Devil of the 22nd

by Richard Nell

  Messengers fell over themselves drawing swords or muskets. They shouted in alarm and Rald rushed forward—unarmed apparently—as if to wrestle the giant Helvati, or at least slow him down with a barrier of flesh.

  The warrior turned and swatted the boy away with his mangled arm, knocking Rald from his feet even as he sprayed his own blood across the room.

  Kurt calmly lifted his armed pistol off the table. He cocked it and aimed, arm held straight at the chief’s face. They met eyes, and the giant sneered.

  “Fight like man.”

  The mangled Keevish words tumbled and frothed from the scarred and trembling lips. Suffering and rage bulged from the savage’s red-rimmed eyes, and Kurt couldn’t even imagine how he’d survived long enough to get from the battlefield, or what feat of skill and strength or blind luck had saved him.

  For a moment he considered drawing his sabre and obliging—considered gambling, perhaps, just to test whatever mad god or comic fate ruled the world and brought together two of its chosen killers. Then he shrugged, changed his mind again, and pulled the trigger.

  * * *

  “Four casualties. Two dead, two wounded. A hundred or so minor injuries, mostly to the pikemen.”

  Kurt walked along the line of captives while Larder read his lists. The least experienced and least injured soldiers piled Helvati dead next to their families, and began digging a mass grave. Many of the women and children wept. Most sat in silence, eyes faded over in a stare Kurt knew all too well.

  “Out of curiosity, do you still consider the loss of fingers ‘minor injuries’, Captain?”

  Larder shrugged, which meant yes. Kurt frowned.

  “We’ll be doing drills in two weeks. Any man who can’t hold a pike by then will go to the light infantry. Spread the word.”

  Captain Adalard nodded slowly—it would not be welcome news. The newer soldiers feared the light infantry because it meant less protection, closer scrutiny by the veterans, and a bigger test of their own skill. But Larder was a man accustom to giving unpleasant orders. It was his job, amongst other things, to track plunder and distribute property, once the captains agreed.

  This time Kurt largely intended to let them sort the plunder out themselves. He would claim the hall as an officer’s post, but he didn’t want any slaves, and whatever house or plot of land they gave him personally would be fine—a good demonstration of his following the rules.

  “One exploded musket,” Larder kept reading. “Fifty pounds of round shot fired, fiftyish remaining. Twenty pounds of powder used, forty remaining. Sixty-five arrows shivered or broken, three pikes.”

  Kurt winced at the extravagant use of arms and firepower. Normally he ordered the men to leave their muskets and stick to slings and bows—arrows and rocks were cheap, and easily replaced. But he didn’t regret it. At least two hundred fierce Helvati warriors lay heaped and soon buried in the earth. He’d outnumbered them six to one, but to have suffered only four casualties against such a force was damn near miraculous. Or maybe not.

  He’d always known his men were some of the hardest, most experienced and best soldiers in the world. But apparently the last year of self-sufficiency and nothing to do but drill had turned them to granite. If only I had more men, and supplies, he thought. I could use the veterans to train and lead them. Only God knows what we could achieve.

  He glanced at the wide, fertile land of the Pyne valley, and sighed. For now, he thought, this would do. If they stayed then perhaps every day would give the men a chance to soften, to make families and become farmers, or at least the guardians of farmers, and in either case lose their edge. It would make things easier, perhaps. But in his heart Kurt knew, as did many of the soldiers, that none of them were truly men of peace anymore. Maybe they couldn’t be ever again.

  “Right. Secure the village. I’ll want a full count of the animals, crops, any rations or other useful supplies. You and the other captains distribute the houses today as you deem fair. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir. And the captives?”

  What he meant was - ‘Can we distribute the women, too?’ Kurt glanced at the poor wretches whose husbands, fathers, brothers and sons lay dead at their feet.

  “Not tonight. First we’ll decide how many and which ones we sell. Tell the captains to take a look and make notes. We’ll vote tomorrow.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Kurt met the man’s eyes looking for any sign of disrespect or displeasure, but found none. ‘Captains’ like Adalard generally saw themselves as equal rank to Kurt, and only on campaign did they call him ‘sir’. Ostensibly this was to maintain the illusion of his being Colonel Gottfried, but he liked to believe it was something more.

  Finished with the inspection he returned to his new command post. The men had removed the dead tribesmen and mostly cleaned the blood. They saluted as he entered, then returned to rummaging through chests and baskets or making copies of his letters for the frontier townships.

  Kurt sagged into a wicker chair and stared at the red-stained cedar floor. Slowly and carefully he cleaned and re-loaded his four wheel-lock pistols, and his men brought him a supper of chicken soup with greens and potatoes that weren’t even rotten. They found a large, wooden tub and offered to warm a bath, but he declined.

  By late afternoon the men had secured their prisoners in make-shift stocks, claimed houses, set up tents, and buried the dead. They counted the animals and inspected the crops and wells.

  We’ll need to draw up actual deeds for the land, Kurt thought, as he settled later into the comfortable wooden cabin they’d chosen for him. And maybe write down rules or laws. And we’ll need to decide on taxes. Bloody hell.

  He noted with some satisfaction the captains had put him slightly away from the main camp on a hill. By the contents of the house he expected it had been some kind of holy man or shaman living here. Clearly a single man. The captains knew he preferred to be slightly separate, and most likely they didn’t want him too close and constantly inspecting them. But regardless, he was pleased. He called for Rald.

  “Private? Send for the camp followers tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Then he lay down in the bed of his enemy, wondering briefly if he’d been one of the warriors killed in the battle, or if he’d escaped. Moments later, Kurt fell asleep.

  When he woke, as usual, Kurt checked his pistols. He washed his face in a clay basin laid out by the men, and stepped out into a thick, gloomy fog.

  “Morning, sir.”

  “Morning, Rald. I can’t hardly see your ugly face in this.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Spoils lined up for inspection?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Wake the captains.”

  Kurt cleared his throat and spat a wad of phlegm to the green grass, failing to identify the location of the sun. He glanced around for his bodyguards, remembering with a grin he didn’t need them here. At least not yet. Then he began his walk.

  Most every morning for his entire career as a soldier, Kurt inspected the perimeter of the camp. First and foremost he wanted to know the best route to escape attack, if he had to, but second he wanted everyone to know that at least someone was watching.

  The fog lessened a little as he made his way, and soon enough he’d mentally mapped the natural barriers of the creek, the trees, the cliffs, and the trenches. With some satisfaction he again noted the perfect distance from the valley center to the closest edges, deciding even if cannons improved slightly they couldn’t reach his future fort from above. He pictured high, stone walls built rounded to deflect artillery, every angle of approach covered by his own, a thousand killers guarding their land and families. Let them come for us then, he thought, the Helvati, the emperor, the republic—any damn army you please.

  By the time he’d finished, sweat dripped down his brow and armpits. He winched water from the Helvati well and splashed it over his neck and face, closing his eyes and shivering in pleasure from the cold, clean water.
He took a deep breath of the pure, country air, feeling cleansed and refreshed. Then he walked to the slaves, and the captains.

  “Have we made our decisions?”

  “Aye.”

  Adalard stood and handed Kurt the ledger. They’d dabbed the women with paint and numbers to identify them, and by the ledger decided to keep damn near half.

  “We’ll have to bloody feed all these,” Kurt said, pretending to be unhappy. “And they won’t be pleased if we sell their children.”

  The captains all grinned and winked, sitting together and drinking brandy and smoking tobacco. Kurt rolled his eyes and joined them, and for a moment they sat in peace and told stories of the dead, sitting beside their miserable captives.

  “Remember Lundat?”

  Harmon near choked at the name, and the men all laughed. Kurt didn’t, and no longer pretended. Somewhere over the years he’d lost track of the dead, and they walked through his memories now as nameless, faceless ghosts. This thought didn’t trouble him, though, not in this moment.

  Five seconds, that’s all you get.

  He counted and enjoyed the company of his men. They weren’t perfect, they weren’t thinkers or visionaries or men of grand ambition. But they had risked their lives and won; here sat six men who’d proved themselves greater than the mass of sheep around them, and become their own masters. For a few moments in their company, in their victory, Kurt didn’t care about a dying empire, nor about greed and corruption and soft-handed men preventing greatness. He was free, victorious and alive, and that was enough. He was the son and the grand-son and the great-grand-son of a peasant, and now he owned a valley.

  But the moment ended. And within the day half the slaves were rounded up and sent with Adalard to be sold in foreign markets, a river of tears flowing from the savages as they reached for one another and wept. And by nightfall the camp followers arrived, bringing with them all the problems of condensed, disordered humanity.

  Kurt spent days just making sure the new citizenry of Pyne valley didn’t shit in the wrong place. He stopped them from stealing or damaging crops and animals, from fighting over houses and gardens, ensuring they knew where to cut their firewood and where they could hunt and where to draw water and store all their carts and animals and supplies.

  In the meantime he sent the Averni to scout the edges of the valley and chase away Helvati stragglers. He set the infantry to building towers and wells, new ditches and walls. On the fourth day he climbed into one of these ditches himself, just to enjoy mindless toil at least for an afternoon before the endless, constant problems of running a camp full of killers.

  “Sir?”

  Kurt flung a shovel-full of beautiful, black earth, and rested on the handle.

  “Yes, Rald?”

  “There’s a Keevish woman come into camp—not with the camp followers. She says she wants to speak to Colonel Gottfried.”

  Kurt lifted a water-flask and drank deep. This made absolutely no sense to him, and for a moment he thought he’d heard wrong.

  “Tell her the Colonel’s indisposed, Private.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ve tried that, but I’m afraid…”

  “Colonel?”

  Kurt nearly jumped as a woman’s voice crossed the field between his ditch and the burgeoning town. He looked to the source, and found a young woman dressed more like a tribesman than a civilized person. Animal furs covered her shoulders and neck, and her stiff, wool dress was half-caked with dirt. But she was Keevish alright—her hair looked almost auburn, her eyes too light, her skin too dark. Kurt tried not to notice her pretty face.

  Rald glanced up and his face reddened.

  “Sorry sir, I told her to wait…”

  “I assume this is the infamous Colonel Gottfried?” The woman nearly pushed past Rald to stand at the trench. She articulated her words well, like an educated woman. “I’m Clara Lehmann.” She stared hard at Kurt, as if this should be meaningful. “You were supposed to come and save me.”

  Chapter 6

  Kurt smiled at his new ‘guest’ and invited Private Rald to escort her to the officer’s hall. She’d looked ready to fight him off until Kurt promised to join her shortly with his most gentlemanly mask.

  Now he’d cleaned a little trench off his face and neck and stood at the door. With a patient breath, he pushed inside.

  “Miss Lehmann. I’m most relieved to see you’re alive. Unfortunately I am not Colonel Gottfried, I’m Sergeant Val Clause. The colonel has gone back to the provinces for…”

  “In his absence you’re in command?”

  “Not officially, miss.”

  Miss Lehmann watched him with quick, active eyes.

  “Are you aware, Sergeant, that you look exactly like Colonel Gottfried?”

  Kurt raised a brow and walked to his desk, finding this part amusing and part insulting.

  “I suppose all soldiers look the same to civilians.”

  “Not to me. I’ve been around soldiers all my life.” Miss Lehmann cocked her head slightly to the side. “I encountered several fleeing Helvati on my way to your camp. They told me their story, and so I asked them to describe the enemy army’s chief. They said a man who called himself Colonel Gottfried of the East Republican Army attacked them after an agreement of truce, butchering their men, and taking many of their women and children. They said he looked like this.” From one of the pockets of her breeches she drew a square-folded piece of parchment, and unfolded it to reveal an incredibly detailed drawing of a man’s face.

  Kurt first noticed she had a small book hidden away in the same pocket. He pretended not to notice this, then glanced at the picture, and blinked. By any objective reasoning it was a near perfect drawing of his face, clearly created with great skill. It had the long, white scar over his right brow, and the other on his chin. It even captured his small, lobeless ears, his angled, twice-broken nose…

  He shrugged.

  “That could be anyone.”

  Miss Lehmann glared for a moment, then settled into her chair. “It’s been a rather long walk, Sergeant. May I have a drink?”

  “Of course.” Kurt smiled politely and walked to the desk his men had already stocked with alcohol. “Water? Something stronger?”

  “Both, please.”

  Kurt poured two brandies and prepared to explain how the soldiers made it.

  “I’ve forgotten, Sergeant. What is the punishment for impersonating an officer?”

  Kurt paused, then sat and set the glass within her reach.

  “Oh, I don’t suppose it matters.” When she said nothing, he smiled. “I imagine for the sort of man willing to do that, whatever the punishment, it would be the least of his problems.”

  Miss Lehmann sipped her drink and met his eyes.

  “Frankly I don’t care who you are. I need your help.”

  “Do you? It seems to me Red Army was supposed to rescue you, and here you are in our camp, safe and sound. So I’d say we’ve done a bang up job.”

  “I was never kidnapped.” By her tone her patience seemed to be wearing thin. “I’ve been living amongst the Helvati. If it’s not obvious, I speak their language. I had those orders falsely crafted because I understood Colonel Gottfried was one of the only officers left in the East. Now that I’ve found you, I need your help. The emperor needs your help.” She removed a heavy, iron disc from a chain around her neck. It thudded loudly against the wood as she set it down.

  Kurt stared at the deep, complex engravings of the Imperial Seal, and knew instantly it was genuine.

  “An obvious fake. You could have bought that from any metal smith.”

  Miss Lehmann glared. “There’s a…weapon, under a Helvati temple. The emperor needs it. And if you don’t help me, I’m going straight back to tell him I’ve failed, and exactly why. That won’t go very well for you.”

  Kurt took a moment to consider his name being spoken before the emperor. He swirled his drink and leaned in his chair. Then he laughed out loud.

  “You
think that’s funny?” No such amusement seemed apparent on the woman’s face. “I’ve had very powerful men destroyed, Sergeant. Don’t underestimate me, or the emperor’s reach.”

  Kurt drained his cup and re-filled it. “I’ve fought my whole life to extend that reach, Miss Lehmann. So, no, I wouldn’t underestimate it. What’s funny is that you think you could threaten me like that, and then expect to leave.”

  She held his eyes.

  “You don’t frighten me. The emperor knows I’m out here. You’ll do what, imprison me? I’ll escape. Perhaps I’ll bribe one of your men with more wealth than he’s ever imagined, or threaten him with treason. Perhaps I’ll just pick the lock. I’ve survived on my own in tribal territory for months. I’m not some pampered nobleman’s daughter.”

  Kurt paused long enough to inspect his guest again, from the muddy, tribal boots and furs to the tanned, healthy skin. He dropped his smile.

  “Imprison? No. No I don’t think so. First I’d strip off those barbarian rags. Then I’d haul you outside screaming and leave you to my men. And when they were finished, if you were still alive, I’d cut off your head. Then I’d disfigure it beyond all recognition, and put it and your body in the same grave as the savages.”

  He took another slow sip of brandy, and she watched him in silence. Looking for the bluff, he thought with some satisfaction. You won’t find it.

  “If you’re trying to shock or intimidate me, sir, you won’t succeed.”

  “No, Miss Lehmann. You misunderstand me.” Kurt decided her lack of fear was lack of belief, or perhaps lack of imagination. He suddenly found the brandy too sweet and spit it on the floorboards. He felt his mask weakening and didn’t much care. “The truth,” he leaned forward and met her pretty, brown eyes, “the truth is, I’m a monster, Miss Lehmann. I’m a leader of monsters. And we’ve been abandoned here by your emperor, by our country—by those we’ve toiled for all our miserable lives. We’ve faced flesh-eating barbarians, more cruel and brutal than anything you can imagine. We have starved, and died. We have done and seen things no man should do and see and live.”