“You want me to shoot them?”
A nod.
Taniel dropped the butt of the musket to the ground and quickly loaded it. Lifting it to his shoulder, he looked to Ka-poel for confirmation.
She made a hurrying motion with one hand.
Taniel aimed at her field of dolls and pulled the trigger.
A sound like thunder cracked out of the late-morning air, sending Kez soldiers diving for cover. A nearby soldier suddenly splattered across a tent like he’d been hit by a cannonball. Taniel could hear the cries of dismay, and someone shouted, “Artillery fire!”
Ka-poel threw her head back in a silent laugh.
“That’s sadistic,” Taniel said. He grabbed her by the hand. “Let’s go.”
They raced through the Kez camp, heading toward the eastern mountains that lined Surkov’s Alley. Ka-poel’s dolls kept pace with them, floating, fighting shadows. By the time they reached the edge of the Kez camp and began to climb the nearest hill, the number of dolls had diminished.
Ka-poel panted heavily as they climbed. Taniel looked behind them. No one was following, but it wouldn’t be long until they did. He pulled on her arm and felt her sag to the ground, her eyes suddenly cloudy from exhaustion. Taniel swung his musket onto his shoulder and then lifted Ka-poel in his arms, continuing to run.
The hill grew steeper, and Taniel soon found himself climbing more than running. He was forced to set Ka-poel on a large rock in the scree and pause to rest, turning to look at the valley.
They weren’t being chased.
The entire Kez camp was in an uproar. Brother fought brother. A weak Privileged was slinging sorcery in a panic. Wardens were trying to restore order by killing “ringleaders” in a perceived uprising among the troops – it only added to the chaos.
All because of Ka-poel’s dolls.
Taniel uncorked his powder horn and poured a measure onto the back of his hand. He snorted it. The immediate danger may have passed, but the Kez could still send infantry or even riders after them. There’d be no getting away if they did. He could feel fatigue circling him, like a pack of wolves around a wounded deer. The burning flame of his powder trance would go out soon. No amount of fuel would keep it going, and then he would be useless.
He and Ka-poel would need to walk the steepest part of the scree north for over three miles to get even with the Adran camp.
Then there was the matter of the traitor Hilanska.
Near the front line, the chaos seemed the least pronounced, and plenty of the Kez soldiers were still watching as Kresimir and Mihali spoke alone between the camps. The two gods faced each other, no more than a few feet apart. Taniel would have given a fair amount to read their lips. Neither seemed to notice or care about the confusion in the Kez camp.
Mihali reached out, resting a hand on Kresimir’s shoulder.
Kresimir shrugged it off.
Mihali spread his hands in a calming gesture. Kresimir raised one hand in the air, pointing at the sky, shouting something.
Mihali kept speaking. His lips barely moved and his face was serene.
It was several minutes that Mihali spoke. Much to Taniel’s surprise, Kresimir seemed to listen. The god’s hand fell to his side.
Back at the camp, chaos continued. Ka-poel’s floating dolls had dwindled to no more than a few dozen. She sat up, looking haggard and bruised, but a victorious smile played on her lips. Her attention seemed to be focused on the last dolls, and they were not disappearing as quickly as the earlier ones. She was fighting hard to keep those last few puppets alive.
Taniel watched the two gods. Kresimir and Mihali had edged closer to each other. Mihali was pointing to his opposite hand as if explaining something. Kresimir listened, brow furrowed.
Mihali appeared to finish his explanation.
Kresimir shook his head adamantly.
Mihali frowned. A sad smile crept onto his face and he opened his arms.
Taniel suddenly felt his heart beating faster. He lifted his musket to his shoulder and sighted down the barrel at Kresimir. Two miles. Not a hard shot for him, but the bullet was a regular ball and it would take far too long to reach Kresimir. Taniel could only provide a distraction.
Kresimir suddenly threw his arms wide. For a brief moment, he looked as if he was ready to embrace his brother.
Taniel clutched his hands to his face and stumbled back, falling to the ground as a light brighter than a thousand suns erupted from Kresimir. Taniel braced himself, waiting for a shock wave and the deafening boom of an explosion.
Neither came. The light blazed on so brightly that though Taniel covered his face, he still felt as if he was staring into the heart of the sun.
A hand touched him. He reached out, grabbing Ka-poel. What did she see? Was there anything to see? She had to be as blind as he was. He pulled her to him and clutched her to his chest, trying to protect her eyes from the blaze. Sweet gods, what was this sorcery?
Taniel felt the brightness begin to fade after what seemed an eternity. Fear crept through him when he opened his eyes and saw nothing. Had he been blinded?
It must have been twenty minutes before shapes began to manifest themselves in his vision. He blinked rapidly, trying to dispel pools of color, trying to grasp what he’d just seen. That blaze – so bright and intense, but without heat or sound. Not an explosion.
Taniel tried to recall his knowledge of Privileged sorcery. What had Kresimir done?
Slowly, it dawned on him.
Kresimir had opened the Else itself to the world.
Taniel’s returning sight began to show him that both the Kez and Adran camps were in chaos now. It seemed that no one could see. Hundreds of thousands of men crept on their hands and knees, wailing and crying out.
In the center of the field, positioned between the two camps, Kresimir stood alone. Mihali was completely gone, not even ash where he’d once stood. Kresimir’s mouth was open, his face frozen in a silent scream.
Taniel watched as Kresimir’s shoulders slumped. Kresimir stared blindly for a moment at the spot where Mihali had been. Then the god dropped to his knees and wept.
Taniel sagged against the mountainside, overcome with exaustion, his body racked with the pain of his wounds. A few minutes passed in silence before he looked down at his bloody, vomit-stained shirt. There was a rushing sound in his ears, and his hands shook with sudden excitement.
“Pole,” he said. “My shirt is soaked with Kresimir’s blood.”
Adamat couldn’t take his eyes off Lord Claremonte as he finished his speech. He’d worked the crowd perfectly. There weren’t cheers or shouts – no, not even Claremonte would have expected that.
There were grumbles. Murmurs of discontent. Someone near Adamat told the woman next to him that Claremonte had a point. A rising sense of indignation washed through the assembled masses, and Adamat knew that Claremonte had convinced them. Maybe not all of them. Maybe not now. But the few screams of protest when Claremonte’s Privileged destroyed the Kresim Cathedral had been stifled quickly.
All up and down the Ad, Brudanian soldiers pushed their longboats up onto the riverbank and disembarked. At quick glance they seemed to be working in teams of about fifteen, each one accompanied by a Privileged. They carried bayoneted muskets and barrels of black powder, and Adamat saw the first team reach a church on the other side of the Ad and begin pushing people away.
They were preparing it for demolition.
If Adamat wasn’t so horrified he’d be impressed. Claremonte had arrived with reinforcements and supplies, given a brilliant speech for his ministerial candidacy, and now he was setting about destroying the religious buildings of Adro. He’d taken the horror of the people – the fear of the Brudanians invading the capital – and turned it on its head. Everyone would be so relieved that Claremonte was not pillaging the city that he could do just about anything he wanted.
Adamat wasn’t a religious man by any stretch, but he wanted to rush to the nearest church and stop the soldiers from destroying it.
These were historical icons, some of them close to a thousand years old! He had the feeling that any move to stop the soldiers would see him killed.
Less than forty paces away, Claremonte’s longboat was pushed onto the bank. Ricard was already hurrying toward it, his assistants and bodyguards following cautiously. Adamat shouted at him to stop.
A sailor helped Claremonte onto the muddy ground and then up the shore and onto the street.
Adamat knew from the set of Ricard’s shoulders that he was about to do something stupid.
“Fell! Grab him!”
It was too late. Ricard cocked his fist back and punched Claremonte in the nose, dropping him like a sack of potatoes.
Brudanian soldiers surged forward, and Claremonte’s Privileged raised a gloved hand, fingers held together as if about to snap them. Adamat’s heart leapt into his throat.
“Stop!” Claremonte climbed to his feet. He laid a calming hand on the Privileged’s arm. “No need for violence,” he said, holding his nose with two fingers.
“What the pit do you think you’re doing?” Ricard demanded, cocking his arm back as if about to swing again.
“Doing?” Claremonte said as he tilted his head back to keep his nose from bleeding. “I’m running for First Minister of Adro. You are Ricard Tumblar, I presume?”
“Yes,” Ricard said icily.
Claremonte stuck his hand out. “Lord Claremonte. It’s a delight to meet you.”
“That delight,” Ricard said, “is not shared.”
“Well, that is too bad.” Claremonte let his hand drop. “I assumed we were friends!”
“Why would you assume that?”
“Because,” Claremonte said, “you brought out half the city to greet me and hear my speech. That’s the kind of thing friends do.” Claremonte’s smile had dropped on one side – only slightly, but it now came across as a leer. His eyes swept past Ricard and Fell and over the other union bosses and came to rest on Adamat. The corner of his mouth lifted back into a full smile. “Really,” he said, still speaking to Ricard, “I must thank you for that. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an election to win.”
Tamas felt the familiar jolt and rocking of a carriage as he fought his way back to consciousness.
It brought a panic in him. Where was he being taken? Who was driving the carriage? Where were his men?
Memory of the battle outside of Alvation, of finding Nikslaus’s body, and of trying to stop the explosion of thousands of pounds of gunpowder all came back to Tamas at once.
He was on his back, and when he opened his eyes, he stared up at the roof of a stagecoach. It was light outside, so he must have been out for some time. The air was cool and thin, and that brought another wave of worry to Tamas’s muddled mind. Was it winter? Had he been out for months?
His arms wouldn’t move on his command. After fighting down yet more panic, he decided that yes, his arms could move but they were restrained, and it was a struggle just to shift. Had he been taken captive by the Kez?
The first face that Tamas saw was not one he expected.
It belonged to an ebony-skinned Deliv man with gray hair curled tight against his scalp. He wore a kelly-green Deliv uniform without epaulets or insignia. The man leaned over Tamas, regarding him contemplatively.
“Good. You’re awake. The doctors were beginning to think you might be out indefinitely. We’re almost to the summit.”
Tamas closed his eyes again. Perhaps his mind was too foggy to hear correctly. Had the Deliv said “summit”?
“Who the bloody pit are you?” Tamas asked. The face seemed familiar in a long-absent way, like a painting seen above a mantelpiece or a figure from his childhood. One of Sabon’s relatives? No, he didn’t look a thing like Sabon.
The Deliv bowed his head. “I am Deliv.”
“I said who are you, not where are you from. Bloody fool.” Tamas’s brain pounded inside his skull like a military parade. He flexed his fingers and tested his bonds. Wait. He didn’t have any bonds. Then why couldn’t he move? He lifted his head and looked down at the tight-fitting blanket wrapped around his chest.
A little wiggling and Tamas was able to pull his arms free. He pushed the blanket aside and sat up.
He was wearing his spare uniform – at least, he thought it was his spare. This one wasn’t soiled from the battle outside Alvation.
The carriage came to a stop suddenly, pitching Tamas to one side. The Deliv reached out a hand to steady him. Tamas waved him off.
“What do you mean, ‘summit’?” he asked.
The door to the carriage opened to reveal Olem standing outside. He snapped to attention and his face split into a grin at the sight of Tamas.
“Sir! Glad to see you awake. How is your head?”
Tamas felt a wave of relief. He was still in the hands of his own men, it seemed, and Olem was still armed. He cast a glance toward the Deliv and stepped out of the carriage.
“Feels like I was thrown off the top of Sablethorn and landed on my face,” Tamas said.
He looked to either side and noted they were in the mountains. Well, that explained “the summit.”
“Are we past the Alvation Mountainwatch?”
“We’ve passed the first Mountainwatch post, sir.” Olem pointed up the path. “The main Alvation Mountainwatch fortress is up ahead. We’ll spend the night there before resuming the march.”
Tamas felt emotions flow over him like the surf on a windy day. His legs were already weak, and news that he was already on Adran soil nearly made him fall. He pushed away Olem’s offered hand and began to walk up the path. He thought through the calculations in his head. This time of year the pass would be quite clear and likely dry. They could descend back onto the Adran plains and head toward Surkov’s Alley. They’d be back defending the country in a week and a half of hard march.
“Sir, you should continue to rest.”
“I can walk fine,” Tamas said, though his legs had more than a little wobble to them and his head was dizzy. Up ahead, the Alvation Mountainwatch fortress looked tall and imposing. The doors had been thrown open, and Mountainwatchers were cheering at the soldiers marching up the pass. “The fresh air will do me good. Now report. How long have I been out?”
“Two days, sir.”
“The battle?”
“It went…” – Olem hesitated – ”well enough.”
“Our losses?”
Olem plucked a cigarette from his the curl of his jacket cuff and stuck it in his mouth without lighting it. “We have less than two thousand men in fighting condition left between the Seventh and the Ninth.”
“That’s it?” Tamas came to a stop and turned to Olem. He looked back down the path and noted that their baggage train led far beyond his sight. Where had that come from? They’d not had a baggage train in their march north.
“Gavril?”
“Recovered by Demasolin.”
Tamas felt relief wash over him. “My powder mages?”
“Vidaslav took a bayonet to the stomach. We don’t know if he’ll survive. Leone was killed defending Vlora from a Warden.”
“And Vlora?” Tamas felt his heart stop.
“She’s wounded, but alive.”
Tamas sagged against Olem. It was several moments before he regained his composure and stepped away.
He noticed that the old man from the carriage was following them up the path.
“How are we going to make a dent in the Kez army in Adro with just two thousand men?” Tamas asked. He couldn’t help the annoyance in his voice when he jerked his head at the old Deliv and said, “And who the pit is this?”
Olem took his cigarette out of his mouth and twirled it between his fingers. “Please excuse the field marshal,” he said to the old Deliv. “He’s not in his right mind.”
The Deliv seemed amused by this. “I hope he gets into his right mind before we go up against the Kez.” He bowed his head. “I am Deliv,” he said, “but you may call me Sulem the Ninth.”
&nb
sp; Sulem the…“Oh. My lord.” Tamas inclined his head, shaking off the urge to drop to one knee. His mouth had gone dry. Sulem IX, king of Deliv, and Tamas had sworn at him for being a bloody fool in the carriage. “I meant no offense. I didn’t realize…”
“None taken, Field Marshal.” The king raised an eyebrow and glanced toward the ground as if expecting Tamas to kneel, but did not pursue the idea further.
Tamas didn’t know what to say. How much did the king know? Why was he here, marching along with Tamas and a brand-new baggage train?
“I’m sorry, my lord,” Tamas said, “but I am very much out of touch. I’m not sure what has gone on in the days while I was out.”
The king clasped his hands behind his back. “Colonel,” he said to Olem, “do you mind if I give your report?”
“Not at all, Your Eminence.”
“Shall we?” the king asked, extending his arm toward the fortress rising above them.
“Yes,” Tamas said.
They continued walking up the mountain road, past the remnants of Tamas’s cavalry, with Olem trailing a few feet behind.
The Deliv king said, “Let me tell you how things have come from my side, and then later you can finish your conversation with Colonel Olem. I came to Alvation expecting an Adran army, but instead found two. The day after your battle with Duke Nikslaus’s troops was a little confusing, but between my generals and your Colonel Olem and Colonel Arbor, everything got sorted out.” Sulem paused for a moment.
“I’m sorry for Alvation, my lord,” Tamas said.
“Sorry? What for? You saved a Deliv city, Tamas. I am greatly in your debt.”
“The gunpowder?”
“You and your powder mages stopped it before too much damage could be dealt. There were casualties, of course, but the city remains and with it a debt of gratitude.”
“I see” – Tamas glanced over his shoulder at the baggage train – ”that you’ve supplied us for our journey. For that, I am grateful.”
There was a twinkle in Sulem’s eye, and for the first time since the carriage, a smile crept onto the old king’s face. “Supplies and more,” he said.
“More?”
“Field Marshal,” Sulem said, “this is the vanguard. We’re coming over the mountains with fifty thousand men. There would be more if I hadn’t sent the better part of my army down the Great Northern Road into Kez. You have my soldiers at your service, and I intend to see you through this war. The kind of treachery plotted by Nikslaus and Ipille does not befit a brother king.” Sulem’s smile disappeared, his voice gaining a dangerous edge. “You may have sent Manhouch to the guillotine, and I do not approve, but Ipille made an attack upon my people.”
The Crimson Campaign Page 55
