Chapter Sixteen

  We Ain’t Infantry, Sir

  The old palace of Bogat was a crumbling shell of what had once been a magnificent sprawling estate. In addition to the main structure of the Raja’s mansion, there were another half dozen large buildings and a dozen smaller outlying ones. The once ornate buildings still had flakes of paint that clung stubbornly to the stone walls. Relief carvings were etched throughout the place, worn from the passage of time. The roofs of most of the buildings were gone, but the bulk of many structures still stood. The men of the 13th, the horses, the baggage trains, carts, and more, crowded into the structures and took up defensive positions around the estate. They had run off the enemy and pulled back to the ruins. Of the enemy, they had seen only scouts shadowing them. In the distance, they had heard the sounds of the great Rhakani army on the move. The trumpeting of elephants, faraway sounds of marching men, the screeching of something fearsome, perhaps another dragon. Soon, they would be cut off. Three riders had been sent with messages, telling Haddock of the situation.

  To: Marshall Haddock

  Bridge destroyed. Rhakani army crossed the Brurapura in force on the 27th of Sommertine, two miles north of Bogat.

  Must beg pardon. 13th Dragoons cut off, defending the old palace near the bridge.

  Best regards,

  Lieutenant Colonel Lord Havor, Earl of Coldbridge

  It was a simple letter with little of the formality or flowery language usual in the letters that were common between commanders. There was simply no time to waste. Pickets and a defensive perimeter had been set. The few hundred men that made up the Bloody 13th now sat and waited for the enemy to come. Havor had set up his command in one of the few smaller buildings that still had something like a roof. The only officer that had been lost was Lieutenant Edmonds. No one had seen the man die, so they had listed him in the logs as missing in action along with those of his men who had not turned up. He was last seen leading a charge against a superior force of enemy cavalry north of Baine’s Crossing. His charge had delayed the enemy enough for the rest of the men to fall back.

  The senior officers had now gathered. Dryden, Pugh, Mar, and the captains were all present. Connall Baine was there, too. Havor’s face was weary and more pale than usual. He looked sober to Dryden, at least. Losing a battle, being cut off, and surrounded by enemies was enough to sober up any soldier. Major Dryden looked around at the beaten faces of the men. Few of them seemed to have much fight left. The 13th had been beaten badly in Vurun. They’d had their revenge, but it was hard not to see the same kind of massacre playing out now. They were faced again with death or imprisonment. Rescue seemed unlikely. The Hussars with artillery had been behind them, but by how many days? They’d had no word since the battle at the bridge started. Furthermore, the rest of the army could still be weeks behind the Hussars. No, Dryden thought, there was no rescue coming any time soon. They would have to hold or take matters into their own hands. The dark eyes of doomed men started vacantly. They had given everything to defend that bridge and then the ford. They had fought valiantly. It hadn’t mattered one bit, and now they were trapped.

  “What’s the state of the men?” Havor asked, his tone subdued.

  Benton answered, “We had a long ride followed by four days of hard fighting. They’re tired, Sir.”

  “Morale?” Havor asked.

  “They’ll fight, Colonel,” Major Pugh responded, “If that’s what you mean. Not a man among them would run.”

  “Half the regiment died in Vurun.” Havor said, “I would not see the other half die in this shitheap."

  “You’re not thinking of surrender, Jack?” Dryden blurted out, aghast at the implication.

  Havor looked up at him with sad eyes, “I won’t see three hundred more of our boys die for nothing. I would negotiate terms with them.”

  Dryden remembered the broken face of Havor at Golconda. He had been the officer who had capitulated after Blackwater died. He had been the one who had told them to lay down arms. Now, he was considering surrendering again. Was that who this man was? He had once heard that a cavalryman who lived beyond thirty was a blackguard or a coward. He had not thought Havor either. This made him doubt. That his commander would give him cause to doubt made him angry. Dryden scowled, “The men won’t have it, Jack, I can tell you that. Remember what Kurush did in Vurun. They let none of the enlisted men live. They played polo with their bloody heads.”

  “Rhakan won’t treat ‘em any better than Vurun,” Baine spoke, “Sarawa chose the throne of the tiger, the throne of the cruel king. I’d be surprised if he lets any of you lot live, even the officers. Wouldn’t matter even if he’d chosen a kinder throne to rule from, though. It’s no great secret when it comes down to it. All kings are cruel bastards. You can’t rely on any of ‘em to treat you fairly. Less so, Sarawa Maw. Before he took his throne, I heard he hung the heads of the dead traitors and their families all along the banks of the Ravati from the coast up to Angmaw. The man chooses the kind of throne he sits on. You surrender, you’re giving yourselves up for execution. He’ll make a spectacle of you lot, show what it means to resist his conquest. I’d hate to have my head used as a decoration along the Brurapura.”

  Jack’s face fell, “I need to think on this.” He said, “You are all dismissed. Except you, John. I need a moment.” He rarely used John’s first name except when he was truly concerned.

  Dryden stayed seated as Mar, The Old Salgair, and the officers filed from the room quietly. A few blades of sunlight cut down through the deteriorating roof, breaking the gloom. Silence filled the makeshift office. Dryden waited for his commander to say something, but for a long time, he did not. He sat, head down, hands in a posture that reminded Dryden of prayer. It had been a long time since he had prayed. He found that the dead gods of Vastrum did not listen, and those gods that might hear him in The East were not deities whose attention he desired. He regretted the last time a god had heard him. It had led to much suffering and death. Despite that, it did seem a time to pray, if there ever was one.

  “What do we do, John?” Jack Havor asked after a time.

  “That’s your prerogative, Jack,” Dryden answered.

  “Give me options, then.” Colonel Havor looked up at him as if somehow he had an answer that made sense.

  “Pugh has a better understanding of…”

  “I’m not asking Major Pugh’s opinion. I’m asking yours.” Havor snapped, “He’s a better tactical mind, there’s no doubt. I don’t need tactics now. I need a man who knows what’s right and will act upon it.”

  The choices seemed simple to Dryden, “We negotiate, run, or fight here. A wiser man might recommend negotiation, but you know me, Jack, I’m a fighter to the end.”

  “My only regret, John, is that we’re not to die on our horses but penned up in this old rubbish heap. One last good cavalry charge would have been a fine thing indeed.”

  “There’s still…” Dryden began to say there was still time for that. Nothing said they couldn’t ride out and meet the enemy. It would be a doomed ride for cursed soldiers. More of the men would prefer that end to the slow and miserable deterioration of a siege or the humiliation of captivity and inevitable execution. He was interrupted before he could say it.

  There was a brief knock at the door, and it opened.

  “I said we needed a moment…” Havor said, then broke off. He grinned and stood as he saw who it was, “About fucking time.” He said with a huge smile on his face. It was the first smile that had broken on Colonel Havor’s dour face in many months.

  Major Trant of the 6th Hussars stood there grinning at them. Dryden felt a smile creeping onto his own face as well. Trant had a wolfish look to him. He was an older officer, at least for a cavalryman, with a bushy black beard and piercing eyes. He had a wicked scar that ran from his cheek past his eye and disappeared under his shako. Dryden and the 13th had ridden alongside him when they had chased the witch Aisa An-Beya from Andaban through Ghinai. He’d been injured by the blast at the bridge over the Jaxa, which had given him the scar.

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

  Lieutenant Flint pushed in behind the Major, “Look who fucking decided to turn up, boys.” He clapped Major Trant on the back. The man smirked, “I see someone decided against their better judgement to promote this crusty old cunt to Lieutenant.” He put an arm around Flint’s shoulder and laughed, “I told you you’d make something of yourself one day. Congratulations.”

  “We came up together, sir,” Flint explained to Havor, who bristled at the vulgarity.

  “Thought this bastard was dead and done in Vurun,” Trant put in.

  “I’m not an easy man to kill, brother.” Flint added, still grinning, “The Shah’s dungeons were downright jammy compared to Caribonne, eh?”

  Dryden had not known that Flint was at Caribonne, though he and Trant were certainly old enough to have been.

  Trant disengaged from Flint and looked about, “Indeed, it’s good to see you lot, but onto more important matters, eh? Where’s my fuck-up of a nephew? He still stuck at private? I haven’t seen him since that debacle at the bridge in Ghinai.”

  Flint laughed, “He is. Danny’s with Benton’s squadron now. He’s had a commendation from the battle; expect he’ll make sergeant soon.”

  “Apparently, you lot will promote just about anyone.” Trant laughed. They laughed with him. He had an easy manner for a man who looked as gruff as he did.

  “He’s a good lad, Danny is,” Flint interjected.

  Havor interrupted, “Major Trant if you please, we can all catch up later. Have you been brought up to speed on our situation?”

  “Only a little. Your messengers reached us a few hours ago. We’re here to help you hold the line.”

  “Cannon?” Dryden interjected.

  “We’ve twenty guns with us. They’re coming in now. Where do you want them?”

  Havor looked like a man who had been delivered from the firing squad, “Speak with Major Pugh,” He answered, “He’ll know the lay of the land.”

  Pugh stood atop the ruined palace with a few other men, including Sergeant Gideon, looking out over the surrounding area. He had climbed up just a few moments before. The meeting of officers had not gone well. He had climbed up, hoping to see their situation more clearly. Thus far, there had been no great revelation, and the situation still seemed unwinnable. To the east was the broken bridge at Bogat. North was a vast farmland that covered a wide seasonal floodplain. South was the swamp. West, there were farms too, but much of the land was a mix of dry open savannah and light forest. No physical barriers to keep Rhakan from advancing to Bankut and Benna, both of which were cities on the Yuna River in Ayodh. He could see well into the distance from the top of the large crumbling ruin. The vast army of Rhakan was moving west, swarming over the landscape. Smoke burned from fires to the northwest, where they had found villages to pillage. If the 13th were not completely cut off, they would be very soon. Running was no longer a real choice. He had seen the Hussars arrive, pulling their cannons. It was good they were here, but it was too little, too late. Everything in the Vastrum army always seemed to arrive a bit too late to do any real good.

  Pugh also saw that the ground was poor for deploying the cannon effectively around the old palace ruins. The dikes provided cover but also blocked lines of sight. At best, the cannon would delay the inevitable until they ran out of ammunition. Worse, even than the weakness of the defences, this was a flood plain. The same dikes that blocked the proper deployment of their cannon were there to keep the land from flooding, but those around the ruined palace were in very poor repair, with wide gaps. He could see where the water came up to on the side of the buildings. Those water lines were frighteningly high. Pugh reckoned at least nine feet. They were still in the dry season, but the monsoons would come as summer went on and drown anything that remained in this lowland. The enemy encircled them, yet they could not stay without risking the yearly flood. The enemy would likely sit and besiege them until the rains came, then finish off any who survived once the waters receded. It was a poor place to endure a siege of any length. The hussars’ arrival relieved the men, and morale was bolstered, but in more practical terms, the 6th Hussars and their horse artillery were now just as doomed as the 13th. In that sense, their timing could not have been worse. They had arrived late enough not to affect the battle but early enough to be encircled. As always, the king’s army was a day late and a penny short.

  “It’s a bad spot, Major,” Gideon murmured, “We’re like drowning men clinging to the floating bloated corpse of a whale.”

  “You’ve a way with words, Sergeant,” Pugh smirked. Gideon wasn’t wrong, “What would you do, Gideon, if you were in command?”

  The dour man cast his eyes and squinted at the ruins below, “We’ve been fighting like infantry, Sir. Staying here means more of the same. It’ll be bloody fucking work, and at the end of it, we’re all like to die choking in the mud.”

  “Indeed.” Pugh wholly agreed with the assessment, as bleak as it was.

  “Only problem is we ain’t infantry, eh?”

  Pugh nodded. Gideon didn’t have to explain more. All these men were cavalry. The 13th Dragoons were trained to fight in all conditions. They drilled with horse, sword, and musket, but all of them, in their hearts, were men of the horse. Pugh stared out, watching a group of war elephants moving west in the distance. They looked so small out there, miles away in the hazy afternoon sun. The answer felt close at hand. Gears turned in his head. They were horsemen. Soon, they would be at the enemy’s rear with 12-pound guns that could travel at speed. Why hadn’t he seen it sooner? The answer seemed obvious as he considered it, “Thank you, Gideon, this conversation has been illuminating.”

  Gideon looked confused, “You’re welcome, sir?”

  “Find me if anything changes in our situation," He told the sergeant, and then Pugh began climbing back down the ramshackle wall of the building. He dropped onto a ledge, swung himself down several more large stone blocks, and practically sprinted past the makeshift hospital towards Havor’s offices, just away from the main structure. He didn’t knock as he went inside.

  Havor, Dryden, Flint, and the Hussar’s Officer, whom Pugh did not know, were grinning and shaking hands. They all looked like fools, as if the arrival of the Hussars had somehow saved them all. Perhaps it had, but not for the reason they would assume.

  “Sir!” Pugh saluted as he entered.

  Havor stood at the table he was temporarily using as a desk, “At ease, Major. Have you met?” He gestured to the Hussar officer, “No? This is Major Trant of the 6th Hussars. Trant, this is Major Lionel Pugh, 13th Dragoons.”

  “Pleasure.” Trant extended a hand.

  “Likewise. Call me Leo.” Pugh took his hand and shook it. The man had a strong grip.

  “What was it you wanted, Pugh?” Havor asked, “You came through the door like a firecracker. You must have needed something, or was it just the arrival of the 6th? I was just sending Major Trant your way for advice on how best to place the guns.”

  “Indeed, sir, I have been considering our predicament. I have an idea, sir. It is a bold one.”

  “Let’s hear it,” Havor said, sitting and leaning back.

  “First, we are encircled. The enemy is north and west of us by now. East is the river. South the swamp. It would help if we could refer to the map.”

  “Very well,” Havor leaned over, pulled a large piece of parchment and unfurled it upon the table. The lands of the border rajas lay before them. Bogat was marked with a red X. There were dozens of other towns, villages, and smaller and larger rivers. Several roads were marked, including the old road that ran back to Bankut. Some larger cities, such as Sava, Vetra, and Dhek, were marked. “What do you propose?”

  “We must assume that our retreat is well and truly blocked.”

  “I concur,” Trant added, “We had their scouts practically escort us in.”

  “They already know what I have finally tumbled to. We are all trapped. They let the Hussars in, knowing that we cannot fall back. I expect they have an eye towards our cannon. It is only a matter of time until they have them. The rains will come soon enough, sir, and this spot will flood with the rest of the delta.”

  “Get to it, Pugh. I was almost pleased for a moment that reinforcements had arrived. You are souring the mood.” Havor frowned.

  “They are only blocking our movement north and west, sir. It would be suicide to go south into the swamps. It leaves us an option open, however.”

  “Which is?”

  “We cross the Brurapura ourselves.” Pugh grinned, “Sergeant Gideon reminded me of something this afternoon, sir. We are cavalry. We move fast and strike hard. We take the fight to them. Their army has the needs of any other. They must eat. Whatever wonders and horrors it can summon, magic cannot supply them with grain. We command an elite cavalry force with twenty guns at their rear. They will not expect us to cross the river, sir. They think we are hemmed in. I propose we defy expectations. We attack. We burn and pillage and kill. We take their supplies, we…”

  “Where do we cross?” Havor asked, “The bridge is blown, and they are occupying the best fords.”

  “The engineers, led by Wolfgang, would make a temporary floating bridge secured to the remaining stone pillars.” Pugh replied, “It needs only last until we’re across.”

  “What of the wounded?” Havor asked softly.

  “We can do little for those that cannot ride,” Pugh admitted, “We lose a few wounded men to captivity, sir, or we lose everyone.”

  “We can negotiate, sir.” Dryden interjected, “Trade our prisoner for their safety, perhaps.”

  “Can we trust them to honour any agreement we make?” Havor’s voice was grim, “I would not have men mistreated.”

  “We’ve no choice, sir.” Dryden countered, “Pugh’s plan is better than any I’ve come up with. You said you wanted options. Well, here’s a bold one.”

  “Objections?” Havor asked.

  There were none.

  “Very well. Make it so. My apologies, Major Trant, but it appears there will be no respite for your men. Pugh, please find how long it will take to build the bridge and make it work. We will not have long once they discover our plan. Dryden, find a way to contact the enemy. Tell them we wish for our wounded to be evacuated and to make an exchange.” Havor seemed to be regaining some of his usual fortitude as the plan came together in his head, “We are done fighting on our back heel. We will take the fight to them and make them bleed for every man we lost holding the river.” He stood, his hand on his sword, “If we must die, so be it, but we’ll not die here, swimming in our own filth, waiting for the rains to come. If they seek to swallow us whole, we will cross the Brurapura, ride straight into their terrible jaws, and make them choke upon our steel. Come, let us live like men and die as heroes.”