Chapter Two

  Friendship Rarer Than Gold

  “Right-O! Listen up, you numpty gobshites! Fall in, or I’ll ‘ave your bollocks served for supper! Move, you bastards! Move!” The sergeant major bellowed at the recruits as they came off the great cargo ship that had served as their troop transport, moving them up the river to Kanmak. More than a hundred recruits to the Bloody 13th came pouring out of the belly of the ship down gangplanks and onto the muddy ground along the Yuna River. They had been recruited by the war hero Major John Dryden in Marrowick, drilled for a month at the barracks there, loaded up on a ship, transported like cargo across the great southern ocean, and then moved to a steamship to go up the river. They were treated only slightly better than livestock for most of the trip.

  “Oi, wazzock!” The sergeant screamed at a man who had tripped in the mud, “Up! Up! Move!” He brandished a riding crop as if to hit the man, though he pulled short of actually hitting him, as the man scrambled to his feet and ran to catch his fellow recruits.

  Will ran, his legs stiff from the lack of use during the long voyage. The other young men around him huffed as they went up the slope from the river, each hauling their packs full of gear. Clothes, canteens, bedrolls, spades, and more. They could have put the gear on a cart, but Will suspected they made them carry the gear to tire them.

  A wide and long dike had been built along the river's sweeping bend. At the top, the men formed up in neat rows. Other sergeants were directing men there with riding crops and curses. Will went with his platoon of recruits. They huddled together as they ran up the hill. His mates from back home were with him: Ben, Tom, Johnny, and more. A man dressed in a dragoon's sharp black uniform and shako stood watching as the men formed up. He had the pauldrons of a captain and a silver sword buckled to his belt. His tanned face was etched in a perpetual frown. Lines marked his furrowed brow. His dark eyes darted from face to face, missing nothing. He gestured slightly to a sergeant nearby.

  “Oi! You there!” The sergeant shouted, “Dress that line!”

  The line straightened up. Men stood taller and straighter, knowing they were being watched and that their mistakes, no matter how small, were noticed.

  When all hundred and some odd men were lined up, the captain stepped forward to speak. He spoke loud and clear so all could hear. “I am Captain Pugh. There are six squadrons in the 13th. Third squadron is mine. You are also mine-- until you have proven yourselves worthy of our name and received an assignment. You will drill. You will march. You will dig. You will learn to kill. You will learn the sword and the musket and the bayonet. You will learn the horse. You will learn obedience and duty and discipline. Above all, you will learn to die well. You are not cavalrymen, not yet. It is why you march instead of ride. You will be carved by your training into one. I will not be kind. Your lieutenants and sergeants will be even less so. It will seem cruel, and it is, but it is not without purpose. There is no other way to make a soldier. You will be taught with violence so that you may, in turn, do violence. Perhaps you had visions of gallantry, a romantic view of men riding off to war on horses with gleaming swords shining in the sun and bright banners whipping in the breeze, of ladies in white dresses waving handkerchiefs and blowing kisses as you go. Those are fairy tales. My job is to disabuse you of this notion and prepare you for war. This is what war is—Cruelty and violence acted out upon the enemies of your king. It is mud and shit and blood and the screams of the dying. If that does not appeal to you, perhaps you ought to have stayed home in Marrowick. It's too late for that now, in any case.” He grinned at the men. There were nervous chuckles. “Welcome to the Bloody 13th!”

  There were no cheers. Almost immediately, sergeants began calling for the men to about-face and march. A bugle sounded double time. Will turned with the rest of the men and began to march quickly down the length of the long dike towards the city. By the time they arrived at the garrison, they were sweating in the heat of the day and breathing hard. They were shown to their barracks and fed a meal of thick brown stew and hard bread. There was little talking or camaraderie that evening; every man was bone weary. Will slept hard that night. He woke to the sound of reveille before dawn, quickly followed by a bellowing sergeant who came down the row of bunks in the barracks, pulling men from bed and hitting those too slow to rise with his riding crop. He only just had time to dress and make his bed before they were called out to muster in the yard. Will had known this would be hard; the Bloody 13th had a reputation for it, but he began to greatly regret his decision to enlist.

  Colonel Havor was leaning back in his chair; his black boots kicked up on the desk. His dark face was cold and impassive, though his blue eyes stared piercingly at Captain Pugh, “How are the new recruits that Dryden has brought for us?”

  “Soft.”

  “That’s to be expected. Can you work with them?”

  “Yes,” Pugh answered, “It would be better if there were a war going; we’d have them in fighting shape in no time. There’s no substitute for real fighting. You can’t forge a sword without fire.”

  “The closest fight going is the native rebellion down in Durzan.” Havor pointed out.

  “That’s a continent and a half away.” Pugh said, scowling, “It would take us two months to arrive. The fighting will be done in one.”

  “They’d never send us anyhow. They want Haddock out here in the east. We’re here to deter incursions from Rhakan. Don’t worry, there will be another war. The Company will see to that, they’re rapacious.” Havor reached down and pulled a bottle from his desk, “Gin?”

  “No. It’s early.” Pugh replied.

  “Is it? It’s late for me.”

  “Couldn’t sleep?” He asked Colonel Havor.

  Havor shook his head and poured a glass, “No. Any time I close my eyes…“ He trailed off and drained the glass.

  Pugh said nothing as his colonel downed the drink and poured another. He knew what Havor had been through. They had shared the same nightmare. They had been imprisoned for months. They had been beaten, starved, tortured, and worse. Men had been killed for sport. The only reason that Havor, Pugh, and some of the officers had lived was that they were valuable, so they had been held for ransom rather than killed. Hundreds of soldiers had been captured during the march out of Vurun. Many of these prisoners were sepoys and privates. They were brought back to Vurun and held. Their jailers had sorted through them, separating the Vastrum officers from the rest. He still had nightmares of the sounds that men made when they were beheaded. They reminded Pugh of the squealing of piglets. Their captors had played polo with the heads of the murdered in the courtyard of Guranji’s palace. So he said nothing as Havor drank while the sun rose. He instinctively rubbed his knee, which was stiff and ached where a spear had lanced through him during the last stand at Settru Pass. It had healed poorly in captivity, and he now walked with a limp.

  “Roxana has forbade me from sleeping in my own bed,” Havor said out of the blue.

  Pugh raised an eyebrow.

  “She says I drink too much.” Havor put his glass down, frowning, “Perhaps she’s right.”

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  “Perhaps.” Pugh agreed.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Enter,” Havor called.

  The door opened, and Major Dryden walked in. Havor smiled. It was the first time that Pugh had seen him smile in ages. The Major was tall, with short blonde hair, a close-trimmed beard, bright green eyes, and a winning smile. He was dressed in his spotless black uniform, his silver buttons polished to a shine. He held his shako under his arm. He looked every bit the ideal cavalry officer. He stepped into the room and saluted crisply, “Major Dryden, reporting for duty, sir!”

  Havor stood, saluted him softly, walked to him, and gave him a great hug. Dryden laughed and hugged him in return. “Welcome back, John. Please, sit. I understand from your letter that congratulations are in order. Tell me, how is the happy marriage?”

  Major Dryden sat, and his face darkened somewhat at the mention of his marriage. Pugh could see the man’s face almost flinch as he struggled to find a way to answer Havor’s question diplomatically. Pugh understood at once; the marriage was difficult, and Dryden unhappy in it. Julia had always been a pretty girl, but she was not kind, nor was she from the sort of breeding expected for a young man of the Major’s station to marry. Dryden was from a noble family, granted only a minor house, but wealthy and respected. He wondered how the Major had gotten Lord Starlington, his father, to assent to the match. He was lost in thought, watching Dryden and Havor go back and forth on the subject of their failing marriages, when there was yet another knock on the door, and Mar and Lieutenant Brine walked in. Of all the gentlemanly officers of the Bloody 13th who had been initially stationed in Vurun, only a handful had survived. Dryden and Mar had escaped over Settru Pass. Havor, Pugh, and Brine had survived in captivity. The rest of the current officer corp was comprised of those who had been stationed in Andaban or officers added later. The whole of their little company of officers that was left now sat in this room.

  “You’re in fine company, Dryden, on unhappy marriages. Can I offer you all a glass of gin with my condolences?” He said it with a kind of easy smile. Havor was jovial for the first time since they arrived in Ayodh.

  “Not before lunch, Colonel.” Dryden was saying.

  “This is after dinner for me.” Havor joked.

  They all laughed.

  “Sherry, then?” Brine suggested as he found a chair and sat.

  They all laughed again. Havor pulled a bottle from his desk and opened it. Glasses were rounded up, and drinks poured.

  “Argyle’s.” Mar gestured to the bottle, “Fine stuff. Are we celebrating?”

  “The very best. As it happens, we do have something to celebrate now that the company is complete.” Colonel Havor grinned, taking a sip and savouring it.

  “Oh?” Mar asked, “What have we to be cheerful for, other than celebrating this fine reunion?” The wizard was leaning back, swirling his glass of sherry.

  Havor reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out two pins. He put down his glass, sorted them out in his hands, then tossed one to Lieutenant Brine. Pugh was surprised when the Colonel tossed the other one in his direction. He barely caught it. He stared at the pin, not quite believing.

  “Congratulations to Major Pugh and Captain Brine,” Havor said, smiling.

  Pugh felt a grin break his face, “Thank you, sir. I don’t know what to say…”

  Brine was grinning ear to ear.

  “We’ve needed to fill these positions since we left Kathalamanyr. I can think of no officers better suited. I put in for the promotions months ago, but they were only recently approved. I thought it only appropriate to wait until we were all together to tell you.”

  Dryden stood and extended his hand to Pugh. “Congratulations. None deserve this more," the major told him.

  “A toast!” Mar cried, “Say some words, Jack.”

  Havor stood, raised his glass high, and looked each of them in the eye in turn, “To two of the finest officers in the King’s army. I trust that each of you will do the Raven Banner proud. To honour, duty, the king, and the glory of the Bloody 13th!”

  “Hip, hip!” Dryden cried.

  “Huzzah!” They shouted together.

  Pugh remembered the last time they had cried that cheer. It was in the confines of the fort at Golconda before they had made the bloody climb up the Settru Pass. They had cried three cheers for Colonel Gorst before they had died in the hundreds as they approached the guns of the enemy. It had been a true massacre. Pugh’s horse had been shot from under him while leading men up the left flank. Of those who had made the final stand at that little rocky outcrop, Pugh was the only one left living, and only because he was wounded and, as an officer, worth more alive than dead. He remembered watching the wounded and dying Colonel Gorst take his own life, a pistol in the mouth. He remembered watching the hordes of Vuruni swarming up towards them at the last, the barrage of muskets firing the last ammunition. The bloody, desperate melee. An enemy lancer wounding him. Hands grabbing and taking him away. Thrashing like an animal as they took him, wishing he’d saved a pistol shot for himself. He frowned and drained his sherry.

  “I have another piece of news.” Havor said, “General Haddock informed me yesterday that the king has arrived in Ayodh with his retinue. He wishes to hunt. He has invited the officers of the 13th to hunt with him. As I understand it, the hunt is to be spectacular. He intends to take at least a dozen tigers, several rhinoceros, and at least one griffon. He is most keen on meeting you, Dryden. He and the queen are both enamoured with the idea of the sole survivor of Blackwater’s massacre.”

  “Even though I am very clearly not the sole survivor,” Dryden said, glancing around the roomful of other survivors.

  “Legends spread faster than truth, I’m afraid. I heard Esquif made a grand painting of your riding into Andaban, commissioned by the king.” The painter was among the most famous painters of the day. His paintings hung in the greatest galleries and collections throughout the West.

  “I was invited to view it while in Marrowick,” Dryden commented.

  “And, how did you find the likeness?” Mar asked.

  “I declined the invitation,” Dryden replied dryly, sipping his sherry.

  “Of course you did.” Havor barked a laugh, “I’d expect nothing less, John.”

  “When should we expect to attend the king’s hunt?”

  “A few days hence. They are staying at the governor’s residency in the middle of the city. In the meantime, Major Pugh, the recruits are still yours. I would trust no one more with their education into the ways of the 13th. Brine, you will take over Pugh’s squadron effective immediately.”

  Major Pugh. That sounded odd to his ear. He had been working many years for just such a promotion. Something about it felt wrong, though. The blood he had shed and the horrors he had witnessed to achieve it tainted the success. He had once thought war would be all noble gallantry and brilliant tactical manoeuvrings. He had studied at the war college in Hark and read every book on strategy written by the great generals of history, from Varo to Suvor. Nothing had prepared him for the reality. You needed fire to forge steel. War school without war was like trying to forge a sword with only a painting of fire to warm the metal. He had fought so hard for this promotion. Now that he had it, it left a bitter taste.

  “Who will be taking my place as Lieutenant?” Brine asked.

  “That hasn’t been decided. There are candidates. None of the sergeants can pay the commission. I offered to pay for Flint out of my own pocket. He declined. He prefers it down in the muck; those are his words. No, it must be someone new or from another cavalry regiment, the hussars perhaps.”

  “Could we take a native soldier and put him under Captain Khathan?” Dryden asked.

  “Another native officer in the 13th -- are you mad? It was hard enough to secure his position, and he was only allowed because of exigent circumstances and tremendous personal heroism.”

  “What if we formed a native squadron in the 13th? Give it to Khathan. Even with the numbers I brought from Marrowick, we’re still short a squadron of men. The longer it takes to replenish our numbers, the less ready we’ll be when the next war breaks out.”

  Havor nodded at Dryden, “I agree. I’ll broach the subject with Haddock, but I suspect Brigadier Belfair will object.”

  Dryden frowned. He had hoped Belfair would have been demoted, reassigned, or retired. He was just as much to blame as Blackwater had been. Instead, he had been assigned to serve under General Haddock. He was not their direct commander anymore; he commanded one of the brigades of infantry stationed in Ayodh and had tremendous influence on the general’s staff and with the governor-general. Furthermore, Belfair was a high lord of the empire and had much influence back home in Vastrum. He played politics better than most. He was known, too, for his grudges. Despite his utter incompetence on the battlefield, if Belfair didn’t like an idea or the officer from which it came, it was unlikely to find approval.

  They finished their sherry. Sunlight was brightening the sky. The new recruits had been assembled in the yard of the fort that housed them. Another knock sounded at the door. Sergeant Major Flint entered and saluted. Another survivor of the dungeons in Vurun. One of the few.

  “Men are assembled and ready, Colonel!” He barked.

  “Major Pugh, the men are yours.” Havor nodded, “What do you have in store for them today?”

  “Latrines,” Pugh said. We could use freshly dug latrines, Flint. Don’t you agree?”

  The sergeant grinned at him, “Sir!” The man said, turning on his heel and striding out the door. As he walked back to the yard, they could hear him bellowing at the recruits, “All right, you beef-witted lobcocks! Present your spades! Today, we’ll be diggin’ for the Raj’s gold!”