Chapter 12

The day after Belfair had summarily executed the quartermasters who were accused of selling supplies, parties had been sent out into the city to take what the army needed. Soon after that, men began to fall ill within the fort. It was soon discovered that meat which had been procured from the city had turned. Lord Havor was one of those who fell ill.

Furthermore, all 7th Brigade soldiers who had been stationed in outlying forts had been recalled. All the colonists and the whole army were crammed into the cantonment. Avenues and field grounds had been turned into a single massive army encampment. Only the company mercenaries of the Vastrum Aethium Company, or V.A.C. for short, had refused to abandon their forts which controlled the aethium factories and warehouses. They were not under Blackwater’s command. They did as they pleased. It was during this illness, that riots again swept the city.

Dryden watched from the walls of the fort, as he often did when he was not busy with inspections or paperwork. He could see crowds of Vuruni men gathering near the southern entrance to the cantonment. Cannon had been placed near the entrances, and a detachment of Grenadiers from the 4th Infantry Regiment out of Svardhavn, located in eastern Vastrum, were posted at the entrance. The day was windy, and a cool breeze kicked up sand in the valley. The city beyond the cantonment was hazy with dust.

This was where Rathma found the Major, “Sahib, the Colonel wants a word with you.” The little man had come up in complete silence. Dryden hadn’t heard a thing before he had spoken.

He followed his commander’s manservant back to the Colonel’s office and went inside.

He was met with the sour acrid smell of stale vomit. The colonel was laid out on a settee with a metal bucket on the floor next to him. His normally tan face was pale, with sunken eyes. Sweat poured down his forehead. Mar was looking over him holding a cloth to his face. He turned to greet Dryden.

“Good morning, sir.”

“How’s Havor?” Dryden asked.

“Not well, I’m afraid, not well at all.” The wizard sat down at Havor’s desk, “Gin?” He held up a small flask.

“No. Thank you. Will he live?”

“That remains to be seen. The doctor left a few minutes ago, he was unsure. Several men have already died from this. A few have recovered. He’s fit and strong. His odds are as good as any. Until such a time as he recovers, I suppose you’re in charge.” Mar added.

“Indeed.” Dryden did not need to be told that this was the case. He turned to Rathma, “Fetch Sergeant Flint, have him put a small detachment together. Perhaps a dozen men or so. I want to go down and inspect the defences on the southern cantonment gate. Quickly now.”

The servant ducked out unquestioningly and went to follow the orders.

“It wouldn’t be an inconvenience to accompany us, would it?” Dryden asked the mage.

“Not at all. It will be good to stretch my legs.”

Once the section of fifteen men plus officers was assembled, they headed to the cantonment and then down the crowded avenue towards the southern gate. The streets were filled with hastily erected tents. Campfires had been lit right down the middle of the street. Soldiers in dark blue and black uniforms with red trim, the uniforms of the Vastrum regulars, lounged around. A few played dice, though gambling was technically banned. Most sat around smoking and drinking their arrack ration. A handful were busy with the work of keeping the camp tidy.

As they walked Dryden chatted with Mar, “The other night in the cantonment. When you cast your spell…” He trailed off.

“What of it?”

“Why did I smell cut grass?”

“Ahh, yes, indeed. That spell is called Bannock’s Threshing. Every spell relies on the wizard’s memories as much as it does a catalyst. Some memories leak through with the spell. Why do you ask?”

“I found it odd. As many spells as I’ve seen cast, I’ve always seen it from afar or during battle. If you only ever saw guns firing in the distance you might not know the smell of the powder. Do all spells smell of grass?”

Mar smirked, “Hardly. Every spell relies on different memories, and each wizard casts it in their unique way. Bannock was likely relying on memories of threshing barley. When I learned the spell I’d never been to the countryside, let alone worked a field. My memory is of trimming the lawn.”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

“Except instead of the grass, you trimmed the walking dead.”

“Just so.”

Dryden began to ask another question about how the wizard learned magic when they arrived at the southern gate. They heard the crowd that had gathered as they approached. A three-deep line of grenadiers was blocking the gate, with cannons placed at the flanks. In front of the grenadiers was a line of sepoys armed only with lathis, a long bamboo stick used for policing. The soldiers from the southern colonies were dressed in tan uniforms and were capped with large white turbans, the uniforms of sepoys from Kathalamanyr. Occasionally the sepoys would swing their sticks at the rioters to keep the crowd at bay.

An infantry officer saw Dryden approaching and strode up, “Sir.” He addressed Major Dryden and saluted. The major nodded back to the lower-ranking soldier. The man was Captain Hale, who Dryden only knew in passing, he did not often have the opportunity to engage with infantry officers. Hale was of medium build with dark hair and handsome blue eyes. His uniform was crisp and he looked every bit the Vastrum officer. He was old for a captain, however, being older even than Lieutenant-Colonel Havor. He was, as many officers were, not competent enough to earn a promotion based on merit and not wealthy enough to buy a higher commission. So he had been stuck at Captain now for many years.

That was where Dryden’s knowledge of him ended. He looked over the line of soldiers, “What’s the situation, Captain?”

“The lathi sticks have been keeping them at bay, sir.”

“Are the cannon loaded?” Dryden asked.

Hale nodded, “With grape,” meaning the cannons were loaded with canisters of grapeshot which would spray out small shot rather than a single large cannonball.

As they were talking, one of the sepoys charged forward with his lathi stick, meaning to push back the crowd. Instead, he went forward too far, and some of the crowd tackled him and began to beat him. More sepoys charged forward to help their comrade. As they joined the melee it broke into a brawl. A thin line of khaki-clad southerners beating with sticks at a crowd of Vuruni men. The first sepoy was retrieved and the line of sepoys tried to disengage but the crowd surged as they fell back. The line of men found themselves pushed back into the laps of the Vastrum Grenadiers who were suddenly pushing for their lives. The soldiers were armed with rifles fixed with bayonets, but there was simply no room for them to use them as the crowd compressed and surged forward.

“Fuck.” Shouted Captain Hale. He turned back to the fight and began bellowing orders, but he could hardly be heard over the din. Sergeants were trying to get the lines reordered.

Men from the army camp in the cantonment began running over to assist. Men from the units who had been drunkenly lounging and playing dice a moment before began to arrive and help hold the line. Dryden saw that the soldiers had almost been pushed back to where the cannon were placed. The line could not be allowed to cross that point.

“Anything you can do?” Dryden shouted to Mar.

“Not without risking our own.” The wizard shouted back.

Dryden found Captain Hale and shouted right in his ear, “The cannon!”

Captain Hale looked back at him horrified.

“We must not lose the cannon!” The major shouted again.

The man nodded grimly, “Can you get to them?” Hale asked over the din of the brawl.

Dryden nodded his head, “With me!” Dryden shouted to Flint and his men. Then he pushed through the press of soldiers in the direction of the closest cannon.

The mob of combatants buffeted the small group as they pushed through. As they went, Sergeant Major Flint took the lead, elbowing his way through violently. He was a stout man, as strong as an ox. He bullied his way through the crowd, shouting and cursing at everyone in the way. He tossed a huge grenadier aside, then pushed a sepoy out of the way. Then, suddenly they were there at the cannon. It was nearly lost. Rioters were grabbing and pulling at it, trying to get ahold and turn it. Flint grabbed a fallen musket from the ground and used the bayonet to skewer a man who was climbing over the top.

A terrified gunner was huddled next to his cannon with a lit linstock in his hands. Dryden pried it from the man’s clenched fists and put the match to the touchhole on the cannon. The great old gun roared to life. Flames and grapeshot blasted out in a huge cloud of saltpetre smoke. The rioters directly in front of the gun seemed to vanish in a pink mist of blood and gore. More in the crowd behind them were blasted backwards as if tossed by an invisible hand. The only thing Dryden could hear above the ringing in his ears afterwards were the screams of the wounded. Then another cannon roared to life and another. The rioters in the front were turned to pulp, and those behind were peppered with shot. The pressure of the crowd vanished suddenly. The sepoys fell back, replaced by a rank of grenadiers.

“Fire!” He heard the muffled cry.

The grenadiers fired into what remained of the crowd. The protestors died or ran. The protests and riots had gone on for days. They were over in less than a minute. The boulevard was covered in bodies and pieces of bodies. The gutters ran with blood. Captain Hale vomited beside the wheel of the cannon. Dryden felt as if he might vomit as well, but he turned up his chin and held it in. He turned to find Mar trying to roll one of his aethium cigarettes but his hands were shaking violently. The wizard threw down the paper and tobacco in frustration with a curse.

“Good work chaps, damn fine work!” Belfair had arrived, “Gave those roonies what for!” The sound of the Brigadier’s voice droned in the background, “Another medal for you Major, and you Captain Hale. Damned fine work, that was.”

He heard the words. He felt numb. To Dryden, it felt like the worst kind of work. The smell of powder and blood mixed in his nostrils. “Damn you, Belfair.” The words came unbidden, “Damn your medals.” In the shocked silence that followed, he turned to stalk off back to the fort. His men followed.

As he passed Belfair, the Brigadier hissed under his breath, “You don’t bite the hand that feeds, Major, you don’t bite the hand. You walk away from me, you’ll regret it.”

Dryden already regretted everything about this. He thought nothing could make him regret it more. He walked away without breaking stride even for a moment.