The Crimson Campaign

Chapter 22

Tamas judged he had two hours before night fell and the Kez dragoons would be close enough to scout his position.

The sound of his soldiers chopping great trees on the edge of the Hune Dora Forest echoed across the floodplains, and teams of men dragged the trees by hand across the dusty grassland to where Tamas had decided to make his stand. Closer, the scrape of a thousand shovels on sandy dirt made Tamas’s skin crawl. He hated that sound. It felt like someone scraping a nail across his molars.

He found Andriya cleaning his rifle down near the river. The Marked’s belt had become decorated with squirrel tails over the last few days. He didn’t have the same look as the rest of the soldiers. His cheeks were slightly rounded from eating well and his face lacked the lines of exhaustion.

His eyes, though, betrayed him. They were wide and bright, shifting constantly. Like the rest of Tamas’s mages, Andriya had been floating in a powder trance for weeks running. It was a terribly dangerous thing to do. Going powder blind could see any of the mages dizzy, disoriented, unconscious, or even dead.

“I’d back off on the powder, soldier,” Tamas said gently.

Andriya looked him up and down. His lips twisted, and for a moment Tamas thought Andriya would snap at him.

“Right, sir,” Andriya said. “Probably should.”

“Where is Vlora?”

Andriya shrugged. Tamas couldn’t help but wonder where the discipline was going in his army.

“What was that?”

“Don’t know, sir.”

“Find her.”

“She won’t talk to you, sir.”

“Come again, soldier?”

“She said – and of course, I’m only quoting – that you could go to the pit.”

Tamas inhaled sharply. This wouldn’t do. This wouldn’t do at all. He quickly thought over his options. He could have her flogged. Had a regular soldier said something like that to him, he wouldn’t have hesitated. Vlora was… was what? Another time, he might have thought she was kin. But she’d made it clear that was no longer the case.

Besides, a public flogging on the eve of a major battle? He rolled his eyes to himself. That would help morale.

He could give her a public reprimand. What if she defied him? He’d have no choice but to impose more severe punishment. With her temper, he might have to have her hanged.

“Get the powder cabal together,” Tamas said. “I’ve got assignments for you. Tell Vlora to be there.”

Andriya saluted and went about cleaning his rifle. Tamas headed toward the bonfires to find something to eat.

The soldiers had been organized into lines. Olem stood at the head of the lines along with the better part of his Riflejacks – all trusted men that could keep the infantry in line. The last of the horsemeat was distributed quickly as soldiers approached with their pewter dishes.

The camp was coming together even as work continued on Tamas’s preparations. Tents were pitched, small fires made. Parties were sent out to forage the woods or fish the river. Fights broke out and were quickly put down, only to start up again somewhere else. Food seemed to be the main instigator as soldiers tried to get in line for seconds. The meat might keep them going through the night, but morale was low, and the food wouldn’t last through tomorrow.

“Sir.”

Andriya’s voice broke through Tamas’s thoughts. Nineteen men and women stood assembled before him: the entirety of his powder cabal, including the recruits Sabon had managed to gather before his death.

“We’re running low on powder and bullets,” Tamas said without preamble. He caught sight of Vlora at the back of the group, but did not wait to hold her eye. “Tomorrow we’ll be fighting almost sixteen thousand cavalry. I’m setting a trap that should even the odds, but it’s going to be a brutal battle.”

Tamas looked around, suddenly feeling weary. His leg ached. He thought to take some powder, but stopped himself. Save it for the soldiers. He walked to a large rock and sat down, gesturing for the powder mages to be at ease. Most of them sat on the sandy ground. Vlora remained standing, her arms crossed. Tamas ignored her.

“I’m going to redistribute bullets and powder among the men so that you have enough for the next twenty-four hours. Your first job: do not let Kez scouts get within a half mile of us. Do not let them take the high ground along the mountain.” He pointed east to the slope of the Adran Mountains. “Do not let them see what we’re up to. The life of every soldier depends on this.

“However,” he went on, “I want them to see we’re doing something. A little digging. Preparations and rafts. Perhaps trying to rebuild the bridge. Every so often, let one of their scouts get closer, and then let him get away with a bullet in the arm, or something equally convincing.”

“Tomorrow should be much of the same. I expect Beon to attack as soon as his cuirassiers arrive. He knows an opportunity when he sees one, and he never hesitates to take it.”

“And if he senses the trap?” Andriya asked.

“Then we cross the river tomorrow night, and deal with Beon on the other side of the Fingers.” Tamas had a very good feeling that would not be the case. Beon needed to stop them now. The farther north they got, the better chance they had of finding succor in Deliv and crossing back into Adro. Tamas prayed that would spur on Beon. He dreaded the idea of facing the Kez on the open plains of the Northern Expanse.

“We’ll have teams,” Tamas said. “Nine and three. Nine on watch, killing Kez scouts, and three resting.”

“We don’t need rest,” Andriya said. He grinned at Tamas. His crooked teeth were stained yellow. “We just need powder.”

Tamas held his hand up toward Andriya. “You’ll have your time to kill Kez,” he said. “You all need some rest tonight.”

It was perhaps six o’clock, and the hot sun burned red over the Amber Expanse to the west. Tamas wondered if the coming night would be his last in this world.

The Kez outnumbered him. He was growing old. Not as fast or as sharp as he’d once been. Beon might see through the trap and outmaneuver him, or circle at a distance, content to pick off Tamas’s troops until Tamas made it across the river, then head west around the Fingers and wait for Tamas on the Northern Expanse.

Had it been a mistake to order Gavril to destroy the bridge?

“Sir?”

Tamas jolted out of his reverie. The powder mages were gone, all but Vlora. For a moment he imagined she was a little girl again – ten years old – seeking his approval. The sun had sunk in the western sky and the camp was completely pitched. The bonfires had burned low, all sign of the horse carcasses gone. Thousands of men worked on the floodplain while thousands more chopped trees on the edge of the Hune Dora Forest.

“Where are they?”

“Sir?”

“The powder mages.”

Vlora had a hint of worry in her eyes. “You dismissed them over an hour ago. Told me to stay.”

“And you’ve been waiting this whole time?”

“You seemed preoccupied.”

Tamas took a shaky breath. He suddenly remembered dismissing Andriya and the rest of the mages, but it was like looking back in time through a thick fog.

Getting old indeed.

“Have you been eating, sir?”

Tamas’s stomach growled. “I had some horsemeat earlier.”

“I was watching you, sir. You didn’t take anything when you went to check on the bonfires.”

“I’m sure I did.”

Vlora dug in her belt, then handed him a white tuber. “Found these truffles in the forest yesterday. You should eat. Take them, Tamas.”

Tamas put out a hand reluctantly and she dropped them there.

He hesitated, staring at the truffles. Truffles grown in forests of the Adran Mountains were delicacies in most of the Nine. They were small and pale-cream colored. He’d never much liked truffles.

“Thank you,” he said.

Vlora leaned on her rifle, staring over toward the forest. He gazed at the side of her face. He’d watched her grow from a fledgling powder mage into a capable soldier, one of his best. She was strong, with a beauty that the years would dim but never fully diminish. He felt a pang of loss, once again, that this girl would never bear him a grandson. He looked again at the truffles in his hand.

“What I said, Tamas – sir, I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way. Not in front of the men.”

“No, you shouldn’t have.”

Vlora stiffened. “I’ll accept whatever reprimand you see fit.”

Tamas didn’t know his heart was capable of breaking. Not after all these years. He took a deep breath. “You’re a grown woman. Olem is a good man. He’ll make you happy.”

She seemed surprised by this. But not in the way Tamas expected. “He’s just another man,” she said. “Someone to warm the nights.” She closed her eyes. “We’re soldiers. Tomorrow, one of us might be dead. Even if we both survive the battle, we’ll move on and find others. It’s the life we’ve chosen.” Her eyes opened again and she looked across the camp. “All of us.”

Ah. What every soldier knew so well. Lovers were brief, passion burning like a candle – hot at the center and easily doused. It was too hard to keep the flame kindled longer than a season or a campaign. “It can be a lonely life,” Tamas agreed.

“You think we can win tomorrow?” Vlora asked.

Tamas looked toward the forest. At his soldiers going about their tasks. They were dragging trees across the floodplains now, toward the camp. The sound of billhooks hitting wood carried in the night. A rifle fired somewhere. Soldiers foraging, or powder mages scaring off Kez scouts?

“I think we can win every battle,” Tamas said. “This… this will be difficult. The whole fulcrum of my plan could topple if the Kez catch too good a look at my preparations. We are low on powder and bullets, and the men are half-starved. We have to win tomorrow, or we’ll die here.”

He felt cold suddenly, despite the heat, and very old.

“I don’t want to die here, sir,” Vlora said. She hugged her rifle.

“Neither do I.”

“Sir.”

“Yes?”

“Gavril… he said you buried someone beside the Little Finger, long ago. Who was it?”

Tamas felt himself whisked away. Felt the spray of the raging river on his face, the mud and blood caked on his fingers from digging a grave by hand.

He forced himself to stand, trying not to favor his bad leg. It needed the exercise. “I’ve buried countless friends. More enemies. Kin, and those close enough they might as well be. I want to see Adro again. I want to know if my son survived his ordeals. But before then, there is a lot of work to do. That is all, Captain. Dismissed.”

Taniel sat brooding in his quarters, watching out the window as a line of wagons carried wounded soldiers away from the front. He thought about opening the window and asking how the battle was going. But he already had a guess: badly. This lot had probably taken a mortar round – their wounds were bloody and varied, and by their uniforms they were all from the same company.

General Ket had sent him to an inn about five miles behind the line, under guard twenty-four hours a day. It seemed like weeks since Ket had given Taniel her ultimatum. He knew it had been a single night.

The provosts had demanded to know where Ka-poel was. Taniel had shrugged and told them to stuff it, but inside he’d worried about what they’d do when they caught her. Had they been given orders to give her a beating like the one they’d given Taniel? Or worse? Without dolls of them, would Ka-poel be able to fend off the provosts?

General Ket had come by his quarters early this morning to tell him that every day he refused to apologize to Major Doravir was another day that men died on the line.

Taniel would be up there now if it weren’t for General Ket. He wouldn’t let her convince him it was his fault that the line was being pushed back again.

Outside his window, Taniel caught sight of a young man. It was a boy, really. Couldn’t have been more than fifteen. His leg had been taken off at the knee. Whether by a cannonball or a surgeon, Taniel didn’t know, but he was struck by the calm on the boy’s face. While men three times his age wailed over any number of flesh wounds, the boy sat stoically in the back of a wagon, his stump hanging off the edge, watching serenely while a fresh group of conscripts were sent to the front.

Taniel lifted his sketchbook and began to outline the boy’s face.

A knock sounded at the door. Taniel ignored it, wanting to give the boy’s portrait some shape so that he could finish it later.

He’d almost forgotten there even had been a knock, when it sounded again. The wagon outside was moving on, and the wounded boy with it. Taniel dropped his sketchbook on the table and went to the door.

He was surprised to find Mihali there. The big chef held a silver platter aloft in one hand, a towel over the opposite arm. His apron was dirty with flour and what looked like smudges of chocolate.

“Sorry to bother you,” Mihali said, sweeping past Taniel. Two provosts followed the chef inside. One held a folding table, the other a bottle of wine. “Right there,” Mihali told them. “Next to the window. Now some privacy, please.”

The provosts grumbled, setting up the table and then retreating into the hallway.

“Sit,” Mihali instructed, pointing at the only chair in the room. He deposited himself on the edge of the bed.

“What’s this?” Taniel asked.

“Dinner.” Mihali swept the lid off the silver tray. “Braised side of beef with quail’s egg quiche and sweet goat cheese, and served with a red wine. Nothing fancy, I’m afraid, but the wine is a lovely ’forty-seven and has been chilled.”

Nothing fancy? The smell rising from the platter made Taniel shudder with pleasure. His mouth watered immediately, and he found himself at the table unable to remember sitting down, with a piece of beef already on his fork. He paused. “May I?”

“Please, please,” Mihali encouraged. He popped the wine cork and poured two glasses.

It was a little unnerving that Mihali watched him while he ate, but Taniel quickly learned to ignore the chef’s presence and was soon reaching for seconds.

“What,” Taniel asked, eyeing Mihali, who was on his third glass of wine, “is the occasion?”

Mihali poured Taniel another glass. “Occasion? Does there need to be an occasion to eat well?”

“I thought so.”

Mihali shook his head. “I heard they’d relegated you to quarters and were feeding you soldier’s rations. That qualifies as a war crime in my book.”

“Ah.” Taniel smiled, but couldn’t be sure that Mihali was actually joking. He leaned forward, taking his wineglass, and noted that the wine bottle was still full after, what, five glasses between the two of them? Perhaps Mihali had a second bottle hidden somewhere.

“I have a letter for you,” Mihali said, removing an envelope from his apron.

Taniel paused, a fork halfway to his mouth. “From?” he mumbled around a mouthful of quail’s egg.

“Colonel Etan.”

Taniel tossed his fork down and snatched the letter. He tore it open and ran his eyes over the contents. When he was finished, he pushed his chair back and took a deep breath. He wasn’t hungry anymore, not even for Mihali’s food.

“What is it?” Mihali asked.

“None of your…” Taniel swallowed his retort. Mihali had come all this way from the front with a full meal, and delivered a letter that would likely not have reached Taniel otherwise. The chef deserved his thanks, not his anger. “I asked Colonel Etan to pull the quartermaster records regarding black-powder use in the army.”

“Oh?”

“He also pulled requisition orders. They don’t match up. The army has requisitioned three times as much powder as they’ve used, and nearly twice what has actually reached the front line.”

“It’s getting lost somewhere?” Mihali asked.

“More likely stolen. Corruption’s not unheard of in any army, even ours, but Tamas cracks down on it hard during wartime. These records” – he tossed the envelope on his bed – “mean that the quartermasters are in on it. And at least one member of the General Staff. Someone is making millions off this war.”

“As you said,” Mihali responded, “it’s not unheard of.”

“But powder… we’ll run out quickly at this rate. The whole country, and then it doesn’t matter how much better our troops are, we’ll be ground beneath Kez’s heel. Damn it!” Taniel drummed his fingers on the silver platter in front of him. He wanted to throw it across the room, but there was still a bit of beef left. “Can you get me out of here?”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think so,” Mihali said with a sigh. “As I told you before, the General Staff doesn’t listen to a word I say.” Mihali patted his belly. “Tamas – now he has an ear for good sense, even if he is mistrustful of the person giving it. These generals can’t see past the ends of their noses.”

Taniel leaned back and sipped his wine. Something about Mihali’s steady tone and unruffled attitude helped calm his nerves. “They’re some of the best in the Nine, believe it or not.” To his surprise, there was no grudge in his tone. “Though I can’t say that speaks well for Adro, or against the rest of the Nine.”

Mihali chuckled. “That certainly explains why we haven’t lost yet. Despite being so heavily outnumbered.”

“How is it going on the front?” Taniel asked. “I mean, I can see…” He gestured out the window, the memory of the wagons full of dead and wounded still fresh. “But I’ve had no real news for two days.”

“Not well. We lost almost a mile yesterday.” Mihali’s face grew serious. “You were about to change things, you know. Stopping that advance last week gave the men their first victory in months. They had heart. I could sense it. They would have charged after you, right down Kresimir’s throat.”

“Pit. I have to get out of here. Back on the front. And I need to find out who’s profiteering off our black powder.”

“How?”

“I’ll strangle every quartermaster in the army until one tells me. You’re sure you can’t get me released?”

“Most of the General Staff doesn’t even believe I’m a god. To them, I’m a mad chef. The only way you’ll get out of here, Taniel, is if you apologize to Major Doravir.”

Taniel stood up and went to the window. “Absolutely not.”

“Don’t pit your pride against General Ket’s,” Mihali said. “That woman makes Brude look humble.”

Brude. One of the saints – er, gods. Taniel watched Mihali down a fourth glass of wine out of the corner of his eye. It was easy to forget what Mihali was. After all, one would expect a god to look, and act, as grand as any king. Not dribble wine out of the corner of his mouth and then clean it up with a shirtsleeve.

“What can I do?” Taniel asked. He wondered if Mihali had given advice to his father. He couldn’t imagine Tamas soliciting advice from a chef, even if he did believe that Mihali was a god.

“Apologize to Doravir.”

Taniel blew air out through his nose.

“I can’t see much,” Mihali said quietly, looking into his wineglass. “The future is always moving, always blurry, even to those with the vision to see it. What I can see is that if you stay in this room, we’ll continue to lose ground every day. The Kez will push us out of the valley and surround us, eventually forcing a surrender. Or we’ll run out of powder, and the same will happen.”

Taniel scoffed. “I’m just one man. I can’t make that much of a difference.”

“One man always makes a difference. Sometimes it’s a small one. Other times, he tips a war. And you… you’re not human. Not anymore.”

“Oh? Then what am I?” Taniel asked. Mihali made less and less sense as he continued to speak.

“Hmm,” Mihali said. “I don’t think there’s a word for it. After all, you’re the first of your kind. You’ve become like Julene.”

Taniel heard his own sharp intake of breath. “I’m not a Predeii.”

“No. Not precisely. You’re not immortal, after all. Then again, neither is Julene. She’s just ageless. I don’t think your sorcery would ever let you become ageless. Even with Ka-poel’s help. But you’re the powder-mage equivalent of a Predeii.”

“This is ridiculous. Where is Ka-poel?”

“Hiding. I offered her my protection – with some reservations, of course. That girl makes my skin crawl. She didn’t accept it. I might need her help at some point, though.”

Taniel rubbed his temples.

“Another glass of wine?”

“I think I’ve had enough.”

“Suit yourself.” Mihali poured himself another one. His cheeks were flushed, but other than that there was no sign he’d drunk seven glasses. The wine bottle, Taniel noted, was still full.

“You said that you can see a little of the future,” Taniel said. “If I apologize to Major Doravir, what then?”

Mihali stared into his wineglass. “Motion. That’s what I see. It’s a small event, but it stirs things up. It makes the certain uncertain. And right now, the certain does not bode well for us.”

Taniel snatched a quill pen and took the back of Etan’s letter. Quickly, ink smudging the page, he scrawled out a note. “Can you get this to Ricard Tumblar?” he asked. “I can’t send it regular post. If someone on the General Staff is profiteering, they’ll have eyes everywhere.”

“I can send one of my girls,” Mihali said, taking the letter.

“Thank you. Do you know where can I find Major Doravir?”

“As it happens… yes.”