Chapter Twenty-Nine

  It only took a day for the Colonel East’s artillery to reduce the walls of the fort at Inshulla to rubble. The army swept in and killed everyone inside. In the days afterwards, the Bloody 13th and the Army of Reprisal marched down the valley from Inshulla towards Vurun, burning every village and ruining every aethium field they could find. Dryden knew not how many villages and people had been slaughtered. Thoughts of the destruction left him ill. Haddock’s promise to revisit tenfold upon Vurun what Kurush had done to Blackwater’s army was coming to fruition. The sky was indigo no longer, only a haze of acrid black smoke from the burned fields filled the air. No longer did the iridescent dust of the land settle upon the men and horse, but ash fell lightly upon them. Only when they approached the town of Ladash did they halt. They were only one day’s ride from Vurun. The 13th arrived first as they were the vanguard.

  The streets of the town were empty. It had once seemed a lively place. The last time Dryden had stopped there was when they had returned from Zundak with news of the fort’s destruction. Colonel Havor had preferred to be billeted in the large home that overlooked the valley. The village was already secure when they arrived, advance platoons from Khathan’s squadron had moved into the area ahead of Dryden and Havelock who rode now with Adams’ squadron.

  Dryden dismounted Rosie and walked into the village square. It had been the place they had learned of Kurush. It seemed a distant memory now. Havor had threatened an old hetman there. Dryden wondered if they had fled, or if some folk were hidden in their homes. He went to the hetman’s house. It was not the nicest building in the place but neither was it poor. It was built of wicker and mud daub and painted white. He went to the wooden door, pushed it open, and went inside.

  The old hetman was still there. He was seated in an old rocking chair silently rocking back and forth. He frowned as Dryden walked into the room. He was sure the man spoke no Vastrum, they had always needed a translator to speak with him. Lines in the old man’s face seemed to deepen as Dryden drew near to him.

  Dryden knelt next to the old man, wondering if the hetman recognized him. He saw only a flicker of it, “I am sorry, for what little that is worth.”

  The man only frowned at him and spoke some words in his own Vuruni. When Dryden did not reply, the man repeated himself with frustration.

  Dryden went back to the door and looked outside. Men were busy looting the town and going house to house finding a handful of citizens that had not fled and were hiding in their homes.

  “I need a translator! Private Brown!” He shouted.

  Private Brown, their new translator came running, he was a Vastrum soldier who had learned a bit of the tongue while he had been in Andaban. He was not half as good as either Chatham or Ugruz, but Dryden did not have to doubt his loyalties, besides, they were not often in need of good translation now, violence spoke clearly in any tongue. Brown entered the house.

  “What is he saying?” Dryden demanded.

  “He is insulting you, I think, calling us bastard dogs over and over,” The young private relayed uncertainly.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  “Tell him I am sorry,” Dryden said. The private hesitated but translated. He didn’t know why he felt the need to apologize. It was unbecoming of a King’s officer. Officers did not apologize for following orders or for the violence they did. Dryden and the Bloody 13th had burned village after village. The first had made him sick. The second less so. This was a village he knew well. He had been served well here, they were good people.

  The old man spit. It hit the private on the face, rather than Dryden’s. Dryden turned and walked from the room with the private following him. They came out into the daylight. As he exited the home he heard a woman screeching somewhere in the village. He stopped and turned, looking for the source of the noise. He walked over briskly to where a group of men had gathered. Some were jeering.

  “Sergeant Steele, to me!” He called out, then he pushed through the group of men. He knew what he would find. A man was on top of a Vuruni woman, her skirts lifted, thrusting away. He grabbed the man by the back of his black cavalryman’s jacket, picked him up, then turned and threw him out into the middle of the square, his trousers still around his knees. The trooper hit the ground hard and scrambled up to his feet, pulling his pants up as he went. It was a man Dryden knew, one of those who had gone to Dau. The man grabbed his sword, not realizing who was facing him down. Dryden frowned at him. Then just as he began to realize that he had drawn his sword on his superior officer, Sergeant Steel cold-cocked the trooper and the man went down into a heap. Steele kicked the sword away while the man rolled around dazed on the ground.

  “What should I do with him?”

  “He raped a woman, that would have got him forty lashes. But he pulled a sword on me. Hang him,” Dryden thundered, his voice carrying. Then he turned to the men who had been watching the man rape the Vuruni woman. He wondered how many of them would have taken a turn with her if he had not intervened. “You there, what do you have to say for yourselves?”

  “We were just havin’ some fun, sir,” One man said. He was a trooper, another from Dau. He had mutton chops and a thick jaw, “We were goin’ ta kill her anyhow. We didn’t see the harm.”

  Dryden’s brow furrowed. He felt ill. “You that were with him. You will do the hanging. We. Do. Not. Rape! You are the King’s men! You are the Bloody 13th! We will kill the enemies of our king. We will raze their towns and cities! We will kill kings and end empires! We will do our duty, and we will do it with honour and discipline!” He bellowed these words. All the men of the 13th heard him.

  Steele dragged the condemned trooper to his feet and dragged him over to the nearest tree, “All right, you heard the Major, get over here and hang him.” Then when the small group of troopers did not move, he shouted, “He pulled his damned sabre on a Major you fools. Get over here or you’ll join him!” That got the men moving. They got a rope, tied a noose, tossed it over the tree and hoisted the man into the air. The man kicked his legs as he hung there. His face began to turn red and then blue as he gasped for air, clutching at the rope. Slowly he began to lose strength. Men watched, faces upturned, eyes dark as they watched their comrade twitch and die slowly as the air left him.

  “Cut him down,” Dryden said loudly.

  Steele pulled a knife from his belt and with one quick motion cut the rope holding him in the air. The man fell to the ground with a thud. He landed in a pile. Men went to check on him.

  Dryden went to the woman who was huddled alone against a wall, her dress pulled up around her. She had been forgotten by everyone. He reached out a hand. Surprisingly she took it. The young woman was dark and pretty, she was young, perhaps the same age as Julia or Helena. He gave her his arm and escorted her across the village square to the hetman’s house. She went inside and he closed the door gently behind her.

  Dryden turned to the assembled men, “Our duty is a wicked one. We must not revel in it lest we lose the better part of ourselves. Burn it all!”

  They rode out soon after. Flames rose above the hetman’s house and smoke billowed over the village of Ladash. Men rode through the fields of indigo flowers that were full in bloom. Then as Dryden came up a rise in the road he caught sight of it sprawling across the floor of the great wide indigo valley, Vurun, the city of sorcerers.