Chapter 13

Two days later Havor was still sick. He sat on his couch with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a cup of tea. He was improving, at least. Dozens of men had died from the tainted meat including half a dozen cavalry troopers from Baker’s squadron. The rest of those who had fallen ill were finally recovering. Dryden hadn’t been sick, but he’d felt queasy ever since the slaughter at the cantonment gates. Havor, Mar, Pugh, and Dryden sat discussing the various possibilities the siege and campaign could take.

“If we get word to Havelock, none of this matters, we’ll be relieved in weeks.” Dryden asserted.

“That’s shaky ground to stand on.” Pugh replied, “If word doesn’t get through, we’ll be sat here waiting for weeks before we find out there’s to be no rescue.”

“The only way out is to fight,” Havor said. He did not have the energy to elaborate.

“And that’s no sure thing.” Pugh added, “This army we face is double our number and all light cavalry. We’ll be fighting a running battle on our heels the whole way.”

Havor grunted in agreement, then sipped his tea.

“But if we can get someone through, it could make all the difference.” Dryden insisted.

“They’ll have blocked up all the passes. Sending a few messengers won’t help. We would need to break through in force,” Pugh insisted.

“Whatever we do. We need to act, and quickly. Blackwater needs to make a decision.”

Havor turned to Dryden, “Blackwater is meeting with their false Shah. He wanted me to attend him. I’m still poorly. You’ll go on my behalf, eh?”

“Yes, of course, sir. What of Belfair? I angered him.”

Mar chuckled and gave him a nod of respect, “That you did.”

“Don’t worry about him for now. He harbours a grudge well. It may be a problem after all this,” Havor gave Dryden a nod and took a sip of tea.

“Assuming we live,” Pugh added cheerfully.

Havor continued, “Anyway, Blackwater doesn’t want Belfair at the meeting. His temper has too short a fuse.”

Later that morning Dryden found himself riding out the gate alongside a contingent of officers and attendants. They were escorted by General Blackwater’s elite horse guard, a group of a few dozen soldiers dressed in silver and black, mounted upon large black Marrowick-bred draught horses. The group included General Blackwater himself. As Havor had said would be the case, there was no sign of Brigadier Belfair among the group. Dryden found himself riding directly behind the old commander. The general was tall and thin and had a bald head under his bicorn hat. He had great bushy white eyebrows and a stark white thin moustache. He was a man who had earned many decorations in battle when he was young. Now he had a tremor and was rumored to occasionally forget where he was. He still looked like a general sitting on the back of his horse, albeit an elderly one.

Behind Dryden rode Chatham along with two other interpreters, the others were competent, but the Major trusted the 13th’s interpreter far beyond the others, if only because he was more familiar with the young man.

Riding next to Dryden was Colonel Marcus Gorst. He was a tall man of around fifty years. He had salt and pepper hair with thick mutton chops. He wore a tricorn hat, in the old style. The man was the father of Julia Gorst, a young woman whose eye Dryden had caught at the ill-fated ball. He was an infantry commander, in charge of the 9th Regular Infantry, the Queen’s Chosen. The colonel was known as a competent soldier.

Gorst leaned in, “That was bloody business.” He said, without elaborating.

“Yes, sir,” Dryden replied, not sure what the colonel might be getting at.

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“Had to be done, though. Had to be done.”

“Indeed.”

“My Julia has taken an interest in you, I do believe.”

Dryden felt himself blush. It felt a wildly inappropriate time to talk about this, “You’ve raised a fine young woman, sir. Hard to raise a young woman in a country like this with no mother, eh?”

“Indeed, major.” Gorst’s tone told Dryden that he had been a bit too familiar, and brought up a touchy subject. No more was said about it.

The road through the city seemed to take forever. He did not want to be talking about a young woman who might be interested in him with her father, let alone while they were riding through what was ostensibly enemy territory. They were under a white flag. That might protect them from Kurush and his army. It was unlikely to stop the citizens of Vurun.

Gorst grinned, “Perhaps if we make it out of here…” The man let the thought trail off. It was almost a kind of proposal, it seemed. Julia’s father seemed to be suggesting that he take up a courtship with Lady Julia.

“Perhaps.” Dryden said, wanting to do anything to postpone this conversation to another day, “We have to survive first.”

The colonel changed the subject, “I heard you gave old Belfair what for.” He gave a great belly laugh, “Good for you. Bravely done. He won’t soon forget it.”

Dryden blushed again. He was unused to praise. He was especially surprised to hear a senior officer speak this way about another. “Sir, I don’t think such talk is appropriate. I was insubordinate.”

“Oh, nonsense.” The colonel replied, this time speaking quietly so Blackwater couldn’t hear him, “That bastard has it coming and more. If we get out of this and home there’ll be a court martial for him. He killed two officers. You can do that to the sepoys. Nobody gives a damn. Maybe even a common soldier or two. But you can’t kill good officers like that, not without a proper trial.” Dryden knew it was true. Still, it was something else to hear the colonel say so out loud.

As they wound their way through the streets of Vurun they passed a large old temple. The whole temple was bone white and carved intricately with spiralling fractal patterns interwoven with images of human sacrifice. The streets outside were empty except for a lone figure who seemed to be dancing madly in the street.

“Move aside!” One of Blackwater’s horse guard demanded of the woman.

She spoke in a thick Vuruni accent, but her Vastrum was good, “What right have you to this street that I do not?”

“Woman. Move.” The guard repeated coldly.

Dryden saw now that the woman was dressed in a gown that clacked with hundreds of small bones that had been tied with string to her outfit. Her hair was wild. He also saw that she was missing teeth.

She grinned up at the guard, the gaps showing, “This is my temple. I dance my dance every day here. Rain or shine. Peace or war.”

“Fucking ascetics,” Gorst swore under his breath. He urged his horse forward.

Before he could speak she pointed at him, “You’ll be among the last to die.”

“Excuse me?” He blustered.

“He’ll be one of the first.” She pointed at Blackwater.

“He won’t die at all.” She said laughing and pointing at Dryden, “Though one day he’ll wish he did.” She pretended to shoot a gun and then went dancing out of the way, her bone dress clacking as she whirled and writhed strangely. “You are sheep, your shepherd is a sad old man, the wolves are here, and they are ravenous with hunger.” She cackled madly.

“We are the wolves, old woman.” The guard retorted. Then he kicked his horse.

The column moved on. The old priestess continued to cackle with mad laughter as they passed her. Her laughter haunted Dryden long after they had gone. Another hour of riding and they arrived at the edge of the city. A group of horsemen with a white flag were waiting for them between two mud brick buildings. A large ornate tent had been erected nearby, presumably where talks would be held. Among them were Kal’kuris, the emissary from the first meeting, and Jaqu, the Fyrin officer. In the middle of the group sat a man dressed all in white and gold. On his head was a golden crown that shone brightly in the sun. Surely this was Kurush. He had a proud sharp nose, bright gold eyes, and long smoothly brushed straight black hair. His skin was like bronze, the colour of the eastern tribes. He wore no jewels, only his white robes and gold jewellery.

Next to the eastern pretender sat a woman. She looked much the same as he did. To Dryden, she looked like his sister. She had the same jet-black straight hair, the same bronze skin, the same proud nose, and those piercing golden eyes. She was dressed, however, in silk as black as night that flowed around her in the light breeze. She wore a thin transparent veil across her mouth, which was adorned with gold. If she had not looked so much like his sister, Dryden might have thought her a queen or consort.

Kal’kuris urged his horse forward slightly and spoke loudly, “Behold! You stand before he who is! His great magnificence, the true king of Vurun, his holiness, the lord of all the east, the lord of the mountains and of the desert and of the steppe, lord of the lands of the wind, King of Kings! Shahanshah Kurush!”

“He’s dressed rather finely, is he not?” Blackwater asked idly to nobody in particular, then, “I think I shall take tea in the tent.” He turned his horse towards the aforementioned tent, then swooned and nearly fell off his horse. Only a nearby corporal kept him from completely falling to the ground. After recovering for a moment he turned to Dryden and Gorst and spoke in a high nasally tone, “Gentlemen, I believe I am unwell.”