The Crimson Campaign

Mihali reached out, resting a hand on Kresimir’s shoulder.

Kresimir shrugged it off.

Mihali spread his hands in a calming gesture. Kresimir raised one hand in the air, pointing at the sky, shouting something.

Mihali kept speaking. His lips barely moved and his face was serene.

It was several minutes that Mihali spoke. Much to Taniel’s surprise, Kresimir seemed to listen. The god’s hand fell to his side.

Back at the camp, chaos continued. Ka-poel’s floating dolls had dwindled to no more than a few dozen. She sat up, looking haggard and bruised, but a victorious smile played on her lips. Her attention seemed to be focused on the last dolls, and they were not disappearing as quickly as the earlier ones. She was fighting hard to keep those last few puppets alive.

Taniel watched the two gods. Kresimir and Mihali had edged closer to each other. Mihali was pointing to his opposite hand as if explaining something. Kresimir listened, brow furrowed.

Mihali appeared to finish his explanation.

Kresimir shook his head adamantly.

Mihali frowned. A sad smile crept onto his face and he opened his arms.

Taniel suddenly felt his heart beating faster. He lifted his musket to his shoulder and sighted down the barrel at Kresimir. Two miles. Not a hard shot for him, but the bullet was a regular ball and it would take far too long to reach Kresimir. Taniel could only provide a distraction.

Kresimir suddenly threw his arms wide. For a brief moment, he looked as if he was ready to embrace his brother.

Taniel clutched his hands to his face and stumbled back, falling to the ground as a light brighter than a thousand suns erupted from Kresimir. Taniel braced himself, waiting for a shock wave and the deafening boom of an explosion.

Neither came. The light blazed on so brightly that though Taniel covered his face, he still felt as if he was staring into the heart of the sun.

A hand touched him. He reached out, grabbing Ka-poel. What did she see? Was there anything to see? She had to be as blind as he was. He pulled her to him and clutched her to his chest, trying to protect her eyes from the blaze. Sweet gods, what was this sorcery?

Taniel felt the brightness begin to fade after what seemed an eternity. Fear crept through him when he opened his eyes and saw nothing. Had he been blinded?

It must have been twenty minutes before shapes began to manifest themselves in his vision. He blinked rapidly, trying to dispel pools of color, trying to grasp what he’d just seen. That blaze — so bright and intense, but without heat or sound. Not an explosion.

Taniel tried to recall his knowledge of Privileged sorcery. What had Kresimir done?

Slowly, it dawned on him.

Kresimir had opened the Else itself to the world.

Taniel’s returning sight began to show him that both the Kez and Adran camps were in chaos now. It seemed that no one could see. Hundreds of thousands of men crept on their hands and knees, wailing and crying out.

In the center of the field, positioned between the two camps, Kresimir stood alone. Mihali was completely gone, not even ash where he’d once stood. Kresimir’s mouth was open, his face frozen in a silent scream.

Taniel watched as Kresimir’s shoulders slumped. Kresimir stared blindly for a moment at the spot where Mihali had been. Then the god dropped to his knees and wept.

Taniel sagged against the mountainside, overcome with exaustion, his body racked with the pain of his wounds. A few minutes passed in silence before he looked down at his bloody, vomit-stained shirt. There was a rushing sound in his ears, and his hands shook with sudden excitement.

“Pole,” he said. “My shirt is soaked with Kresimir’s blood.”

Adamat couldn’t take his eyes off Lord Claremonte as he finished his speech. He’d worked the crowd perfectly. There weren’t cheers or shouts — no, not even Claremonte would have expected that.

There were grumbles. Murmurs of discontent. Someone near Adamat told the woman next to him that Claremonte had a point. A rising sense of indignation washed through the assembled masses, and Adamat knew that Claremonte had convinced them. Maybe not all of them. Maybe not now. But the few screams of protest when Claremonte’s Privileged destroyed the Kresim Cathedral had been stifled quickly.

All up and down the Ad, Brudanian soldiers pushed their longboats up onto the riverbank and disembarked. At quick glance they seemed to be working in teams of about fifteen, each one accompanied by a Privileged. They carried bayoneted muskets and barrels of black powder, and Adamat saw the first team reach a church on the other side of the Ad and begin pushing people away.

They were preparing it for demolition.