The Crimson Campaign

by Brian McClellan

Ka-poel tucked the handkerchief silently into her satchel, her face unreadable.

  Mihali stepped away from them both and busied himself putting the remaining cornbread and eggs on a tin plate, which he handed to Ka-poel. He lifted his empty platter and gave a bow. “Please,” he said, “consider my request – my plea – for help.” He bowed low and then left.

  Taniel took a shaky breath and looked down, only just realizing that he still held the letter regarding his house arrest. He was to be escorted to Adopest early in the morning. They’d assigned him eight provosts – four from the Wings of Adom, four from the Adran army.

  There would be no fighting the Kez or killing their gods for Taniel.

  Ka-poel reached out and touched Taniel’s chest. She thumped him several times above the heart.

  “What?”

  She pointed to him and then spread her hands, questioning. Then back at him.

  “I don’t know what you’re getting at, girl,” he said, trying to quell his frustration.

  She indicated his heart again and pointed emphatically.

  “What do I want?”

  A nod.

  Taniel took a deep breath. “I want to kill something right now. I’m furious. I should be out there fighting. I was born to fight – born to protect Adro.”

  She pointed at him again, then at the floor. What do you want now?

  “I want to protect you.”

  Ka-poel smiled then, and Taniel felt his heart jump. She leaned toward him and pressed her lips to his.

  “I’m going after Kresimir’s blood,” Taniel said.

  Mihali paused over an immense pot of soup, the ladle halfway to his lips.

  “I see.”

  “Ka-poel has agreed to subdue him, but she needs his blood. I’ll need help getting into the Kez camp.”

  Mihali considered this for a few moments before taking a sip of his soup. “Mmm. That’s good. Needs a little more pepper, though.” He brought a jar of whole peppercorns from his apron and poured a measure into the palm of his hand. He ground his hands together, watching the pepper fall into the pot. He stirred the soup, then took another sip. “Perfect.”

  “It can be hard to take you seriously sometimes,” Taniel said. “No. I misspoke. All of the time.”

  Mihali chuckled, but Taniel hadn’t been making a joke.

  “The Kez camp,” Taniel urged.

  “I can conceal you so that you walk right through the Kez sentries,” Mihali said, moving to a wide iron grill in the middle of the cooking yard. He began flipping turkey legs with practiced speed.

  Taniel ducked as he heard the sound of a shout behind him. A glance over his shoulder told him it wasn’t directed at him. Walking through the Adran camp was dangerous, even in civilian clothes with a tricorn hat pulled down to conceal his face. He was supposed to be under guard by the provosts right now.

  “They won’t notice you here, either. Have a turkey leg.” Mihali picked up a leg with his tongs and handed it to Taniel.

  “That looks hot.”

  “Nonsense. A chef would never give a guest something that would burn them.”

  Taniel took the turkey leg with some trepidation. The bone was only warm, despite having just come off the flames, and when he bit into it, juice ran down his unshaved chin. He didn’t speak until he was done eating. “How can you make me unseen?” Taniel asked. “Before, you had to ask Ka-poel’s permission to touch my mind.”

  “I just did,” Mihali said.

  Taniel froze in the midst of picking the last bits of flavor off the turkey leg. He looked around. “I don’t feel unseen.” He glanced down at the turkey bone. “Did you…”

  “Yes,” Mihali said. “Doing any kind of constructive sorcery directly to the human body is one of the most difficult things a Privileged can accomplish. That’s why healers are so rare. I figured out about a thousand years ago that the easiest way to get a spell into a person was through their stomach.” Mihali picked up a turkey leg and took a bite. A sudden look of worry crossed his face. “Let’s have that be our secret, hmm?”

  Taniel snorted. “I won’t tell on you.”

  “Oh, thank you.” Mihali finished his turkey leg noisily and then lifted another off the grill. “Care to take one to Ka-poel?”

  “Will it make her unseen? And if I’m unseen now, how will she see me? Or how are you seeing me?”

  “I can see you because I’m a god. Ka-poel will be able to sense where you are, and the spell doesn’t muffle your voice.”

  “If I sneeze?”

  “Uh” – Mihali tapped the tongs against his apron, leaving a greasy stain – ”Don’t. The spell does have its drawbacks. For instance, it is designed to drop as soon as you get close to Kresimir’s sphere of influence. It would backfire to have Kresimir sense my intrusion.”

  Taniel looked at his hand. He certainly didn’t feel unseen. “How long did it take you to come up with this?”

  “A few moments.”

  “Really?”

  Mihali raised an eyebrow. “We’re not called gods necessarily because we’re the most powerful Privileged – though that is an interpretation. We’re called gods because the things that regular mortals struggle for days, weeks, or months to accomplish take us only the effort of a thought.”

  “Ah. Well, I’m going now.”

  “Wait.” Mihali produced a deep pewter mug seemingly out of nowhere and crossed to his pot of soup. He ladled the mug full and set a lid on it. “Take this to Ka-poel. It’ll help her sleep while you’re gone.”

  Taniel turned to go, when he thought better of it. “Adom – Mihali?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Will you protect her?”

  “I feel after giving her my blood, that it is I who need protection,” Mihali said. He winked. “That girl is like a glass teapot filled with gunpowder. So fragile, but with such a power for destruction.” He straightened up and swung the ladle into a salute. Soup spattered on his apron. “No harm will come to her.”

  “Thank you,” Taniel said. “Now I’m going to get some of your brother’s blood.”

  CHAPTER

  33

  Tamas watched Olem rub down his horse as the camp settled in for the night. A low fire of brush and prairie twigs crackled in a stone ring in front of him. The sun still shone in the western sky, lighting the plateau with a brilliant hue of reds, oranges, and pinks.

  Their second day on the plateau, and their supplies were already running low. They’d slaughtered thousands of Kez horses after the battle fourteen days before, but only been able to carry a limited amount. What little food they had needed to be rationed. A pound of meat per man per day was not much.

  Tamas lifted his head at a sound carried on the wind. He waited a few seconds, then returned to gazing at the flames. Beside him, Olem was snapping twigs and feeding them into the fire.

  His rangers still hadn’t found this mysterious Adran army, but there were plenty of signs of their passing. Stripped bean fields, burned farms. The dead and the dying, the old and the infirm of what was left of the farmers of the Northern Expanse. The plateau was already a dry, exhausted land. Whatever army had come through two weeks ago had killed everything living.

  Per his orders, the army had dug a six-foot trench around the entire camp. It was backbreaking work, but he’d be damned if he’d be caught at night by an army he didn’t see coming. Some of his soldiers were still digging. The sound of shovels scraping rocks and dirt, the curses of infantry working after a long day’s march.

  Tamas lifted his head again. That sound. What was it? He cocked his head to one side, trying to find a location.

  Nothing.

  Had the Deliv turned on him? The king of Deliv had been firm in his response earlier this summer when Tamas had asked for allies against the Kez. They’d promised to stay out of the war entirely.

  “May I join you, Field Marshal?”

  Tamas looked up. The lengthening shadows tricked his eyes for a moment before he made out Beon je Ipille
. Tamas gestured to the bare ground on the other side of the fire. Beon lowered himself gingerly to the ground, crossing his legs beneath him. The Kez general’s eyes were sunken, his face pale. He was one of the few Kez officers that Tamas had kept with him as prisoners – the rest were paroled to the Kez army.

  “How is your arm?” Tamas asked.

  Beon looked down at his left arm where it hung in a sling. “It is well, thank you. My physician says that the arm is not broken, but I lost quite a lot of blood in the melee. I should recover in time. Your injuries?”

  “Fine.” Tamas ran a couple of fingers over his ribs, wincing at the tenderness. He didn’t think they’d cracked from his fight with Gavril, but his body felt like one big bruise. “I’m wishing I’d brought Dr. Petrik along when I left Budwiel. But then again, my plans at the time were greatly different from how things ended up.”

  Beon nodded, staring into the fire. He took a deep breath and opened his mouth, only to close it again. It was several minutes before he finally spoke.

  “I remember riding through the Northern Expanse once,” Beon said. “It must have been six or seven years ago. I went along with some of my father’s Privileged on a delegation to Deliv. This land was greener, more full.” Beon smiled sadly. “Towns threw festivals in our honor. There were thousands of people – proud, happy farmers.

  “Now I can’t help but wonder: what has happened to my country?” Beon looked around. “The last two days, I’ve seen countless abandoned farms. The bean fields are all gone. The land is brown and dry. I’ve heard reports of the droughts, both here and in the rest of the Nine, but I didn’t imagine it to be so bad.

  “What’s more, where are all my people? We passed a farm this morning. The crop – and there had been a crop, I’m not so removed that I can’t see that – was trampled, and the farm buildings burned remnants. I must ask you, Field Marshal. Have you sent men on ahead? Are you destroying these lands?”

  “The desolation you see,” Tamas said, his pride pricked at the accusation, “was not caused by my men. I swear it.”

  “It must have been bandits, then.”

  Tamas wondered how much he should tell Beon of his suspicions. “I don’t think so.”

  Beon didn’t seem to hear him. “Two days ago,” Beon said, “I rode past an old man on a pack mule. He begged me to right the wrongs and expel the Adran foreigners that were ravishing our lands.” Beon spoke carefully, as if testing the waters before a swim.

  “My scouts tell me another army has come through this way,” Tamas said. “And reports from what serfs remain in the area say that they wear Adran blues. This makes me wonder, as I know for a fact that I have no men in northern Kez.”

  Beon gazed at Tamas, brow furrowed, as if trying to decide whether Tamas was speaking the truth.

  Tamas asked, “Do you know whether your father sent legions north, disguised as Adrans, in order to sneak through Deliv and over the mountains?”

  “I don’t. Besides, our soldiers wouldn’t do this to their own land.”

  Tamas wondered where Beon got such a high regard for the morals of infantry.

  Olem suddenly grabbed his rifle and surged to his feet. “Sir,” he said, “did you hear that?”

  Tamas paused and listened. Nothing.

  Wait. There. It sounded like a shout. Very distant. He climbed to his feet. Nearby, a slight rise in the terrain gave him a better vantage point. He scanned the horizon, listening for the shout again.

  “There,” Olem said, pointing north.

  Dust rose off the plateau, a billowing trail of the kind made when multiple riders were coming hard. “Saddle my mount,” Tamas said to Olem. “Quickly!”

  Tamas ran through the camp. A few hundred yards from his own tent, the powder mages were camped together. Most of them were there, their legs splayed, boots off, talking as they passed around a bottle they’d got from who knew where. Vlora stood when she saw Tamas.

  “Andriya, Vlora,” Tamas barked. “With me! The rest of you, raise the general alarm. Riders on the northern horizon.”

  “How many, sir?” Vlora asked as they headed back to the north end of the camp.

  “That’s what we’re going to find out,” Tamas said. “Do you know where Gavril is?”

  “Ranging,” Andriya answered.

  “Where?”

  “North, I think.”

  “Pit. You two, get horses.”

  Olem brought Tamas his horse and rifle. He threw himself into the saddle and headed north, not waiting for anyone else. Olem caught up to him quickly enough – he’d not yet unsaddled his own mount from the day.

  “What’s happening, sir?” Olem shouted over the sound of hooves thundering on the dusty soil.

  “Riders,” Tamas said. “A lot of them.”

  “Could it just be Gavril’s rangers?”

  Tamas wanted to say yes, but he fixed his eyes on the cloud of dust rising in the distance. It was getting larger. Too big to be less than twenty horses, and Gavril’s rangers worked in pairs.

  They left camp behind and headed north along the main road. A glance over his shoulder told Tamas that more riders were following him out of the camp, a few hundred yards behind him.

  Tamas fumbled in his pocket for a powder charge as his body rocked up and down with the motion of the stallion beneath him. He put it straight in his mouth and bit down, tasting the bitter sulfur and the grit between his teeth. He spit the soggy charge paper out as the powder trance coursed through his veins.

  The ground rushed by beneath his charger’s hooves and the horizon came into stark relief. He found the cloud of dust and traced it to the source. There, miles away, a single horseman.

  Tamas frowned. Just one? The horseman lay low on his mount, clinging to the horse’s neck. Tamas thought he recognized him as one of Gavril’s rangers.

  A few moments later, breasting a rise in terrain behind the ranger, came more riders.

  Their uniforms were blue with silver trim, and they wore the conical, horsehair helmets of Adran dragoons.

  Tamas swore. Adran dragoons? It couldn’t be. If they were, the ranger wouldn’t be fleeing before them. Tamas looked over at Olem, but the bodyguard couldn’t see that far.

  “Dragoons,” Tamas shouted at him. “Chasing one of our rangers! They’re wearing Adran blues, but they’re not friendly.”

  Olem responded by urging his mount harder.

  Tamas put his head down and counted the beats of the hooves as they closed the distance between themselves and the ranger. As he drew closer, he was able to tell that the dragoons were perhaps a half mile behind the ranger. The ranger’s horse frothed at the mouth, shaking its head hard. It wouldn’t last much longer.

  Tamas waved his pistol at the ranger, motioning for him to stop. The ranger’s horse shuddered and swayed, eyes rolling as the ranger reined in beside Tamas. The ranger’s face and front were covered in dust, smeared and muddy from his sweat.

  “Where’s Gavril?” Tamas demanded.

  The ranger gasped for breath, trying to speak, before he threw his hand out behind him. “Far… back… fought so I could… escape.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Kez! We thought they were friendlies, but they fell on us the moment Gavril spoke in Adran.”

  Tamas whirled toward the dragoons and quickly counted. Sixteen. They waved their carbines and hollered, showing no sign of slowing at the sight of Tamas and Olem. They’d be upon him in minutes. He raised his off hand to steady his pistol and closed one eye. He squeezed the trigger.

  In his head, he counted seconds, concentrating on the powder, keeping the bullet flying far beyond when it should have fallen. At the same time, his hands worked to holster one pistol and draw the other.

  One. Two. Thr…

  A dragoon near the rear of the group fell, the bullet taking him neatly in the eye.

  Tamas steadied his second pistol and fired. Another dragoon fell. Again, at the rear of the group. Tamas didn’t want to scare off the
dragoons, and it didn’t seem like they noticed their comrades’ fall.

  “Olem! With me!”

  Tamas dug his heels in and spurred his horse forward. He holstered his second pistol and drew his heavy cavalry saber. It felt good in his grip, the old leather handle worn and strong.

  The dragoons aimed their carbines at seventy yards. They fired, and Tamas heard one bullet whistle past his ear.

  Hitting a single riding target from horseback was difficult at best, if you weren’t a powder mage.

  He cocked his saber back and eyed the lead dragoon. The man was missing an ear. Earless stowed his carbine and drew his straight cavalry sword in one quick motion.

  Hand still on the reins, Tamas dug into his front uniform pocket for a small handful of bullets.

  Tamas studied the position of Earless’s sword, then ran his eyes over the next few dragoons, all in a pair of seconds. Tamas leaned to his right, bringing his saber up high.

  Then they were upon each other.

  Tamas slid to his left in the saddle, narrowly avoiding the stroke of Earless’s sword. His cavalry saber bit through soft flesh, the top three inches cleaving through Earless’s neck. Tamas worked a bullet up to the top of his fist and flicked it in the air with his thumb, burning powder from a spare charge to send it into the heart of the next dragoon. He followed through with his saber cut, bringing it over his horse’s head and deflecting the stab from a dragoon on his left.

  He flicked another bullet into the air and burned powder, sending it backward and into Earless’s spine.

  Back over his mount’s head with his saber, Tamas sawed on the reins. A dragoon at the rear of the group leaned toward him with a savage slice.

  Parry. Parry again.

  The dragoon was fast, and skilled. Tamas flicked a bullet into the air, sending it into the dragoon’s shoulder. The dragoon dropped his sword, clutching at his arm, and Tamas rammed his saber into the man’s chest.

  Tamas spun around, looking for the next enemy, only to see two of the dragoons surrender to Olem. In the distance to the south, puffs of powder smoke rose from a pair of figures – Vlora and Andriya. Tamas rode to one of the surrendered dragoons.