Chapter 21

“Sir, they’ve no winter clothing.” Gorst insisted strongly.

“Well, they should have thought of that before they followed us into the mountains in winter,” Blackwater said coldly.

“Sir, I am not speaking only of the refugees but also the sepoys, our own soldiers.”

“Ahh, yes, I see your point.” He replied, “Still, what do we have to give them? We are ill-supplied ourselves. See what you can scrounge up from the baggage train and the colonists. Perhaps they have extra clothes to give. If there’s not enough, give what can be spared to the sepoys.”

“Very good, sir.” Gorst’s tone was sceptical.

Dryden stood uncomfortably at the back of the tent waiting for his turn to speak with the old general. Reports had come in from some of the pickets that they had encountered walking skeletons. A problem they had thought left behind in Vurun.

“Anything else, Captain?” Blackwater asked Gorst.

“It’s colonel, sir, and no, that was all.” Gorst corrected.

“Indeed. Apologies, Marcus. I forget myself at times.”

“Think nothing of it, General.”

The white-haired general nodded to his colonel who turned on his heel and left the tent. Dryden waited at attention for Blackwater to acknowledge him. After a moment the old man looked up with a start, almost surprised that he was standing there.

“Ahh, John. Please, sit.” He gestured to the chair opposite him, “You have something for me?”

Dryden sat, surprised at the lack of formality, “Yes. There have been reports of undead at the outer pickets.”

The old general sighed, exasperated, “Not this nonsense again, John. It’s just old soldier’s superstition.”

“Sir, I’ve seen them myself. The dead walk in Vurun. We’ve already doubled the guard, but Colonel Havor wanted you to hear of it.”

The old man sighed and sat back in his chair, “Doubled the guard. Good, good.” He closed his eyes as if the subject wearied him more than any other. He changed the subject, “John, how are your sons?”

Dryden sat confused, “My sons, sir?”

“Yes, you have two of them if I recall correctly?”

“No, sir, I have no children.”

“Lord Starlington, I think I would remember.” He scoffed.

“Sir, Lord Starlington is my father. I am his second son.”

“Good gods, really?” The general sat forward in his chair and squinted at the Major, “I must confess, my memory is not what it was. Well, then, how is your father?” He asked, changing the subject again.

“He was well last I heard.” It had been a nearly year since he had received a letter from his father. They did not communicate often.

Blackwater nodded to him, he looked weary, “Well then, you are dismissed, Major. I must take my rest. Send in my servant when you leave, if you please.”

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“Very well.” He stood and saluted. Blackwater did not salute in return, he was already lying back in his chair with his eyes closed.

A handful of other undead were reported through the night. None made it through the outer pickets. Meanwhile, the snow piled up. By first light, half a foot of snow had fallen. The morning was bitterly cold and light flurries of snow still fell. At least the wind had died. The sounds of the army preparing to move in the morning were muffled by the snow and the world had taken on an ethereal quality.

Dryden was checking on Rosie when he was surprised to see that little activity was occurring in the direction of the refugee camp. They had been camped somewhat near the 13th, on the back edge of the army. He walked over to the morning campfire around which several officers and sergeants were eating their breakfast.

“The refugee camp is too quiet, I’d like to check on them. Mr. Wolcott, Mr. Camford, you’re with me. You, Sergeant Vane, gather a few troopers. If you can locate Mr. Chatham, please bring him too.” The grizzled veteran turned and went off to do what he was told.

Lieutenant Camford was one of Captain Wilson’s junior officers. As soon as Vane was out of earshot, he turned to Dryden, “Sir, why not let the refugees tend to themselves? Besides, I’m sure they’re fine, just a little bleary-eyed this morning and all that. Perhaps you’d like us to brew them all a piping cup of coffee, eh?” There were murmurs of agreement from the other officers around the campfire.

“They’re people, Camford. It was damned cold last night. It’s the right thing to do. I should think that’s all the reason we need. But Mr Camford, if you’re not up for the job, then I can find a volunteer, what do you say?”

There were no further complaints. A group of troopers were rounded up by Sergeant Vane with Chatham following behind them. They set out towards the area where the refugees were camped. There were a few tents here and there. A smattering of figures moved, draped in cloaks and blankets. A few fires smouldered with whatever the people had found to burn. Somewhere a donkey brayed. Out in the refugee encampment, Dryden could see lumps in the snow. They pressed on through the drifts that had piled up. It had snowed perhaps half a foot, but it had also been blown into tall drifts that came up to Dryden’s waist.

“Hullo there!” Dryden called out to a figure that seemed to be awake. The man didn’t seem to respond.

Lieutenant Camford tripped on something and fell into the snow, “Damn it all!” He cursed. He began to stand up and disentangle himself, “Bloody hell.” He said as he stood. Suddenly he recoiled with a gasp.

Dryden saw what had frightened him. The man had tripped on a body frozen solid. It had been under what appeared to be a lump in the snow. He stared for a while. They all did, pondering what this meant. His eyes scanned the field taking in the thousands of lumps under the snow. Lieutenant Wolcott dropped to a knee as realization took him, “By the gods. Are they all dead?”

“Dig them out, see if any have lived,” Dryden ordered. Nobody moved at first. They were too stunned, “Damnit, Vane, get the men moving. Dig them out. Find survivors. Camford, find me more men.” Camford didn’t move. Dryden slapped Camford across the face. “Damn you, you bloody fool, go to camp, tell Havor what’s happened, and bring more bloody men. We need to find survivors.”

Dryden fell to his knees and began to dig snow with his gloved hands. The snow was fresh and powdery. Under the snow was a young man. The face was cold and frozen. The man didn’t move or breathe. Dryden went to the next lump of snow and began scooping, knowing what he would find. A girl, her eyes closed as if sleeping, but as cold and dead as the last. One trooper who was busy digging suddenly stood and shouted, “He’s alive!” Dryden rushed to help. Shortly they had the man out of the snow and were carrying him towards a warm fire. More men were arriving now, helping to dig, and not only dragoons but men from other regiments. They spent the rest of the day searching the camp for the living. Of two thousand Vuruni refugees, they found perhaps fifty alive. The rest had frozen in the night. The sepoys had lost men as well, dozens of them had died from cold in the night too. Many more had lost fingers or toes to frostbite. The winter gear of the Vastrum soldiers kept them from freezing. The colonists were well-equipped too. There were some with frostbite, but none of the soldiers or colonists had perished from the cold.

That night as the officers ate dinner, few spoke. This was only the beginning. They had to climb through the Korum Mountains by way of Settru Pass. They were deep into autumn now. The weather was not going to improve. Dryden took a bite of his soup and wondered if this was what Kurush’s sister meant when she had said ‘the land answered to no king’. Then came a sound from outside that was like the howling of a hard wind whistling through the door. All the officers stopped eating to listen. It came again, but it was not the wind. As they listened the noise became a scream, and then another. Before they could act, a bugle sounded an alarm, followed by the cry, “Dead in the camp!”