The Crimson Campaign

Tamas drummed his fingers on his belt. An army on the march, without resupply or even wagons and camp followers. They would run out of everything. Sooner, rather than later. Their only advantage was a swift march, and that was lost with having to forage and the exhaustion brought on by hunger.

“I’ll be sure the mages get what they need.” His powder mages were still each worth more than a dozen men.

Vlora nodded. “I’ll check with the quartermaster.” She stood and abruptly headed off into the camp.

Tamas watched her go, and felt himself an old man, burdened with regret.

The camp grew louder over the next few minutes as the last of the soldiers were roused from their beds. A few cheers went up, and Tamas guessed Olem must have distributed the elk meat. It wasn’t much, not when spread so thinly, but it was a bite more than they’d had.

Tamas broke down and stowed his own tent. He’d just finished tying his bedroll when Olem returned with a bundle of bloody canvas.

“I would have done that, sir,” Olem said.

Tamas eyed the bloody canvas and felt his mouth watering. “I have you doing more important things. I was a soldier once, Olem. I can break camp as well as any man.”

“If you insist, sir.” Olem knelt beside the coals and produced a skewer, then unwrapped the bloody canvas to reveal a hunk of elk meat.

Tamas stood and looked to the south. Somewhere out there, the Kez cavalry were breaking their camp, probably hoping to overtake the Adran brigades before they were able to reach the relative safety of the forest.

Tamas heard, more than saw, a horse galloping through the camp. A few moments later and Gavril emerged from the still-dark morning on a shuddering charger.

Tamas grabbed the horse by the bridle as his brother-in-law swung down. The horse’s sides were lathered, its eyes wild. Gavril had been riding hard.

“Sixteen thousand,” Gavril said. “Ten and a half thousand dragoons and another five and a half of cuirassiers. Three full brigades of cavalry.”

Kresimir. How could they possibly fight that many cavalry? “How far?”

“We can beat them to the forest if we leave now. I’ve not spoken with my northern outriders.”

“Vlora just came from the north. We’re sixteen miles from Hune Dora.”

Gavril accepted an offered canteen from Olem and took a swig, then poured the rest over his head. His body steamed. “We won’t have time to sack the city.”

“She says it’s abandoned. I’ll have some men take a look, but we’ll probably head right past it.”

“Abandoned, eh?” Gavril scratched his bearded chin. “We could make a stand there.”

Tamas cast an anxious glance to the south. He couldn’t see the Kez cavalry, but it seemed to him he could sense them. “Maybe.”

Olem stood and held out a pewter plate. On it was a steaming cut of elk.

“Burned on the edges and raw in the middle, but it’s delicious,” Olem said with a grin.

Tamas heard his stomach growl. There must have been two pounds of meat on that plate.

“Share it with Gavril,” Tamas said. “I’m not hungry.”

Olem cocked an eyebrow. “I can hear your stomach making bear calls from here, sir. You have to keep up your strength.”

“Really, I’m fine.”

Gavril grabbed the meat with his bare hands. “Suit yourself.” He tore it in half and plopped one half back on the plate. He began to cram the rest into his mouth. Around bites, he yelled out to another rider who’d just come into camp.

“Sir,” Olem said as Gavril strode off, “you need to eat.”

“Get the men on their feet,” Tamas said. A sudden urgency rose within him as a gust of wind nearly tore off his hat. “Have the advance column marching out of the camp in twenty minutes.” He stared south until Olem was gone.

Sixteen thousand Kez cavalry. His two brigades of infantry would be ridden down. They’d die hungry, exhausted, and in a foreign land while the Kez burned their homes.

He couldn’t let that happen.

He wouldn’t let that happen.

Tamas strode toward the nearest tents. “Companies,” he shouted. “Prepare for march!”

Sergeant Oldrich and his squad of Riflejacks were staying at a retired barracks on the southeast side of the Ad River, not far from the Lighthouse of Gostaun. The barracks was a big building, abandoned and empty but for the odd feral dog. The front doors were barred and chained, but one of the many side entries had been left unlocked.

Adamat entered the barracks through that door and crossed two empty parade grounds before he found the small mess hall where the captain and his squad were watching Adamat’s four youngest children put on a play in the center of the mess.

Adamat stood in the door quietly, unable to keep the smile from his face as Astrit absently played with her black curls while she tried to remember the lines of the princess trapped in a tall tower by the evil Privileged who, judging by the costumes composed of robes and bedsheets, was being played by one of the twins.

“Daddy!” Astrit cried, catching sight of him.