Bah. Tamas would have held the damned line. That’s all the Adran army needed to do: keep from losing their front every damned day.
All Taniel could do was fight. He couldn’t keep the generals from sounding a retreat, even when he felt the Kez about to break and run. He couldn’t hold the whole thing by himself.
“That stuff you gather,” Taniel asked as Ka-poel rose to her feet, “is it just from men who are alive?”
She nodded, depositing something into one of the tiny leather bags in her satchel.
Even the living left a bit of themselves behind on the battlefield. Blood, hair, nails. Sometimes a finger or bit of skin. Ka-poel gathered it all up and stored it for later.
Taniel jumped a little at the sudden crack of a musket, but it was just the sound of a provost shooting a looter. He licked his lips and looked at the Kez camp again. What if Kresimir was out here, walking among the dead? What if he saw Taniel? Knew who he was? What he’d done?
“I’m going back to camp,” Taniel said. He looked over his shoulder several times on the long walk back, watching Ka-poel continue to pick her way among the bodies.
Dinner was being served as Taniel worked his way through the camp. Quartermasters were returning to their companies with rations of meat, kettles of soup, loaves of bread. Far better fare than soldiers usually saw on the battlefield. Taniel could smell the food, making his mouth water. This chef, Mihali, god or not, created incredible dishes. Taniel didn’t know that bread could have the swirls of flavor and buttery softness that this stuff did.
Taniel stopped at his room. General Hilanska had found him a shed to bed down in. It wasn’t much, but it was private. He snatched his jacket, slipping a few powder charges into his pocket, then hesitated at his belt. He should be able to wander his own camp without fear, but something told him to go armed. Perhaps just paranoia. Or maybe it was the idea that General Ket’s provosts were still looking for him. Why they’d not found him yet was anyone’s guess.
Taniel buckled the belt, with two pistols, around his waist.
He’d only taken a few steps from his tent when a soldier accosted him.
“Sir!”
Taniel paused. The soldier was a young man, maybe twenty-five. Still older than Taniel himself. A private in the Eleventh Brigade, by his insignia.
When Taniel didn’t answer, the soldier went on hesitantly. “Sir, the fellows and I, we were wondering if you’d do us the honor of joining us for dinner. It’s all the same food, sir, and the company is good.” He held his flat-top forage cap in both hands, wringing it.
“Where?” Taniel asked.
“Just right over there, sir.” The soldier perked up a little. “We’ve got a fifth of Doubin rum, and Finley plays the flute something fierce.”
Taniel couldn’t help but feel suspicious. He set a hand on one of his pistols. “Why are you so nervous, soldier?”
The soldier ducked his head. “Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to bother you.” He turned to slink away, obviously distraught.
Taniel caught up to him in just a few quick steps. “Doubin rum, you say?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Horrid shit. That’s the stuff sailors drink.”
The soldier’s forehead wrinkled in a frown. “It’s the best we can do, sir.” There was a flash of anger in his eyes.
They both stopped in the middle of the path, the soldier still holding his hat. He glared at Taniel now. Taniel could imagine what was going through his head: Damned officers. Think they’re so high and mighty. Plenty of good stuff to drink at the officers’ mess. Won’t sit with a soldier, not for a moment.
“What’s your name, soldier?”
“Flint.”
No “sir” on the end of that. Taniel nodded, as if he’d not noticed. “I got a taste for Doubin rum on the ship from Fatrasta. Haven’t tasted it all summer. I’d be honored, if you’d have me.”
“You mocking me?”
“No,” Taniel said. “Not a bit. Lead on.”
Flint’s frown slowly began to slide. “This way, sir.”
It wasn’t more than twenty yards to Flint’s fire. There were two men beside the fire, keeping Mihali’s soup warm in an old iron pot. One had a large nose, crooked off to the side from not being set after breaking, while the other was a short, round man practically bursting from his uniform. The one with the nose froze at the sight of Taniel, a spoon lifted halfway to his mouth.
“Captain, sir,” Flint said, gesturing to the two men by the fire. “The one with the nose there is Finley. Ugliest man in the Eleventh. And that round bit of meat there is Faint, on account that she fainted the first time she fired a musket. Finley, Flint, and Faint. We’re the fellows of the Eleventh Brigade.”
Taniel lifted his eyebrows. He’d not in a hundred years have guessed that Faint was a woman.
“Fellows, this is Captain Taniel Two-Shot, hero of the Fatrastan War and the Battle for South Pike.”
Faint seemed skeptical. “You sure this is Taniel Two-Shot?”
“That’s him, all right,” Finley said. “I was with Captain Ajucare when we went after the Privileged at the university.”
“I thought you looked familiar,” Taniel said. “I never forget a nose.”
Flint laughed and punched Finley in the arm. Finley fell off his chair, and Taniel heard himself chuckle. It was a raspy, nasty sound, like an instrument desperately in need of tuning. How long had it been since he’d laughed?
Flint fetched a folding cloth chair and brought it to Taniel. Finley poured them each a pewter tin of soup, and then bread and mutton was passed around.
They ate in quiet for several minutes. Taniel was the first one to break the silence. “I heard the Second took a beating a couple of weeks ago.”
“Aye,” Flint said. “That we did.”
“We were on the wall,” Faint said. “The wall in Budwiel when the Black Wardens came over.”
Finley stared quietly into his soup.
“Faint here,” Flint said. “She punched one of those Wardens in the nose with that ham fist of hers. Knocked him right off the bulwark.”
“I’d imagine that gave him quite the shock. I heard it was bad,” Taniel said. “I’m glad to see you got out.”
“Most weren’t so lucky,” Finley said quietly. Flint and Faint’s smiles disappeared.
Taniel cleared his throat, looking around. Usually a squad would eat together. “All that’s left of your squad?” he asked as respectfully as he could.
Faint chuckled. Finley pushed her. “It’s not funny,” Finley said.
“It’s a little funny,” Faint said.
Taniel wondered whether to smile at the joke. “What?”
“Not our squad, sir,” Flint spoke up. “This is all that’s left of our company.”
Taniel felt his mouth go dry. A company was usually about two hundred men. To lose all but three…
“No wounded?” he asked.
“Probably,” Faint said. She ladled herself another tin of soup. “But not that we’ve seen. This deal with the Kez, where we clean up our own dead and wounded after each battle, only came about after Budwiel. We left Budwiel at a run. Left behind supplies, ammunition, weapons… loved ones. Everyone who couldn’t run is now a slave, or worse.”
“What’s worse than being a slave?” Flint asked.
Finley looked up from rolling a cigarette. “Where do you think they keep getting those Wardens? Why torture and twist your own people if you’ve got prisoners?”
“It takes years to make and train a Warden,” Taniel said.
“Does it?” Finley asked. He lit his cigarette with a burning stick from the fire. “Rumors are going around the men, rumors that they’ve got Kresimir himself in the camp.”
Flint shook his head. “If they had Kresimir, we’d all be dead.”
“We’ve got Adom reborn,” Faint said. She held up her mutton and bread. “Mihali is keeping Kresimir from destroying us all.”
Flint rolled his eyes. �
��Come on, now.”
“There’s another rumor,” Finley said. He looked up, meeting Taniel’s eyes across the fire. “There’s a rumor Taniel Two-Shot put a bullet in Kresimir’s eye, and now Kresimir wears a mask that covers half his face – and it don’t have no eyehole in it.” He leaned over, offering his smoking cigarette to Taniel.
Taniel took a long drag at the cigarette. Nasty things, he’d always thought, but he made exceptions for nights like this, when it was more about camaraderie than habit. “I heard a rumor,” he said, coughing and turning his head toward Flint, “that there was Doubin rum at this fire.”
“Now that” – Faint pointed at Taniel – “is fact.” She retreated to her tent for a moment and came back with an earthen jug. “Get your flute, Finley,” she said. “I’ve had enough of this dark talk.”
Taniel was offered the jug first. He took a sip of the stuff and felt his whole body shudder. “Gah,” he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
“My da works for Doubin and Company,” Faint said, taking the jug. “Tastes like a demon’s own piss, don’t it!” She threw back the jug, taking a long, hard drink.
Taniel leaned back, watching the fire, unable to keep from laughing when Flint spat a mouthful of the rum into the fire and the flames flared up momentarily.
“Don’t waste it!” Faint shouted, nabbing the jug.
It didn’t take more than a few more passes before Taniel could feel the stuff working through his system. His body loosened and his mind became bleary. He leaned back and watched the fire, and before long Finley began to play his flute.
It was a low, mournful sound. Not at all the kind of shrill dance Taniel had heard from that kind of instrument before. It didn’t take long until Faint began to sing. Her voice, much to Taniel’s surprise, was a clear tenor that cut through the night.
He found himself drifting in his own mind. The aches in his body dissolved and the front seemed a hundred miles away.
There was a rustle of sound, so very slight he could have imagined it, and then Ka-poel slid into his lap. Just like that. No asking or hesitation, but as quick as a long-familiar lover. Taniel would have been uncomfortable if he didn’t already feel so warm. Content. Happy, even.
Taniel drifted for what seemed like hours, and woke with a shiver. He didn’t know how long he’d been gone, but the sun had set and the starry sky spread out above them. Had he dreamed that moment of contentment?
No.
Flint stared into the red coals. Finley was putting away his flute, and Faint snored softly on the ground beside the fire. Ka-poel was nestled in the crook of Taniel’s arm. Her eyes were closed, a small smile on her face.
Taniel lifted his free arm and brushed a bit of red hair from her forehead. It was growing back after the fight on the mountain, and it seemed a deeper, more vibrant red than before.
Taniel felt eyes upon him. Flint was watching.
“She’s a pretty little thing,” Flint said.
Taniel didn’t answer. He didn’t trust himself to. Words like impropriety and savage went through his head, but they didn’t have the bite they usually did. What did those things matter? He might die tomorrow.
“Thank you,” Taniel said to Flint, “for inviting me.”
“It was our pleasure, sir. Not often soldiers get to dine with a hero like you.”
“No hero. Not me. Just a man with nothing but rage in his heart.”
“If you really had nothing but rage in your heart, that girl wouldn’t be sleeping there sound as can be,” Flint said. He winked at Taniel, and Taniel felt his cheeks grow warm.
“I should warn you, sir,” Flint said.
“Yes?”
“The provosts are looking for you. Rumor is General Ket wants to hang you.”
Taniel scoffed. “If they were looking for me, they could have found me. I’m on the front line every day.”
“They don’t want to arrest you in front of the men. You’ve saved a right large number of soldiers every day on the line. The men aren’t sure whether you’re a demon or an angel, but they think you’re watching over them – fighting while the senior officers sit farther back and watch us die. There might be a riot if they arrest you on the line.”
“It’s not hard to find my room,” Taniel said, glancing toward the little shed he and Ka-poel were staying in.
“The provosts are questioning around all quiet-like. They’ve asked us a couple times.” Flint shook his head with a little smile. “Everyone tells them to look on the front.”
Taniel picked at a bit of gristle stuck between his teeth. So, the infantry were watching his back. It made him feel sad, more than anything. He didn’t deserve to be looked out for. He was only on the front because he knew nothing but killing. Not because he wanted to save the soldiers.
“Then I have something else to thank you for.”
“Don’t thank me, sir,” Flint said. “Just keep looking out for us out there. No one else is.”
“I’ll try.”
“Also, sir, avoid the Third. General Ket’s brigade love her. Don’t know why, but her men are loyal, and they might just turn you over to the provosts themselves.”
Taniel shifted Ka-poel’s weight on his shoulder and climbed to his feet, balancing her in his arms. She didn’t respond to the jostling except to nuzzle her face closer to his neck. It was a feather’s touch, soft and warm, and Taniel felt his body react to it.
“Good night, Flint,” he said.
“Good night, sir.”
Taniel carried Ka-poel back to their shed. He laid her down in his bed and covered her with a blanket before pulling a powder charge from his pocket.
He stared at the charge for several moments. A small hit of the powder and he’d see better in the dark. He wouldn’t have to light a lamp. It wasn’t like he was sleeping these days anyway. How long had it been? Two weeks since a proper night’s sleep? Could humans exist like that? He felt wooden and sluggish, as if walking in a dream.
But when he had a bit of powder, he was as alive and awake as always.
Taniel took a pinch of the powder and raised it to his nose. He stopped. Lowered it and rewrapped the powder charge. He found a match and struck it, touching it to the lamp beside the bed. The shed was suddenly thrown into the light.
He got his rifle out from beneath the bed and began to clean it. The process calmed him, let him think. He pulled his mind away from Ka-poel, lying there in his bed, and away from the provosts and General Ket, and away from his father’s death and the Kez army’s inexorable push into Adro.
Taniel finished with the rifle and cleaned his pistols, then wrapped a few dozen powder charges. He looked at that powder. He needed it. Wanted it.
He didn’t let himself take any.
His bayonet was last. He took it out of its leather wrappings and examined it in the light of the lamp. There was a bit of dried blood in one of the grooves. He picked it off, then polished the metal. He felt the bed move a little and looked up.
Ka-poel lay on her side, one hand resting on her hip, the other propped beneath her head. She watched him with those green eyes. Her shirt had ridden up a bit and he could see the ashen freckles at her waist and the sharp curve of her hips. He felt his heart beat faster.
“I have to kill Kresimir,” Taniel said. “For good this time. But I don’t know how to do it.”
Ka-poel moved to the edge of the bed. She leaned over, reaching beneath the bed, and opened her satchel. She fished around a little bit before coming back up with a doll.
Taniel swallowed hard. The doll had been shaped from wax into the perfect resemblance of a person. Gold hair, a handsome face, stout shoulders, and almost feminine lips. Taniel knew that face. He’d seen it on the man who’d stepped out of a cloud after descending from the heavens.
Kresimir.
She’d never seen Kresimir. At least, so he thought. How could she know what he looks like?
“I don’t think even your magic is strong enough to kill a god,” Tani
el said. “I shot him with two redstripes.”
Ka-poel touched a finger to her chin thoughtfully. She slowly drew the finger down her throat and then over her shirt, between her breasts. It stopped, then back to her throat. She made a cutting motion, then spread her hand.
“Blood?” Taniel asked, his throat dry.
She nodded.
“Kresimir’s blood?”
Another nod.
“I’ll never get close enough.”
She mouthed a word. Try.
“You want me to throw myself at a god, hoping I can draw his blood?”
Ka-poel swung her legs around to the edge of the bed. She took the bayonet out of his hands and set it on the bedside table. She lowered herself into his lap, legs straddling his own.
“Pole, I don’t…”
She put a finger to his lips. He remembered the mala den back in Adopest. With her pressed firmly against him in the hammock, her face so close. He shuddered.
Ka-poel put two fingers to her lips, then pushed them against his forehead. She mouthed a word.
It wasn’t spoken, but still seemed to echo in his mind.
Sleep.
Sleep.
He felt his back hit the bed and his eyelids shut, suddenly weighty as millstones.
Sleep.
“Why are you courting Lady Winceslav?” Nila asked.
The centerpiece of the dining room of Lord Vetas’s city manor was a long ironwood table that could seat sixteen. Vetas sat at the head of the table, his plate empty, a glass of red wine in his right hand, his left lying flat on the table with fingers spread. Nila sat on his right. Jakob sat on his left, and Faye sat beside Nila.
When Nila was a girl, she used to dream of attending fine dinner parties, admiring her reflection in the polished silverware and drinking from a wineglass rimmed with gold. She never imagined that dream would turn into a nightmare.
For ten days now they’d been eating with Vetas every evening. Despite the normal bustle and the number of men around the house – upward of sixty some days – dinnertime was always quiet. He used the time to instruct Nila in proper dining etiquette, and to shower Jakob with compliments, praise, and gifts. Nila hated every minute of it. Vetas filled every moment with mundane chatter, going on with some instruction or asking them all questions about themselves.
The Crimson Campaign Page 19
