Act One

  Chapter One

  Seven Days to Kanmak

  Dryden kicked Rosie’s flanks and urged her onward into the muddy waters of the Yuna, his bay mare that had borne him through disasters and wars and somehow come through unscathed. Her sturdy legs and sure hooves drove forward, reliable as ever. Hundreds of men and horse followed them down the gentle slope into the crossing. The south fork of the river was shallow in the dry season. Low enough to ride across. Too shallow for paddlewheels. The rains of Ammamaha had not touched the land since they had been in the jungles of Rhakan, far to the east. That war was over. A tenuous peace had been struck with that great empire. Maybe that treaty would hold a while, keeping Rhakan at bay. But for a soldier of Vastrum, peace was only a dream. There was always another war. Always. Blood was the price of empire. Even while they had marched and won against the empire of the tiger-king, the lands and peoples they had thought conquered had risen against them. More than half the subcontinent was now fully engulfed in the flames of rebellion. They named it a mutiny because the first to rise had been sepoys, the native soldiers conscripted from the subcontinent, but to call it a mere mutiny did it a disservice. It was not a few regiments of sepoys that had risen, but all the people from rajas and princes, to lowly serfs, had risen against Vastrum. Though men and women from all the colonies had taken part in the uprising, three kingdoms in particular were to blame. Ayodh, Kathalamanyr, and Huz. It was Ayodh that Dryden and the Bloody 13th rode through now. They spurred their steeds, riding day and night, riding hard for Kanmak to relieve the besieged that may still hold out.

  One boat had made it safe to Bankut from Kanmak. A paddlewheel steamer had borne a handful of soldiers and one Vastrum officer. Captain Fitz. Only that one ship had crossed the blockades across the Yuna. They arrived floating listlessly down the river, the boat a smoking wreck from the cannon fire unleashed by the rebels. That they had arrived in one piece and alive was a miracle. Heroic stories might be written about their survival and running the gauntlet of the cities of the upper Yuna. That would have to wait until this war ended. There was more important news. Soldiers still held at the governor’s residency in Kanmak, Fitz had reported. A thousand soldiers, perhaps. Hundreds of women and children. Julia. Helena. Roxana. Jack Havor’s little baby Henry, as he told it. Many of the wives of Marshal Haddock and many of his staff were alive, though not all. They were there, but just out of reach. For how long could they hold? So the Bloody 13th rode, and with urgency.

  There was an ocean of darkness and uncertainty between them. Had the defences already fallen? Had they food? Water? Ammunition? Someone had to ride to the rescue. Someone had to try. Colonel Pugh and Major Dryden had to try, and the 13th Dragoons with them. So they had been sent ahead of the army with orders.

  To the commander of the 13th Dragoons: Reach Kanmak. Break through by any means. Relieve the besieged in the residency. Save our women and children. May all the dead gods bear you to victory.

  Signed, Marshal Haddock, Servant of King Victus and High Commander of Vastrum’s armies.

  P.S. You are no good to them dead. If no path can be secured to relieve the besieged, return and report their condition.

  They had ridden out weeks ago on those orders. There had been a skirmish on the second day when they broke out of the Bankut encirclement. There had been a skirmish two days later when they had seen off a few hundred native cavalry irregulars that rode after them in hot pursuit. Now they were through into the vastness of Ayodh. All they had to do was cross the south fork of the Yuna, ride across the plain between the rivers, and they could be in Kanmak within the week. They were one week’s hard ride away from their goal.

  Rosie mounted the far bank. Water dripped heavy from her back and saddle, and from Dryden’s legs and boots. Again, the men followed him, a column of hundreds—the full strength of the Bloody 13th. The waters of the lower Yuna fork churned black and muddy at their passing. Once across, they took a brief respite. Their equipment dried quickly in the hot, bright sun. After a brief rest and a meal, the regiment continued onward, ever to the northwest. Not one man spoke more than was necessary as they rode. Each of them rode alone with their resolve and with their fear. The hooves beat the ground, thundering as they went, the only sound of their passing. The Raven banner was kept furled, lest it give away their position, identity, and intent. At night, they lit no fires. Even Mar, the regiment’s wizard, relented and did not light his customary evening cigarettes.

  The first three days riding across the open country between the forks of the river Yuna were uneventful. On the fourth day, a column of dust was sighted, kicked up by a mass of horses. Scouts were sent. They returned with a surprise. The riders were Vastrum men. The cavalry column stopped near a thick stand of trees, and a messenger was sent.

  Dryden stood in the shade of a short palm. Lieutenant Colonel Pugh sat on a small folding three-legged stool. He held his small spyglass and idly picked dust from the telescoping mechanism. Mar leaned against the tree opposite Dryden. Sergeant Major Gideon and several men stood guard nearby, carbine muskets at the ready.

  “Who do you think it is?” Dryden asked Pugh.

  “I’ve no bloody idea. Survivors. Deserters. Company men,” The Colonel responded idly, trying to clean his spyglass.

  “Shall I ready myself?” Mar asked. Like all golden-eyed wielders of magic across the world, Marten Pyke, Regimental Wizard First Class, consumed the narcotics to harness his occult powers. His drug of choice, as with most Vastrum war wizards, was the indigo-powder aethium, a rare and highly potent narcotic only found in a few remote locales. Wars had been fought over its control. It was a precious, limited resource that Pugh preferred not to waste, but its use required several minutes to prepare. Mar preferred to add the powder to his cigarettes, which took extra time. By the time you knew you needed it, it was too late.

  Pugh shook his head, “No, I do not think we will require your services.”

  Mar shrugged. He sometimes looked for an excuse to use the aethium, which was highly addictive. Nearly all wizards of Vastrum were addicted.

  A group of riders came into view, galloping hard. Their horses whipped the dark soil of Ayodh into the air at their passing. Pugh stood up suddenly, “Blood and thunder,” he exclaimed, then guffawed as if he were witnessing the most humorous thing.

  Dryden raised an eyebrow, “Sir?”

  “They’re men of the 13th,” Pugh said, a grin breaking on his face.

  Dryden saw it, then, the black jackets on the riders. They were styled with silver fittings, and the lead man wore the epaulettes of the 13th Dragoons. Then he recognised the taciturn face of the leading soldier, “By all the dead gods,” Dryden smiled, feeling some hope for the first time in a long while, “That’s Lieutenant Bloody Edmonds!”

  “So it is,” Mar said, laughing, “How the devil?”

  “His return is no more or less surprising than your own when I found you on the road to Ghinai,” Dryden pointed out.

  “Fair enough,” Mar replied, “He appears in a better state than was I, though.”

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  Dryden chuckled at that. It was true. When Dryden had rescued him, Mar had been enslaved, starved, beaten, scarred, and half-changed by his encounter with the god of the storms and mountains that ruled over Vurun, the god that had returned him from the dead after a mountainside had fallen on him. Compared to that, Edmonds did look far more hale.

  The riders with Lieutenant Edmonds pulled up as they approached the stand of trees. Edmonds dismounted and strode over to the small group. His typically dour face cracked a smile as he realised who they were. He immediately stood taller, at attention. He saluted crisply, clicking his heels together.

  “Just where the bloody hell have you been?” Pugh said, grinning at him, “You’ve a long story, I presume.”

  “Indeed,” Edmonds eyes took note of Pugh’s new rank, “Congratulations are in order, it seems. Is Havor…?” He trailed off.

  “He made Brigadier after Rhakan,” Pugh explained. He returned the salute, “Welcome back.”

  “And they leapfrogged you over Dryden?” Edmonds asked.

  “I upset the wrong generals,” Dryden answered, wincing at the question. Pugh was the commander now. It was settled, but still a sore spot for both he and Pugh, the one small crack in their friendship.

  “Well, that’s hardly sporting of them,” Edmonds offered, “Still, congratulations are in order, Colonel Pugh, sir.”

  “Indeed. But truly, I am curious how you came to be here? Last we knew, you had held back the flanking manoeuvre at Bogat and were lost,” Pugh pressed the question.

  Edmonds nodded and answered, “Rather straightforward, actually. When the enemy crossed the river upstream, we were done for. Knew if we gave them what for, the rest would have a chance to slip away. Some few of us were captured. We were ransomed within a few weeks and sent back to Kanmak, where we’ve been ever since. When the first units mutinied up at the fort in Parrakban, they put me in command and sent me out. We put Parrakban to the torch, killed the mutineers, and turned for home, but before we could get back to the city, everything went up like a bonfire, and we’ve been doing our level best to survive ever since. Now we’ve found you. I assume the army is just behind you?”

  Pugh winced at the question.

  Dryden shook his head, “It’s just us, Charlie. Haddock has broken the siege at Bankut, but the enemy has blocked the river, and progress is slow. We’ve been sent to relieve the residency at Kanmak.”

  “That’s a real shame,” Edmonds sighed.

  “Why’s that?”

  Edmonds shook his head, “Not possible, I’m afraid.”

  “Eh?” Pugh asked.

  “Prince Azadra holds the city like a fortress. You’d need cannons to get in there, at the very least. Have you any horse artillery?”

  “No,” Pugh said, “It was difficult enough breaking through the encirclement of Bankut. Pulling artillery was not an option.”

  “Too bad.”

  “But the residency still holds?” Dryden cut in.

  “Last we were near,” Edmonds nodded.

  “Who commands?”

  “I don’t bloody know. Hood or Fitz, I presume.”

  Dryden raised his eyebrow, “Hood is dead, and Fitz fled on a ship weeks ago.”

  “The blackguard!” Edmonds nearly shouted.

  “It was a heroic thing,” Pugh said to calm the Lieutenant, “Who else is there?”

  “There were few enough Vastrum officers remaining by the time we rode out. I suspect, then, that Lieutenant Albans may be in command.”

  “By all the dead gods, he lived, did he? He was on death’s door when we sent him home,” Dryden said, “Good on him. Tough old bastard, he is.”

  “Indeed. He’s short a leg, though.”

  “That’s not the sort of thing to stop a man like Albans,” Dryden chuckled.

  “You will of course be joining us,” Pugh noted, “We need all the men we can get.”

  “It would be my pleasure, sir.”

  “Very good. How many men are with you?”

  “A hundred and seventy-two still riding. Twenty of whom are Black City men, the balance of my doomed rearguard. Sergeant Quint will be bringing them up now.”

  Dryden nodded, “Good.” He was happy to hear that Quint still lived. He was one of the most experienced sergeants that the 13th had left. He’d been one of those to go into Dau and come out alive.

  “There is no weakness in the Prince’s defences around Kanmak?” Pugh asked, “None at all? We need but the smallest gap.”

  Edmonds shrugged, “He is weak on this side of the river. We may get close, but without artillery, we will be unable to breach the forts, I’m afraid.”

  “Close is all we need,” Pugh replied, more confidently than Dryden felt.

  Hoofbeats sounded. One horse and closing fast. All heads turned.

  “Sirs!” The rider shouted, “Sirs!” He practically leapt from the saddle, ran up and saluted.

  “What is it?” Pugh sounded irritated.

  “I… We found something, sirs. I don’t…”

  “Spit it out, lad,” Pugh snapped.

  “Apologies. I do not have the words… We found something. You must see it for yourself.”

  “The enemy?”

  “No, sir. It’s dead.”

  Pugh raised an eyebrow and glanced over at Dryden, “Take Mallick’s company. Find out what the devil this lad is blathering about. Lad, show the major here what you apparently do not have the mental faculties to explain.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” The lad stammered out, then he saluted.

  Dryden turned on his heel. A man had Rosie at the ready momentarily. He slipped up into the saddle and reined the horse around. The scout followed closely. They rode to where Mallick and his men were lounging about waiting for orders.

  “With me,” Dryden nodded. Mallick saluted and hopped up quickly.

  Mallick was a young man, barely older than half his recruits. He was thin and pale and reminded Dryden of a young Havor with dark hair and darker eyes. He had been a freshly minted junior lieutenant when the 13th had ridden out of Andaban to take revenge on Vurun. The lieutenant had done his duty and then survived Rhakan, too. He had held the line at Bogat admirably. He had charged seven times against Da Kuru’s hordes and lived. Not long ago, Mallick had been little more than a youth, barely worthy of note. Now, with all the losses and promotions, he was one of the most senior lieutenants of the 13th. He saluted quickly, then hopped up nimbly into the saddle. The grizzled veteran Sergeant Krach stood up in his saddle and started belting out orders. The men snapped at his word and mounted up.

  “Well?” Dryden asked the scout, “Where is this thing we have to see?”

  “A mile, this way,” The man said, his face pale.

  “Show me.”

  They set off without delay at a canter. It did not take long. Dryden could smell the dead before he saw them. The wretched stench of corpses rotting in the sun. Some of the younger soldiers wretched as they drew closer and the smell increased. The first body he saw was a man, a sepoy who had been killed. It did not particularly surprise him. The second body did. Despite the sun and heat, he went cold at the sight. He leapt from his horse and strode to the corpse. He turned it over. A demon, or something like what he had seen in Dau, though that had been enormous, and this was only the size and vague shape of a large man. It had tusks like fangs, jet-black skin, pale-white eyes, and a terrible, misshapen face. The thing was surely dead. The broken shaft of a spear was rammed through its chest, and its body was peppered with wounds from many muskets.

  “What is it?” Mallick asked, through a handkerchief.

  “A demon,” Dryden answered, “Are there more?” He asked the scout.

  The man nodded, holding his nose with one hand, he pointed ahead.

  “Better hope we don’t find more,” Krach growled, “Looks like what we saw in Dau, sir.”

  “At least they seem to die when struck,” Mallick offered.

  Dryden hopped back onto Rosie, and together they continued on. They came around a stand of trees, and his stomach dropped. Dozens of corpses were tangled together, the aftermath of some battle. Most of the dead were men. A second dead demon lay among the bodies of the men.

  “Sir?” Mallick asked, waiting for orders.

  “Send for Mar. Tell Pugh of the dead demons. We may have a problem.”

  A few riders were sent back. Dryden did not know what the demons meant. Not yet. From where had they come? What were they, truly? He suspected Mar would tell him the same thing that he always did when they encountered some new supernatural foe: that he was not a scholar, and that they needed a more learned man. He looked about, scanning the area more carefully. There could be anything out there, from more mutineers to a whole army of demons for all he knew. He supposed they were lucky that no such creatures had yet found them on the ride north. He assessed the field as he sat on Rosie, his bay mare. Two dead demons. Dozens of sepoys killed. Who had won this battle? Had it been the monsters or the men who had emerged victorious, or perhaps neither had won. It was a grim spectacle. Were there lessons to be learned from it? Was it a warning of danger ahead? Was it merely a terrible reflection of the war to come? Perhaps both? Dryden put his hand on the familiar hilt of the sword. It emanated heat in the presence of the dead demons, and for some reason that Dryden could not explain, the warmth of the sword through his black glove comforted him. “Soon,” it seemed to say, a portent of the battles to come, and his heart quickened at the thought. Soon, there would be blood to spill. Blood for his sabre to drink. There would be someone or something on which he could take out his terrible fury. It was all he could do to suppress a wicked grin at the thought. He recoiled in disgust at the feeling and released his grip on the sword. The feeling departed at once, and he shuddered. He was left alone, cold and hollow, in a field full of the dead.