Chapter Thirty-Two

  They rode through the night and part of the next day, finally arriving at Winslow’s army. It was encamped across the plain below Golconda, the place where Kurush and Aisa had ambushed them under a banner of truce. It was the place where the bulk of the Bloody 13th that had been part of Blackwater’s army had perished. Winslow appeared to be in the process of decamping. Tents were being packed up when Dryden arrived with Benton’s squadron of riders. They arrived looking haggard and exhausted, with faces covered in dust and blood. A guard stopped them as they approached. Pickets and a good perimeter had been set.

  “Halt!” The man cried, “Who goes there?” Muskets fixed with bayonets bristled and the dark eyes of soldiers peered out at them from behind sandbag-constructed barriers.

  “Major Dryden of the 13th Dragoons under the command of General Haddock!” He called back, “We are here under orders to link up with Winslow’s army and I must speak with your commanders!”

  The guard let them through and pointed them towards the command tent which was one of the few tents that was not currently being disassembled. The army was preparing to move, but only in a kind of leisurely way. They were not in a hurry to be gone. They rode past soldiers who stopped to watch as they passed. Some were sepoys from Huz, Kathalamanyr, and Gulud. Others were free city mercenaries employed by the V.A.C., he even noted one mercenary banner from the kingdom of Gant, an old ally of Vastrum. The army was a hodgepodge of regiments taken from all over the empire and beyond.

  The squadron arrived at the general’s tent. Dryden, Benton, and Mar dismounted and went inside. They sent Lieutenant Dobbson off to find a place for the men to rest, resupply, and see about replacement mounts as needed.

  The tent was well-lit and opulently furnished. To Dryden, it was like stepping from a military campaign and directly into the finest manse of a nobleman back home in Vastrum. Carpets were strewn over the floor, wall hangings, and even a sofa. General Winslow was sat, lounging on a settee. He was wearing his dress uniform and he had his boots up on the arm of the sofa. A servant was standing behind the settee obediently, holding a tray, waiting upon the general. Winslow was holding a flute of sparkling white and he took a sip before looking over to see who had come to interrupt his repose.

  “Major Dryden? Welcome!” The General exclaimed, swinging his boots off the couch and standing up. He swooned as he did so, “How is it that you are here?”

  There was no saluting, this was a V.A.C. officer, a private mercenary, Dryden and the 13th owed no allegiance other than the brotherhood shared by countrymen, “I am asked that question often,” Dryden smirked, “I rode here.”

  “Are you not supposed to be with Haddock?” The general downed his flute of wine in a swig, “Care for a glass? It’s quite good, I brought two cases. I’m down to three bottles. I just finished this one, but I would open another one and toast to you, Dryden!”

  “No, sir, thank you but we have ridden a hard road these last two days.”

  “Indeed? Tell me everything!” He said, then turned to the servant who was standing behind the couch, “Open another bottle, and send for Colonel Stanislaus, I think he will want to be party to this conversation.”

  The servant went to do his bidding.

  “We come with urgent news, General, and it appears we have caught you just in time, as your army is decamping and preparing to march.”

  “Indeed. Oh, where are my manners? You said you are tired, and you look it too, please sit,” The general gestured to several chairs that were scattered around the room.

  The three men sat. Dryden continued, “Haddock is marching, General.”

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  “Indeed, we had assumed as much. We had received orders to wait until this date and then retreat, which we are now doing. That does not explain your presence.”

  The tent flap opened and in came a man. He wore the V.A.C. uniform of a Gantish colonel. He saluted Winslow with a stomp, then sat. Introductions went around. The man was Colonel Stanislaus. He had a tanned face, a bald head, and a white moustache so long that it drooped down. His jaw was chiselled and his face showed great displeasure at the appearance of another bottle of wine. The servant quickly filled Winslow’s glass, then offered it to the rest of them. None partook.

  “What is this about?” Stanislaus asked. He spoke good Vastrum but with a thick Gantish accent.

  “Dryden here just rode Benton’s squadron across from north of Vurun.”

  “Did he now?” The colonel looked at him curiously, “You saw action?”

  Dryden nodded, “We did.”

  “The purpose of your ride?”

  “Haddock is marching.”

  “Has he mounted the pass and begun his retreat, then? Why send riders to tell us this?” Winslow asked, taking another swig of his wine.

  “You mistake me, sirs, he is marching south. He has encamped on the hills north of Vurun. He means to retreat by way of Settru Pass.”

  Winslow was taking a gulp as Dryden said these words. He coughed and spit half his mouthful onto the carpeted floor, “Excuse me, could you repeat that?” He said as he recovered.

  Stanislaus grinned wickedly, “He retreats through Vurun.”

  “By all the gods and devils, what possessed him to do this?” Winslow sputtered.

  “The route had much to recommend it,” Dryden replied dryly.

  “He defies the governor!” Winslow exclaimed loudly.

  “The orders were vague and left much to interpretation.”

  “Interpretation? He redefines the language itself!”

  “That is a matter for scholars to decide. What matters now is that he has done it,” Dryden replied, a light smile playing upon his lips.

  “Well, what do you want me to do about it? I too have orders to follow. I cannot reasonably go forward and say that I am following orders, good sir. Haddock will face repercussions for this, I will not join him, sir, I will not! You ask too much!” The man threw his wine flute across the room where it smashed into a hundred pieces against a desk.

  The three men, Dryden, Benton, and Mar all looked at one another in surprise at the outburst.

  Stanislaus cut in, “Now that he has done this thing, there is an opportunity. We were instructed to support Haddock’s retreat.”

  “They meant as he came down from the northern passes west of the Korum, not this!”

  “The orders were not so specific,” Stanislaus said, he looked to Dryden as he said it. He understood something of what was happening here, what needed to happen.

  Winslow pouted as a child might, his face petulant. It was clear to Dryden that Winslow did not want to be on campaign any longer. He had a reputation for being a man of high society, not a soldier. Stanislaus was the true battle commander of this force. That was becoming more obvious to Dryden as they sat in Winslow’s tent.

  Winslow sighed with exasperation finally, “Very well. We would be pilloried if we left Haddock to die, no matter how foolish he is being. We must not have another massacre here. We will go to his aid, and let no man call us a coward. What does the honourable General Haddock ask of us?” The word honourable was said with much disdain.

  “Advance to Vurun. Besiege it. Kurush’s men are already retreating to the city to defend it from Haddock. I will ride to the south of the city and rally the remnants of An-Dakal, Shah Guranji’s clan. They will want revenge for his death.”

  “You will need fresh mounts, will you not?”

  “We will,” It was finally Benton’s turn to speak, “A night to rest, food, aid for the wounded.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. It will be done,” Winslow said flippantly, “Make it so, Stanislaus, make it all so,” He waved his hand blithely to dismiss them.

  “Sir,” The colonel stood and bowed, then left the tent.

  The three men stood, bid farewell, and followed the Colonel out. They supped with their men that night, rather than in the General’s tent. Raucous laughter could be heard from Winslow and his cadre of high society officers late into the night. There was a time when Dryden would have joined them happily. No longer. The men of the 13th rode out on fresh mounts early the next morning. Dryden was more than sad to see Rosie left behind, but she was tired. He left her in the capable hands of Winslow’s personal stablemaster. They left two wounded men who were not in fighting shape. Dryden asked Mar if he needed rest, but the wizard refused to be left behind.

  Smoke still filled the sky to the northeast where Vastrum men ruined the villages and burned the fields of Vurun. The early morning sun glowed orange in the haze. Dryden spurred his new horse, a Hanish destrier named Bellephoron loaned to him by Stanislaus. They rode hard south towards the ancestral lands of An-Dakal, and for the aggrieved clan of Shah Guranji that had been assassinated at the outset of this war. The war could very well be won without them but would rage far longer if the city could not be sieged. The war needed to end sooner lest the Fyrins come down from the Kizil or the governor general learn of and demand that they abandon the siege. Victory and the fate of Vurun, and thus the whole world, hinged upon this alliance. This was their task, to carve a bargain in shared hatred, and hope that would be enough to win.