The Crimson Campaign

by Brian McClellan

  “I’m going to Norport,” Adamat said when he’d regained his composure.

  Faye’s hand, gently stroking his arm, froze. “Why?”

  “To get Josep back. I can find him there, and if I can’t find him, I can pick up his trail.”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean no.” Faye’s tone was firm. “I’ll not have you risking your life over this. Not anymore. I’ve lost Josep, but I have eight more children, and I can’t provide for them and protect them without you.”

  “You won’t —”

  “I said no.”

  Adamat could tell by her tone there’d be no argument. No hope at all. She’d do everything in her power to keep him from going. “But —”

  “No.”

  He tried to find the courage to tell her off. To tell her that he had a duty to his son, that he could still get his boy back.

  The courage never came.

  In the morning, Adamat went to return the money he’d borrowed from Ricard.

  A secretary met him in the lobby of Ricard’s new headquarters. She opened her mouth with a word of greeting, but something on his face must have stilled her tongue, and she led him back to the room off the side of the building that was Ricard’s office.

  The room was much larger than his old office, but no cleaner.

  The whole room reeked. There were oysters on one shelf, probably from the same pub that Adamat had been to last night, and from the smell of them they were three days old. The scent was made worse by some kind of incense burning on Ricard’s desk.

  He ignored Ricard’s greeting and threw himself into the chair across from him.

  Ricard frowned and leaned back in his seat, and the two of them regarded each other for a few moments. Ricard’s eyes went to the case on Adamat’s lap.

  “They never showed,” Adamat said, tossing the case on the ground. “They took my fifty-thousand-krana deposit and disappeared. Now my boy is gone forever, along with any hope I have of getting him back. I should never have trusted them.” Adamat could hear the disgust in his own voice.

  Ricard got that look on his face when he was about to say “I told you so,” but instead quietly said, “We all make mistakes.”

  Adamat wanted to break things. He wanted to go on a violent rampage, destroying Ricard’s expensive furniture and chandeliers and crystal decanters, then throw himself on the ground in the middle of the mess and sob.

  “I don’t know what to do now,” he said.

  Ricard said, “I have something I could have you look into.”

  Adamat fixed Ricard with a long look. How could Ricard think he’d want to take a case right now?

  “It would keep your mind off things,” Ricard went on. “There are accusations of profiteering within the ranks of the Adran army. I need to follow up on those accusations and find some evidence.”

  “That’s a job for the provosts,” Adamat said.

  “Not when the corruption runs all the way up to the General Staff.”

  “No,” Adamat said. “I’m done with military dealings. Find someone braver and stupider.”

  Ricard stifled a smile. “You’re the bravest and stupidest man I know.”

  “I can attest to that,” a voice said from the back of the room.

  Privileged Borbador stood in the doorway. He wore a slimming day jacket, his face pink from a morning shave, a cane in one hand. His Privileged’s gloves were nowhere to be seen.

  “Who the pit are you?” Ricard asked.

  “Privileged Borbador, at your service.” Bo bowed his head slightly. “I understand you have a letter for me.”

  “Oh,” Ricard said in surprise. A confused look crossed his face. “How could you possibly know that I have a letter for you?”

  Bo smiled.

  “Right. From Taniel Two-Shot,” Ricard said. He searched through his papers until he discovered the letter, then brought it to Bo.

  Bo leaned up against the doorway as he read the note. He turned it around, looking at some kind of report that had been written on the back. His eyes narrowed, and he glanced at Adamat. “Did you tell him that Tamas is still alive?”

  “I did,” Adamat said.

  “We have no evidence of that.” Ricard spread his hands.

  “He is,” Bo said. “And when he gets back, he’s going to gut his General Staff.”

  “If the army runs out of powder, Adro will have been conquered long before Tamas returns.”

  Bo chewed on his lip. “Any word from Taniel Two-Shot? Other than this letter, I mean.”

  “He is being court-martialed as we speak. I sent my undersecretary down to intervene on my behalf, but I won’t know the results for days.”

  “Court-martialed? For what?” Bo’s tone was flat. Adamat thought it his imagination, but the temperature of the room seemed to have dropped.

  “Mostly trumped-up charges,” Ricard said. “Disobeying orders, attacking one of the General Staff. But Taniel suspects that some of the General Staff are war-profiteering, and may even be in league with the Kez, which would explain why they’re court-martialing their only powder mage.”

  Bo waved the letter. “Yes, I read that. Pit. Pit, pit, pit. I suppose I could go kill them all, if they haven’t hanged him by the time I get there.”

  “That wouldn’t be very good for the war effort,” Adamat pointed out. “And we don’t know which of the generals are profiteering.”

  “You think I give a damn about who it is?” Bo snapped. Bo raised his hand, and even though he wasn’t wearing his Privileged’s gloves, Adamat felt himself shrink into his chair. Bo took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a few minutes before speaking again. “I’ll take care of this,” he said. To Ricard, “I may need your help.”

  “My organization is at your disposal.”

  “Good.”

  Bo left as quickly as he’d arrived, and Adamat found himself alone with Ricard once again.

  “Well, that’s interesting. You’ve made yourself some rather fascinating friends.” Ricard plucked a half-smoked cigar from an ashtray and examined it, as if deciding whether to finish it off. He tossed it into the rubbish bin at his feet.

  “I’d rather not have had to,” Adamat murmured.

  “You need a break. Not more work. I see that now. You should come on a trip with me,” Ricard said.

  “What? Where?”

  “The grand opening of the Pan-Deliv Canal!” Ricard stood up and threw back the curtains on his window to reveal the ugliness of the factory dock-fronts with the backdrop of a rainstorm raging across the Adsea. He cocked an eyebrow at the weather and closed the curtains.

  “I thought it was called the King Manhouch Canal?”

  “No king, no King Manhouch Canal.” Ricard opened his cigar box and offered one to Adamat, which he refused.

  “I will not let you cheer me up,” Adamat said.

  Ricard waved his hand in front of him as if envisioning a sign hanging from the wall. “I wanted to call it the Tumblar Crossing, but my Ministerial Election Committee seems to think that humility looks better to the voting public, while the council wanted something to strengthen ties with Deliv.” Ricard struck a match and lit his cigar. “I give up so much for the greater good.”

  “You poor man,” Adamat said.

  “You’ll come to the grand opening?”

  “No.” What could possibly make Ricard think that Adamat would want to travel, after all his ordeals? He closed his eyes, trying to escape the stink of those oysters. “What about Privileged Borbador?”

  “I’ll leave word for my people to help him. Come with me. I insist,” Ricard said.

  “Absolutely not. My wife is in no shape to travel. My children —”

  “Your children can come. I’ll hire the nannies, and you and Faye can ride in my carriage. We leave this afternoon.”

  “Faye will not go!”

  “She’s already agreed.”

  Adamat narrowed his eyes. “Liar.�
��

  “Cross my heart,” Ricard said. “I visited her yesterday.”

  “She would have said something.”

  “She didn’t, apparently. Go home and ask her. My bet is that she’s already packed. It’ll do you both good to get out of the city.”

  “If you planned this all out, why that rubbish about the profiteering generals?”

  “I wanted to get your thoughts on it. You weren’t very helpful.”

  “I couldn’t possibly —”

  “All expenses are on me,” Ricard said. He leaned over his desk, his nose wrinkling as incense wafted in his face. “Go home and get ready. My carriage will pick you up in three hours. No more arguments.”

  “I won’t be bullied.” Adamat tried to get angry. He wanted to lean across the desk and smack Ricard, but the fury just wasn’t there. Ricard was right. He needed to get out of the city and have some fresh air. If the children could come, and Faye had already agreed, perhaps it would do them all some good.

  “Three hours,” Ricard said.

  Adamat kicked the travel case, sending stacks of banknotes across the floor. “All right, damn it! Just throw out those damned oysters!”

  Ricard stood up straight and nodded, pinching his nose at the pungent odor. “Agreed.”

  Taniel didn’t know whether to curse his luck or to praise it.

  General Ket could very well have sent him to the noose. She had the backing of the rest of the senior staff – all but General Hilanska, it seemed. Fell’s arrival couldn’t have been more timely, and Abrax’s offer of employment with the Wings would let him stay on the front.

  But to be thrown out of the Adran army? The thought still made him stumble. He’d been raised in the army. He’d marched and killed and bled for them for nearly half his life and now they tossed him aside like unwanted trash, all because he accused the General Staff of helping Kez.

  And perhaps they were. Their retreat orders were suspiciously well timed, and their refusal to hold the line even when the Kez were beaten was baffling.

  Nothing Taniel could do about it now except join the Wings of Adom. He’d have a chance to finally finish off the Kez Privileged, and maybe once all those damned sorcerers were dead, they’d stop making Wardens of any kind. Of course, Taniel also needed a way to get Kresimir’s blood so that Ka-poel could kill him.

  That seemed like the easy part.

  An explosion sent Taniel reeling. He regained his feet a moment later. Where had it come from?

  There was confusion in the Adran camp, but it seemed the explosion had come from the south. Taniel rushed to a hillock and looked south to the Kez camp.

  In the far distance, miles away, beyond the Kez camp and the immense beam where Julene hung in the sun, he could see the city of Budwiel. The walls of the city smoldered. Low clouds hung above it – or was that smoke? A gunpowder explosion? Possible.

  The Kez camp was a flurry of activity, all of it directed back toward Budwiel. Was that Tamas, finally returning? No, it couldn’t be. Tamas wouldn’t attack the Kez rear unless he was damned certain that the Adran brigades would attack from the front.

  It would have been an opportune moment to strike. Taniel cocked his head, listening for the trumpets to call the men to arms.

  His gaze drifted to the beam erected in the middle of the Kez camp and Julene’s body hanging from it and he wondered again how she’d ended up there. She had been so willful, so powerful. Had Kresimir done it? Taniel couldn’t imagine anyone else having the power to subdue her like that.

  Taniel waited. Silence. There wasn’t even an alarm in case the Kez attempted a surprise attack.

  The sun was just setting when Taniel reached his quarters in a small shed. He had a couple hours to find Ka-poel and gather his things. Should he say good-bye to anyone? Etan would remain in contact. Was there anyone else?

  Taniel leaned against the door to the shed he’d been using as quarters. No. There wasn’t anyone else. For all his time in the Adran army, Taniel had few friends. That should have made it easier to leave.

  It should have…

  Taniel opened the door. The waning sunlight slashed across the inside of the room.

  Ka-poel lay naked on the cot, her hands stretched above her head, her face hidden in the shadows. Taniel felt his face turn red. He averted his eyes.

  “Pole, what are you doing?”

  A fist connected with his stomach, doubling him over. A pair of hands shoved him inside. He fell to the floor, trying to gather his wits as the door closed behind him.

  Taniel scrambled to get to his feet. Something hard slammed into his back and he felt a blade against his throat. His mouth went dry.

  “Don’t move, powder mage.”

  A match was struck and the lantern beside the bed lit. There were five men crowded into the small room. They leered down at Taniel. Each one carried a truncheon or a knife. The lot of them reeked of whiskey. They wore Adran military jackets with a patch on the shoulder that showed the emblem of a shovel.

  Dredgers. Third Brigade. The lowest of the low in the entire Adran military.

  General Ket’s men.

  One of the soldiers took a swig from a bottle in his hand and punched Taniel in the face. The blow was hard and well placed, forcing Taniel down farther. By the soldier’s stripes on his shoulder, he was a captain.

  Taniel stared at the floor, watching long tendrils of bloody saliva drop on the wood. “Who the pit are you?” he spat.

  The captain sniffed. “General Ket told us we’d get this little piece here. We thought we’d start early.” He set the bottle on the nightstand and began to loosen his trousers. “And you’re going to watch.”

  Taniel looked at Ka-poel out of the corner of his eye, trying to ignore her nudity. Her face was bruised and black, her lip split and bloody. She’d been beaten badly.

  He surged to his feet. Someone was quick enough with a truncheon to bash him across the shoulders. Taniel didn’t even feel it. His right hand grasped the captain’s chin, fingers in the man’s mouth. His left hand grabbed the captain by the forehead.

  Taniel felt the pop and tear of muscles, bone, and tendon as he tore the captain’s jaw off. Deep inside, the sound frightened him, but all objections were silenced by his rage.

  He took a truncheon blow across the side of the face and turned on the wielder. His fist hit the soldier’s nose hard enough to kill him instantly. Red filled Taniel’s vision like a thick fog, and his body moved as if on its own accord.

  Taniel couldn’t remember killing the last three, but he was soon surrounded by five corpses, their blood still warm on his hands and shirt. He dropped to his knees beside Ka-poel. She was breathing lightly. Her eyes fluttered open.

  “Shh,” Taniel said when her mouth opened. He covered her with a blanket and then snatched his only other jacket from the bedpost, throwing it on over his blood-soaked shirt. He grabbed his sketchbook and his kit and threw them in his bag, then lifted Ka-poel in his arms. There was nothing else in this room that mattered.

  He spotted her satchel, discarded in the corner, and grabbed it as he left.

  Taniel sprinted the entire way to the Wings camp. As soon as he reached the pickets, he began to call for a doctor. Confused infantrymen regarded him from their posts as he raced by.

  The brigadiers’ tents were not hard to find in the center of the camp.

  “Is this Abrax’s tent?” Taniel demanded.

  The two sentries exchanged a glance.

  “Brigadier Abrax! I must see her now!”

  “Two-Shot?”

  Taniel whirled to see Abrax approaching from the way he’d come. She was probably just returning from the Adran camp, and he realized they’d spoken less than twenty minutes ago.

  “What the pit are you…” Her eyes took in his bloody shirt and Ka-poel’s bruised body. “What happened?”

  “I need a doctor for her. Now!”

  “Get a doctor,” Abrax barked at the sentries. “Bring her into my tent. There, se
t her on the cot. What happened to her? Holy saints, what happened to you? You’re covered in blood. Did you do this to her?”

  “No!” Taniel roared the word before he was able to control himself. “No. I didn’t. She’s all that matters. See to her, please.”

  “It’ll be done,” Abrax said.

  “I’ve just killed five men,” Taniel said. “Soldiers in the Third Brigade. It was in self-defense, but they’ll be coming for me shortly.”

  Abrax blinked at the news. She opened her mouth, then shut it. “You were attacked?” she finally managed.

  “Yes.”

  “Details, man. Now!”

  “Five men jumped me in my quarters. They had Ka-poel like this… they were going to… while I watched.” Taniel heard his words flow out in broken, rushed sentences.

  “You were unarmed?”

  Taniel nodded.

  Abrax put her hand to her mouth and studied Taniel. “You’re in shock. Sit down. Were you in a powder trance?”

  “No.”

  “Five men,” she breathed, almost too low for Taniel to hear. “With his bare hands.” She glanced at Ka-poel. “The doctors will be here soon. Stay here.”

  Abrax crossed to the head of the tent. “Stewart!” she bellowed as she went. Abrax stepped outside, but she spoke loudly enough that Taniel could hear her clearly. “Ah, there you are. Get our best internal investigators. Send them to the Adran camp immediately. There has been a quintuple murder and I want to know the exact circumstances leading up to it.”

  “We going after someone? Or trying to determine how the victims arrived at their deaths?” a male voice asked. Stewart, Taniel assumed.

  “We’re not going after anything but the truth. And they’re not victims, they’re potential rapists. Dig up everything you can on them. I want to know exactly what type of people they were and what they were doing before their deaths.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And close the camp to the Adran provosts and stifle any rumors going around.”