Brian McCLELLAN - The Crimson Campaign

He was on his back, and when he opened his eyes, he stared up at the roof of a stagecoach. It was light outside, so he must have been out for some time. The air was cool and thin, and that brought another wave of worry to Tamas’s muddled mind. Was it winter? Had he been out for months?

His arms wouldn’t move on his command. After fighting down yet more panic, he decided that yes, his arms could move but they were restrained, and it was a struggle just to shift. Had he been taken captive by the Kez?

The first face that Tamas saw was not one he expected.

It belonged to an ebony-skinned Deliv man with gray hair curled tight against his scalp. He wore a kelly-green Deliv uniform without epaulets or insignia. The man leaned over Tamas, regarding him contemplatively.

“Good. You’re awake. The doctors were beginning to think you might be out indefinitely. We’re almost to the summit.”

Tamas closed his eyes again. Perhaps his mind was too foggy to hear correctly. Had the Deliv said “summit”?

“Who the bloody pit are you?” Tamas asked. The face seemed familiar in a long-absent way, like a painting seen above a mantelpiece or a figure from his childhood. One of Sabon’s relatives? No, he didn’t look a thing like Sabon.

The Deliv bowed his head. “I am Deliv.”

“I said who are you, not where are you from. Bloody fool.” Tamas’s brain pounded inside his skull like a military parade. He flexed his fingers and tested his bonds. Wait. He didn’t have any bonds. Then why couldn’t he move? He lifted his head and looked down at the tight-fitting blanket wrapped around his chest.

A little wiggling and Tamas was able to pull his arms free. He pushed the blanket aside and sat up.

He was wearing his spare uniform – at least, he thought it was his spare. This one wasn’t soiled from the battle outside Alvation.

The carriage came to a stop suddenly, pitching Tamas to one side. The Deliv reached out a hand to steady him. Tamas waved him off.

“What do you mean, ‘summit’?” he asked.

The door to the carriage opened to reveal Olem standing outside. He snapped to attention and his face split into a grin at the sight of Tamas.

“Sir! Glad to see you awake. How is your head?”

Tamas felt a wave of relief. He was still in the hands of his own men, it seemed, and Olem was still armed. He cast a glance toward the Deliv and stepped out of the carriage.

“Feels like I was thrown off the top of Sablethorn and landed on my face,” Tamas said.

He looked to either side and noted they were in the mountains. Well, that explained “the summit.”

“Are we past the Alvation Mountainwatch?”

“We’ve passed the first Mountainwatch post, sir.” Olem pointed up the path. “The main Alvation Mountainwatch fortress is up ahead. We’ll spend the night there before resuming the march.”

Tamas felt emotions flow over him like the surf on a windy day. His legs were already weak, and news that he was already on Adran soil nearly made him fall. He pushed away Olem’s offered hand and began to walk up the path. He thought through the calculations in his head. This time of year the pass would be quite clear and likely dry. They could descend back onto the Adran plains and head toward Surkov’s Alley. They’d be back defending the country in a week and a half of hard march.

“Sir, you should continue to rest.”

“I can walk fine,” Tamas said, though his legs had more than a little wobble to them and his head was dizzy. Up ahead, the Alvation Mountainwatch fortress looked tall and imposing. The doors had been thrown open, and Mountainwatchers were cheering at the soldiers marching up the pass. “The fresh air will do me good. Now report. How long have I been out?”

“Two days, sir.”

“The battle?”

“It went…” – Olem hesitated – “well enough.”

“Our losses?”

Olem plucked a cigarette from his the curl of his jacket cuff and stuck it in his mouth without lighting it. “We have less than two thousand men in fighting condition left between the Seventh and the Ninth.”

“That’s it?” Tamas came to a stop and turned to Olem. He looked back down the path and noted that their baggage train led far beyond his sight. Where had that come from? They’d not had a baggage train in their march north.

“Gavril?”

“Recovered by Demasolin.”

Tamas felt relief wash over him. “My powder mages?”

“Vidaslav took a bayonet to the stomach. We don’t know if he’ll survive. Leone was killed defending Vlora from a Warden.”

“And Vlora?” Tamas felt his heart stop.

“She’s wounded, but alive.”

Tamas sagged against Olem. It was several moments before he regained his composure and stepped away.

He noticed that the old man from the carriage was following them up the path.

“How are we going to make a dent in the Kez army in Adro with just two thousand men?” Tamas asked. He couldn’t help the annoyance in his voice when he jerked his head at the old Deliv and said, “And who the pit is this?”

Olem took his cigarette out of his mouth and twirled it between his fingers. “Please excuse the field marshal,” he said to the old Deliv. “He’s not in his right mind.”

The Deliv seemed amused by this. “I hope he gets into his right mind before we go up against the Kez.” He bowed his head. “I am Deliv,” he said, “but you may call me Sulem the Ninth.”

Sulem the…“Oh. My lord.” Tamas inclined his head, shaking off the urge to drop to one knee. His mouth had gone dry. Sulem IX, king of Deliv, and Tamas had sworn at him for being a bloody fool in the carriage. “I meant no offense. I didn’t realize…”

“None taken, Field Marshal.” The king raised an eyebrow and glanced toward the ground as if expecting Tamas to kneel, but did not pursue the idea further.

Tamas didn’t know what to say. How much did the king know? Why was he here, marching along with Tamas and a brand-new baggage train?

“I’m sorry, my lord,” Tamas said, “but I am very much out of touch. I’m not sure what has gone on in the days while I was out.”

The king clasped his hands behind his back. “Colonel,” he said to Olem, “do you mind if I give your report?”

“Not at all, Your Eminence.”

“Shall we?” the king asked, extending his arm toward the fortress rising above them.

“Yes,” Tamas said.

They continued walking up the mountain road, past the remnants of Tamas’s cavalry, with Olem trailing a few feet behind.

The Deliv king said, “Let me tell you how things have come from my side, and then later you can finish your conversation with Colonel Olem. I came to Alvation expecting an Adran army, but instead found two. The day after your battle with Duke Nikslaus’s troops was a little confusing, but between my generals and your Colonel Olem and Colonel Arbor, everything got sorted out.” Sulem paused for a moment.

“I’m sorry for Alvation, my lord,” Tamas said.

“Sorry? What for? You saved a Deliv city, Tamas. I am greatly in your debt.”

“The gunpowder?”

“You and your powder mages stopped it before too much damage could be dealt. There were casualties, of course, but the city remains and with it a debt of gratitude.”

“I see” – Tamas glanced over his shoulder at the baggage train – “that you’ve supplied us for our journey. For that, I am grateful.”

There was a twinkle in Sulem’s eye, and for the first time since the carriage, a smile crept onto the old king’s face. “Supplies and more,” he said.

“More?”

“Field Marshal,” Sulem said, “this is the vanguard. We’re coming over the mountains with fifty thousand men. There would be more if I hadn’t sent the better part of my army down the Great Northern Road into Kez. You have my soldiers at your service, and I intend to see you through this war. The kind of treachery plotted by Nikslaus and Ipille does not befit a brother king.” Sulem’s smile disappeared, his voice gaining a dangerous edge. “You may have sent Manhouch to the guillotine, and I do not approve, but Ipille made an attack upon my people.”