The Crimson Campaign (56 page)

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.

“Where is Gavril?” he said in Kez.

The dragoon stared back at him.

“Where is Gavril? A big man! Where is he?”

The dragoon shook his head.

“Pit.” Tamas cleaned and sheathed his sword. “Olem, with me!”

“Sir, my horse is lame.” Olem was already dismounting. His horse was in a panic, blood streaming from a wound beneath its neck.

“Then take one of theirs!”

“The prisoners…”

“Leave them! I’ll not lose another brother in this forsaken country!”

Tamas pushed on without waiting for an answer. A while later, he looked over his shoulder to see Olem and the powder mages struggling to keep up.

The sun set on the western horizon, bathing Tamas in twilight. He kept on, the hot night air whipping his hair and jacket, drying the blood on his cheeks. His charger began to struggle, breathing hard, slowing despite his continued urging.

Olem was lost to him as darkness spread on the plateau. The eerie sound of howling brush wolves reached his ears above the whistling of the wind. His powder trance wore off, and he chewed another powder charge to bring it back again. The road passed in a blur and the pounding of hooves.

He did not know how far or how long he’d ridden when his charger stumbled. He jolted from the saddle, thrown for several feet, and landed hard on his shoulder.

Tamas staggered to his feet. Silence. Nothing in the night. No sound of hooves from his soldiers following. No sign or sound of dragoons. Just the desperate gasping of his charger.

Where was Gavril? What had happened to him? Tamas ran a hand through his sweaty, dirty hair. His hat was gone, blown off he knew not when. He stumbled over to examine the horse, his legs wobbly from riding too long and too hard.

The charger lay on its side. It rolled its eyes at him, foam and blood at its nose and the corner of its mouth. Tamas blinked away tears and tried to calm the beast with a hand on its flank. It twitched and tried to stand up, only to let out a shuddering scream. The sound shook Tamas’s soul.

The horse’s leg had shattered, bone sticking out from the side. It must have stepped in a hole and stumbled from exhaustion.

Tamas drew his pistol. He loaded it slowly, carefully.

The shot rang out across the plateau.

Tamas gathered his saddlebags, ammunition, pistols, and rifle. He began to walk north.

He didn’t know when he’d stopped. Only that he was suddenly on his knees, staring at his hands. They were raw from the reins. Where had his riding gloves gone? He shook his head and thought to stand and keep going.

Instead, he dropped his head into his hands. Another brother. All that remained of his family gone except, perhaps, his son. Tamas had failed again.

He should have stopped. Interrogated those Kez dragoons. Found out if Gavril was even alive, and where they’d taken him. How many dragoons in their company.

Tamas knew he’d been a fool, riding on like that. A desperate fool, trying to save his brother. Alone.

Tamas wept.

The tears were dry when Tamas heard hoofbeats on the road. They came on at a steady canter from the south. One set, from the sound of things.

“Tamas?” a female voice called.

Vlora.

She shouted his name again. The hoofbeats grew closer, then stopped. The crunch of gravel as she leapt from her horse. Then hands on his shoulders, shaking him.

“Sir, please. Answer me. Tamas!”

Tamas took a long breath, holding it for several beats before letting it out.

“I’m here.” His voice surprised him, coming out a whispered croak.

He felt something forced into his hands. He looked down. A canteen. He took a sip.

“Your horse…”

“Broke its leg,” Tamas said. “I had to put it down.”

“I know. I saw it. Almost two miles back. You kept walking, all this way?”

“Poor creature. Died because I wouldn’t stop.”

Vlora put her cool hand on the back of his neck. “Drink more.”

“Couldn’t find Gavril,” Tamas said. “Tried. Couldn’t. Failed again. Another brother, gone. My last. I…” He felt the tears coming again and stopped to take several deep breaths. “Where’s Olem?”

“His horse threw a shoe nearly fifteen miles ago.”

“Fifteen miles…”

Vlora took his face in her hands, forcing him to look up at her. He wondered what she saw then, in his eyes. A broken old man, dirty from the road?

“Tamas,” Vlora said, “you rode nearly forty miles. It will be dawn in an hour.”

Tamas blinked the tears out of his eyes and looked up. It felt like he was looking at a different world. The moon was high overhead, the stars bright.

She examined him for several moments. He knew she could see that he was low on powder and ammunition. He’d dropped his rifle at some point. But not the pistols. Not the ones Taniel had given him. No, he wouldn’t leave those behind for the world. Taniel – his boy – had given them to him.

Tamas struggled to his feet, letting Vlora take some of his weight. He looked north. Forty miles. He was in Deliv now. Closer to Alvation than he was to his own army.

Foolish. Bloody foolish of him.

Vlora went to her horse and began unloading her saddle.

“What are you doing?”

“We’re camping here,” Vlora said.

“I’ve got to return…”

“Don’t be stupid, Tamas. The army will catch up in two days. If you keep going tonight, you’ll be utterly useless when we reach Alvation.”

She was right, of course. Not that he liked it.

He drew himself up. “I’m your —”

“My commanding officer. I know. Here’s a bedroll. I’ll take first watch.”

Tamas looked down at the bedroll thrust into his hands, then up at the moon, and finally to the north, where Alvation sat somewhere in the darkness, just off the edge of the plateau.

“Another brother,” he heard himself say again. “Another.”

CHAPTER

34

Tamas didn’t wake until the heat of the noonday sun finally drove him out of a restless sleep. He sat up suddenly, looking down stupidly at the hat in his lap. He lifted it, turned it around. It wasn’t his. Far too small.

Vlora. She was gone, and Tamas wondered if her coming to find him the night before had been just a fevered dream.

“She went looking for water for the horses, sir.”

Tamas looked behind him. Olem sat on a rock, carefully cleaning his carbine. He had saddlebags and canteens. Tamas rolled his tongue around inside his mouth. It felt dry and hot, his tongue two sizes too big.

“Canteen,” Tamas said.

Olem tossed him a canteen and Tamas drank hungrily.

“When did you catch up?”

“Just after dawn,” Olem said. He was looking at Tamas strangely. “You don’t look so well, sir.”

Tamas ran his hand through what was left of his hair and gingerly felt along the stitches in his scalp. “Lost my hat last night.”

“Ah.” Olem’s gaze seemed to say,
What, we’re not going to mention you rode off like a madman last night? What the pit is wrong with you?

Tamas looked away. “There’s not much water on this damned plateau.”

“We passed an old river bed in the night,” Olem said. “I couldn’t tell if there was anything in the bottom. Vlora has gone to check.”

Tamas got to his feet and walked a few circles around the camp. He felt awful. His legs were sore and cramped – especially his bad one – his crotch chafed, his face wind-burned and hands raw. He had a pounding headache, from too little water and too little rest. Every time he stopped his circuit, he couldn’t help but look north, toward Alvation, then again to the south.

Vlora returned an hour later with the horses and full waterskins.

Late in the afternoon, they were joined by the rest of the powder mages and ten of Olem’s Riflejacks. Not long after that, several of the rangers caught up with them. Tamas immediately sent them out scouting to the north.

Late in the day, Tamas saw riders on the northern horizon, miles off. They never came closer, but Tamas could see they were wearing blue uniforms with silver trim. Who were these impostors? Were they Kez, as he suspected?

The army reached Tamas by late the next day. They pitched camp there, and Tamas’s first order of business was to find the Kez dragoons he’d fought two days earlier.

There were three of them. They were a ragged lot, their horses, weapons, supplies, and helmets confiscated. Their faces were burned from the sun. One of them walked with a heavy limp, and dried blood on his trousers said the wound was recent. Another was missing two front teeth.

The third was missing his boots. He’d wrapped the bloody remnants of his jacket around his feet.

One of their guards pointed at the man with his jacket wrapped around his feet. His white undershirt was stained brown and yellow from sweat and blood. He had short brown hair and large muttonchops. “That’s their lieutenant,” the guard said. “That’s what his jacket said, before he tore it.”

“Where are his boots?” Tamas asked.

“Took them away,” the guard said. “To try to get him to talk.”

Tamas sighed. “Go find them. No way to treat an officer, even a prisoner of war.” He turned to the lieutenant and spoke to him in his own language: “What is your name?”

The man stared past Tamas.

“Tell me your name, and I’ll give you your boots back.”

“What?” the man said with a thick Adran accent. “I don’t speak Kez.”

Tamas rolled his eyes. “I know you’re a Kez officer. Keep pretending to be Adran and I’ll have you shot for desertion.” He leaned forward. “I can do things to my own men that I can’t do to a prisoner of war.”

The man’s eyes flicked to Tamas. He flinched. “Lieutenant Mernoble,” he said. “The King’s Thirty-Fourth Dragoons.”

“What are you doing here, Mernoble?” Tamas asked. “We are in Deliv.”

“Weren’t in Deliv when you caught us,” Mernoble said.

“You came from the north. The only thing north at the time was Deliv.”

Mernoble returned his gaze to the spot over Tamas’s shoulder and didn’t speak. A few moments later, the guard returned with Mernoble’s boots. Tamas took them and handed them over to Mernoble.

Mernoble took the boots. “With your leave?”

Tamas nodded.

Mernoble sat on the ground and gingerly unwrapped his feet. Tamas winced at the sight. The lieutenant’s socks were torn and soaked with blood, his feet raw. It looked like he’d been walking without boots for miles. He slipped the boots on carefully, unable to suppress a groan when he returned to his feet.

“Have they been given water?” Tamas asked. When the guard didn’t answer, Tamas turned to him. “Well? Water, or food?”

The guard shook his head.

“Damn it, man, go get them food. They’re soldiers, just like you.”

The guard scurried off.

“He’s getting you some food,” Tamas said in Kez.

Mernoble nodded gratefully.

“Why were you in Deliv?” Tamas asked again.

Mernoble took a deep breath and returned to staring past Tamas.

Tamas scowled. “Do you know who I am?”

The man shook his head.

“I am Field Marshal Tamas.”

Mernoble swallowed. Hard.

“Come with me,” Tamas said. To one of the other guards, “Where is General Beon’s tent?”

“Are you sure that’s wise, sir?” The guard seemed confused.

“What do you mean, man? Where is the general’s tent?”

“Just over there.”

Tamas walked through the camp until he found Beon sitting beside a low fire of twigs and old horse dung. The general struggled to stand when he saw Tamas. At the sight of the prisoner, his eyes narrowed.

“General Beon,” Tamas said, “I have gathered by your demeanor that you would be greatly interested in knowing who has been burning, raping, and robbing their way through the bean farms on the plateau.”

“I would,” Beon said. His tone was icy. “I discovered it last night, in fact. These men are Kez officers, pretending to be Adran.” He looked down at Mernoble’s feet. “Who gave him back his boots?”

Tamas looked from Beon to Mernoble. The lieutenant’s eyes were wide with fear, and suddenly Tamas understood. It had been Beon who ordered Mernoble’s boots taken away. Likely, he’d ordered the lieutenant be left unfed as well. Tamas’s own men would have been more than happy to go along with it. “I did.”

“I demand that this man’s boots be removed, and that you organize a firing squad. I want these men executed tomorrow morning for crimes against the people of Kez.”

Tamas bit back a reply. He’d not be ordered around by a prisoner, even if he did respect Beon. Instead, he turned to Mernoble. “It seems time to explain yourself, Lieutenant.”