The Crimson Campaign

“Budwiel may have fallen, but Adro has not. I promise you — I swear to you — that Budwiel will be avenged. We will return to Adro and join our brothers and we will defend our country!”

A cheer went up among the men. To be honest, it was halfhearted, but at least it was something. He raised his arms for quiet.

“First,” he said when the noise had died down, “we have a perilous journey ahead of us. I won’t lie to you. We have little food, no baggage train or resupply. No reinforcements. Our ammunition will dwindle and our nights will be cold. We are utterly alone in a foreign land. Even now, the enemy has set their dogs on us.

“Kez cavalry are on our trail, my friends. Cuirassiers and dragoons, at least our number’s worth and maybe more. I’d wager my hat that they are led by Beon je Ipille, the king’s favorite son. Beon is a brave man and he will not be beaten easily.”

Tamas could see the fear in his men’s eyes. Tamas let it stew for a moment, watched the growing sense of panic. And then he reached out his hand and pointed to his men.

“You are the Seventh and the Ninth. You are Adro’s finest, and that makes you the greatest infantry the world has ever seen. It is my pleasure, and my honor, to command you on the field of battle, and if it comes to it, to die with you. But I say we will not die here — on Kez soil.

“Let the Kez come,” Tamas roared. “Let them send their greatest generals after us. Let them stack the odds against us. Let them come upon us with all their fury, because these hounds at our heels will soon know we are lions!”

Tamas finished, his throat raw from shouting, his fist held over his head.

His men stared back at him. No one made a sound. He could hear his heart beating in his ears, and then somewhere near the back of the assembled troops someone shouted, “Huzzah!”

Another voice joined it. Then another. It turned into a cheer, then a chant, and eleven thousand men raised their rifles over their heads and bellowed their defiance back at him, buckles and swords rattling in a sound that could have drowned out cannon fire.

These were his men. His soldiers. His sons and daughters. They would stare into the eyes of the pit itself for him. He stepped back away from the road so that they would not see his tears.

“Good speech, sir,” Olem said, sheltering a match from the wind as he lit the cigarette pinched between his lips.

Tamas cleared his throat. “Wipe that grin off your face, soldier.”

“Right away, sir.”

“Once this quiets down, get the head of the column moving. We need to make more headway before night comes.”

Olem went off about his duties, and Tamas took another few moments to gather himself. He stared to the southeast. Was that his imagination, or could he see movement in the distant foothills? No. The Kez weren’t that close. Not yet.

CHAPTER 10

Adamat had spent the night in darkness, tied to a chair. At some point he hadn’t been able to hold back any longer and had soiled himself. The air smelled of piss and mold and dirt. He was in a basement of a heavily trafficked building and could hear the creak and moan of floorboards as feet moved across them.

He’d yelled out loud when he first awoke in utter darkness. Someone had come to tell him to shut up. He had recognized the grizzled voice of the thief and called him a bloody dog.

The thief had left, laughing to himself.

Morning had come hours ago. Adamat could tell by the light coming in through the cracks of the floor above him. He could hear his own stomach grumbling for food. His throat was parched, his tongue swollen. His neck, legs, and back were all sore from sitting tied to the chair for fourteen hours or more.

The whale ointment he’d used to smooth his wrinkles and hide his age was beginning to burn. The stuff was supposed to be wiped off in less than twelve hours.

He felt himself begin to drift and shook his head to keep himself awake. Sleeping in this situation was deadly. He needed to be awake. To be alert. He had a head injury. It would take more light to tell if his eyes were focusing properly.

It was difficult to tell where he was. Voices above him were muffled, and no particular smells — aside from those of his own piss and the cold damp of a basement — stood out.

Adamat heard the creak of a door, then saw a light off in the corner of his vision. He turned his head — a painful movement — to watch as a lamp bobbed down a flight of stairs. He could hear two voices. The thief was not one of them.

“He hasn’t said much except call Toak a bloody dog,” a man said. The voice was nasal and high. “Didn’t have anything in his pocketbook but a fifty-krana note and a false mustache. No checkbook. No identification. He could be a copper.”

A voice answered him, too low for Adamat to hear.

“Well, yeah,” the first voice said. “Most coppers carry a city mark on ’em, even if they’re trying for a bust. Could be one of those undercover-spy types. The field marshal has been using them to root out Kez spies.”

Another murmured answer.