The Crimson Campaign

It wasn’t more than twenty yards to Flint’s fire. There were two men beside the fire, keeping Mihali’s soup warm in an old iron pot. One had a large nose, crooked off to the side from not being set after breaking, while the other was a short, round man practically bursting from his uniform. The one with the nose froze at the sight of Taniel, a spoon lifted halfway to his mouth.

“Captain, sir,” Flint said, gesturing to the two men by the fire. “The one with the nose there is Finley. Ugliest man in the Eleventh. And that round bit of meat there is Faint, on account that she fainted the first time she fired a musket. Finley, Flint, and Faint. We’re the fellows of the Eleventh Brigade.”

Taniel lifted his eyebrows. He’d not in a hundred years have guessed that Faint was a woman.

“Fellows, this is Captain Taniel Two-Shot, hero of the Fatrastan War and the Battle for South Pike.”

Faint seemed skeptical. “You sure this is Taniel Two-Shot?”

“That’s him, all right,” Finley said. “I was with Captain Ajucare when we went after the Privileged at the university.”

“I thought you looked familiar,” Taniel said. “I never forget a nose.”

Flint laughed and punched Finley in the arm. Finley fell off his chair, and Taniel heard himself chuckle. It was a raspy, nasty sound, like an instrument desperately in need of tuning. How long had it been since he’d laughed?

Flint fetched a folding cloth chair and brought it to Taniel. Finley poured them each a pewter tin of soup, and then bread and mutton was passed around.

They ate in quiet for several minutes. Taniel was the first one to break the silence. “I heard the Second took a beating a couple of weeks ago.”

“Aye,” Flint said. “That we did.”

“We were on the wall,” Faint said. “The wall in Budwiel when the Black Wardens came over.”

Finley stared quietly into his soup.

“Faint here,” Flint said. “She punched one of those Wardens in the nose with that ham fist of hers. Knocked him right off the bulwark.”

“I’d imagine that gave him quite the shock. I heard it was bad,” Taniel said. “I’m glad to see you got out.”

“Most weren’t so lucky,” Finley said quietly. Flint and Faint’s smiles disappeared.

Taniel cleared his throat, looking around. Usually a squad would eat together. “All that’s left of your squad?” he asked as respectfully as he could.

Faint chuckled. Finley pushed her. “It’s not funny,” Finley said.

“It’s a little funny,” Faint said.

Taniel wondered whether to smile at the joke. “What?”

“Not our squad, sir,” Flint spoke up. “This is all that’s left of our company.”

Taniel felt his mouth go dry. A company was usually about two hundred men. To lose all but three…

“No wounded?” he asked.

“Probably,” Faint said. She ladled herself another tin of soup. “But not that we’ve seen. This deal with the Kez, where we clean up our own dead and wounded after each battle, only came about after Budwiel. We left Budwiel at a run. Left behind supplies, ammunition, weapons… loved ones. Everyone who couldn’t run is now a slave, or worse.”

“What’s worse than being a slave?” Flint asked.

Finley looked up from rolling a cigarette. “Where do you think they keep getting those Wardens? Why torture and twist your own people if you’ve got prisoners?”

“It takes years to make and train a Warden,” Taniel said.

“Does it?” Finley asked. He lit his cigarette with a burning stick from the fire. “Rumors are going around the men, rumors that they’ve got Kresimir himself in the camp.”

Flint shook his head. “If they had Kresimir, we’d all be dead.”

“We’ve got Adom reborn,” Faint said. She held up her mutton and bread. “Mihali is keeping Kresimir from destroying us all.”

Flint rolled his eyes. “Come on, now.”

“There’s another rumor,” Finley said. He looked up, meeting Taniel’s eyes across the fire. “There’s a rumor Taniel Two-Shot put a bullet in Kresimir’s eye, and now Kresimir wears a mask that covers half his face — and it don’t have no eyehole in it.” He leaned over, offering his smoking cigarette to Taniel.

Taniel took a long drag at the cigarette. Nasty things, he’d always thought, but he made exceptions for nights like this, when it was more about camaraderie than habit. “I heard a rumor,” he said, coughing and turning his head toward Flint, “that there was Doubin rum at this fire.”

“Now that” — Faint pointed at Taniel — “is fact.” She retreated to her tent for a moment and came back with an earthen jug. “Get your flute, Finley,” she said. “I’ve had enough of this dark talk.”

Taniel was offered the jug first. He took a sip of the stuff and felt his whole body shudder. “Gah,” he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

“My da works for Doubin and Company,” Faint said, taking the jug. “Tastes like a demon’s own piss, don’t it!” She threw back the jug, taking a long, hard drink.

Taniel leaned back, watching the fire, unable to keep from laughing when Flint spat a mouthful of the rum into the fire and the flames flared up momentarily.

“Don’t waste it!” Faint shouted, nabbing the jug.