The Crimson Campaign

by Brian McClellan

  For the next couple of minutes, his powder mages fired at will, each bullet finding a deadly mark with few exceptions. The Kez vanguard drew closer.

  “Better mount up, sir,” Olem said, not a hint of nervousness in his voice.

  Tamas could read the dragoon formation. They spread on the eastern side of the road in columns six deep. They would hit the First Battalion’s flank, driving them away from the possible protection of the city of Hune Dora’s walls. The dragoons would strike hard and fast, avoiding entanglement, and be back out of range of conventional musket fire within a few moments. They would be able to pull back around behind Hune Dora’s walls, shielding them from powder mages, and then sweep an attack against the column’s flank.

  Tamas saw carbines lifted to shoulders. He swung up into his saddle and cleared the barrel of his carbine.

  “Watch the wall,” he said to Olem. “Let’s go.”

  Arbor’s First Battalion slowed to a crawl. Every other man suddenly stopped, whirled, and lowered to one knee. Tamas could hear Arbor scream the order to fire, and a cloud of powder smoke rose in the air. Fifty or more dragoons fell. The soldiers leapt to their feet, reloading as they resumed their march.

  Tamas galloped toward the rear guard and drew his curved cavalry saber.

  The dragoons let loose with their carbines, leaving their own clouds of powder smoke like a memory behind them.

  The line of soldiers staggered. Some fell, some limped along, crying for help. None of them broke to tend to the wounded.

  They’d been trained well.

  The dragoons holstered their carbines in the saddle. Pistols were drawn, aim taken.

  The second line of Adran soldiers turned, knelt, and fired.

  A cloud of smoke went up from the dragoons as they returned shots with their pistols. They were out of the cloud only a moment later, swords drawn, as they came in for the charge.

  Arbor’s First Battalion turned to meet the charge. Their sword bayonets were fixed on the ends of their muskets, making the weapons long enough to act as pikes. Tamas cursed. Their formation was too loose…

  The dragoons’ thunderous charge was upon Tamas’s soldiers.

  Horses screamed as they were impaled upon sword bayonets. Men fell from their mounts. Adran soldiers were cut about the neck and face by straight-edged cavalry swords. The lines of infantry and cavalry met, disappearing in a bloody tangle.

  Tamas leaned forward, urging more speed out of his charger, Olem right beside him. Across the field of battle, opposite him where the old walls of Hune Dora turned around a hill, another cavalry charge appeared.

  Gavril was at the head of these cavalry. Two hundred cuirassiers in the dark-blue pants and crimson coats of the Adran heavy cavalry raced across the prairie just as the tattered remains of the Kez dragoons extracted themselves from the First Battalion.

  Though still outnumbered three to one, Gavril’s cuirassiers hit the dragoons with the force of an artillery shell. The collision was audible, the yells of the dragoons turning desperate at the sudden appearance of an enemy at their flank. Somewhere in the midst of the tangle a Kez trumpet belted out a desperate retreat.

  A moment later and Tamas hit the fray himself. He swung his cavalry sword out and across, neatly severing the carotid artery of a Kez dragoon. He whirled in the saddle, barely catching the sword strike of another dragoon. He reached out with his senses and detonated a powder charge in the dragoon’s breast pocket and immediately urged his charger forward, looking for the next target.

  The last of the dragoon vanguard extracted themselves and fled back toward their brigades.

  A cheer went up among Tamas’s men. It carried from the First Battalion down the column and on to the Ninth Brigade, which was already safe inside the forest.

  Tamas caught his breath as his charger picked its way through the bodies of men and horses to join Gavril. “Rein in your cuirassiers,” Tamas shouted to Gavril. Gavril nodded and gave the orders.

  “The main body of cavalry will be here in an hour,” Tamas said, gasping, his heart still pounding, the powder smoke stinging his eyes and reminding him that he was an old man.

  Gavril brought his mount close to Tamas and lowered his voice. “What will we do with the dead and wounded?”

  Tamas examined the field of battle. There were at least a thousand dead and wounded, counting the Kez and Adrans together. The Kez couldn’t have retreated with more than three hundred of their men. There was no way Tamas could march with his wounded.

  “Arbor!” Tamas said, searching. “Olem, find Arbor.”

  A few moments later, the old colonel joined him on the field. He had a new cut on his cheek and powder burns on his sleeves. He’d seen action himself, it seemed.

  “Sir?”

  “Status of the First Battalion?”

  “Fine and kicking, sir. We gave ’em pit. No exact count yet, but I lost no more than two hundred men.”

  Two hundred men from Tamas’s best battalion. Almost a fourth of them. It was a staggering victory against almost twelve hundred dragoons, but Tamas couldn’t afford to lose a single man, let alone two hundred of his very best.

  “Pack up your wounded. Send them up the column. Strip the battlefield of everything useful.”

  “Permission to slaughter the horses, sir?” Arbor said. “We need the meat.”

  “Granted. Give your men a battlefield burial. I wish we had more time, but I mean to be off this prairie when the rest of the Kez get here.”

  Arbor gave a brisk nod and headed off, giving orders.

  “A battlefield burial, sir?” Olem asked.

  “Something we did on the march in Gurla. When another army pressed on us after a fight, we’d wrap our dead in their canvas tents with their names marked on the canvas and hope the enemy had the decency to give them a proper burial.” Tamas sighed. He didn’t like battlefield burials. The dead deserved more respect than that.

  “Did they?”

  “What?”

  “Did they give them a proper burial, sir?”

  “Four times out of five… no. They’d leave them to rot in the Gurlish sun.”

  Tamas swung out of his saddle and knelt down beside a wounded Adran soldier. The man stared into the sky, teeth clenched, his knee a bloody mess. A single glance told Tamas that the leg would most likely have to be amputated. Until then, how to move the man at all? Tamas drew his knife and held the handle to the wounded man.

  “Bite down on this,” he said. “It’ll ease the pain a bit. Olem, have a few boys check the city. Maybe there are some abandoned wagons. Gavril, have your men catch any of the unwounded Kez horses. We might need them.”

  He looked toward the southern horizon. Soon enough, fifteen thousand cavalry would breach that hill.

  It took four whole days of searching and over a thousand krana in bribes before Adamat found where Field Marshal Tamas had stashed Borbador, the last living Privileged from Manhouch’s royal cabal.

  It was funny, Adamat decided, that he was using the field marshal’s own money to try to undo his orders.

  Colonel Verundish stood beside him. She was a smart-looking Deliv woman in her fifties, her ebony skin a complement to the dark blue of her Adran uniform, with straight black hair tied back.

  “He’s here?” Adamat asked.

  “He is,” she confirmed.

  They stood on a bluff at the very northernmost district of Adopest, where the rows of houses abruptly gave way to farmland. Here, the streets didn’t smell so much like shit and soot. Here, there were fewer factories and people.

  Not a bad place to live. If Adamat survived long enough to retire, maybe he could move his family out here.

  Verundish nodded down to the manor below them. The grounds were overgrown, most of the windows broken, the walls vandalized. Like so many other manors belonging to the nobility, it had been gutted by Tamas’s troops of anything of value and then opened to the public after the execution of its former owner.

  Adamat follow
ed Verundish down from the bluff and entered the manor grounds by a back gate. The sorry state of the place made Adamat sad. He had no love of the nobility, not by any stretch, but many of these manors had been architectural works of art. Some had been burned to the ground, some crushed to rubble for their stone. This one had got off lightly with mere vandalism.

  They entered through the servants’ quarters and made their way to the second floor. Adamat counted two dozen men and women, all soldiers by their look. They wore greatcoats over their uniforms, despite the summer heat, and each one gave Adamat a cursory glance as he went by.

  A glimpse of a chevron over a powder horn told Adamat that these were Riflejacks – more of Tamas’s best soldiers.

  Verundish stopped outside the last room toward the rear of the servants’ quarters. “You’ve got five minutes,” she said.

  “What will you do with him?” Adamat asked. “Now that Tamas is dead?”

  The colonel’s lips curled into a scowl. “If Tamas is dead – we’ll wait for his generals to return to Adopest and hand him over to them. They’ll decide his fate.”

  “Tamas isn’t in danger from him anymore.”

  “I don’t care what you think you know, Inspector,” Verundish said. “The field marshal slaughtered the cabal for a reason, and this man is its last living member. Now go on.” Verundish lifted a pocket watch in one hand and looked down at it. “Your five minutes is ticking.”

  Adamat opened the door and slipped inside.

  Privileged Borbador sat tied to a chair in the corner of the room. His feet were bound tight against the posts of the chair, his hands locked in stiff iron gloves that would prevent his fingers from moving. He looked comfortable, for all the tightness of the ropes. He was thinner than the last time Adamat had seen him, and his chin sported a full-grown beard. In front of him was a stand, like the kind that musicians used to hold their music. Bo looked up from it.

  “Bo,” Adamat said, taking his hat in his hands.

  Bo cleared his throat. “Yes?”

  “My name is Adamat. We met a few months ago at Shouldercrown.”

  “Inspector. Yes. I remember you. You’re the one who brought my gaes to Tamas’s attention.”

  Adamat grimaced. “I’m sorry. I was working for him.”

  “You’re not anymore?”

  “Well, the rumors are that he’s dead.”

  Bo stretched his neck out and tilted his head from side to side. It was about the only part of him he could move. He didn’t respond.

  “Bo,” Adamat said. “Has the necklace around your neck – the one supporting the gaes – loosened since his reported death?”

  Bo’s eyes narrowed. Not much, but just enough to give Adamat his answer. The gaes was still in place. Tamas was alive. And Bo hadn’t told the soldiers guarding him.

  “Interesting,” Adamat said aloud.

  “Think you could turn the page for me?” Bo nodded at the stand in front of him.

  Adamat moved around to see a book propped on the stand. He obliged by turning it to the next page and then smoothing the page out with one hand.

  “Many thanks. I’ve been staring at that one page for about half an hour now.”

  Adamat asked, “How strong is the compulsion to kill Tamas?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Could you resist it? He’s quite far from here. Could you resist the compulsion to go looking for him?”

  “For a time,” Bo said. “Yes. It’s only six months since Manhouch’s death. I think I have a year until the gaes kills me.”

  “Two minutes!” Verundish called from the hallway.

  Adamat lowered his voice. “If I get you out, will you help me?”

  “Help you do what?”

  “I need to rescue my wife and kill a man who is a threat to this entire country.” Adamat had no idea if Bo was a patriot of any kind, but the addendum sounded good.

  “What is this, some kind of pulp novel?” Bo smirked at him.

  “It’s very serious, actually.”

  Bo’s smirk dissolved. “Why do you need my help?”

  “The man I need to kill has over sixty men guarding him – one of them is a Privileged.”

  “Really, now? You work for Field Marshal Tamas – who is reported as dead – and you’re going after a man who’s kidnapped your wife and has the kind of resources to have sixty enforcers and a Privileged at his disposal?” Adamat could practically sense Bo’s desire to flex his fingers. “Have you ever thought of getting out of the investigating business?”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Adamat said.

  “Get me out of here and I’ll spend a week as a mime in the King’s Garden,” Bo said, “whatever you want.”

  Adamat regarded the Privileged for a moment. Was he in any shape to fight another sorcerer? Adamat knew a Privileged needed gloves to do his magic, to protect his hands from being burned by the Else, but there was no sign of Bo’s. Could a Privileged even be trusted?

  “All right,” Adamat said. “I’ll do what I can.”

  Verundish opened the door. “Time is up, Inspector.”

  Adamat followed Verundish back out of the servants’ quarters. She stopped him once they’d reached the edge of the manor grounds. “You can find your own way back?” she asked.

  “Yes.” Adamat examined her for a long moment. She watched him, her brown eyes unreadable. He would have guessed her as the military type even without the uniform – her back was straight, her hands clasped behind her like a soldier at ease.

  This was a great risk he was taking, but he had no other choice if he wanted to free Borbador – and then Faye.

  “I need Privileged Borbador,” Adamat said.

  “Pardon?” Verundish was just turning to go. She stopped and looked back at him.

  “I need you to free him.”

  Verundish cleared her throat. “That’s not happening, Inspector.”

  “Name your price. Field Marshal Tamas is dead. Let Bo go and you and your men can join the defensive at Surkov’s Alley. Or leave the country. That might be the best idea, with what I’ve heard from the front.”

  “That” – her words were angry, clipped – “is treason.”

  “Please,” Adamat said. “Privileged Borbador is my only chance to save my wife – maybe even to save this country. Free, he’s of value. Under guard, he just ties up you and your men.”

  “You should go now, Inspector,” Verundish said.

  Adamat let out a small sigh. He’d half expected her to arrest him right then and there. He should be glad she was letting him go.

  “Inspector.”

  He paused. “Yes?”

  “Seventy-five thousand krana. Banknotes. You have a week.”

  CHAPTER

  16

  Taniel walked among the corpses on the battlefield and wondered how many had died that day.

  A few hundred? A few thousand?

  Surgeons, thieves, the families of soldiers – they all picked their way among the bodies, finding the wounded first and getting them back to their respective armies before bothering to stack the dead into carts like so much firewood, then taking them to be buried in mass graves.

  There were always far more wounded than dead. That’s how it always was, even when sorcery was involved. At least, that’s how it was immediately after a battle. Over the next week well over half of the wounded would die. Even more would end up crippled for life.

  He’d picked a horrid profession, Taniel reflected.

  Well. Not so much “picked.” There’s no picking your profession when Tamas is your father. Taniel couldn’t think of a time when he didn’t want to be a soldier. Vlora, the girl he’d thought was the love of his life, wanted to be a soldier, too. So Taniel had gone along with his father’s wishes and trained to be a powder mage. It was the only life he’d ever known.

  And now Tamas, Vlora, Sabon, and everyone else who’d ever influenced Taniel in his youth were all dead and gone.

  Ta
niel tried to shake the weight of that thought from his shoulders and kept walking.

  Soldiers weren’t supposed to come onto the battlefield after a skirmish like this. The temporary truce after each battle that allowed either side to collect their own dead and wounded was tentative enough without armed, hot-tempered men taking to the field.

  That didn’t stop some of them from coming. Taniel watched a fistfight break out between a sobbing Kez soldier and a wounded Adran sergeant. It was put down quickly by both Kez and Adran provosts, and the offending parties hauled off.

  “How long do you usually stay out here?” Taniel asked.

  Ka-poel knelt beside the dead body of an Adran soldier. She looked up at him briefly before lifting the dead man’s left hand and using her long needle to pick something out of the man’s chewed fingernails. What was it? Hair from a Kez officer? Blood of someone still alive? Only she knew.

  Taniel didn’t really expect an answer. She’d been less than communicative lately, even for her.

  She moved to the next body. Taniel followed, watching as she cut a bit of bloody shirt off a dead Kez officer.

  Taniel had left his jacket and weapons back at camp. No need for anyone to know he was out here. Regardless, some of the Adran surgeons gave him respectful nods. Others a respectful distance.

  He lifted his eyes to the Kez camp. Where was Kresimir? he wondered, a little thrill of fear working up his spine. The god was lying low. Unseen. Even when Taniel opened his third eye, there was no sign of the overwhelming glow of power that should surround a god.

  At this point, Taniel worried more about being killed by the Kez than about falling into the god’s hands.

  The Kez marched forward every day. Sometimes only a few hundred feet. Other times as much as a quarter mile, but always a little closer to Adopest. Eventually the valley would open up into the Adran basin and the Kez would use their hugely superior numbers to surround the Adran army and strike at several cities at once. They’d ravage the countryside, and Adro would be forced to capitulate.

  What would Tamas have done?