holes were quickly closed, and the tan-and-green uniforms marched onward, leaving a hundred dead for every dozen paces they gained. The smell of gunpowder reached Tamas on the wind and he took a deep breath, savoring the bitter sulfur.

  He climbed to his feet and motioned over his signal-flag man. On the field below their vantage point, he watched as the mass of Kez reserves shifted forward to take places behind the infantry. Tamas scowled. If they were to take the city, it would be with the mass of infantry. Why would they even move the reserves into position…?

  He felt a cold tingle down his spine. The Kez thought they’d be able to sack Budwiel today. They would secure the walls with their infantry and then signal the reserves into the city to burn, rape, and plunder. Tamas had seen them do the same in Gurla. If they breached the walls, it would be a horror beyond imagining.

  To think they’d do it in a single day was beyond optimistic on the part of the Kez commanders.

  He couldn’t let that happen.

  “Signal at the ready,” Tamas said. The flagger beside him waved out the order. Tamas could see the eagerness in the man’s face. The Seventh and Ninth were ready. They’d tear into the Kez flank with gusto. Tamas felt his blood begin to rise. “Wait… wait…”

  Tamas blinked. What was that?

  He put his looking glass to his eye. When he focused on the fields directly before Budwiel, he saw dozens of twisted men runn
ing toward the walls. They wore black coats and bowler caps. Wardens.

  But these Wardens… Tamas swallowed. He’d never seen anyone run this fast, not even one of those sorcery-spawned killers. They covered the last few hundred yards to the wall with the speed of a racing Thoroughbred.

  In his glass, Tamas could see the wall commanders bellowing. Muskets opened fire. Not a single Warden went down. They reached the base of the wall and leapt, clinging to its vertical face like insects and scurrying to the top. In a flash, they were among the gun crews, brandishing swords and pistols.

  Wait, pistols? Wardens didn’t carry pistols. Privileged had an aversion to gunpowder, and they were the ones who created the sorcery-spawned monsters.

  Small explosions rocked the top of the walls. Bodies fell from the fortifications, and one by one, the cannons ceased firing.

  Tamas rocked back on his heels. What was happening? How could those Wardens have gained the wall so easily? He smacked his looking glass in his hand. Without the cannons to keep them at bay, the Kez infantry would take the walls easily. They wouldn’t have the threat of artillery at their backs to keep them from turning to face Tamas’s brigades head-on.

  “Sir,” the flagger said, “should I signal the attack?”

  “No,” Tamas said. The word came out a strangled cry.

  He continued to watch as the infantry reached the base of the wall. Ladders went up, and by the time the tan-and-green uniforms reached the top of the wall, Tamas could not see a single Adran soldier left standing. The Wardens had cut them all down.

  “Sir.” Olem appeared at Tamas’s side. He drew his own looking glass to his eye. “What… what happened?” Tamas could hear his own disbelief reflected in Olem’s voice.

  “Wardens,” Tamas choked out. He wanted to spit, but his mouth was too dry. They were soon joined by officers of the Seventh and Ninth. They all looked out at the battle together.

  Kez infantry flooded the walls. Minutes later the front gates were thrown open. The Kez cavalry charged up the road toward the gates.