Chapter Thirty-Six

  Within days of deciding to besiege Vurun from the south, the An-Dakal army rode out. Most of the men with them were the same light cavalry that made up all the armies of Vurun. They rode north unopposed as all the An-Beya forces had pulled back into the city. It had not taken them long to depart. Many preparations had clearly been made long before Dryden had arrived at Kashma. This campaign was something that Kavala An-Dakal had been planning to do regardless of the outcome of Vastrum’s war of revenge.

  The one thing that Dryden had been unhappy with was that his friend, the wizard Mar, could not make the journey. He was unable to ride and fighting or sorcery was out of the question. The wizard was recovering; his arm was still healing, but it went slowly. Rathma stayed to care for the mage. The Dravani servant had reappeared, dressed as a man, the morning after Dryden and Mar had discovered his secret. Nothing more had been said on it. Mar seemed perfectly content to let Rathma act as his manservant. Rathma was his old self, silent, watchful, and ever-ready to assist his master. Dryden found that it pleased him that he could leave someone familiar and trustworthy to care for Mar as he recovered his health in Kashma. He wondered how and when they would be reunited but said nothing, for there was nothing worth saying about it. He saw Mar one more time before he left to ride with Kavala. They shared a cup of mint tea in the small room where Mar was using to recuperate. Then Dryden left and, with his men, rode down and out of the fortress to finish the fight and take their revenge against Kurush.

  As they rode north, wind whipped at Dryden’s coat collar, threatening to take his black shako and blow it away. It was a warm wind from the east. The wind had ever been from the east since they arrived in Kashma.

  “Storms follow the eastern summer wind,” Kavala said the next evening as they supped in the An-Dakal leader’s tent, “It is not good weather for waging war, yet war does not wait for clear skies.”

  The tent was sparse, though not quite so much as the fortress that was the An-Dakal’s home. The Vuruni wizard-general sat quietly as they ate, his gold eyes fixed on the other side of the room as if staring at something beyond the tent's walls. They took supper with the warlords of the An-Dakal. Most were older men with greying beards and the weathered leathery skin of men who spent their days out under the hot sun. Most of them glared at the Vastrum officers, who they saw as interlopers. Captain Benton had been allowed to join them, being the only other Vastrum officer present at the low table. There was also Kavala’s son, Sudal, who was not so young as he had first appeared. He was perhaps the age of Dryden himself, in his late twenties. All the men there sat on the ground on mats and pillows.

  “How do you find the food, Major?” Sudal asked. He had much more of an accent than did his father.

  Dryden had hardly touched his plate. Most of the food was heavily spiced, and the heat was still too much for him, though he had tried eating it several times. He was picking at a large flatbread. “I am not accustomed to your spices,” he answered.

  “Are you not? How long were you in Vurun? Did you not acclimate to it?”

  “I was stationed here two years before this violence began, and no, I rarely ate it. We were served much of our own food. The few dishes I tried were seasoned for a Vastrum palate.”

  “That is a shame. The pickled chiles are delicious with the meat. Try some. Only our children do not eat the spice. Even our women prefer the heat.” He said smirking. Several other warlords who spoke some Vastrum smirked at this comment and eyed Dryden as if this were some kind of a test.

  Dryden saw the challenge in Sudal’s eyes. He took a piece of flatbread, scooped up a bit of the browned meat, topped it with one of the bright red chiles that were served in some kind of oil and vinegar, and went to take a bite.

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  Benton saw what would happen and interjected, “Sir, if you will permit me, I would join you. We may try it together.” He did not want to see his commander embarrassed alone.

  Benton served himself a similar-looking portion. Each took a sizable bite. Dryden immediately regretted it. He had avoided the dish of chiles that were served as a condiment before now. His mouth burned instantly; his forehead broke out in a sweat, and his vision blurred. He could see Benton across the table. The captain’s face was red, and Dryden knew his face looked the same. Benton was taken with a coughing fit for a moment. Dryden forced himself to chew. The honour of Vastrum and the 13th depended upon their finishing the bites. Dryden choked down the bite, pain searing into his tongue and throat. The whole room was silent now, all eyes on Dryden and Benton.

  “How did you find the spice?” Sudal asked, holding back laughter and grinning at them.

  Dryden jutted his chin out, his mouth still burning terribly. Tears were now pouring unbidden from his eyes. Sweat was on his forehead and cheeks. Benton reached for a canteen of water and tried to wash it down.

  “Stimulating,” Was all Dryden could say through the pain in his mouth.

  This was the answer they were looking for, apparently, and the whole room roared with laughter. He felt someone clap him on the back. A skin of goat milk was handed over to him. He drank deeply and felt an instant reprieve from the pepper's heat. He passed the drink across to Benton, who appeared greatly relieved by the coolness of the milk. He looked around the room and saw that even the ordinarily impassive Kavala had a faint smile on his lips. As the fire subsided, he found, too, that the feeling afterwards was not wholly unpleasant.

  From then on, the Vuruni men relaxed, and the dinner became unlike most that Dryden had attended, where stuffy men in crisp uniforms engaged in polite small talk and observed a kind of uncomfortable decorum. Eventually, a sweet wine that was mildly alcoholic and made from dates was served, and they drank late into the night. Finally, it was time to sleep. Dryden rose and excused himself. Benton followed him.

  “Is that the usual course of diplomacy, sir?” Benton asked as they walked back.

  “Not the kind they teach you at the officer’s academy, no. Out here in Vurun? I have found it to be so.”

  The young officer looked at Dryden pensively.

  “You want to ask me something, Captain?”

  “Indeed, sir.”

  “Ask.”

  “Sir, your ride into the Kizil.”

  “What of it?”

  “The men are saying all kinds of things, sir, about what you saw and did. Back in Andaban, you said that the sergeants telling these stories were rubbish.”

  “The ones who told you that Aisa eats the flesh of the dead?”

  “Yes, sir, Sergeant Krach has been spreading rumours.”

  “Indeed?”

  “He says you slew a demon. Other men, ones who were with you, they say he told it true.”

  Dryden laughed out loud, “I slew nothing.”

  “There was no demon, then, sir?”

  “Sergeant Krach is given to flights of fancy as many enlisted and non-commissioned men are, but there was indeed a demon, though I merely wounded it,” The words felt strange for Dryden to say as if he were speaking of someone else.

  After a long silence, Benton spoke again, “What was the nature of the demon, sir, if I may ask?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest, Captain. I am no learned man of religion to tell you such things. Find a priest and ask him.”

  They arrived at where their men were camped. Dryden crawled into his bedroll and fell fast asleep. He awoke at first light. Men began to stir. He stood, stretched his sore limbs, and looked around. To the east, a massive storm was brewing on the horizon above the mountains. It was dark and towered above the landscape like an enormous anvil. An hour later, the whole camp was preparing to move again. The Vuruni light cavalry was much more nimble than the Vastrum army and quick to decamp. The small army of the An-Dakal, just two thousand men, rode north to Vurun. They arrived in the late afternoon on a hill overlooking the vast plain on which the city lay. To the north, a smoky haze still lingered where Haddock had ruined the land. To the west, Dryden could see cannons from Winslow’s army firing down into the old fort that had once belonged to the V.A.C. regiment of Colonel Hood but which was now occupied by Kurush’s forces. To the east, the storm continued to billow and build. Lighting flashed, and low rolling thunder sounded in the distance. Below them, Vurun lay, ripe and ready for plunder. Tomorrow, Dryden thought to himself, the city and its inhabitants would die. There was inevitability to it, momentum. It tore at him, the thought of so many dying for the sins of a few, but there was no diplomacy to be done, no peace to be made, only an endless cycle of reprisal and blood feuds. He gripped his sword and steeled himself. Let it be vengeance, he thought silently to himself, and let it be by my own hand, that we may be free of this curse.