Chapter Forty

  Lightning and thunder crashed above the city, wind whipped the ashes and embers into the sky, and rain fell hard and cold. The cannon fired all through the night, stopping only when the rains came that morning. The army of General Haddock had assembled at the bottom of the slope on which they had camped and set up their guns. All the officers and soldiers would have preferred to fight in good weather; much of their powder would be wet. Guns would misfire. It could not be helped; there was no time to delay the attack. The city had to be taken, lest the governor-general of the colonies order their retreat again, more specifically. So they marched this day and not any other day. It was a day for bayonets and brutal bastards, not for the sophistication and tactical manoeuvrings of great army formations with their lines of musket fire.

  Dryden looked out from his saddle atop Rosie over the massed thousands half-obscured by the heavy rains that fell. The city before them was ruined. Still, he could see dark eyes peering out at them from the chunks of rubble and buildings that remained. The only relief that Dryden felt was that the enemy, too, could not fire upon their advance or snipe officers such as himself. Next to him rode the standard bearers of the Bloody 13th, the dark raven banner of their regiment next to the ordinarily bright banner of The Crown, King Victus. Even the regal flag of the king looked drab and colourless in the weather and the dim light of the storm. Commander Havelock rode next to him, as did Captain Khathan, whose squadron made up the centre of the line.

  “A good day for fighting,” Khathan said, grinning.

  “Eh?” Commander Havelock replied, “It seems a miserable day for fighting.”

  “In Gulud, we fight in all weather. Guns are no good in this weather. It is a good day for killing with the sword.”

  Havelock grunted in reply.

  “The bayonet is a fine fellow,” Dryden mused, “Reliable. Brutal. Effective. A good day for killing, a bad day for dying.”

  “That is true of every day,” Khathan replied grimly, “But a day like this, I think it is true more than most.”

  Neither Haddock nor any other general made any great speech. They made no great calls to action or admonitions of bravery. There were no cheers or cries of Huzzah. There were only grim faces, clenched jaws, and furrowed brows. The army simmered with fury. This was the day their vengeance would be complete. Then, the bugle sounded far down the line where General Haddock was positioned. The drummers by which the infantry marched began to beat a pace. The lines of infantry surged, their bayonets already fixed well in advance.

  “Forwards, men!” Havelock shouted down the line.

  His bugler blew the advance, and the Bloody 13th began to move together with the thousands of infantry.

  “Keep the lines straight!” Havelock bellowed. Sergeants shouted the order further down the line, relaying it to their men.

  A few muskets fired from the edge of the ruined city. There would not be much of that, Dryden thought. The powder was wet, surely. More guns fired. A few men and horse fell, though not so many.

  Havelock turned to his bugler, “Sound the…” He began to say. Then he was gone. A musket ball took the commander in the head. He fell from his horse and did not rise.

  “Sir?” Someone shouted. An attendant leapt from his horse and went to him.

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  The line wavered. Dryden was suddenly in command. The weight of it fell heavily upon him like a cloak made of heavy chain had been placed upon his shoulders. He looked around. The lines of horsemen were slowing as a few men broke and went to check upon Havelock. More bullets flew past. Dryden heard the whizz of a bullet by his ear. Lightning cracked. Thunder. More musket fire. His heart pounded in his chest; the weight of the command was dizzying. He felt the whole world spin.

  “Sir!” Captain Khathan shouted at him, “What are your orders?”

  He thought of Julia, Helena, and all those in the city. There they were, just a little further on. Push through the enemy. Rescue the women. His father's words came to him: “Do your duty, son.” His hand, still blistered and healing, instinctively went to his sword. Fight. He gripped his sword painfully and ripped it from his scabbard.

  “Forward!” He bellowed through the storm, “Forward, you bloody bastards! Kill your enemies! For your bloody king. Charge!” He shouted. He kicked Rosie’s flanks and spurred her hard. She surged beneath him. It took a moment for the bugler to sound. Rosie burst forward ahead of the stalled ranks of the 13th. Men looked around and saw him going. Then, finally, the bugler’s lips found his instrument, and the call to charge sounded bright and clear above the raging tempest. Troopers spurred their horses, and he heard what sounded like thunder, only it was his riders, the bloody bastards, the butchers of Vurun, coming on behind him fast. A cheer went up from the army as they charged forward towards the defenders of the ruined city. No more shots sounded. The enemy broke as the 13th hit home.

  The enemy fled back into Vurun, seeking some unknown refuge. The cavalry rode through the city avenues over rubble and between ruined buildings, riding down the fleeing army. The adrenaline of battle was on him, and the pain in his hand was gone. Killing was easy now. Rosie rode nimbly through the broken streets. Dryden hacked at fleeing enemies, riding them down without mercy. His men all around him did the same. He knew the sprawling city well, though it was in such a state after the bombardment and fires that it was hard to know where he rode. A cadre of his men, including junior officers and the standard bearers, struggled to keep up with him. Eventually, he tired and found himself largely alone. The enemy had not regrouped; they were simply dead. He heard fighting in other areas, musket fire, screaming, and other sounds not meant for the ears of men. Captain Khathan rode up, followed by what looked like much of his squadron.

  He turned to his men, who were looking at him in awe. “Find the other Captains. Reform the squadrons, or what is left of them, and meet at the grand bazaar. We must still take the palace and the fort. The women must still be rescued.”

  Riders were sent as instructed, and Dryden led those with him down long avenues and through ruined streets. The destruction of Vurun was almost complete. They met no resistance as they went. Where he rode, his men followed. Eventually, they came to a place that he recognised. A large temple stood to the side of the avenue. He remembered it well. It was where the old madwoman had prophesied the doom of Blackwater’s army. He looked about him as if to find the old woman as if he expected to see her dancing madly with her cloak of bones, but she was gone. Something carved upon the temple doorway gave him pause. The image of a demon, carved in black stone, the same he had seen in Dau, with its vast wings and many eyes. A shiver went down his spine. He spurred his horse and led them onward again, through the ruins of Old Vurun and up towards the grand bazaar, where so many had been slaughtered in the riots and unrest after the Shah’s death. They rode into the bazaar near the foot of the hill upon which the Shah’s palace and the old Red Fort were built. He looked up, the grand palace looming just up the hill. They did not have to wait long for Captains Benton and Adams to join them; their squadrons filed into the open market square.

  Benton rode up, his face dark, “Major, I believe you already know, but the regiment is yours. Havelock is dead. The bullet took him in the head. I doubt he felt anything at all.”

  Dryden had been quite sure that Havelock was dead already, but the information was now confirmed. “What of other casualties?” He asked.

  “Three dead. Ten wounded. Another dozen are unaccounted for,” Captain Adams replied.

  It was not as bad as it ought to have been and was not a high price for taking a city. “Everyone else is here?”

  “Indeed, sir,” Benton answered.

  “Major, ought we to wait for reinforcements before we advance further?”

  “Sir!” Someone called from behind, “A rider!”

  It was an An-Dakal messenger. His Vastrum was poor, his accent thick. “Major Sahib, fight is good. Kavala comes soon. He wants join, wants kill Kurush.”

  “It would appear our reinforcements are nearly here,” Dryden said dryly, “Rest quickly, we’ve a war to finish.”