Chapter Forty-One

  Dryden and Kavala An-Dakal rode together up the road leading to the dead Shah Guranji’s old palace, now occupied by Kurush An-Beya. They said little as they rode; tension lay heavy between them. Only their shared interest against the pretender kept the peace. The city burned behind them as the three armies entered and sacked what ruins remained. They met no resistance as they went. Smoke rose into a dark cloud-filled sky. Somewhere above, vultures wheeled about in the darkness of the storm. Rain still came down, though less hard than before. Lightning crackled, and thunder rolled in the clouds above. Behind them came a thousand riders, half shrouded by the storm and rain. Three hundred riders of the Bloody 13th, the Butchers of Vurun, cursed men and bastards from half a world away. Seven hundred bloodied An-Dakal riders, all that was left of that army. They wound their way up the shallow hill on which the palace, fort, and ruins of the cantonment were built.

  The first building they approached was the palace. Colonel East's bombardment had avoided the buildings on the hill, and they were among the few structures still standing, mostly undamaged, in the city. The grand structure's opulence had faded in the dimness of the thunderstorm's half-light. Flashes of lightning illuminated it for a moment, and Dryden could see that, while most of the city had been abandoned by the enemy, the palace remained well guarded.

  Dryden turned his Captains, who rode nearby, “Captain Benton, take your squadron and set a perimeter on the north and east around the back of the palace. Let none leave. Captain Adams, check the fort and see if it is manned or can be taken. Khathan, you’re with me.”

  Kavala was with him too, but said nothing, only watched as the riders of the 13th moved off to obey Dryden’s orders. Once the men were away, the An-Dakal warlord spurred his horse forward towards the main entrance of the palace.

  “They will surely shoot you down,” Dryden called to him as the man went forward.

  “No. They will speak with me.” The man who would be Shah replied.

  “How can you know?” Dryden demanded.

  “If they kill me, they will all die most horribly at the hands of my men. They wish to live.”

  “Would they not sacrifice themselves to kill you?”

  “They still have hope, Major. Do not underestimate the power of hope.”

  It felt an age since Dryden had last had hope. Everything had been duty and fighting and survival and, finally, vengeance. He thought back. He’d felt hope when they had ridden out of Vurun with Blackwater. He’d felt hope those first days until the snow fell and the dead camp followers rose from the ice to attack the army. Hope had died there for him. He’d known that they would all die; the mad bone-priestess had said so back before they had marched out of Vurun, and he’d known it to be true when she said it, even though his rational mind denied it. When the freshly frozen bodies of their followers rose, it confirmed everything she had predicted.

  Hope was for men living in peaceful times. Hope was for farmers and merchants and ordinary folk living ordinary lives. Hope was dangerous in war, and it made soldiers weak. They made desperate choices, fearful ones based on the hope of living. Dryden remembered the men on the hopeless, desperate climb up Settru Pass and of winning the summit, only to fail when the folly of hope had gripped them, and they had run for the road to Andaban. He wondered what would have happened if they had held their nerve and used their good ground to fight back. Perhaps they still would have lost, but perhaps not. They would never know. Their hope of living had put them all in an early grave. The only men to survive, Dryden, Khathan, and Mar, were those who had given up hope of living and done only their duty. Hopeless soldiers and fighters all. These men who defended the palace still had hope; most men did, and they would make foolish choices. They ought to shoot Kavala dead, Dryden knew. Kavala knew these men were weak and hoped to live, so they would behave. All these thoughts flooded Dryden’s head in mere moments. It was only a small risk to approach the palace now. Dryden frowned but spurred Rosie lightly after a moment and went with Kavala towards the palace entrance.

  “You wish to negotiate?” Dryden asked as they rode forward.

  “In a manner of speaking,” Kavala replied wryly, a wicked grin playing at the edges of his mouth. The sorcerer pulled a small silver box from deep inside his robes and opened it. It was filled with indigo aethium. He took a pinch and snorted it, then sighed deeply.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “Our imprisoned women are surely in the palace,” Dryden cautioned, “I sincerely hope you do not intend to put them at risk.”

  “Worry not, Major.”

  Then they were there, just at the broad marble staircase that led up and into the palace's main entrance. The last time Dryden had been here, he and Havor, Pugh, and Brine had all been together, going up to attend the grand ball. They had been dressed in their black dress uniforms, with silver polished swords. Life had been good then; the Shah had still lived, their position secure. Dryden looked up. A man stood in the doorway, bandaged and clutching at his chest. He had gold eyes and a grimace on his face. It was Kurush An-Beya, the pretender to the throne of Vurun. Another man stepped forward wearing the dark blue robes of a man from the Kizil. Dryden recognized him at once, Kal’kuris Dravetta, the emissary of Kurush, the double agent of Colonel Hood’s, the protector of the noble women of Vastrum who had been taken prisoner. Dryden had not seen the emissary since the man had saved his life after the terrible fight to escape from Settru Pass. He had detested the man once. He was glad to see him now but wondered what role he would play.

  “We have come to parley!” Dryden bellowed.

  Kavala glanced at him, annoyed that Dryden had spoken out of turn. Dryden ignored the look and spurred Rosie forward up the stairs. It was Kavala’s turn to follow. Rosie mounted the steps easily and Dryden stopped in front of the entrance where Kurush and Kal’kuris stood waiting for them. The pretender was in bad shape, he could see as they drew near; his bandage was dark with dry blood, his face was set with a grimace, and he leaned against the door frame to stand. Even his golden eyes appeared dull in the light. Kal’kuris’ face, on the other hand, was serene, a look of pure calm upon him.

  “What terms do you offer?” Kal’kuris spoke as they approached.

  “Surrender, you will be spared. That is General Haddock’s will, not ours. Return our prisoners safely. Renounce all claims to the throne of Vurun. You will be cared for, your wounds tended, and you will be sent to prison along with your half-brother Chatham.”

  “What of my sister?”

  “She killed herself rather than be taken prisoner.”

  “That is so very much like her, isn’t it?” Kurush spoke.

  “What of the rest of us?” Kal’kuris interjected.

  “That will be for the next Shah to decide,” Dryden answered, looking to Kavala.

  “I thought you were one to do away with the Ans in this land. You would have this land trade a profligate An-Dakal for an iniquitous one?” Kal’kuris’ tone grew dark.

  “I have seen nothing foul or dark about this man, no more so than any other would-be-king,” Dryden replied.

  Kurush looked at his emissary as if he had gone insane. “What are you speaking of? What secrets have you held from me?”

  “Are our women safe?”

  Kal’kuris ignored his Shah, “Your noblewomen? Yes. I could protect neither the women of lesser means, the servants, nor the wives of the sepoys, but your noblewomen are, indeed, safe behind me in the palace. You should keep that in mind before you ruin this place as you have done to the rest of the city.” The emissary replied, an edge to his tone.

  “Why do you speak to him as if your rightful Shah does not stand beside you?” Kurush demanded.

  “You are not my Shah. I recognize no Shah of the Ans.”

  As if to highlight his words, lightning crashed nearby, striking a tree in the cantonment. Rosie reared halfway at the tremendous sound and light. Dryden stayed in the saddle easily and patted her neck, “Shh, girl, it’s just the storm.”

  “Is it?” Kal’kuris chuckled, “The god of the wind and sky has come to take this whole land back. He sweeps away all conquerors. Even now, his vengeance is nearly complete, as if your own, Major Dryden.”

  Kurush swore at his emissary in Vuruni. Dryden could make no sense of what he said, but it was said in anger. Yet, the warrior could barely stand. The wound that Dryden had given him began to seep with fresh blood. He fell to a knee. As he tumbled to the ground, shots were fired around and above them. Dryden spurred Rosie and heaved her reins around. She obeyed and shot back towards the lines where Captain Khathan and the third squadron were assembled. Someone grunted nearby as he rode. He turned to see Kavala riding hard with a look of agony on his face and fresh blood on his robes. The would-be sorcerer-king turned his horse and looked back once they were halfway to their men. Kavala raised his arms over his head.

  Dryden knew what was coming next, “No!” He shouted. The women were still inside the palace. Then, without further warning, the whole earth rumbled and shook. Men and horses fell around him. The palace rocked. Trees danced and waved to and fro. Dryden clung to Rosie’s saddle as the ground rolled and shook like waves on a wild, stormy sea. Stone cracked, and a huge fissure split the wall of the castle. Stones fell, pillars fell, and still, the whole earth moved. Just as Dryden began to wonder if it would ever end, it stopped suddenly. Dryden looked around him; it seemed most of his men were unhurt. The palace and those inside it were another matter. In places, the roof had collapsed, pillars toppled, a man was pinned under a great block of stone that had fallen from the building. Screams and cries could be heard inside. Kavala swooned in his saddle and fell. Dryden knew there was no time to waste, they could deal with the fallen later.

  “Forward!” Dryden shouted, “Give them no quarter!”

  Captain Khathan took up the cry. A sergeant blew his bugle. The raven banner surged forward towards the palace. Dryden spurred Rosie, and all the remaining 13th along with Kavala’s men surged forward to take Guranji’s palace, the final prize.