Chapter Fourteen

  The Bloody Banks of the Brurapura

  Dryden knelt low near a tree, looking across the Brurapura River as dawn came. Captain Khathan stood leaning against the tree, his red turban catching the morning light. His dark eyes scanned the far shore. Neither man spoke. They could see little figures, distant enemy soldiers moving in the brush. They were too far for muskets, and the 13th had no cannon. All the men knew the battle would come here now that the bridge was gone. It was only a matter of time. It was not far from the bridge, and it would only take the better part of the night to be repositioned for a crossing attempt. The men of the 13th had held the bridge valiantly by the accounts relayed to him. Hundreds, if not close to a thousand, of enemy infantry had been killed over three days of fighting. The losses for Rhakan were huge. Mar had also taken down a dragon. It was the stuff of legend. Dryden hoped they would not try Baine’s Crossing, but he knew better. If they were right about this being the only viable crossing for a hundred miles, the battle would come here next. The men of the Bloody 13th knew not to hope. For a soldier, there was only preparation, action, and violence.

  There had been just a few small figures on the eastern shore the evening before. Scouts, Dryden knew, looking for good crossings. The tiny figures had come, looked, and then ridden south on their horses. They had surely told their commanders where the best ground was. They would find the same that Dryden and his scouts had. There were a few dangerous crossings, but one damned good one. This one. Baine’s Crossing, he had named it when he wrote it on the map. Just a place where the river ran smoother, slower, and shallower than everywhere else. It was a place where the men would not be swept away to drown so badly, horses would not struggle so much, and they would not be too exhausted to fight upon making the other side. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a crossing worth fighting over. Every crossing within a two-day ride was not half as good as this. The Brurapura ran too deep and swift or too wide to cross safely in many places. No, this was the spot they would cross, or it would cost them weeks. Weeks would be time enough for Haddock to arrive and check their advance across the open ground west of the river. Dryden had hoped the bridge would last a few more days, but the dragon’s fire had ignited the explosives, so the fight now came here for better or worse.

  They had prepared well for it. They had used all three days to dig defences. Captain Khathan’s men had sweated and dug with less complaining than was usual for soldiers. These men were natives. They toiled hard and without moaning over it. Neither did many of them drink arrack or smoke gris like the Vastrum troopers often did. So there were fewer fights. These men were used to such work and the heat of the eastern sun.

  Half the men were from Kathalamanyr and half from Dravan. They had been among the retinues of the rulers of those lands, some of the best riders they had to offer. The opportunity to have native soldiers in a Vastrum regiment was too good to pass up. Furthermore, their leader, Captain Khathan, was a native, a Guludan, and now a knight in the King’s favour. These princes wanted to show their quality, so they sent some of the best soldiers. They had resented Khathan for his success as a Vastrum man, but they saw, too, that he had opened a door for them, and now they crowded through after him. It was the very reason that men like Belfair had resisted Khathan’s captaincy and knighthood and the formation of a native squadron in the King’s army. It helped that he was a Guludan, too, as Dryden understood it. Kanmak had been the seat of an old empire. Gulud had led the resistance against them, breaking their power well before Vastrum and the V.A.C. arrived as colonial invaders. Guludan soldiers were well respected by the people of many colonies outside of Ayodh.

  “How soon do you expect them?” Captain Khathan asked.

  “Today,” Dryden replied. It was not a long ride up from the bridge.

  “They will try with the horse first,” Khathan said.

  The Rhakani cavalry was famous. Though they had all manner of weapons to fight a war with, including elephants, wizards, guns, and dragons, it was said that their invasion of Tangong had been won solely on the back of their horses. These riders would be veterans of that war, men of empire and conquest, good soldiers, brave and brutal—not so different from the men of the 13th.

  “Look, on the southern approach.” Dryden pointed.

  Columns of cavalry were coming into view, silhouetted in the pink light of dawn that rose behind them. The sun would be in the eyes of the 13th just when the enemy came across. If they’d cannon, now would be the time to use it, but alas, they had none. Getting here fast had been more critical than bringing up light horse artillery. That was coming with the Hussars, but they might still be days away. Good cavalry could make forty or more miles per day. The light horse artillery would slow them to twenty at the very fastest. A week’s ride became two if you were pulling artillery.

  As more and more cavalry began to fill the far bank, Dryden’s heart began to sink. There were thousands of them. They could have held the bridge for days, funnelling that infantry into a narrow approach. It was a shame the bridge had gone. This wide crossing, with all those cavalry, he didn’t see how they could hold back that tide for long. He would certainly try. There would be no point in running, he well knew. Not now. Not with those cavalry there. Some of the fastest cavalry might make it away, but it would be a slaughter if the defenders broke. No, the only chance was to stand, fight, and butcher the enemy in the waters of the Brurapura, to turn the river red and choke it with corpses until the enemy lost the will to cross or reinforcements arrived.

  To his right, he heard the sound of hooves in the distance. He pulled out his spyglass and looked. Dragoons were coming into view. He saw the raven banner of the 13th flapping in the morning air.

  “Good, the more men, the better,” Khathan noted.

  “Benton’s men,” Dryden noted. They would not be needed at the bridge now that it was blown.

  Adams’ men came behind them, too. Only Brine’s squadron was left at the bridge as a precaution to keep the enemy from trying to repair the bridge or use its ruin as a makeshift crossing.

  As the cavalry was coming in and dismounting, Dryden noticed a man was walking up the hill towards them. Corporal Higgins, the V.A.C. officer, who had “led” the retreat out of Thom’s Crossing. He and his men had been pressed again into service by Dryden. The man was a coward. He was slightly overweight like he was filled with too much cake, with a round face and brown hair. His face was marked with an air of Vastrum arrogance at all times. Dryden misliked the man. He rarely liked Company men.

  “Do you see now?” The corporal said shrilly as he approached Dryden, gesturing towards the enemy cavalry forming up on the far side of the river.

  “I must go to my men. We will prepare to defend the ford,” Khathan bowed to Dryden.

  Dryden nodded at Khathan and tried to ignore the corporal. There was no ignoring him, however. He was a loud, obnoxious man with no sense of decorum. It was likely why he was in the V.A.C., not the king’s army. A man like this could never have made it in the proper army. Khathan turned on his heel and strode away, his turbaned head held high and his talwar at his hip.

  “Do you see?” The corporal cried again, mounting the slope.

  “Higgins,” Dryden said, greeting him coldly.

  “The enemy is here, as I warned you. We should have run when we had the chance!”

  “Higgins, you will control yourself, or I will have you remanded to custody and brought up on charges of cowardice.”

  “You cannot charge me with anything. I am a V.A.C. officer!” The man practically squealed at him.

  “I have pressed you into service. For now, however much I despise and regret it, you are under my command.”

  “We can still run, sir. Leave these natives to hold it. We officers can mount up and ride.” When he saw Dryden’s scowl deepen, he quickly changed his approach. “You can just let me go, send me as a messenger. Just send me away from those devils!” he cried.

  “Are you unwilling to obey my orders, Corporal, at dawn before a battle?”

  The man froze. He knew what it meant if he refused during or just before combat and refused for no other reason than cowardice. It meant, at best, a firing squad. Dryden would not have to wait for a court martial or a trial. Dryden’s eyes said he would not even wait for the formality of a firing squad. He would shoot him down on the spot.

  The air went out of him like a deflating pastry, “No. I will do my duty. I… please see reason, sir!” He pleaded.

  “You say the enemy is there, Corporal. You complain that we do not flee before him. Let me explain it to you. We are here because he is there. This spot is where the fate of empires will be decided. This river, this crossing, is everything. If we fail here, our power wanes. We hold here, give blood to the river and the mud of its banks, and win. Our blood, theirs, yours. I would give the blood of ten thousand Corporal Higginses to hold this river. It’s a shame all I have is the one of you.”

  The man’s face paled, and he took a few steps back, “Sir. Yes, sir.” He said weakly and gave a hasty salute.

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  Dryden saluted him, “I expect you to hold, Corporal.”

  “Sir!” He squeaked, turned, and practically fled back down the hill to where his survivors sat in their foxholes.

  Captain Benton strode up next. He saluted as he approached, “Sir. Who was that fool?” He had an amused look on his face. Lieutenants Dobbson and Edmonds trailed behind him. Edmonds had a bandage on his forearm and dark red scabbed-over cuts across his face. Dryden had not seen Edmonds since the fighting had begun, but he knew the Lieutenant had been tasked with defending the bridge on the first day and that he had held it well.

  Dryden saluted the officers as they came up, “My compliments, Mr. Edmonds, on your defence of the far gatehouse.”

  “Thank you, sir. I only wish the bridge had held a few more days.”

  “What’s done is done.” Dryden nodded to him, “How is Lieutenant Albans faring?”

  “Surgeon says he’ll live. They’ll send him and the other wounded back to Kanmak as soon as it's safe.” Benton answered, “I see the enemy is preparing to cross.”

  “Indeed, Mr Benton. Captain Khathan is preparing them a fitting welcome.”

  “Very good. Where do you want us?” Benton asked.

  “How many do you command?”

  “A hundred and two. We didn’t lose many at the bridge.”

  “Dobbson form up left of the V.A.C. men I commandeered. I don’t expect them to hold. Their officer, Corporal Higgins, strikes me as a man to run. I’d have our left hold. As for you, Edmonds, I want you in reserve. Stay with your horses. I’d have at least one good cavalry charge at my command.”

  Adams sauntered up with his winning smile and blonde hair shining in the light, “Boys, looks like we’re in for a scrap today, eh? The lads and I are eager to join the fight. Tell us when and where.”

  Dryden frowned at him, “Mallick takes the far right. Longview should dig in just behind Khathan’s natives.” There should have been four lieutenants in every squadron. Instead, there were only two. Even with Khathan, the recruits, and the Andaban squadrons, they were still severely short of men, especially officers.

  “Sir!” Someone shouted, “They’re coming!”

  Dryden turned and looked. The hordes of enemy cavalry were starting to swarm down towards the banks of the river. They were within musket range now. The cavalry wore a dark red uniform with a gold helm. Some carried lances, others a sword which was like a sabre. Others carried Fyrin carbines. Each Rhakani cavalryman seemed to carry whatever weapon suited him best.

  “In position, quickly now, men. This is it. Kill every Rake who wets his boots in that river. Hold at all costs—even the lives of every man. These are the King’s waters. Dismissed, get to it.” Then Dryden turned Sergeant Drake, who stood by, “Sound the defence. I want those bastards to regret they tried to cross.”

  The old hunter Connall Baine stood by near a tree where he was smoking a cigarette, “They’re going to test you.”

  “Pardon?” Dryden asked.

  “Those cavalry are just a test.”

  “There are hundreds of cavalry over there. You’re saying that’s just a test?”

  “Aye.”

  “How do you know this?”

  The muskets of Vastrum roared. A volley hit the horse and men as they began to surge into the shallows on the opposite shore. Screams issued forth. The enemy spurred their horse, and the whole mass of cavalry surged into the water in defiance of the guns facing them.

  “I know it because I helped train soldiers for the king of Rhakan,” Baine said as men died in the waters of the Brurapura, “The old king, that is.”

  Dryden said nothing at first, “You were sent because of your great knowledge of this land. It should not surprise me. I find I know little of you, Mr. Baine.”

  “When I was a younger man, I spent the better part of a decade in Rhakan. Had me a Rhakanese wife for a time.”

  Another volley spat smoke and lead towards the advancing enemy.

  “Were they good, the men you trained?”

  “They were.”

  “What can you tell me about them?”

  “The general you’re facing is a man named Da Kuru. Means Uncle Blood in Rhakanese. He’s a bastard and a half. Reminds me of you, except he’s in charge of the whole circus instead of just half a regiment.”

  “You couldn’t have told us sooner?”

  “Didn’t see his banner until this morning. It could have been one of the other generals they’ve got. Dahon Shan or Ta Yi Bha.”

  The enemy was nearing the middle of the river. The current was strong. Muskets had stopped firing with any semblance of order. Men were now firing at will. Dryden watched as a horse, and his rider struggled against the current, coming closer to the near side than any other. A musket ball took his horse in the head, and he and his rider were carried downstream. The cavalry seemed so many, but musket fire from Khathan’s natives was withering. They were good soldiers. They picked targets before they shot.

  “They’re stubborn and ruthless. You know they have a dozen thrones? A king chooses one at his coronation. He takes on the aspect of it. Rules according to its tenets. He becomes the physical embodiment of it. I don’t just mean he represents it. He becomes it.” The hunter pointed to the other side, “That banner there. The golden one with the tiger. That’s the king’s banner. Means he chose the cruel throne, the throne of cunts, if you ask me.”

  “What kinds of thrones are there?” Dryden asked, curious.

  “All kinds. Thrones for kind kings, compassionate ones, brave, strong ones.”

  “Why have a throne for cruel ones?”

  “The Rhakanese say that sometimes a king must be cruel. A king must act without love or compassion in hard times. He must be a bastard of a man. He must do worse than kill. Now, for instance, his generals will send men to their death for nothing more than to test the defenses that hold a crossing.”

  Dryden nodded, it made sense to him, “So they test us. If we hold them back, what happens next?”

  “If Da is anything like I remember him, he’ll send cannons to soft us up.” The old hunter said.

  More men floated downstream, cut down by the Vastrum muskets. So far, few had made it further than halfway.

  “So let’s say we take that artillery beating. What then?” Dryden pressed the subject.

  “Well, you deprived him his drake. If he’s got another one, he might send it. If not, it might be he’ll try with war elephants. He won’t expose his wizards for anything less than a pitched battle.”

  “Any advice?”

  “You’re the soldier. I’m just a lowly hunter.”

  “You said you trained his men. What did you teach, if not soldiery?”

  “I taught them marksmanship. You won’t want to face his skirmishers in the jungle, let me tell you.”

  The survivors of the first wave of cavalry were falling back now, riding back up the far shore. Some were hurt, others merely exhausted from trying to ford the river under withering fire. It did not take long for another group of horsemen to come down the river and try again.

  “Those cavalry are professional soldiers.” Baine gestured to the men riding down, “They call them the Miyi. They’re like a kind of knight, you could say. Raised from birth to ride and fight. It’s a shame they’re being used like this.” The old hunter sounded almost sad at the thought, “They’re like you. Many of the officers are noblemen.”

  When the enemy cavalry reached the middle, Dryden could see that many were indeed finely dressed. Their swords were polished bright. They had a different look to them than the Rhakanese infantry. They rode hard, and their horses only needed to swim a little until they were in the shallows on the near side. They came despite the musket fire and their losses. They were brave men. There was no doubt of that. A cadre of cavalry splashed from the water, having made it to the Vastrum side, the first of the day to do so. They spurred their horses up the slope, but a volley of musket fire from Khathan’s men cut them down, too.

  “Sergeant Drake,” Dryden said. The sergeant stood nearby.

  “Sir?”

  “See if any of those men still live. I would speak with them if they are. Do not take any unnecessary risks.”

  Drake saluted and walked swiftly towards the carnage at the water’s edge, ensuring to stay in good cover. More men were trying to cross, horses struggling in the water. Musket fire raked them as they swam. Limp bodies, man and horse alike, were swept downstream by the current.

  “When will they lose the stomach for this slaughter?” Dryden asked.

  “Soon, I expect,” Baine answered.

  He was correct. Within half an hour, the failed assaults stopped. The men who had flooded down and tried to cross the river were called back, disappearing into the terrain on the east side of the Brurapura. Dryden knelt and called out, “They’ll be shelling us shortly!” Just as the words left his lips, a crack sounded in the distance—the first cannons were firing. The whizz of a cannonball and then a heavy thud sounded as a ball struck just a few yards left of the tree by which Dryden and Baine were standing.

  Dryden flinched slightly as dirt sprayed him. Baine rolled away from it, the remains of one of his cigarettes flying off into the dirt.

  “Great thundering cunt fire! Bloody fucking bastard bollocks…” The old hunter let loose a torrent of curses that turned to simple incoherent yelling. He stood, dusted himself off, then leaned down to scoop up his long gun, “Too bloody close, that was.”

  Drake appeared then, walking up the embankment, a bound Rhakanese soldier in tow. Dryden had never seen a man from Rhakan up close. The man had light brown skin, a broad nose, a shallow chin, high cheekbones, slightly almond-shaped eyes, and short black hair. He was perhaps only a few years younger than Dryden. He had the look of an officer. He was wounded, too, with a musket wound in his right shoulder and a bandaged cut on his thigh. He was still wet from his trip across the river. His uniform looked like a bastardisation of a Western one, though he wore a layer of padded cloth armour atop it. Drake was holding the man’s sword. It was short for a cavalry weapon, barely curved, and sharp on just one edge. Dryden thought it was a strange sword for a horseman.

  More artillery cracked—a ball hit near a trench, followed by a cry for aid. The artillery barrage was picking up intensity.

  “Do you speak Vastrum?” Dryden asked.

  The man looked at him blankly. He glanced at Drake and Baine.

  “Baine, translate,” Dryden said. He did not ask or wait for the man to agree, “What is your name?”

  The hunter dutifully relayed the words. The man spoke a lyrical tongue. “He says he won’t tell you,” Baine answered.

  “Ask him how many men they have.”

  “He won’t tell you, you know.” The old hunter said.

  “I expect as much. Still, ask him.”

  Connall Baine shrugged and relayed the question.

  The man laughed and said some words, then spit.

  “He insulted your mother,” Baine smirked.

  Dryden ignored it, “Tell him that I will send him back with a message for his commander.”

  “You’re going to let him live?” Baine asked, surprised.

  “Tell him, that if he cooperates and answers all my questions I will send him back with my message alive. If he continues like this, I will send the message with his corpse.”

  The hunter relayed the message. The man looked around at his surroundings. Dryden wondered if he was thinking about running. Then he looked back at Dryden and met his eyes.

  “He doesn’t seem afraid of you, eh?” The hunter commented.

  “Has he heard what was done to Vurun?” Dryden stared back.

  The hunter asked. The man replied in a few words. “He has.”

  “Ask him if he knows who I am?”

  There was more talking. “He hasn’t.” Baine shook his head.

  “Tell him everything, all the vile rumours and the worst things they say about me and the Bloody 13th.”

  The hunter leaned in and began whispering. He seemed to be weaving a story. His tone grew dark. Then he turned and pointed to Dryden. He gestured to the raven banner that flew over the men of the 13th. As he spoke, the man’s face paled. He pointed to Dryden, put his finger straight in his chest, and said one word that Dryden recognised, “Butcher.” A cannonball hit nearby with a crack, bouncing off the ground and away into the muddy farmland behind them. Everyone but Dryden flinched. He only stared more intently at the prisoner.

  The man flinched too at the impact, then dropped his head and quickly spoke in Rhakani.

  Connall Baine looked up and grinned at Dryden, “He will take your message. He says his name is Ba Da Thol, and he is the nephew of General Da Kuru.”