The Crimson Campaign

There was a light chatter this morning — something missing over the last two weeks’ worth of march since the fall of Budwiel. Someone laughed in the distance. Nothing like a full belly to bring a man’s spirits up. Combine that with elation at the victory over the Kez vanguard, and Tamas could almost call his men happy.

Almost.

Tamas didn’t like eating horse. It reminded him of hard times in Gurla, of starvation and disease and the desert heat, when they’d been forced to slaughter their own healthy horses to stay alive. The taste was slightly sweet, and gamier than beef. Meat that came from cavalry chargers tended to be tough.

Then again, at least his stomach didn’t rumble.

“What is it, soldier?”

Vlora stood at attention on the other side of his cook fire. She snapped off a salute.

“Kez spotted, sir. Riding under a white flag.”

Tamas flicked a bit of fat into the fire and watched it sizzle. He stood up, wiping his hands on an already soiled handkerchief. Another problem they faced — no camp followers meant no laundresses. Both his uniforms were dirty and stained, and he smelled like a cesspool.

Adom forbid you do your own laundry, a little voice in the back of his head said. Tamas chuckled.

“Sir?” Vlora asked.

“Nothing, soldier. I’ll meet them on the edge of camp. Olem!”

“Coming, sir.”

Tamas was joined by Olem and a small bodyguard of Olem’s Riflejacks. Among the Ninth, stationed as the rear guard, the last tents were being rolled and stowed in packs and cook fires put out. They’d be on the march in twenty minutes. The advance elements of the Seventh were already half a mile down the road.

He passed a row of wagons. They’d been able to salvage them from the abandoned remains of Hune Dora. The bottoms were already stained from the blood of the wounded, and they smelled like death at ten paces. Today, they would carry the wounded that had survived the last two days.

“Have those washed out,” Tamas said to Olem. “In fact, I want bathing mandatory. There’s plenty of mountain streams in these woods. Organize it with the scouts. I want fifty men to stop and bathe in every mountain stream we pass. If we don’t look to ourselves, we’ll have disease rampant in the camp.”

“Yes, sir.” Olem rubbed at his dust-caked uniform. “I could use a little freshening up myself.”

They left the edge of the Adran camp and passed the rear pickets. The forest beyond was still, the only sounds that of chattering squirrels and the call of birds. Tamas welcomed the birdsong. It reminded him of peace, distracted him from the harsh call of the carrion crows and the memory of piled corpses that lingered behind his eyes.

Tamas saw the Kez riders before they saw him.

There were a dozen of them. They were still mounted upon their chargers in the middle of the road, watching the Adran pickets impassively. They wore the heavy breastplates of cuirassiers over tan uniforms with green trim. They dismounted as Tamas drew closer and one of them removed his helmet and approached.

“Field Marshal Tamas?”

“I am he,” Tamas said.

“I am General Beon je Ipille,” he said in Adran with a light accent. He extended his hand. “The pleasure is mine.”

Tamas took the general’s hand. Beon was a young man, perhaps in his late twenties. His face was boyish, touched by the same cabal sorceries that kept every king of the Nine looking young far beyond their years. That alone would have told Tamas that Beon was one of Ipille’s sons, if not for the name and reputation.

“The king’s favored son. Your reputation precedes you.”

Beon tilted his head modestly. “And you, yours.”

“To what do I owe the honor?” Tamas said. This was all a formality, of course. Tamas knew why Beon was here.

“I’ve come to inquire as to your intentions in my country.”

“Only to return to my own, and defend it from the aggression of a tyrant.”

Beon didn’t even blink at the insult against his father. Tamas made a mental note of that. He was more levelheaded than his older brothers, it seemed. “I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.”

“So we are at an impasse.”

“Not an impasse, I think,” Beon said. “I’ve come to request your surrender.”

“An impasse. I will not surrender,” Tamas said flatly.

Beon nodded, as if to himself. “I was afraid you would say that.”

“Afraid?” Tamas knew Beon’s reputation. Fear didn’t enter into it. Beon was almost recklessly brave. He seized opportunities a lesser commander might balk at. His courage had served him well.

“I do not relish chasing the great Field Marshal Tamas. You’ve already seen to my vanguard — how do you say, sending them back with their tails tucked between their legs?” He looked over his shoulder at one of the other riders. The rider was a dragoon, with a straight sword and lacking the breastplate of a cuirassier. “Their commanders barely escaped with their lives.”

“You could just let me go on my way,” Tamas said jovially. “I’ll be out of your country in a few weeks.”