Chapter Nine

  Dark Memories

  Mar had climbed the bridge tower to get a better view. Below him, the men of the 13th were digging earthworks and trenches. Under Wolfgang's supervision, the crew of sappers was hard at work rigging the bridge with powder. Pugh had declined to climb the rotten stone tower; the Major’s leg was still not healed from his wounds. He could walk and ride well enough, but climbing seemed out of the question for him. Havor was busy seeing to the building of defensive earthworks. Mar was looking out at the far side of the river. Even though The Brurapura was narrow here, it was still quite broad. His one eye made his depth perception poor, however. He stared out at the landscape. Birds flew off away in the distance. He could neither make them out clearly nor tell their distance, but they seemed to be flying over the trees to the east. He looked south towards the coast. The river delta broadened out and became a vast, impassable mangrove swamp called the Sundara before disappearing into the Bay of Accad. To the north, the Brurapura wound its way through the great savannah farmlands and jungles all the way down from the Namkha Mountains. The great peaks were too far to see, but Mar knew they were there, where the mysterious Kingdom of Bohd stood untaken by Vastrum, Rhakan, Chu, or any other would-be conqueror.

  Farmers in a distant field on the river's eastern bank slowly went about their daily business. He did not know whether they were harvesting or what part of the never-ending cycle of farming they were engaged in. He was a city boy, and he did not know enough to say. Suddenly, the farmers were running, though from what it was not clear.

  “Major!” He shouted down to Pugh, “We’ve got a problem!”

  “The enemy?”

  “Perhaps!”

  Then, several riders came into view, galloping hard. Two of the Jirimanjin scouts were returning. They whipped their horses hard as they came back down the road through the huts of Bogat. One of them had an arrow sticking from his back as he rode, though he did not seem to notice it. The men at the far gatehouse let them through, and they rode hard back across the bridge towards where Pugh and Mar were standing a kind of informal watch.

  Halfway across, the rider who was wounded by the arrow slid from his horse and fell. The other man did not stop, nor did the horse of the fallen rider. They arrived soon after. The fallen man stood and staggered back. The scout shared words with Major Pugh. Moments later, a volley of musket fire cracked from the bridge's other end in a puff of smoke. Mar could not see what the men were firing at, but he assumed some enemy had broken from cover attempting to follow the scouts. A second volley of fire came soon after. The men were well drilled and could fire three shots per minute in good conditions, perhaps not as fast as the elite infantry of the line who could fire as many as four per minute, but still, very good for cavalry. Many conscripted soldiers could only fire two or fewer. The dragoons of the 13th were trained as both light cavalry and infantry. Hussars were suitable only for light cavalry work, flanking, riding down broken formations, and the like. Lancers were good for a straight charge. The heavier and more versatile dragoons were less effective at any one thing but could do a bit of everything. Modern generals preferred the specialised forms of other units, but a few experienced generals, such as Haddock, still liked what the dragoons could do.

  Mar’s one eye continued to scan the horizon. He could see movement now, though it was far off. It looked like the grass and trees were waving in the wind, but as he looked, he could now see masses of men moving low to the ground through the tall grasses. He turned and shouted down, “Enemy sighted!”

  Pugh was already barking orders below. Men were getting into position, into trenches and foxholes, where they had a good firing angle onto the bridge. The men at the far gatehouse fired yet another volley into the village. Mar saw a trooper burst from cover on the far side of the bridge, running hard and holding a torch. He heaved the torch out onto the roof of a nearby thatched hut. Then, the figure ran back towards the safety of the gatehouse. It was the dry season, and a gout of flame took the roof within moments. Shots rang out, and puffs of musket smoke billowed from the huts. The enemy was firing back. Rhakanese soldiers were in the town already. He could not see if the man who had lit the town ablaze had returned safely. He suspected not.

  Mar began to roll a cigarette with the new aethium he had purchased in Kanmak’s grand bazaar. He took a pinch of tobacco and lined it up in the white rolling paper, then a pinch of the dark aethium from his vial. It had been too long since he had imbibed. He wanted, needed to have it. Knowing this Rhakani catalyst's strength, he resisted the urge to overindulge. They had taught him to push down those urges at the conservatory, where he had been trained in sorcery. They had not been kind in the training. It had been torture, really, when he thought about it. It was strange how, at the time, it had felt normal to be punished physically by the teachers. It was only afterwards that it seemed overly harsh. He remembered the headmaster whipping a boy who had failed to control his urges, caning the back of the boy’s calves. When he was done, the headmaster, Apidenus, turned to the other students and said, “What I have done to this boy is nothing compared to what he does to himself when he over-imbibes. It is the soul that suffers most. Catalysts are the wood, memory is the oxygen, but the disciplined mind is the match that ignites the flame.” Professor Mavros had told them many times, when illustrating how magic worked, “Make too much, and you will certainly burn.”

  Mar did not know how true his teacher’s words were, but he and all wizards trained at the King’s Conservatory lived by them. Moderation was key, they said, do not become like the low wizards of vulgar nations, do not become an addict, driven by the whims of the flesh. So, only a tiny pinch of the stuff went into the cigarette. Mar rolled the paper between his fingers, licked to close it, popped the end between his lips and waited. Take the stuff too soon, and it would burn out before he needed it. He wanted very badly to light the cigarette and inhale. He remembered the cane hitting the back of his calves, the flesh rending. Every wizard in training was given such treatment at one time or another. It was necessary, they said, to make a battle mage. Vivid memories made the most potent magic and painful ones the most lethal. He closed his one eye, took a slow breath, and waited. As he sat, calming his mind and dredging up dark memories, a roar echoed across the river.

  His golden eye snapped open, and he scanned the area. A bird still flew, but it seemed closer and larger somehow. He could not see the distance well. As he watched it fly, he realised it was not a bird. It flew quite unlike a bird, more like a bat. Its leathery wings beat the sky. He had thought the creature much closer, but as it flew, he realised it was much further away and far bigger.

  “Drake!” He shouted to Pugh, who was organising a platoon of men at the gatehouse.

  “What? Sergeant Drake is with Dryden!” The young major shouted back.

  “No! A drake!” He shouted again, pointing into the distant sky.

  Pugh looked to where Mar was pointing, pulled out his spyglass, and scanned the sky. Then he stopped, turned, and ran back through the gatehouse towards Havor’s command post, which was a tent further back from the rest, near where the supplies and horses were being kept.

  Mar stood on top of the gatehouse. The enormous monstrosity was coming closer quickly. It was flying straight to the bridge. The musket fire was growing more intense at the far gatehouse. The sappers were still in the middle of the bridge, rigging the explosives. They were working quickly, but they were nowhere near done. Edmonds needed to hold the far side of the bridge at all costs until Wolfgang and his men were finished. Mar swore. He was on the wrong end of the bridge. He could do little from here. He needed to be closer to the fighting and the dragon. He tucked the cigarette into his black cavalryman’s jacket pocket and began climbing down as quickly as possible. Stones slipped under his hand, and loose bricks tumbled as he raced down. He nimbly scrambled down the bit where the stairs to the top had half-collapsed, but soon he was down. He raced past soldiers who were waiting to defend the bridge, who gripped their muskets white-knuckled. Most were very young, maybe even new recruits.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “Sir, where are you off to?” Sergeant Steele called after him as he ran.

  “Tell Pugh, won’t you, I’m for the other end of the bridge. Edmonds will need help with that dragon!”

  “I will, sir!” Steele called back, glancing at the sky at the mention of a dragon.

  Then Mar was gone, racing across the bridge. Carts loaded with barrels of sapper powder were still out while Wolfgang and his crew were working to rig the bridge. He ran past them. Wolfgang was standing about pointing and ordering his men this way and that.

  “Dragon!” Mar shouted as he ran past, pointing at the air.

  Wolfgang looked up and swore in his native tongue. Mar had only read of dragons. He had never seen one. Every book he had read on the subject said they breathed fire. Even a small spark would set off the explosives they were working with. Even just an errant musket ball or spark could set it off. Musket smoke wafted on the breeze, and he could smell the saltpetre in the air. Another volley sounded. Then, the smell of burning thatch joined the musket smoke. The next row of huts had caught fire, and the village was burning now. A few townspeople who had not yet fled now ran from their homes down towards the river and away from the fighting, but the town was virtually empty aside from soldiers. Mar was almost to the gatehouse. The dragon was closer now, nearly upon the burning village of Bogat. Mar dove behind the cover of one of the domed structures that lined the bridge and pulled his cigarette from his pocket, along with a small box of matches. He struck the match, lit the cigarette, and inhaled deeply. He felt bliss take hold of his mind. The whole world snapped into focus, and everything slowed as if the passage of time had nearly frozen. This Rhakani aethium was like a cold river pulling him under where the aethium of Vurun had been a gentle cooling breeze. He felt cold, even though the day was hot and humid. All worry left him.

  He saw a musket ball fly through the air and crash into the stone bridge, causing a spray of dust and shrapnel. He saw every grain of rock that flew through the air. Mar stood, every moment spread out into an eternity. He did not move more quickly but had time to think, remember, and feel everything. He looked and saw a group of enemies rushing Lieutenant Edmonds’ platoon. A crash and volley of muskets firing together sounded; the fire and smoke burst from the first rank of black-clad troopers and ripped into the charging enemy. Men wearing the white and green uniforms of the Rhakanese infantry fell and screamed. The second rank of troopers stepped forward and aimed. Silence reined for what felt an eternity to Mar. He was close now. “Fire!” Screamed Sergeant Krach. The second rank fired their muskets. He could see every detail, flame and smoke erupting from their guns, the men of the enemy falling and dying before them. Then, the third rank was ready, stepping forward and aiming their guns.

  The drake was coming in low to burn them out. What memory could bring it down? Mar had only moments, yet he felt he had all the time in the world. He quieted his mind. He sifted through the many agonies of his training. He had dozens of spells to choose from. Some learned, and others of his own invention. The Threshing was strong, but was it enough to bring down a drake such as this? No, the wings would be its weakness. He remembered being bound up in captivity. He remembered the sting of his headmaster’s whip. He grinned and grabbed hold of the memory. The aethium surged through him. In his mind, he merged with the dragon, they were one and the same. He remembered the lash cutting his legs and arms. He took hold of the headmaster’s whip. He forced himself to change. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself. He was no longer the student. He was the headmaster. The dragon was the student, bound and bent. He swung, lashing the wings of the dragon. He cut bloody ribbons across them. The dragon shrieked. He swung again, then again. He whipped until his arm was heavy. He heard the screams of the dragon, then the screams of a boy. The dragon had his face. That wasn’t right. He whipped the dragon’s wing again. He nearly retched at the pain in his arm. He let go of the memory, and it squirmed from his mind’s grasp like a living snake and ripped away from him. The world returned to normal.

  The sounds of the real world raked at his ears. Musket fire crackled through the smoke that hung on the bridge like a cloak. He looked about. Edmonds and his men still held the bridge, firing in their ranks. He scanned the sky for the drake but did not find it. He stood, pushing himself up from the stones of the bridge, still keeping low. His arm was on fire, and he saw a cut on his sleeve. He pushed down the pain as he had been taught and moved forward. Usually, after he had done magic, he felt weak and would swoon, like he was soon to faint. He would feel weak as if he had not eaten in days. A kind of distilled form of weariness would enter him until he rested. He had been taught to push through this feeling, but doing too much magic could cause a wizard to collapse. He felt nothing of the sort with this new aethium, only a mild haze.

  He approached the far gatehouse carefully. He passed several wounded men who had been shot. Lieutenant Edmonds had a bandaged arm but stood with his men, giving them orders, his sword in hand. The Lieutenant was a short and strong man with broad shoulders and a ruddy face. He had the red nose of a heavy drinker, thick dark mutton chops, and cold hazel-grey eyes.

  “You see that dragon, Sorcerer?” Edmonds asked Mar without looking at him. His eyes were fixed on the road up which the enemy could approach the bridge. Scores of Rhakanese dead lay about it. Some wounded moved, cried, and crawled away. The approach to the bridge was a slaughteryard.

  “Aye.” Mar replied, “Took care of it.”

  “Appreciate that, sir. Catch a stray shot?” Edmonds finally turned his steely eyes on Mar and gestured at his arm.

  “Not sure,” Mar replied.

  “Rollins, check to the wizard’s arm!” He shouted.

  A private came running up. He had a healthy-looking tan face, was clean-shaven, and had dark brown eyes and hair. He was a rather unremarkable-looking soldier, though very young. He carried a bag that marked him as a medic, though that was only an informal role. The surgeon and his assistant sent with the regiment were back with the supplies near Havor’s command post. Mar unbuttoned his jacket and shirt and took his arm out. It was not bleeding badly, but there was the unmistakable mark of a lash upon him, and he knew that the magic had done this to him. His magic had never rebounded in such a manner before. The dust looked and felt like aethium in many regards, yet it was something new. The private began tending to him with a salve and a bandage.

  “Did you see what happened to the dragon?” Mar asked Edmonds.

  “No. It was coming for us, and then it shot away from the fight, roaring and writhing. Then it was gone. I assume that was you?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Well, we appreciate it. I thought we were done for. Never seen a dragon before. Do they truly breathe fire, sir?”

  “I’ve never seen a dragon before either, Lieutenant. Few have. I suppose we don’t know what it is capable of. Those terrible claws seemed dangerous enough.”

  Edmonds grunted, then turned to Sergeant Krach, “Are we ready if they come again?”

  “Aye, we’re ready. Muskets all loaded and ready for another round, sir.”

  “Good. What about you, wizard?”

  “If the dragon returns, I believe I can handle it. We must hold until the bridge is rigged, then fall back, eh?”

  “Aye, that’s what Major Pugh instructed,” Edmonds confirmed.

  As if to punctuate, a man who had climbed atop the gatehouse to scout shouted down, “The Rakes are comin’ again, sir!”

  A moment later, a mass of infantry came into view, hundreds deep, armed with muskets fixed with bayonets. Their dark faces and green and white uniforms seemed to blend into the terrain. Some wore strange helmets upon their heads, while others wore shakos in the Western style. They moved forward together in lockstep.

  “Why don’t they stop and shoot?” Mar asked as they came forward.

  “Pugh said the Gantish trained them, didn’t he?” Edmonds asked.

  “He did.”

  “Wasn’t Suvor from Gant?”

  Mar understood what he was referring to. The greatest modern general, the man who had revolutionised warfare. Ilya Rimnik Suvor, the Grand Marshall of Gant. Mar had heard him quoted a thousand times by dozens of officers. His words were famous. Men lived and died by them in the service. “The bullet is a fool, but the bayonet is a fine fellow,” Suvor’s most famous saying. Vastrum soldiers and officers had used the words many times in battle. It felt different now that the enemy was fighting by them. The last place Mar wanted to end up was on the end of a Rhakenese bayonet.

  “Front rank, kneel!” Edmonds cried.

  The enemy was closing. He could see their faces, their eyes. He began to roll another of the aethium cigarettes. A pinch of tobacco went onto the paper. The enemy broke into a trot. They were a hundred yards distant. Close enough to kill with muskets.

  “Front rank, present arms!”

  Mar’s hands shook. The ground thundered as hundreds of enemy charged. The way was narrow up to the bridge, especially with the fires burning in Bogat. Flames billowed above the town. Smoke rolled in, choking the road and occluding sight. He fumbled with the vial of aethium, sprinkled too much. There was no time to correct it. The cry of a drake cut the sky above.

  “Front rank, aim!”

  “Aim low boys, aim low!”

  He rolled up the cigarette, put it to his lips and struck the match.

  “Fire!”

  He inhaled a puff. Bliss retook him like the shock of icy water, and the thunder of muskets rolled.