Devil of the 22nd

by Richard Nell

  He clenched his jaw and watched the doubt splayed all over her face—the logical, justifiable, and completely accurate disbelief. Yet he saw, too, a spreading lack of confidence. She wants to believe me, he decided. Amazing. Unbelievable!

  “The Emperor sent me here to bring him a demon,” she said at last. “And I’ve failed.”

  “No you haven’t.” Kurt leaned forward as close as he could. “Tell him a loyal soldier of the imperium holds it for him. A loyal man, on the edge of empire. Tell him it was your idea, if you wish.”

  “Come with me, then, we’ll tell him together.”

  “I will. But not yet.” He gestured around the room as if it represented the valley. “If I leave these men I don’t know what they’ll do.” He pointed at the ugly bruise covering Clara’s left cheek. “You see how they are, left to their own devices. I can’t just leave, or the emperor’s army will vanish like smoke, and plunder his lands.”

  She touched her face absently and nodded.

  “So you’ll let me go and report to him? And then what?”

  “Then whatever he says. If he gives me orders, formal orders, I’m his to command as I’ve always been.”

  She shook her head. “There are rules now. The republic commands the army in the Emperor’s name. He’s giving them time.”

  “How much bloody time? The republic is a weak, useless mob of rich men. They’re like dogs that have finally caught their tails. And while they figure out what to do with it the country suffers.”

  She nodded and looked away. Of course she agreed. She worked for the imperial family.

  Kurt waited. He had no idea what she’d say, and he was lost and captured in the wonder of her belief, of this new world where monsters with magic powers existed, and maybe weren’t so monstrous.

  “I’ll speak to him,” she said at last, after a deep, and formal breath. “Perhaps knowing the Eastern army is with him will…change the dynamic.”

  Kurt smiled to stop from howling, and lifted the brandy to fill her glass.

  “His army will be here, safe and fortified, protecting his borders from savages. Tell him I’ll come, if he calls.” He met her eyes, trying to look vulnerable, apologetic—he even risked reaching across the table to cover one of her hands. “I’m sorry about the way I’ve been, and the creature. I only hope I live long enough now to be of use. I want you to know—if it’s just you who calls, I’ll still come. I owe you that.”

  Her lips tightened and her hand stilled, but she didn’t pull it away.

  “Alright, Kurt. I’ll get in touch with my contact in the Vandian scribes. They might know of a way to help you, or move the creature, or…I don’t know. But if you’ll do as I say?” Her brow raised, and he nodded somberly. “Then I’ll help you.”

  Kurt took back his hand and lifted the covering over the pork. He felt the demon’s hunger instantly. Our hunger? Doesn’t matter. His mouth watered and he refrained from shoving the first piece in with his hands.

  “Well. I’m not dead yet. At least we can enjoy tonight.”

  Clara nodded, providing at least a polite smile.

  ‘Cow? Is it cow?’

  “Close enough,” Kurt whispered with a hand over his mouth. As a soldier all his life he had learned to ignore the taste of food out of necessity. But maybe secure in the valley he could indulge. And anyway, one night wouldn’t hurt. He closed his eyes and felt the demon’s pleasure as he took a large, glorious bite.

  * * *

  In the morning, Kurt gave Clara a fine horse loaded down with supplies, and sent five guards to escort her safely home.

  “I’ll hurry,” she said, noticing his pretend headache.

  “I’ll be waiting.” He squinted, as if bleary eyed with the pain, then watched for several long minutes as she rode away down the new and rather hastily built road. As he did he felt perhaps a small pang of regret in not trying to seduce her the night before. But, no, it would have been too far. She’d have put a knife in my eye, that one. One mustn’t push one’s luck. Not even me.

  “Message.”

  Kurt’s camp-guards stepped aside as Rald muscled forward and flipped open a parchment.

  “To Sergeant Torsten. I’ll be sending enough gold to triple your efforts. I want new letters of recruitment posted in every Eastern province. Offer them land, and assistance with their travel, and with homesteading. New message.”

  Another young man stepped forward.

  “Send letters to every known location of the Southern and Northern armies. Tell anyone who will listen that the East army can feed, house and supply as many loyal men as they have left. Tell them to make their way here, or to Sergeant Torsten. Where’s Captain Harmon?”

  “In the Bazaar, I believe, sir.”

  Kurt raised an eyebrow, and the young man reddened.

  “The merchant stalls, sir, that’s what they’re calling them. The camp follower’s market, I mean.”

  Kurt nodded and took up his usual pace, bodyguards and messengers on his heels. He supposed now was as good a time as any to further test his newfound ‘powers’.

  The ‘bazaar’ had already expanded beyond any single gathering of merchants in the previous camp. Most of the families were Keevish born, but others came from surrounding cities and nations and perhaps only stayed with the army for a time before moving on. Successful armies always had more followers, and no doubt the whispers of slave-trade profits would keep these merchants here for months now. Kurt grinned. Just wait until they hear about the gold.

  Wagons and other temporary or movable stalls had been set up in rows and circles, with a soldier-enforced route through the center. Life and trade and noise surrounded it. Prostitutes sat chatting with merchant’s wives, their children playing together, or just as often helped shout out their family’s wares. Kurt knew very little about civilians. He found them soft, whiny cowards, with all the foibles of a soldier’s baser instincts, but with none of their discipline.

  He intentionally avoided interacting with them, but he understood his reputation as a leader of the East army, and as the bringer of good and sometimes terrible things. To those whose lives and well-being depended on soldiers, no doubt ‘Kurt the Devil’ was thought of much like rain—necessary, and vital, but capable of drowning you. Such a reputation would only be magnified by his aloofness, he supposed, and by his lack of interest, familiarity or concern.

  “I’ll take two of those, please.” He approached a merchant selling what looked like mutton on sticks. The young man had obviously been watching Kurt and his precession, and now leapt to his counter as surprised as anyone else.

  “Course, sir.” He dished the morsels on a clay disc and held them out. Kurt grinned and popped one in his mouth with a wink, then raised the other in salute, flipping a coin surely worth a dozen before he turned away.

  Other vendors rushed instantly to their stalls and waved little bags of grain, or dyed cloth strips or iron tools. Kurt took the time to check each of them. He leaned forward and touched most proprietors, smiling warmly. At first he expected and perhaps found exactly what he’d presumed—greed, anxiety, surprise. But he lingered. He joked and mock-haggled before overpaying, and purchased something from every stall as his bodyguards at first watched for danger, but soon smiled at each encounter. Soon Kurt saw fuller smiles, more genuine laughs. The merchants leaned in to listen to every word, near-by families coming to watch.

  Kurt looked hard at the eyes of these strangers, these greedy animals who picked at his leavings like vultures, and felt affection. He felt like the bonfire of some ancient tribe—the warmth stoked to draw and bind strangers in the night. It seemed to grow, and grow, straight from his chest until he’d all but forgotten the act of deception, until he reveled in each handshake and greeting, in the knowledge that eager, forgiving eyes turned his way.

  When the warmth in his chest grew too hot he turned away, his bodyguard’s arms filled with trinkets and baubles, and he rounded the side of a house to block himself from view. He
staggered and propped his arm against the wall.

  “Sir?”

  His men swarmed him, the pure, impossible concern and loyalty so stark and clear in their faces.

  “I’m fine.” He waved them away, trying to control his breath.

  ‘Yes, good Other Kurt, good, but too much, too fast. Other Kurt must practice niceness. Fire warms, but fire burns.’

  Kurt nodded, panting as if he’d run two miles, the new ‘organ’ in his belly twisting and warm as if he’d eaten too much spice. But it’s not just the demon, he admitted. It was the people, too—the genuine laughter and smiles of the camp followers, the soldiers around him with earnest eyes.

  He breathed and blinked and felt emotion swelling inside his chest, a river roiling against a dam. In the eyes of his men—some he’d known for a decade, or more—and in the eyes of the camp followers he had seen something he couldn’t process. He’d seen some desperate desire for acceptance, for approval. He saw selfish things he understood and these didn’t much affect him. But he’d seen more, felt more. Maybe forgiveness? Maybe even love?

  He waved away the men’s offer of support and walked on to collect himself. And he found Harmon alone sharpening blades, perhaps ten set out delicately on clean, cloth tarp, oil and grindstones carefully placed beside a grinding wheel.

  “Sir.” His tone seemed neutral and he stayed seated and held a blade flat against the wheel as Kurt approached. But still, Kurt realized, we’re in camp. He never calls me sir in camp…

  Kurt pushed down the strange moment of weakness, and the useless knot of emotion he knew he could never untangle.

  “I’m going on another little road trip,” he said, shrugging like it didn’t matter. “If you’d like to come along.”

  Harmon ignored him at first and kept grinding. Kurt watched him and realized even after all the bloody skirmishes and melee in savage tunnels, the man hadn’t been scratched.

  “More of the emperor’s gold to rescue?” came the deep voice at last.

  “Maybe later.” Kurt waited until the big man looked up at him, then let a sly smile touch his face. “You’ve still got friends in the 4th, and the 11th, yes? The men moved to other armies a few years back?”

  “Maybe.” Harmon shrugged. “Likely all deserted by now. Spread through the borderlands.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping.”

  Harmon raised a brow, and Kurt smiled and turned away, calling over his shoulder.

  “We’re going recruiting, Captain. I’m re-building the divisions, man by bloody man if needs be.”

  At last the grinding of iron on stone halted.

  “And why the hell should we do that?”

  Harmon’s tone implied he was only curious, but he barely whispered the words.

  Kurt stopped and swept his gaze over the men and women building Pyne valley. He imagined the wooden walls replaced by angled stone to protect from cannon fire, every rock pulled from the imaginary quarry dug into the cliffs. He saw thousands of pike and musket-armed soldiers drilling in the muster-field, pulling small, mobile cannon with teams of horses, all flanked by pistoliers and tribal light cavalry—the fastest, most terrifying army in the world. When he looked back at Harmon he felt no need for any masks, and no lies crept to his lips.

  “Because…they’re our brothers, Harm. They belong with us. And because no one outside this camp is ever going to give them or us a god damn order, not while I live.”

  Harmon’s grinding wheel spun on with his blade pulled away, stone rattling in its catches. His weary eyes traced Kurt’s face.

  “Under old imperial flags? Reporting to a dead colonel? They might not like that, Old Man.”

  Kurt nodded because he’d considered this. He didn’t try to hide the pleasure he felt at his solution.

  “No. No more games. Tell the men they’ll serve under a new standard, with new uniforms and new colors.” He smiled. “Green, I was thinking. It should help hide us in the trees.”

  “Led by who?”

  “Led by Kurt Val Claus.” Kurt didn’t flinch. “General of Pyne Valley, and the 22nd.”

  Harmon met his eyes and sniffed, setting his blade carefully to rest with the others. He nodded, and stood.

  “I’ll get my kit.”

  Kurt nodded and turned away, his mind racing ahead to the future. Already he considered the new supplies and how much gold he’d need and where exactly to offer it. He walked towards his house with a busy mind full of new drills involving tribesmen and faster cannon, eventually thinking about what he’d said to Clara the night before.

  An emperor’s man.

  The lie had come easy enough. But he was glad he didn’t have to utter those words again. Not ever. Not him, nor his kin, Kurt thought. They could call a thousand times, if they liked. Kurt would lose the messages, and maybe the messengers. And the only god-cursed response he’d give, if he ever gave one, was: ‘You’re welcome. You’re welcome for twenty years of blood and death, and for defending and expanding your borders, and then for preventing your army from plundering your defenseless lands when you abandoned them. Payment can be delivered to Pyne valley, courtesy 22nd division, Pyne City, preferably in gold bars.’

  The thought made him smile. And if it offended the emperor, well, let him do something about it. Or if the ‘Republic’ figured itself out and wanted their men back, well, then let them come ask. Kurt would be ready. And in the meantime he’d make his own plans. He’d turn his beautiful little valley into a city between three empires. He’d bleed the strength of East Keevland as the brave rallied to his cause and pioneered new lands with the sweat off their brow. And soon enough, with his demon’s help, he’d recruit the enemies of the Helvati, and maybe even push his way to the borderlands and make deals with other neighbors.

  It was a new age, after all. Isn’t that what the republicans said? ‘An age of new ideas and new freedoms!’ Good. Fine. The emperor, the nobility, the republicans, the soldiers and the peasantry—everyone was free, just like those fine, rich noblemen said. Now let’s toss all the knives in the air, and may the best man bloody win.

  ‘What is feeling, Other Kurt? Is there danger? I smell nothing.’

  “Nothing’s wrong.” Kurt realized his heart was racing. “Stop bothering me. And you’re going to need a name. I’m not Other Kurt. I’m just Kurt.”

  ‘Yes, fine, but we feel…something. Something bad. Fear maybe. Fear is word, yes?’

  Kurt frowned and fought the impulse to pour a brandy. Fear. Yes, he was afraid. He shook his head and laughed, pleased at the thought of someone to always tell him the truth.

  “Sorry if I’ve disturbed you. But I’m going to gamble soon, with my life and my men’s lives, and with everything I’ve ever had. And I think maybe in a very long time,” he paused, “I care about what happens if I lose.”

  ‘Ah. Yes. Other Kurt can die. All man-hosts die eventually; Kurt will live regardless. But, winning would be better, yes? Winning, and eating, for now, that is all there is.’

  Kurt picked up his brandy and ran a thumb over the bottle, amazed at life and fortune, and the strange, magical creature lurking inside him. He had a great deal of questions for his new ‘passenger’, but they could wait. What mattered is that his strength and life of darkness had somehow surpassed the thing, mastered it, and kept him alive. Maybe it was worth it, he thought, maybe in the end it had some meaning after all.

  He looked at the blurry reflection of himself in the dirty glass of his cup, and for a moment felt no impulse to look away.

  “Yes,” he whispered, “better to win. Much better. We’ll beat them all together. The whole rotting lot. We’ll win everything there is to win,” he gripped the cup, then relaxed and smiled, “and we’ll eat everything there is to eat.”

  The demon said nothing, but deep in his gut—his new gut—Kurt felt the warm, eager glow of excitement. And maybe Kurt felt it, too.

  Hello, Dear Reader.

  If you enjoyed that, as an indie author I am eternally
grateful to anyone who takes the time to leave a review on Amazon or Goodreads, connects with me on social media, or who just tells their friends about me.

  If you’d like to read more of my work you can find a 600 page book (and the first of a three-part epic fantasy series) on Amazon, called Kings of Paradise.

  You can also check out my website here: http://www.richardnell.com/

  And if you sign up to my mailing list, you’ll be the first to know when I’m finished any new books or stories. You’ll also get the occasional freebie, and possibly occasional philosophical rant.

  Thank you very much for your support. And thank you for being a patron of the arts, and a lover of fantasy. You’re my kind of people.

  Richard Nell concerned family and friends by quitting his real job in 2014 to 'write full-time'. He is a Canadian author of fantasy, living in one of the flattest, coldest places on earth with his begrudging wife, who makes sure he eats.

  Also, although you didn’t ask, he writes fantasy because the real world can use a little sprucing up. His stories are often dark, just as reality is, plucked believably from the real vagaries of history. But there is always hope, or love, or greatness. Or at least glory. He hopes you like them.

  Visit his website here: http://www.richardnell.com

  Or contact him at: email@richardnell.com