Chapter 17

Bodies littered the main road of Vurun. Hundreds had been ridden down and killed or crushed in the surge of Vuruni trying to flee the slaughter. Many were men. Some were women and children. Many had come to witness the army leave. A few had come to throw stones and riot. Dryden suspected that few of the men who had attempted violence could be counted among the dead. Most of the violence had occurred at the rear of the army where the 13th and the rangers had been mobbed by angry crowds.

Now Dryden sat atop his bay mare looking at the carnage around them. His hands shook, both from the exertion of the killing and from the shock. He had been the one who ordered the fighting. He had tried to stand his men down, but he’d felt fear and anger at the prospect of being dragged from his horse. There was no time now to process this. He shoved down the feeling of helplessness and grief, gripped his sword handle, clenched his jaw, and turned back to his men who had reassembled and were assessing their losses.

“Flint, report!”

His sergeant rode up, “Two troopers dead. Another dozen wounded.”

“How did they die?” Dryden asked. It wasn’t important anymore. When, or if, he was able to write letters home to parents about their deaths, he wouldn’t tell them how they died, only that they died conducting themselves with honour in battle.

“They fell and were trampled, sir,” Flint answered.

“Can the wounded ride?”

“Most can ride, yes sir. Two can’t, so we’re loading them into carts now. What of the dead, sir?”

“Leave them where they lie.”

There was no answer from the sergeant. The rest of the column was moving slowly away from them.

Lieuteant-Colonel Havor rode up, accompanied by the wizard Mar, and his manservant Rathma, “Dryden, are the men ready to move?”

“Indeed, sir. Just tallying up our losses.” Dryden anticipated the next question, “Two, sir, and two wounded who cannot ride.”

“Very good. With me, Dryden. We need to speak.”

Dryden kicked his mare and rode up alongside Havor. The small group of four moved up the line, picking their way past bodies in the street. Dryden’s horse was tired. She was a four-year-old mare that he had named Rosie, after a childhood friend, one of the children of the serving staff that worked in his family’s estate. When they were eleven they had been caught kissing. It was a moment of childhood innocence, but her family was moved away afterwards. Lord Starlington could not have his son falling in love with a serving girl. He never knew what became of Rosie, and he thought of her often. Rosie was a good horse, sturdy and quick, with a mischievous temperament. She also knew when work was needed. Those traits reminded him of his childhood friend. Somehow, even after the fight, she was still lively, and she picked her way through the street, easily keeping up with Havor’s much fresher steed.

For a time Havor didn’t speak. They passed men and carts until they were back at the front of the 13th, “We have a problem. We still haven’t seen any hide or hair of The Company regiments. The last we had heard, they refused to leave their fort. We had sent messengers explaining the situation in detail but received only terse replies. They don’t want to lose the aethium, though I doubt they’re willing to die for it. I need someone, you, to go pay them a visit. This road will take us within a mile of their factories. When we get close, ride out, meet them, give them any reasonable assistance they might require, then return, ideally with them, and meet up with our rearguard. The Brigadier asked specifically for you, Major. Take Wilson’s squadron. This army isn’t going anywhere fast, catching up ought not to be difficult, eh, Major?”

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“Indeed, sir,” Dryden replied curtly. He thought to ask why not take Pugh’s squadron. They had seen the least action on the day. They would be fresh where Baker and Wilson’s squadrons might be tired. Still, at least he did not send Baker’s squadron which had seen the most action.

Dryden met up with Captain Wilson at the head of the second squadron. Wilson was a quiet and serious man. He had light blonde hair and blue eyes. He had a long nose that was bent from being broken more than once. He was usually all business, unlike the other captains. He was often given tough jobs that put his squadron out on its own. He was competent but not exceptional as an officer. Give him a job, he’d do it as instructed. To the letter.

“Morning, Captain.” Dryden greeted his junior officer.

The man saluted crisply and Dryden nodded in return, “Sir?”

“We’ve a job to do.”

“Indeed, sir. What are our orders?”

“Rescue those mad Company bastards. They’re refusing to come out of their fort; don’t want to give up their aethium.”

“Very good, sir.”

As they were speaking a sergeant yelled out, “Look, sir!” He pointed his finger in the direction of the V.A.C. fort. Smoke was beginning to rise over the city.

“Blood and hounds,” Dryden swore under his breath.

“Do you think the fort is under attack?” Wilson asked.

“Could be. Wilson, ready your squadron. We’ll be riding out sooner rather than later, I should think.”

A bugle sounded and the men of the 3rd squadron began forming up to ride deeper into the city, towards the fort and the factories, where the Company was holed up. Dryden continued to watch the smoke which billowed larger, the smoke darkening. Eventually, it took on an indigo glow and the purple-blue iridescent smoke filled the sky above the city.

“Major, I do believe they’re burning the aethium,” Captain Wilson observed.

Somewhere along the line, a musket fired, then another. Then many together, a roar of smoke and blazing gunpowder, all towards the edge of the street. A rider and horse came galloping along the line, “Skeletons coming from the city! The dead are coming!”

“Major?” Captain Wilson asked, looking for orders.

“This changes little.” Dryden offered, “Whatever else is happening, we must let it play out here. Come, let us go rescue those Company men.”

“Sir!” Wilson responded and nodded curtly. He turned to one of his sergeants, Sergeant Pell, “We’re moving out. Sound the boots and saddles.”

The sergeant took his bugle and blew a few short notes on it, ones which Dryden found almost comforting now. He took his place at the head of the line with Captain Wilson, Sergeant Pell, and a standard bearer. The man with the regimental colours was a young man, perhaps only sixteen. He had pink cheeks and sad blue eyes. He wore his shako slightly offset, tilted over just a bit, as was the style with younger troopers. “Your name?” Dryden asked.

“Private Harper, sir.”

He nodded to the young man, “Well Harper, keep those colors flying straight and true.” The younger soldiers required admonition, he had often found. Carrying colours was an honour not usually given to young men. The boy must have been brave to have earned it so early in his career.

“Yes, sir.” The boy said, looking proud, “I will, to the end, sir.”

Dryden turned to the Captain, “Take us out, then, Captain Wilson.”

The Captain raised his sabre and brought it down, pointing it towards a side road that split off to the north, towards the V.A.C. fort and its factories, “Third squadron! With me!” He yelled, as loudly as the dignity of his rank would allow.

Bugles sounded behind them. Orders to ride were bellowed by sergeants. Dryden kicked Rosie’s flanks, and away they went. One more time into the belly of the city. One more visit to the charnel house that was Vurun. One more time to go rescue fools. One more time for duty and honour and all the other mad things that king and country demanded. Damn them, damn them all.