The Crimson Campaign

Tamas sighed. “Just what I was hoping to hear.”

“The Kez have sent their cuirassiers around to the west to cut across the plains. That’s fifty-five hundred heavy cavalry. What they lose in going around Hune Dora they’ll gain by having flat ground. If my guess is right, they’ll reach the Fingers right about the time we do.

“Last time I went through the Fingers,” Gavril continued, “the forest ended about a mile from the first river. Open, flat plain all the way to the water, then a narrow wooden bridge.”

“A perfect place for the Kez to trap us.”

“Exactly.”

Tamas closed his eyes, trying to see the space in his mind. It had been thirteen years since he last passed through the area. “I need to break the Kez.”

“What?”

“Break them. I can’t have the cavalry dogging us all the way to Deliv. Even if we lose them for a time crossing the Fingers, they’ll be there waiting for us in the Northern Expanse, and on the open plateau we won’t stand a chance against three brigades of cavalry.”

“How are you going to break that many cavalry? You’ve only got eleven thousand men, Tamas. I’ve seen you work miracles before, but this is out of your league.”

Tamas stepped out from under the cold water and snatched his uniform from the roots. He pulled his pants on over his wet body.

“We’re going to march double-time. We can make it in four days. That’ll give us preparation time.”

“You can’t march double for four days on empty stomachs.”

Tamas ignored him. “Take twenty of your fastest riders. Take extra horses — some of those we captured from the Kez. Go ahead to the Fingers.”

“I thought we were going to slaughter the horses so the men could eat.”

“Slaughter them when you get there. I want you to destroy the bridge.”

Gavril stepped out of the water and shook his great head, spraying water everywhere. It reminded Tamas of watching a bear fishing in a river. “Are you mad?” Gavril asked.

“Do you trust me?”

Gavril hesitated a few seconds too long. “Yes?”

“Destroy the bridge, slaughter the horses, and start making rafts. Swear your men to silence about the bridge. Once we catch up to you, the story is that the bridge was washed out and you were sent on ahead to build rafts.”

“You better have a damned good reason for destroying that bridge before we cross it,” Gavril said. “Otherwise my men will string me up for trying to get our whole army killed.”

Tamas pulled his jacket on. “Do it. Only take men you trust.”

He began walking down the stream as Gavril began to dress. He paused when Gavril called out behind him.

“Tamas,” his brother-in-law said. “Try not to get us all slaughtered.”

CHAPTER 19

“Have you wondered,” Taniel said, “why they always sound the retreat?”

He sat at Colonel Etan’s bedside in a small inn off the main road in the town of Rue, about two miles behind the front line. It was a quiet town, though the echo of distant artillery still reminded Taniel that there was a war carrying on without them.

Etan was propped up in his bed by a pile of feather pillows. A nurse was stationed just outside the door to see to his needs, while a steady stream of Etan’s grenadiers had been coming and going all day, wishing him well and taking orders to the front.

Only a wounded colonel would get this kind of treatment, Taniel knew. He’d heard of a few infantrymen who’d broken their backs. Most died from neglect within a few months.

Taniel watched his friend out of the corner of his eye and made a few marks in his sketchbook, outlining Etan’s strong jaw in charcoal. Etan had refused the offer to step down from his post. Said he could — and would — still command the Twelfth Grenadiers, even if he had to do it from a chair. Rumors were that General Hilanska was going to force Etan’s resignation.

Taniel hoped not. Retaining command of his grenadiers was the only thing keeping Etan from surrendering to despair.

“We retreat,” Etan said, “because we’re always overwhelmed.” He dipped a feather pen in an inkwell and finished a sentence on the paper in his lap. He’d cursed and shouted when Taniel had first pulled out his sketchbook. Now he seemed to be doing his best to ignore the fact that Taniel was sketching him.

Taniel studied Etan’s face, his mind elsewhere. Something seemed wrong about the trumpets. The retreats. Every damned time. “You know Tamas’s campaign history as well as any historian. How many times has he sounded a retreat?”

“Seven, if memory serves.”

“Out of how many battles?”

“Hundreds.”

“And the last few weeks how many times have we fallen back before the Kez?”

Etan sighed, setting down his feather pen and rubbing his eyes. “Taniel, what does it matter? The generals don’t have a choice. It’s either fall back with heavy losses or suffer the deaths of every man on the front.”

“What if one of the generals is in league with the Kez?” Taniel mused aloud. “Ordering the retreat early each time?”

“Those are dangerous accusations.”

“Tamas believed there was a traitor — ”