Chapter Six

  Anything But Careful

  Dryden knew he was dreaming. It was an odd dream, in that way. Nor was it his usual nightmare of the great pit at Dau. The soft sound of a sea breeze and the smell of salt carried him across the sea. Then she was there. A woman whose face he could barely see. Pale green eyes peered at him, and blonde hair fluttered in the light wind. She laughed, and his heart shattered. It was a sound he knew, yet did not. It was as if the sound of it filled a hole that had been carved from his heart. Then she was gone again. He looked up. A storm darkened the horizon, and at its heart, a terrible emptiness. He woke with a start and a name on his lips. Rosie. That was the name he had given his horse, the mare that had carried him across mountains, deserts, and jungles, through a dozen battles. He had given the horse that name for a woman. He remembered that much. His brother had tried to introduce him to the woman when he had been back home in Vastrum, but he had felt nothing then. He knew he had thrown her portrait into the pit at Dau, the price of his escape from that cursed place. The great pit demanded sacrifice. That portrait had been the only thing on his person during that ride which had held any value to him. She must have meant something to him once, else why would he have carried her portrait to war, and why would he have named his horse for her? Yet the woman he had met in Marrowick was only a family servant. The emptiness he felt when he thought of her left an ache inside him. Even now, he could not remember her face. He lay there trying his hardest to remember the woman from his dream, the memory he had given up to escape Dau. It was like the shape of her face had been cut from the cloth of his mind, leaving a tattered hole. His reverie was broken as the flap to his tent opened and Pugh walked in and sat down opposite him.

  “Good morning, John,” Pugh’s thin face was stern, and he looked annoyed.

  “Is it time to break camp?”

  “Yes, though that’s not why I am here.”

  Dryden waited for Pugh to tell him.

  “Why is there a young girl in my camp?”

  “Mar saved her. They were going to burn her.”

  Pugh sighed, “We are at war. We do not have the time.”

  “That was my position, too. I told him to let the villagers alone. He did not listen,” Dryden growled, pushing himself up.

  “You allowed this insubordination?” Pugh asked.

  “Should I have our only sorcerer whipped? If he is incapacitated, how do you propose to complete our mission?” Dryden asked.

  Pugh paused in thought, “I see your point, yet I cannot allow men under my command to obey the whims of their compassion over the orders of their officers.”

  “I’ll speak with him,” Dryden suggested.

  “Perhaps he is too much your friend?” Pugh asked.

  “He is more family than friend,” Dryden chuckled, “You should have seen him, Leo, the way he rushed to her rescue when the pyre was lit. You’d have mistaken him for a knight of the realm. It was damned heroic.”

  Leo cracked a smile, “I’d not have picked him for it.”

  “The girl has golden eyes,” Dryden commented.

  Pugh nodded, “I saw. It is why I am allowing Mar to keep her.”

  “You mean to keep her with us?”

  “She is a prize. If she can be trained…” He trailed off, letting the implication sink in. Sorcerers were valuable and rare. The conservatory at Blackbridge, where wizards were trained for war, was known to pay for adolescents who were born with the gift.

  Dryden knew that Mar was unlikely to appreciate the suggestion, “We ought to wait to broach such discussion with Mar until such a time as we are in a more secure position.”

  “True. In the main, I would see her kept from the enemy’s grasp. Speak with Mar. Make it quick, John, we ride again with the dawn,” Pugh nodded at him, then turned and left the tent.

  Dryden sighed, then began pulling on his boots and jacket. He had slept in his trousers and shirt. Last, before he left his tent, he strapped his sword to his waist and then strode from the tent, rubbing sleep from his eyes. It was the first real rest he had taken since they rode out from Bankut. They had stopped and camped, not because of the girl, but because they were finally closing in on the prize. Kanmak. It was close. The south bank of the Yuna wasn’t far, the city just beyond, and they would need their strength to relieve it, if they could. They knew it might be an impossible task. The enemy would know by now where they were and that they rode hard for the city. He walked through the camp as men rolled up tents and finished a quick breakfast. Already, light was turning the eastern horizon blue. He found Mar’s tent nearby.

  Dryden stopped at the entrance and spoke the sorcerer’s name, “Marten.”

  “Enter,” His friend answered softly.

  Dryden ducked through the flap. In the dim light, he could see the girl lying in Mar’s cot. She was sleeping soundly. Mar was lying on the hard, cold ground. He propped himself onto his elbows. His golden eye shone in the dark, staring at him hard.

  “Here to take her back to the pyre?” Mar demanded coldly.

  “No,” Dryden said softly.

  Mar rolled over and stood. He was fully dressed. His beard had grown thick and dark. He adjusted his eye patch, which had shifted in his slumber. Dryden caught a glimpse of his empty eye socket, which sent a shiver down his spine. He had been there when the wizard’s eye had been plucked out and tossed into the pit. That had been the price of his escape, as the memories of the woman had been Dryden’s.

  “Pugh will let you keep her. She is your charge alone. He will not take any responsibility for what happens to her on our ride.”

  “I am not a child who has brought home a stray cat, John,” Mar hissed at him.

  “Even so,” John insisted, “You will protect the girl until she can be handed over for training.”

  “Her name is Githa,” Mar replied, ignoring what Dryden had said. His tone was scolding.

  “How do you know that?”

  “I bloody well asked her,” Mar growled.

  The girl stirred, then woke with a start. She scrambled up, pulling her blanket around her with fright. She looked back and forth between the two men. Mar put his hands out and made a gesture that seemed to show they meant no harm. She seemed to settle down as she realised where she was and who Mar was.

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  “Does the girl speak Vastrum?” Dryden asked.

  “Githa speaks a little,” Mar answered, emphasising her name, “And I speak a touch of Ayodhi.”

  “I did not know,” Dryden said, a little impressed. He had never managed to learn more than a few words of any native tongue.

  “Not much, mind you. Between the two of us, we’re getting along well enough. It would do us well to have a translator.”

  “Githa?” Dryden asked.

  The girl nodded.

  “John,” He said loudly and slowly, pointing to himself.

  “She’s not an idiot,” Mar said, smirking, “Though perhaps I can’t say the same for you.”

  Dryden reddened, then turned to Mar, “You disobeyed me, Marten.”

  “I did.”

  “Any other man, I would have them whipped.”

  “I would consider the punishment well worth it if it meant living with myself. I will do what is needed, but I am done, John, with blind obedience.”

  Dryden wanted to tell him to resign his commission, to ask why he had joined in the first place. But he knew the answer was a hard one. Mar had never volunteered. He hadn’t even committed a crime, as was the case with many infantrymen. Sorcerers didn’t have a choice. He was half a slave, bound to the king’s service for the gifts that those golden eyes betrayed. It was common for poor parents to sell their golden-eyed children to the King’s Conservatory at Blackbridge. Mar’s family had commoners, though well-off, Dryden knew, but still, the wealth they had in return must have been considerable. If children were found with the gift, and it was clear they had hidden the child, the parents would be punished, rather than rewarded. Only a few gifted children in the empire escaped such a fate. Though rare, it was not unknown for parents to put out their children’s eyes to hide them. Mar had never enjoyed the obligation and duty of military service, Dryden knew. It had even chafed at him since Vurun. Still, while they were on campaign, military discipline had to be observed. His disobedience in saving the girl was the exception.

  “Discipline is the only thing that will see us through this ride.”

  “What of our souls, John?”

  “What of them? We are cursed men. Not only for what we have done, but for what the An-Beya witch afflicted us with. Our souls are black as night.”

  “Is there no redemption? What if we lift the curse?”

  “How?” Dryden demanded. It was not like he hadn’t thought of that before now. The task seemed unachievable. Not for one man. Not for two. Not for a whole army. They had only the men of the Bloody 13th. Empires and kingdoms had broken on the shores of the V.A.C. Furthermore, they were themselves sworn to the King of Vastrum. To break the curse was to destroy themselves. They had survived Vurun and the northern wastes. They had chased down Aisa, beaten ambushes, and escaped the Black City alive. But after all of it, they found themselves now as damned men, haunted by dark dreams and misery.

  “I do not know,” Mar admitted.

  “What were her words?” Dryden asked. He could only remember them faintly. All the events of Dau had been a blur, and the more time that had passed, the less he remembered the details.

  Mar spoke clearly, “You will wander until all the east is free of your King and Company. You will know no home. You will find no love.” He finished and waited a moment, thinking about them, “I have them committed to memory.”

  “We’re buggered,” Dryden said, chuckling. The task was too huge, “We ought to be fighting for the rebellion if we wanted to be free.”

  Mar laughed, “Surely that would be going too far.”

  “Indeed.”

  The girl shifted on the bed, sitting up, “A queen,” She said through her thick accent.

  “Quiet girl,” Mar said.

  “No, let her speak,” Dryden said, “What did you say?” He asked her.

  “No king. Queen,” She said.

  Mar and Dryden looked at one another, realisation dawning.

  “Damn,” Mar said, laughing, “From the mouths of children.”

  “That solves half the problem. Even if it were possible, the V.A.C. is too big.”

  Musket fire sounded outside, well away, towards the outer pickets. Both men and the girl looked towards the sound.

  “A problem for another day,” Dryden said, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He strode from the tent.

  “Stay here, Githa,” Mar said sharply, then he went to his boots and started trying to slip them on, hopping along as he did his best to follow after Dryden.

  The girl shook her head vigorously and followed them outside. She was still dressed in her fine silks and jewels. Outside the tent was a hive of activity. Soldiers glanced at the trio, especially at the golden-eyed girl who was strangely out of place among the black-clad cavalrymen.

  Sergeant Gideon rode up, “Major, contact on the northern pickets. They tested the line, and we threw them back.”

  “How many?”

  “A regiment at least.”

  “Mutineers?”

  “No. They were dressed in native uniforms of some kind. I’ve not seen them before,” Gideon answered.”

  “We must strike back, take the fight to them,” Dryden growled.

  Gideon nodded, “Captain Ravindra has taken his men around east to harry their flanks.”

  “Good. Find Captain Baker…” He began. Baker had been killed in Vurun. It was not the first time the mistake had been made. The name died in his throat as soon as he began to say it.

  “Brine, sir,” Gideon corrected.

  “Damnit. Yes. Find Captain Brine. Have him reinforce the line,” Dryden told him.

  “Very good, sir,” Gideon saluted, then pulled the reins around and spurred his horse. Then he was gone in a cloud of dust.

  Dryden turned and saw another sergeant bellowing at his men. Sergeant Drake. He strode to the man who was trying to get his platoon in order. The man was towering compared to the rest of the cavalrymen, and he sported a thick moustache that curved up at the ends. The former grenadier looked more pugilist than proper soldier.

  “Sergeant. Where is Lieutenant Dobbson?” Dryden demanded. The whole regiment had been reinforced but also restructured in the wake of the war with Rhakan. With all the deaths and promotions, it was hard to remember who was in whose squadron. He did know that Drake had been placed with Dobbson.

  “Don’t bloody know, sir.”

  “Does he often disappear, Sergeant?”

  “I wouldn’t want to disparage my superior officer, sir,” Drake replied, his face pinched, as if the answer were yes.

  It was then that Dobbson chose to appear, glancing momentarily at Sergeant Drake. He turned and saluted Dryden. Lieutenant Dobbson was old for an officer of his rank. If old cavalrymen were cowards or blackguards, he was more the former than the latter. He was portly, red-faced, and often drunk. Dryden could smell arrack on his breath. Were the man enlisted and drunk in the field, he would have been whipped. A gentleman and officer like Dobbson was afforded leniency, so long as he comported himself well enough.

  Dobbson was a gentleman who had bought his commission at a fair price but had never attained enough valour for himself to achieve promotion, nor was he wealthy enough to buy his way up the ranks. Instead, he had languished at lieutenant, even while he slowly, by death and promotion, became the most senior surviving one in the regiment.

  “Apologies, sir,” He said as he arrived, “I was caught out in the latrine.”

  “Were you, now?” Dryden said sceptically, but then dropped it, “An unknown enemy has tested our lines. Ravindra is testing them in return around the right side. Brine will hold them off while we prepare to move in force. I want you to take your men and test the left side. Are you up for that, Mr. Dobbson?”

  “Spiffing, sir,” Dobbson replied.

  Dryden turned to Sergeant Drake, “Only reconnoitre, Sergeant.”

  “Understood,” The big man nodded, then glanced at Dobbson, who was unsteady on his feet.

  “Are you well to ride, Dobbson?” Dryden asked, “You seem hardly able to stand.”

  “If I am unable to stand, it is because I am not upon my horse,” Dobbson replied, his words slurred. He smiled as if what he had said were witty, or had made any sense at all.

  “I’ll handle it,” Drake said seriously.

  “I expect you will,” Dryden nodded.

  Then the officer’s horses were brought. They mounted up. Dobbson was indeed surprisingly steady once he was in the saddle, despite his drunkenness. With a shout and the snap of a riding crop, Drake and Dobbson were away, their platoon of riders trailing after them in the hazy dawn. More gunfire sounded away to the north, where the line of pickets was set. Dryden watched them go, then turned back. Dryden’s bay mare Rosie whinnied softly. Mar hopped up nimbly onto his stallion, then reached down and scooped up Githa and placed her behind so she could loop her arms around Mar’s waist. She looked small on the back of his destrier.

  “Shall we see to it?” Mar asked, glancing towards the sounds of fighting with his one eye.

  Dryden nodded solemnly, “Indeed. What of the girl?”

  “She refuses to be left behind,” Mar grinned and chuckled at that, “She will ride with me.”

  “Well then. We shall needs be careful. It would be a shame to rescue her from the fire, only to deliver her to the tip of a blade.”

  “Am I ever anything but careful?” Mar asked.

  Dryden laughed out loud, “You are never careful in anything you do.”

  Mar laughed too, “Such behaviour has got us this far, has it not?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Then it hardly seems the time to change my manner,” Mar reached into his pouch, pulled an aethium cigarette from it, and held it up. “Have you a light?” He asked, “I seem to have forgotten my own.”

  Dryden pulled a match from his own pocket, struck, and held it out to Mar. Mar reined his horse close and leaned in to light his cigarette on the match.

  “Shall we?” Dryden asked as his friend inhaled deeply, blowing out a stream of indigo smoke. He gestured towards the growing sounds of battle.

  “Yes. I believe we shall,” Mar’s one eye twinkled in the first light of the morning sun.