Chapter 16

The next week was a blur. Little happened aside from the business of preparing to leave Vurun. Provisions were collected, carts were loaded, gear was stowed, and all was accounted for properly under the watchful eye of Brigadier Belfair. Equipment that could not be taken was destroyed. Cannons were spiked. Excess aethium was burned. Mar, the wizard, watched the burning of the aethium with an almost angry intensity. He would carry as much as he could, carts were loaded with it, but there was simply too much for them to take. They needed most of the space for more practical supplies. Gun powder, weapons, food, water, feed for horses, tents, camp supplies, and so much more. There were also impractical things, such as the goods of the colonists. Dryden saw one colonist’s wagon filled with furniture and chests of clothes. He had thought to tell them to leave those things but knew it was not his place. Then beyond the soldiers and colonists there were thousands of servants and camp followers who would come. All carried what they could, many in huge bundles which would be strapped to backs. It was not simple, this trek they were to undertake. Dryden knew it would be hard, perhaps impossible. Perhaps Belfair and Havor had been right, that they should have stayed and fought here under the indigo haze of Vurun.

When the day came for them to leave the scale of the crowds seemed beyond comprehension. The soldiers were in good order, lined up for marching. First came the 4th Infantry Regiment’s grenadiers in the vanguard. Next came the 11th infantry, hard men from Thanig in the north of Vastrum who dressed in sharp blue and white uniforms with red trim with crested helmets. Next came a group of sappers and engineers, men whose job would be to make the road passable. A group of irregular light cavalry lancers came after them, mercenaries from the southern colonies. Then came unit after unit of sepoys. First men from Dravan dressed in white pants and black tops, wearing western-style shakos. Then more from Gulud, Kathalamanyr, and elsewhere. Ten thousand sepoys marching out. All in good order. More Vastrum soldiers followed, simple regiments of farm boys conscripted from across the realm. Of the soldiers in Vurun, only the V.A.C. regiments had yet to join the column. The army itself was followed by its baggage train, a seemingly endless stream of carts. Livestock herded by drovers came next. After the main body of the army came the colonists in their carts. Some had refused to leave the city, but most were families of soldiers and went with the military. The stream of carts was disorganized, and more than one lost a wheel and had to be left before they had even left the cantonment. Many of the wagons were driven by soldier’s wives or older sons. Dryden watched the chaos impassively. This was the easy part, he knew. After the colonists came the families of the servants and sepoys along with countless others from Vurun who had been allies of the assassinated Shah Guranji. Few people spoke, most were simply following silently along in a kind of quiet shock. None wanted to go, but if they stayed, they would die or be enslaved. After the last of the Vuruni had passed, a small contingent of light infantry rangers followed them. The last to go was the rearguard: The Bloody 13th.

Lieutenant-Colonel Havor stood up in his stirrups and waved his sword, “13th, with me!” He was mostly recovered from his illness, but he took a chill easily and still coughed occasionally.

The regiment’s colour guard led them out. The King’s banner at the head followed by the regimental colors. Behind them rode Lord Havor and Mar along with several sergeants. Roxana rode with them, disguised as a soldier and mounted on a black horse. Behind them was Pugh’s squadron. Next came Captain Wilson’s squadron. Then Baker’s took up the rear. Dryden followed at the back. He gave the looming fort one last look. It was dark and empty. A cold wind kicked up from the east, blowing his hair, and a cloud blocked out the sun. He looked back to the column of horsemen moving away from him and he felt a great sense of foreboding come upon him. Dryden was not prone to fear, but suddenly he felt a primal urge to turn his horse around and ride in the opposite direction of that army. For a moment he almost did. Then the words of his father, Lord Starlington, came to him again, as they did often, “Do your duty.” He turned and kicked his horse into a canter and quickly caught up with his men.

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When they turned the corner out of the cantonment he was at the highest point. He could see the whole road through Vurun. It ran straight, up from the high ground of the fort in the east of the city all the way down the valley, across the river, and up again out of the city to the west. The streets were crowded almost to bursting. The column moved ponderously. It was not only the column itself. Crowds had come out to heckle the fleeing army. They pushed and jockeyed in the streets. What had started a sombre but ordered march was slowly becoming mired in disarray. Still, the soldiers at the front slowly pushed forward. He could see them far ahead down the lane below making headway, the massive grenadiers would not be stopped.

Going was slow. It took an hour to move a single mile. Each delay at the front reverberated backwards, slowing and stopping everyone behind. The disorganization and chaos of the servants and civilian portions of the column slowed them further. As the 13th rode, the anger of the Vuruni crowd seemed to grow. They clearly remembered the bazaar. The rangers ahead of them were being jostled and pushed. Screams of fury echoed around them. Then a sandal came flying in, thrown by someone in the crowd. The soldiers and their horses pushed gamely on. Horses whinnied, but didn’t panic. They were well-trained and used to battle. Then a rock came in and hit a trooper. Then another.

“Fuck this!” Sergeant Flint shouted. He was riding several horses ahead of Dryden. He aimed his blunderbuss in the direction the rocks had come from.

“Hold!” Dryden shouted at him. He knew the situation was poor, but this could become so much worse.

Flint looked back at him, sighed, and began to relent when thrown from the same direction as the rocks a huge fistful of fresh horse shit hit the Sergeant Major squarely in the face. The burly sergeant fired his gun straight into the crowd. People screamed in agony and the crowd made way where he had fired as people fell to the ground or fled. His gun was a blunderbuss, which, unlike a normal musket that fired a single lead ball, fired a wide spread of shot. Dryden didn’t even really blame him. He wasn’t even sure that the shot had been intentional, the sergeant had been standing down. Intent became purely academic, however, as the crowd around them yelled and surged in reaction to the shot. The back end of the cavalry column was pushed out of order. A big brown stallion reared up and threw his rider, a trooper from Brine’s company. The crowd jostled into Dryden’s horse Rosie. She reared up suddenly, neighing and kicking out at the crowd. He barely stayed in the saddle. Hands reached out to grab his reins from the press of the mob. If they got ahold of his horse and him, he knew he was doomed.

Dryden ripped his sabre from its sheath, naked steel flashing in the sun. Around him, the hiss of steel being torn from scabbards echoed. He raised his sword arm high and screamed, “Men of the 13th! Do your duty!” He kicked Rosie’s flanks and she heaved forward. He felt the crowd begin to part. They knew what was coming, but they had nowhere to go. The horses of the 13th surged ahead. He knew his men were with him. His arm fell, bringing the sword down with it and cleaving a bright red gash into the head of a man. He brought his sword up and down again and again. There was a moment of silent terror in the crowd as people began to die. Then the screams began.