The Crimson Campaign

He lifted his eyes to the Kez camp. Where was Kresimir? he wondered, a little thrill of fear working up his spine. The god was lying low. Unseen. Even when Taniel opened his third eye, there was no sign of the overwhelming glow of power that should surround a god.

At this point, Taniel worried more about being killed by the Kez than about falling into the god’s hands.

The Kez marched forward every day. Sometimes only a few hundred feet. Other times as much as a quarter mile, but always a little closer to Adopest. Eventually the valley would open up into the Adran basin and the Kez would use their hugely superior numbers to surround the Adran army and strike at several cities at once. They’d ravage the countryside, and Adro would be forced to capitulate.

What would Tamas have done?

Bah. Tamas would have held the damned line. That’s all the Adran army needed to do: keep from losing their front every damned day.

All Taniel could do was fight. He couldn’t keep the generals from sounding a retreat, even when he felt the Kez about to break and run. He couldn’t hold the whole thing by himself.

“That stuff you gather,” Taniel asked as Ka-poel rose to her feet, “is it just from men who are alive?”

She nodded, depositing something into one of the tiny leather bags in her satchel.

Even the living left a bit of themselves behind on the battlefield. Blood, hair, nails. Sometimes a finger or bit of skin. Ka-poel gathered it all up and stored it for later.

Taniel jumped a little at the sudden crack of a musket, but it was just the sound of a provost shooting a looter. He licked his lips and looked at the Kez camp again. What if Kresimir was out here, walking among the dead? What if he saw Taniel? Knew who he was? What he’d done?

“I’m going back to camp,” Taniel said. He looked over his shoulder several times on the long walk back, watching Ka-poel continue to pick her way among the bodies.

Dinner was being served as Taniel worked his way through the camp. Quartermasters were returning to their companies with rations of meat, kettles of soup, loaves of bread. Far better fare than soldiers usually saw on the battlefield. Taniel could smell the food, making his mouth water. This chef, Mihali, god or not, created incredible dishes. Taniel didn’t know that bread could have the swirls of flavor and buttery softness that this stuff did.

Taniel stopped at his room. General Hilanska had found him a shed to bed down in. It wasn’t much, but it was private. He snatched his jacket, slipping a few powder charges into his pocket, then hesitated at his belt. He should be able to wander his own camp without fear, but something told him to go armed. Perhaps just paranoia. Or maybe it was the idea that General Ket’s provosts were still looking for him. Why they’d not found him yet was anyone’s guess.

Taniel buckled the belt, with two pistols, around his waist.

He’d only taken a few steps from his tent when a soldier accosted him.

“Sir!”

Taniel paused. The soldier was a young man, maybe twenty-five. Still older than Taniel himself. A private in the Eleventh Brigade, by his insignia.

When Taniel didn’t answer, the soldier went on hesitantly. “Sir, the fellows and I, we were wondering if you’d do us the honor of joining us for dinner. It’s all the same food, sir, and the company is good.” He held his flat-top forage cap in both hands, wringing it.

“Where?” Taniel asked.

“Just right over there, sir.” The soldier perked up a little. “We’ve got a fifth of Doubin rum, and Finley plays the flute something fierce.”

Taniel couldn’t help but feel suspicious. He set a hand on one of his pistols. “Why are you so nervous, soldier?”

The soldier ducked his head. “Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to bother you.” He turned to slink away, obviously distraught.

Taniel caught up to him in just a few quick steps. “Doubin rum, you say?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Horrid shit. That’s the stuff sailors drink.”

The soldier’s forehead wrinkled in a frown. “It’s the best we can do, sir.” There was a flash of anger in his eyes.

They both stopped in the middle of the path, the soldier still holding his hat. He glared at Taniel now. Taniel could imagine what was going through his head: Damned officers. Think they’re so high and mighty. Plenty of good stuff to drink at the officers’ mess. Won’t sit with a soldier, not for a moment.

“What’s your name, soldier?”

“Flint.”

No “sir” on the end of that. Taniel nodded, as if he’d not noticed. “I got a taste for Doubin rum on the ship from Fatrasta. Haven’t tasted it all summer. I’d be honored, if you’d have me.”

“You mocking me?”

“No,” Taniel said. “Not a bit. Lead on.”

Flint’s frown slowly began to slide. “This way, sir.”