Chapter Two

The squadron arrived back at the Red Fort in late afternoon. The ride back had been decidedly quicker than the trip to the outlying fort. They had hurried, not stopping to rest nearly so often. They had no inspections to make, and no one to speak with. They simply had to return, and quickly. The sun was beating down hotly and the indigo dust that hung over the city was vivid and iridescent in the bright light. The ancient red stone fort dominated the middle of the valley. It had a foreboding look to it, its sharp angular features sat imposing against the ramshackle city. Near it, Shah Guranji’s huge palace was like a gaudy too-large gem adorning a city otherwise clothed in rags. The line of cavalry rode quickly through the cantonments near the fort. The cantonments were a walled-off neighbourhood built with modern housing for the families of the Vastrum soldiers stationed in Vurun. The dragoons came and went so often, that nobody in the cantonment gave them a second glance. The cantonment was clean, the streets well organized and swept, the houses lined in neat rows, totally unlike the rest of the city. It looked almost like someone had taken a neighbourhood from Marrowick, Dryden’s home city, and plopped it down in the middle of Vurun. It made him feel both comfortable, but also dreadfully homesick. Yet it was also uncanny to see it here beneath the indigo haze of this distant land, just set apart from ramshackle hovels and the ancient Red Fort. Then they arrived at that massive fort in the middle of everything, where Vastrum’s army was headquartered. The heavy bronze-studded gates groaned as they opened to welcome the squad of mounted dragoons. Their horses were sweaty and thirsty when they arrived. A small army of stable boys came to take the horses to get them watered, fed, and cleaned. It was one of the perks of being stationed in the main fort and in the city, plenty of servants, mostly locals, were paid to do the work.

Major Dryden and Lieutenant Brine went immediately up to the offices kept by their commander, Lieutenant-Colonel Jack Havor. He was sitting in his office reading reports. He looked up at them as they arrived. Colonel Havor was a grim man. He was not old, but he was old for a cavalryman. Dryden had heard it said often that a cavalryman older than thirty was either a coward or a blackguard. Havor was in his mid-thirties, and he was certainly no coward. Dryden did not think Havor a scoundrel either. Dryden himself was nearing 30, he hoped he did not fall into either category, but soon the saying would apply to him as well. Havor’s face was handsome, with a hard jawline and a strong chin. He had bright blue eyes and short-cropped black hair. He was not the tidiest officer, the collar of his coat was often open a button or two more than was regulation. Nobody questioned it, not even General Belfair, who was usually a stickler for appearances. Havor often seemed to be staring into the distance, even here in his office where there was nothing further away than the door to look upon. It wasn’t the kind of stare that some old soldiers got who seemed to be looking at nothing at all. It was more like he was staring out at a vast horizon that nobody else could see. Nobody, that is, but the wizard Mar.

The mage was a young man, few war wizards lived long. He had pale skin, almost to the point of albinism, though he was not albino. Two bright golden eyes peeked out behind dark eyebrows above a hooked nose. His hair was short and dark, and his chin was covered in a perpetual five o’clock shadow. To Dryden, he had the look of someone from Kalhovn or the Free Cities, rather than that of a man of Vastrum. He frowned, “Skeletons, you say?” Mar replied curtly when they gave their report.

The colonel said nothing, but his jaw clenched, “Third incident since yesterday as I understand it. Yours is the first one that I would consider reliable. One came from a local ataman down there.” Havor gestured in the vague direction of the lower city. “Another came from a drunken trooper. The general brushed off the sightings as delusion. I did too, if I am to be honest. We can hardly do so now.”

“Just so, sir.” Mar interjected, “If I may, I have some questions. Have the wounded troopers shown any worrying signs? Were any of them bitten?”

“Yes, at least two were bitten, but no sir. They’re recovering nicely.” Brine answered, “You should speak to the surgeon, in any case. We bandaged them up, but he’s treating them now.”

Mar nodded, “That’s good. They would have turned by now if this were infectious, as I understand it. That happened at the siege of Caribonne, some decades past. I will speak to the surgeon presently. There are then two possibilities as I see them. Either this is a natural occurrence, it might happen in these parts due to aethium in the soil, or the valley has been cursed by a necromancer. I daresay it is likely the former, but we must not discount the possibility of the latter. We need evidence.”

“What would such evidence look like?” The colonel asked, “And how would we uncover it?”

“I haven’t the foggiest,” Mar answered.

“You’re the wizard, you ought to know,” Havor replied, clearly annoyed.

Mar rolled his eyes, “My knowledge is limited by my education, as anyone else’s. I did not attend a scholomance. I attended The King’s Academy for the Arcane Arts. I know only of necromancy what little my experience in the field has taught. If you want these skeletons shattered by forceful invocation, then I’m your warlock. Just give me a pouch full of aethium and point me like a cannon. For the blacker arts, you’ll need an altogether different sort of wizard. Perhaps a Jirimanjin blood witch or a Dravani soul-catcher.”

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Dryden sighed. In the service, you never quite had what you needed to do the job that lay before you. There were few enough wizards here with the army, and all of them were battle mages like Mar, trained to wield occult catalysts, such as the indigo powder aethium, to destroy the King’s enemies. If this was a curse, there would be no lifting it any time soon. These experts that Mar had mentioned were found in faraway southern colonies, and getting one here would take six months at least. On the other hand, if it were a natural event, they would simply have to weather it like any storm. The difference was only an intellectual pursuit at this point. For the men on the ground, it meant little.

The colonel rang a bell. A servant entered the room and bowed. “Tea, if you please.”

“Yes, sahib.” The servant was a man named Rathma. He wasn’t a local Vuruni. He was from the far southern colonies, somewhere near Dravan. He was small, lithe, almost feminine, with a narrow face. He had the darkest skin, hair, and eyes that Dryden had ever seen. Beyond the normally dark brown skin found among the Dravani, his appearance was nearly that of coal. Someone in the regiment had joked once that he was like the colonel’s shadow, and it was true. He’d been Colonel Havor’s servant since well before the 13th Dragoons had been stationed in Vurun, and rarely left his side. He was a good man, quiet, attentive, and clever. Good with a knife in a scrap. Above all he was loyal.

“Will the masters be taking sugar or cream?” The little man asked. The question was merely a formality. He already knew very well how each of them took their tea. He served them daily.

“None for me, thank you,” Mar answered politely.

“Cream for me,” Dryden answered.

“Sugar and cream, if you please.” Brine requested.

Havor didn’t answer, he simply waved his hand to dismiss the man. Rathma already knew well that he took his tea black.

“Well, Dryden, I look forward to reading your report. I’m sure it will be scintillating.” His tone said he was very much not looking forward to reading any reports. Havor was not a man happy behind a desk. Safe back at the rear in the fort is exactly where Havor’s lordly father wanted him to be. He’d arranged a promotion to lieutenant colonel despite his protests. Dryden supposed his commander would have preferred to remain a captain where he could gallantly lead his men, outflanking enemies, charging in, and violently riding down the enemy. Reading and writing reports were the last thing he wanted, and yet he was good at it, which made it all the worse for him as his commanders and generals had come to rely heavily upon this skill of his.

Afterwards, they chatted about the state of the regiment. The horses were in fine condition. A mare was pregnant. A horse had gone lame. Some of the mounts needed re-shoeing. One of the stable boys had been kicked by a horse, though he would be fine. The men themselves were in high spirits despite the new threat of undead. They were looking forward to getting weekend passes in a few nights, to go out on the town where they could get drunk, find whores, gamble, and carouse. Dryden wished he could join them, but of course, these were ungentlemanly pursuits. Joining in was unbecoming of his station. They had the officer’s club in the fort of course, but there were no women and no gambling—only gentlemen sitting around drinking sherry, smoking cigars, and grumbling about the state of the colonies.

Tea arrived shortly. Rathma brought a set of small scones served with butter and marmalade. They were only halfway done with tea when there was a knock at the door. Rathma opened it and stood aside. Brigadier General Belfair strode into the room followed by some corporal, an adjutant that Dryden didn’t recognize. Belfair was a big man, heavy set. He was dressed in his black uniform with white and red highlights and shiny gold buttons. He had too many medals pinned to his chest. He walked in and stood across the Havor looking down at him with a kind of hungry look. He pointed to the scones, “May I?”

Everyone jumped to salute except Havor. Havor gestured to the plate as if nothing could have concerned him less. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

The general ignored the rest of the officers in the small office which was now even more cramped for the presence of the bulky Brigadier. He stared down at Havor who had yet to stand or salute him.

“You’ve got orders.” The general said with a sneer, “You’re going north.” He held out a letter to the colonel. “We’ve heard nothing from Zundak in two weeks.” When Jack didn’t take the orders he added, “These orders are from General Blackwater, not me. I’m just the bearer of the good news.”

Havor hesitated a moment more before taking the orders. Dryden knew that Belfair and Havor hated one another. Their families hated one another as well. They were both from old blood, the nobility that predated Vastrum itself. It was once said both their families had been kings of rival nations in the old times five hundred years ago. Time had not diminished the hate. Only their sense of duty to Vastrum and the King kept any semblance of civility.

The orders delivered, Belfair grinned wickedly. Only then did he salute the other officers that were standing at attention, before turning and striding out the officer door, his corporal in tow.

Once he was gone everyone sighed in relief, and the tension lifted. Havor handed the letter to Dryden. The envelope was sealed with Blackwater’s wax stamp. He cracked the seal, pulled out the letter, and read it aloud.

“General Lord Blackwater directs Lieutenant-Colonel Lord Havor to take the 13th Dragoons north to the fort at Zundak with all haste. There he is to investigate why there has been no communication in two weeks. Further, he should investigate the status of the northern pass across the Shan mountains at Zundak. Also, if enemy present, he is not to engage but return to Vurun and make his report directly. It is signed by General Blackwater.” Dryden read the orders dryly.

“Fuck.” Mar said under his breath, though his accent made it sound more like “Fack.”

“So I guess no passes for going out on the town?” Lieutenant Brine asked. He knew the answer.

“The men won’t like that one bit,” Dryden added, stating the obvious.

Havor’s face said he didn’t like it either, “Dryden, be so good as to tell the rest of the officers. Prepare the men and horses. We ride at dawn.”