Taniel broke into a sprint toward the farmhouse. He rolled as a grenadier appeared from a nearby ditch. The man’s musket belched smoke and Taniel heard the bullet whiz by. Too far to ignite the man’s powder, but close enough…
He let go of his rifle as he came out of his roll and drew a pistol. He fired, adjusting the trajectory of the bullet with his mind in the fraction of a second it took to cross the distance and lance the man’s heart. The grenadier fell.
Three down, three to go. Taniel’s heart sang as he moved, blood pounding in his ears, feeling the rhythm of the battle. A bullet skipped off the ground beside his foot, and he looked to see the grenadier hidden on the roof of the farmhouse. Taniel hesitated between reloading his rifle and drawing his second pistol and decided instead to finish his sprint toward the cover of the house. Another grenadier rounded the corner of the farmhouse just as Taniel reached it. The soldier raised his musket.
Taniel ignited the grenadier’s powder horn and used his mind to warp the blast away from himself.
A slight movement above him was his only warning as the grenadier from the roof leapt down, knife drawn.
Taniel caught the grenadier’s knife thrust with the stock of his rifle. He shoved, trying to push him away in order to thrust with his bayonet, but the grenadier grasped the musket with one hand and stabbed again. Taniel was only able to avoid the thrust by throwing himself against the stone wall of the farmhouse.
The grenadier followed through, his face furrowed in anger as he caught Taniel’s bayonet under one boot and bent for another jab. Taniel let go of his rifle and snatched the grenadier’s wrist, slamming his opposite fist into the man’s knee.
The grenadier screamed. Taniel wrenched on his wrist, pulling him down to the ground, and rolled on top of him. He had the grenadier’s knife now, and he wrapped one hand around the hilt and slammed it into the grenadier’s face.
“Where’s Ka-poel? The savage girl! What have you done with her?” Taniel waited a moment, then punched him again. “Tell me!” Why was he doing this? He already knew. What could this bastard possibly tell him? Taniel drew his second pistol and pressed it against the grenadier’s forehead. “Is she still alive? Tell me now!”
The grenadier spit blood in his face.
Taniel felt the pistol jerk in his hand, the crack of the blast in his ears, and the grenadier’s body beneath him stiffened then sagged. Slowly, he climbed to his feet and tossed the spent pistol aside.
He’d wanted answers. He’d wanted to hear his fears confirmed.
Taniel looked to one side as the sixth and final grenadier came out of his hiding place and advanced, musket leveled. Taniel took a deep breath. Shit. In his excitement, he forgot about the last one. Too far to ignite the grenadier’s powder, and too close for the grenadier to miss him.
A stupid mistake, and it had just gotten him killed.
Taniel flinched away as the grenadier jerked to one side and fell. His musket landed on the hard-packed road with a clatter, and blood seeped from his head to pool on the ground. Taniel took a shaky breath and squinted into the sun, but couldn’t make out anything in the glare. His backup must have arrived. No one else was close enough to make that kind of a shot. He would have sensed them.
Tamas must have sent another powder mage. But who? Had the rest of the cabal caught up to Tamas? Had Tamas himself come? Taniel felt some dread in the pit of his stomach, because he thought he knew who it might be.
No use staring into the sun, trying to see who had shot the grenadier. Taniel checked the bodies more closely and found each of the grenadiers dead or very near so. His knife finished the job on two of them. No sense in letting men suffer, and they weren’t going to answer questions in their state.
He finished his inspection, checking for other grenadiers he might have missed, and gathered and reloaded his weapons, then walked toward where he’d left his horse. He was just climbing into the saddle as the rest of his hunting party crested the nearest rise. He bent over his saddle, eyes closed, resting as he waited for them to catch up.
“What are you doing here, Captain?” he asked when he heard their hoofbeats come to a stop nearby. He opened his eyes.
Vlora reined in her mount and signaled for the others to stop. “It’s ‘Colonel,’ actually.”
“That’s quite a promotion.” Taniel had known, of course. And she knew he knew. He had called her “Captain” out of spite.
Vlora’s cheeks flushed, but she only lifted her chin. “I’m here to help. We’re going after those bastards.”
“I can’t give orders to a colonel,” Taniel said. “And I don’t think you should lead the expedition.” The words came out harsher than Taniel had meant, but he had wanted them to sting. It felt like years had passed, but she’d been his fiancée less than seven months ago, when he found her in the arms of another man. Ka-poel’s capture already had him on edge. He wasn’t ready to deal with Vlora.
“You’ve been promoted as well, Colonel,” she said, holding out her hand.
He took the colonel’s pin and held it up to the light. “First major, then this? I don’t deserve it.”
“The field marshal feels otherwise. And he needs to fill spots from officer casualties, so…” She trailed off. “You’re in command, Colonel.”
Taniel pinned the bars to his lapel with some reluctance.
He put Vlora out of his mind to examine the rest of the group. Gavril, the Watchmaster, which was a surprise. Taniel hadn’t seen him since he left the South Pike Mountainwatch to pursue Julene and the Kez cabal. In addition to Gavril there were three more powder mages, and a dozen more soldiers wearing the emblem of Olem’s Riflejacks. The Seventh and Ninth must have arrived not long after Taniel left, and Tamas had sent his best men.
The despair began to melt away and Taniel felt his resolve harden.
This wasn’t a hopeless cause anymore. He could—he would—get Ka-poel back.
CHAPTER
24
Tamas was livid.
He guided his horse through the Adran camp at a walk, only half listening to Olem as he gave his morning report.
Ipille had betrayed him under a white flag. There were certain rules of war that Tamas found idiotic and others he found snobbish. He would openly flout such rules if it suited him, but the white flag of parley was sacrosanct. It was how peace was made, and for Ipille to have attacked Tamas’s camp even while he sat in truce with Tamas was…
Tamas couldn’t find words to express his anger.
The remnants of the Seventh and Ninth that had survived their march through Kez had arrived just an hour after Taniel had left. Colonel—now General, as of his arrival at the camp—Arbor had double-marched the men throughout the afternoon and much of the night to arrive far ahead of schedule. Tamas had immediately taken volunteers from among his best men and powder mages and sent them after Taniel, and now the rest of his two best brigades were sleeping off their long march as he tried to decide what to do with them.
Tamas drew up on his reins. Olem had stopped talking. “Go on,” he said.
Olem immediately drew a cigarette from his pocket and clenched it with his lips. “You’re doing that thing you do, sir.” He produced a match and lit his cigarette.
“What thing?”
“Where you pretend you’re listening but you’re thinking about something else.”
“I was not.”
Olem puffed on his cigarette. “Whatever you say, sir.”
“One of these days I’m going to have you shot for that insubordinate tone, Olem.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Pit, you’re insufferable.”
“You did make me a colonel.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“I’ve met a lot of colonels, sir. They’re all insufferable.”
Tamas waved some cigarette smoke away from his face. “What about Arbor? He was a colonel until a few hours ago, and you always seemed to like him.”
“Hav
e you played cards with General Arbor, sir?”
“No.”
“He’s insufferable too. Likable, but insufferable.”
“Can one be both?”
“He is.”
“Pit. I don’t have time for this. What were you telling me before?”
“A report on our powder stores, sir.”
“Do we have enough for an extended campaign against the Kez?”
“Yes. Barely. Despite the Brudanians holding Adro, we’re still getting shipments from Ricard’s businesses. Even more now that General Ket isn’t there to skim off the top.”
“Good. Then skip the report. Anything else important this morning?”
Olem addressed the stack of notes in his hand. He flipped through them, grumbling to himself. “Beon je Ipille arrived with the Seventh and Ninth. He’d like to meet with you at your convenience.”
“It can wait. If I see one of Ipille’s spawn right now, I’d probably shoot him in the heart. And I actually like Beon. Have all of my promotions gone through?”
“Most of them,” Olem said. “All senior officers will be waiting for you in your tent at eight o’clock.”
Tamas checked his pocket watch. “We’d better finish this quickly, then.”
“Of course, sir.” Olem shuffled through his papers and cleared his throat.
“What is it?” Tamas’s mind was already drifting back to Ipille. He could feel the bile in the back of his throat, and it wasn’t hard to envision putting his bayonet through Ipille’s prodigious gut.
“There’s one more thing, sir.”
“Spit it out!”
“Me, sir.”
“What in the Nine are you talking about?”
Olem put his papers away in his saddlebag. “Things are a bit confusing, sir.”
“You’re my bodyguard, aren’t you?”
“Yes sir. That’s what’s confusing.” Olem shifted in his saddle and cleared his throat.
Tamas’s patience was wearing thin. “Get to it.”
“You made me a colonel. Colonels, traditionally, aren’t bodyguards or aides-de-camp.”
Was this so important that Olem had to bring it up right this instant? Most men don’t usually go from sergeant to colonel in the space of eight months, either, but Tamas had promoted Olem nonetheless because it fit his needs. “True,” he said.
“I don’t think I deserve to be a colonel, sir. I’d like you to demote me.”
Tamas stared at Olem. “This? Again?”
“Yes sir. I don’t have my own command. Keeping me a colonel but also your bodyguard and aide doesn’t make sense. I don’t mind the demotion at all.”
“You don’t mind…? Damn it, Olem. You’re going to mind what I tell you to mind. You want a command? You have one now.”
“Sir?”
“The Seventh is yours.”
Olem’s cigarette fell out of his mouth. “But sir! You were going to give the Seventh to Colonel—I mean General—Arbor.”
“General Arbor has the First and the Third. They’ve been humiliated by Ket and Hilanska’s treason and he’s going to whip them into shape. You will combine the best men from the Seventh and the Ninth to form the new Seventh, which will be called the Marshal’s Own Riflejack Brigade.”
Olem sat up straight.
Tamas continued. “You don’t have a lot of command experience, but you know people. I’ll leave it to you to choose your officers. Choose them well, because you’re still going to spend most of your time with me.”
“Are you certain, sir?”
“Of course.”
“You’ll need a new bodyguard.”
“No, I won’t.”
“Uh, sir?”
Tamas leaned over to Olem and slapped him on the shoulder. “You’re still my bodyguard, and the whole damn Seventh will be too. There’s no one else I trust to watch my back.”
For once, Olem had no snappy comeback. “Thank you, sir. I’m honored.”
“Don’t be honored. Just do your job. Now, let’s go meet with the senior staff. We have an offensive to plan.”
Tamas met his senior officers in his command tent in the center of the camp.
Roughly twenty-five men and women had crammed inside the tent: generals and colonels from most of the brigades. More than half of the faces among them were new officers, recently promoted, and Tamas knew he still had almost a dozen promotions to make before the end of the day. The Wings of Adom brigadiers were conspicuously absent. Lady Winceslav had been true to her word and withdrawn all but a token force from the front lines.
Because of the lack of the mercenaries and the inexperience of his new officers, Tamas knew this conference couldn’t wait. The officers—and their men—needed to know where they stood.
Tamas entered through a slit at the back of the tent, hiding his limp and the pain in his side as he quietly took his place at the head of the gathering. Olem was already waiting. He’d spread a few papers on Tamas’s desk: casualty figures, regiment strengths, the names of new senior officers. Tamas had gone over all of that hours ago, but it would be good to have something to reference.
He stood behind his desk, hands clasped behind his back, and let his eyes rest at the entrance of the tent.
The seconds ticked by, then turned into minutes. Someone toward the back of the group cleared their throat, and Tamas listened to the shouts of a quartermaster rise over the general din of the camp.
Five minutes passed before one of the new generals raised his hand, false teeth clenched in his fist.
“Yes?” Tamas asked.
General Arbor lowered his hand. “We waiting for someone, sir?”
“We are,” Tamas said. “Olem, would you see if our guest has arrived?”
Olem ducked out through the back. Several more minutes passed and Tamas could sense his officers begin to get restless. What was this about, he imagined them wondering. Why did he have them waiting here, standing at attention like common infantrymen, when they had work to do?
Tamas decided to let them stew. It shouldn’t be longer than a few more minutes now.
Tamas wondered if his Riflejacks had managed to catch up with Taniel yet. It was an unexpected surprise that the Seventh and Ninth had arrived in the middle of the night, but a welcome one. He needed his best veterans more than ever now, and…
The sound of galloping horses cut off his thought. Shouts accompanied the sound—of surprise, but not alarm—from among the soldiers outside. Tamas could sense his senior officers getting nervous at the sound, and was glad to see some of them mimic his stony composure.
Every head in the room turned as the tent flap was swept aside. Olem stepped inside and announced, “His Lordship, King Sulem the Ninth, of Deliv.”
A murmur among the officers quickly faded into silence as the Deliv king swept into the command tent. He held his plumed bicorne under one arm and wore a Kelly-green officer’s dress uniform, the chest of which was caked in decorations. He was a handsome man with gray hair curled near the scalp, a strong jaw, and white teeth that seemed to shine in contrast with his ebony skin.
Tamas took a deep breath and let it out slowly to calm his nerves. The situation had changed since his last talk with Sulem, and he was not sure if Deliv support would change once they were better informed.
The Deliv king approached and gave Tamas a short nod. Tamas responded in kind, and watched as Sulem turned to survey the assembled officers.
Tamas had been curious how his officers would react to a king in their midst and was pleased to see them all give the same respectful nod as he had. Sulem may be an ally, but Tamas wanted it to be clear to him—and to the rest of the kings of the Nine—that Adrans did not bow and scrape before royalty. If anything, Sulem seemed amused. He did not, however, return their nod.
Sulem took a place beside Tamas, facing the officers.
Olem approached and leaned to whisper in Tamas’s ear, “Beon is outside. He’s heard an inkling of what’s happened and is demanding to
see you.”
“Restrain him. Gently.”
Olem disappeared discreetly out the back of the tent and returned a few moments later. “It’s done.”
Tamas cleared his throat to get his officers’ attention. “Thank you for joining us, Your Majesty,” Tamas said. He paused to examine his officers once more. Fine men and women, every one of them. People he could place his confidence in, who would stand beside him against the world. He felt a sudden tightness in his throat, a cloudiness to his vision, and forced himself to choke down the emotion.
“Five days ago, King Ipille of Kez sued for peace. Not a terrible surprise considering the walloping we gave his army at Ned’s Creek.” There was a round of chuckles, which Tamas let die down on its own. “Just yesterday I met with him to begin peace talks that would end this war once and for all. The talks went better than I had expected and I returned to camp last night optimistic for the first time in five months that the bloodshed would end.
“Optimistic until I saw the flames, that is. As you are no doubt all aware, we were attacked by a contingent of Kez Privileged and grenadiers. The Thirteenth suffered heavy casualties, as did the Seventy-Fifth Dragoons, which tried to cut off their retreat from our camp. We…” Tamas chewed on his cheek for a moment, forcing down his rage. “Well, you all have the report on the attack. It ends with this: ‘We were attacked under a white flag of parley.’”
There was an angry mutter among the officers, and Tamas continued. “This is a sin I will not forgive. This war has been one of defensive battles: Ned’s Creek, Shouldercrown, Surkov’s Alley, Budwiel. We have suffered betrayal and corruption. We have stood before the might of a sick and petty god. Today, my friends, my brothers and sisters, we go on the offensive.”
Tamas paused to think of the foreign army that held Adro, and knew that this was just one of many offensives he would need to rally in the coming days. “Today I march to the enemy camp at Fendale. We will set upon the Kez army like a dog on a rat and we will rid this country of vermin. There will be no quarter given until every Kez cur has been driven from our borders. They have sullied our nation for long enough.”
The Powder Mage Trilogy: Promise of Blood, The Crimson Campaign, The Autumn Republic Page 130