Chapter 19

The army camped on a hill next to the southern road that overlooked Vurun. Below them, a fire raged across the northwest corner of the city. Dark smoke billowed up where it mingled with the low dark clouds that blotted out the stars and moon. A cold wind blew from the east. The wind had changed the day before, now it blew cold from the Shan mountains that lay across the valley on the other side of Vurun. Most of the officers were abed in their tents. Dryden sat outside in the cold, the collar of his winter coat pulled up to protect his face. The army had set pickets out at half again the regulation distance and had put out twice as many. The guards had no fires to warm themselves. Dryden could have had a fire, owing to his rank, but he wanted to watch for the enemy and the light would blind his night vision, so he stayed far from the warmth. At least he had the great coat to keep him from catching a chill in the wind. He knew many of those in the sprawling army camp, especially the sepoys, would not be so lucky. Even less lucky would be the civilians.

He heard footsteps approach from the camp. It was Colonel Havor, “Good evening, John.” His commander greeted him informally.

“Jack.” He returned the greeting.

“Cold night.”

“Indeed, sir. Not so cold as to kill the horses, at least. Small favours.”

“Any sign of the enemy, Major?”

“There was a report from one of the pickets that they had sighted scouts on horseback before dusk. We’ve heard naught else. Colonel, I fear we are outmatched here. I fear command does not respect our enemy as they should.”

There was silence from Havor. It was the silence of a commander who agrees but is duty-bound to say nothing of his agreement, lest he foment mutiny. “Come to your tent and get some sleep, John. We’ll need it.”

Dryden was bone-weary. He’d been in the saddle all day long. He’d fought two battles, one against mobs of poor Vuruni city-folk, and another against the undead. These victories felt inglorious. That made them even more exhausting. But the thought of more fights to come if Kurush went back on his word kept his mind from slowing. The guilt of what they’d been forced to do to escape the city weighed on it too, but he pushed those thoughts aside, remorse would have to wait for another day. He finally assented, “Aye. Sleep.” He turned and followed Havor back to the row of officer’s tents.

There were several fires lit. A small group of officers sat around it. He recognized Captain Pugh and Lieutenants Brine and Wolcott. Mar was there too, as was Chatham, the translator.

“I bid you good evening, gentlemen.” Havor nodded to them as he passed, and then went to his tent.

Dryden saw through the tent flap that Roxana was in the tent, dressed in a robe. He was mildly surprised at Havor. It did not seem his normal behaviour, though he had to admit that the woman Roxana was a remarkable beauty. He also knew that often women in difficult situations might attach themselves to a man simply for safety. It was an awful bargain that women were faced with in dangerous times. He turned back to the men at the fire and sat. There was a pot with some kind of stew hanging over the fire. He realized he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. His stomach growled.

“May I?” He gestured to the stew pot.

“Allow me.” Wolcott offered. He grabbed a bowl from a small stack, ladled some, and handed it over.

There were chunks of meat that smelled like mutton, soft grains of barley, and a thick gravy. It smelled better than it looked. He took a bite. It wasn’t fancy, but it would do. Food on the march was often far worse than this. He was sure that the food would not improve as they went. He ate two bowls, then bid the other officers good night and went to his tent. He didn’t even realize he had slept when he was roused before dawn by Reveille, the high-pitched bugle calling the army to wake.

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He was still dressed in his black cavalry uniform. He hadn’t changed into his night clothes. It had been cold, and he had been too tired to bother. He reached for his sword and buckled it to his waist, pulled on his boots, put on his shako, and strode out of the tent again. The camp was awakening rapidly. Soldiers were taking down tents, cooking a quick breakfast, loading supplies back up, and preparing to move once again. The day would be a long one, they had to ride from this spot to one that the engineers had identified which was ten miles down the valley. It was a defensible spot with a wide plain on which to camp. Ten miles would have been easy for the army alone. With the civilians? He didn’t know.

Havor came out of the tent first. Roxana followed him in her trooper disguise. Everyone in the 13th knew about her by now. The rest of the army did not. Havor thought the fewer who knew, the better. She was a chip that Vastrum needed, for when they came to re-take Vurun someday. The new king wouldn’t want to let her go. Havor was afraid that Blackwater and Belfair would hand her over if it came to it. He would likely face court martial for his actions; Belfair would not like being lied to. But, if he was successful in getting her out of the valley, then he would be lauded as a hero, the man who saved the Vuruni princess. He would likely be rewarded for that. So he kept her as secret as he could. His men were loyal to him.

It didn’t take long for the 13th to be ready to ride. Much of the rest of the army was ready too. The colonists were somewhat orderly. In less than an hour, most were ready to march. The civilian camp followers, however, were in chaos. The army left when it was ready. They would not wait. The Vuruni civilians trickled after them in a disordered line of refugees that stretched for miles. But, the order of march had not changed. The 13th’s place was at the rear along with the 22nd Rangers. The V.A.C. soldiers had brought up the rear the day before with the Dragoons, but they did as they pleased, and marched off with the rest of the army.

Two hours passed, and still, the full camp of refugees had not started their day. Some were still eating breakfast. A few were burying dead that had frozen in the night, there were more than a few. Some were still packing up their supplies. Others simply sat and wailed in grief as they watched their city burning below them. Some families with children were simply too slow.

Dryden and Havor sat on their horses surrounded by officers and sergeants. Havor leaned over to speak to one of his officers, “Lieutenant Brine, Get this rabble moving. We can’t sit here all bloody day.”

The order went down the line. Sergeant Flint came riding back with two dozen picked men. They carried the lathi sticks, the bamboo batons that the sepoys used for crowd control.

“Aye, sir, we’ll get the job done.” He said as he passed.

“Chatham, go with them.” Dryden ordered, “To translate their… instructions.” He tried to phrase it diplomatically.

He hated everything about this. Many of the people who remained were families. There were women and children here. The reality was that these people were not fit for this march.

“What do you want me to tell them?” Chatham asked.

“They must march now. We are leaving. If they do not march, they will be left. If they cannot march, they should return to Vurun.”

The men with lathi sticks went on foot rousing people who were still sitting. The sticks were effective, leaving brutal welts where they connected. Few people ignored them. Chatham rode around speaking Vuruni, relaying the message. Dryden saw an old man seated on the ground crying. He could no longer walk. Some families got up and trailed after the long line of refugees, but some did not. A man stood with tears in his eyes, holding a child. He walked as close to the officers as he dared and spoke words in his own tongue. He held out the child to them.

“What is he saying, Chatham?” Havor asked.

“He begs you to take his daughter.”

“I cannot.”

“He says that they will be slaves if they return to Vurun. Kurush will make them slaves. They are the wrong clan.”

“Tell him, then they will be slaves.” Havor’s voice wavered slightly as he said the words, “Tell him, if he cannot follow us, to go back, we cannot help him now. He will die if he stays in this place.”

Chatham translated the words and the man sat down and held his tiny daughter and sobbed. After a few minutes, the man stood, still holding his daughter. He went back to his small family and they turned and walked back towards the city, heads bowed, and joined a growing line of people who were returning to a home that burned, a home that would no longer have them. In less than fifteen minutes the rest of the camp was cleared of all those civilians who could go on. The Rangers went next. The Bloody 13th followed after.