Chapter Twenty-One

  No Season For War

  The rain came and did not cease for weeks. The regiment trudged along paths of knee-deep mud through the jungle hills of Desha. They hauled the cannons, first with their horses and then by hand. Hour after hour, day after day, they pushed and pulled the heavy guns and their carts over hills and through valleys along narrow dirt roads. Waterfalls ran down through gullies and cut the road, slowing the regiment to a snail’s pace. Finally, after weeks of agonisingly slow progress, Havor called for a halt to the march to rest and wait for an end to the rain.

  Resting was possible only because they knew the enemy could not follow them. They had stayed well ahead of their pursuers through the delta, and now that the rains had come, travel was impossible in the flood plains behind them. Further, they had blown the bridge at Sava. Whatever Rhakani forces had been chasing them would be, if the floods did not drown them, fixed in place by the rising waters, having to cling to whatever high ground they could until the waters receded. Even if the enemy had found a way to chase them through the floods, the bridge's destruction would stop them cold. As hard as the travel had been these last weeks, Captain Khathan knew as well as anyone that they had been lucky to reach these hills before the monsoon arrived. Many an army had been turned back or washed away by the monsoons in the subcontinent. It was not a season for war. He had pleaded with Havor to let them stop much sooner and let the men rest until the rains passed. Havor had stubbornly pushed on until its foolishness was evident to all. Few of these Vastrums listened to reason until they had experienced the hardship first-hand.

  Khathan looked around the campsite through the sheets of rain that poured from the grey sky. It was morning, but you would not have known it by looking. It seemed more twilight than day. They had camped atop a broad, low hill beside the road. It was soaked and muddy, which was made worse by the churning of feet, hooves, and wheels. Still, it was a better spot to camp than anywhere nearby. Khathan was seated under a makeshift shelter made of palm leaves. It was not dry, but it was a respite from the relentless rain that fell. Many men had made similar shelters. The silhouette of a man, hunched against the rain, made its way towards where Khathan was seated. When the figure drew close, he could see it was Major Pugh.

  “Major?” Khathan stood and saluted the young man. He loomed over Pugh, who was much shorter than he.

  “Havor says we’re to ride in an hour,” his tone was cold and matter-of-fact.

  Khathan frowned, “I thought we were to rest and wait for the weather to clear.”

  Pugh grimaced, “He has changed his mind.”

  “Choddu!” He swore. He hated cursing, but he took solace in the fact that the Vastrum men did not know the meaning of his insult and were unlikely to take offence, “The men will be displeased. Can he not be moved?”

  “He was intractable,” Pugh replied.

  “Very well,” Khathan replied.

  “See it done, Captain,” Pugh said, before stalking off into the rain.

  Khathan looked around at the men who huddled nearby. Dark eyes looked back at him. They were a mix of Dravani and Kathalan men. He knew his face was not hiding his frustration. The men already knew what he would tell them: that the stupid Vastrum commander had ordered them to do something insane. They would do it, or be held as mutineers and executed. It was what the army did to those who did not obey, and not only natives, but their own Vastrum men as well.

  “Uroth!” He shouted, then gave a start as his Kathalan sergeant appeared beside him as if by magic.

  “Sir?”

  “You heard, I assume? Get the lieutenants. We must prepare the men to move.”

  “Indeed, sir,” the man replied in a rich, deep voice with a thick coastal Bankut accent. Then he disappeared into the rain to look for the junior officers among the men.

  The sergeant returned just a few minutes later, with two figures in tow. Each group of native troopers, the Kathalan and Dravani, had a single lieutenant, with Khathan over them. Both lieutenants had the same dour look, having heard the news from Uroth.

  The Dravani Lieutenant was a man named Ravindra. He had the jet black face, straight black hair, and the nearly white blue eyes of a southern Dravani. His face was narrow, but he was a long, sinewy warrior with whip-like quickness. He wore the collar of his cavalryman’s jacket open and sauntered around. Khathan knew the man was a commoner who had risen through the ranks on his prowess.

  On the other hand, the Kathalan officer was a nobleman named Bhanu. He was young and a cousin of Prince Azadra. He was light-skinned, to the point where he almost looked Vastrum. He wore a thin moustache and had his hair cut neatly. He might have looked dashing, had he not been soaked to the bone.

  “Colonel Havor wants us to move out,” He said. Khathan had found long ago that the best way to give bad news was to say it simply, rather than coat the words in honey.

  There was silence for a few moments, then Ravindra cursed, “Sunta!”

  He wanted to hush the man, reprimand him for cursing, but mere moments before, he had cursed in his own tongue at the news. If there was something he refused to be, it was a hypocrite. Frustration played across both men’s faces.

  “The men will not be budged from this spot until the rains stop,” Ravindra hissed at him.

  “You know what the Vastrum men will do to those who refuse their orders, yes?”

  “They are bad orders.”

  “We will do it,” Bhanu interjected, “If it is what must be done.”

  “It is a fool who gives an order to his men that he knows they will disobey,” Ravindra hissed back, trying to keep his voice quiet, “I am no fool. I am telling you, they will refuse. I do not want to kill my men for refusing to follow stupid orders. Their boots are soaked, and their feet are rotting in the wet. To march in the monsoon is to die. We know this. We live with the monsoons. This is not a season for war. The Vastrums angered Ammamaha, and now we are facing her fury. To force this march will be to incur her wrath further.”

  Khathan turned to the Kathalan Lieutenant, “Bhanu, stay here with the men. Make sure they do not act foolishly. We will speak with Havor. Come Ravindra.”

  The Dravani man nodded, then they walked out from under the makeshift shelter and into the rain again. It fell in sheets, soaking Khathan through in mere moments. There was a difference between being damp in the shelter and being soaked to the skin. Now he felt the full fury of the hard driving rain. They walked past rows of horses and men huddled around the broad-leafed palms and makeshift shelters. The tents of the Vastrum army would do little against the rain. Only the gunpowder in its tin-lined casks would be dry in this weather, but it would do no good because the moment it was taken from the casks, it would become wet and useless. If they had to fight in the monsoon, it would be done in the old style, with blades and sorcery rather than with gunpowder. They arrived at the only erected tent, Colonel Havor’s command tent. Khathan pushed the tent open, and they stepped inside.

  The heads of several officers turned to look at the two native officers. Khathan suddenly felt uncomfortable and unwelcome, even though he knew all these men well enough. He imagined that Ravindra felt even less welcome, knowing none of them well. Khathan saluted as crisply as he could while soaked. The inside of the tent was wet. Water had soaked through and was dripping from many places. Still, it was a little drier than the forest outside. It was certainly warmer.

  “Yes, Captain?” Dryden stood and returned the salute.

  “Sir, it is about the orders,” he explained.

  “Indeed.” Havor cut in, “We must move.”

  “Why?”

  Havor glanced at Dryden, as if he were annoyed at the Major, then answered, his tone firm, “Baine’s scouts spotted Rhakani cavalry moving through to the south. The road northeast seems clear enough.”

  “The rain…” Kathan began to reply.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  “I understand. All the men are feeling the effects…” Havor cut him off.

  Ravindra interrupted, voice thick with Dravani fury, eyes flashing. Heads turned towards him at the breach of protocol, “The men’s feet are rotting in their boots.”

  There was stunned silence through the room for a moment, not at the news, but the rudeness of Ravindra. Before anyone could reprimand him, Dryden spoke, “How bad is it?”

  Khathan sighed, “Bad enough. Armies in the subcontinent do not march in the monsoon for this reason. We will lose men this way. First, to foot rot, then the water will sour, finally, the food will turn. We must take care, or lose many men and horses.”

  “Good men,” Ravindra added.

  Colonel Havor spoke next, “You understand that if we do not move, we will risk this whole endeavour?”

  “But there is a chance we are not discovered here. If we march, you are dooming it,” Khathan insisted.

  Havor sighed and sat back, “We are damned either way. I would rather act than sit here and wait for it, gentlemen. If there is nothing else…”

  “We must stop the rain,” Ravindra interrupted, his face deadly serious.

  Havor burst out laughing. It was a great big honest laugh. Khathan frowned at it, but he knew it was better than a different manner of outburst. Other officers, Adams, Benton, and more, who were seated in the tent, chuckled along. Only Mar and Dryden did not laugh along.

  “Sirs, are you truly suggesting that we are able to put a stop to this weather ourselves?” Havor asked, smirking.

  Ravindra nodded, “It is well known among the camp that the temple to Ammamaha in Sava was defiled. It has brought this unceasing storm upon us.”

  Mar piped up, “Sir, it is possible that this is our fault—mine and John’s.”

  Havor raised an eyebrow, “Yours, Marten? How?”

  “We did do as he suggests, as you well know. I believe we have committed a transgression here. Have we not seen many strange things in this land? What gives you pause?”

  Havor sat thoughtfully before replying, “Very well, if you think it could help. Lieutenant…Ravindra, was it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What is it you suggest?” Mar asked.

  “A sacrifice to appease the goddess Ammamaha.”

  “What kind of sacrifice?” Dryden asked softly.

  “How do you say it?” Ravindra searched for the words. He knew Vastrum well, but not perfectly, “An immolation. A burning.”

  “Of what?” Havor demanded.

  “A true sacrifice is something you cherish, no? Give her something that pains you.”

  Havor glanced around the room, then back at Ravindra and Khathan, “If we do this, whether it works, the men will march, yes?”

  Ravindra looked as if he were going to say something regrettable.

  “Yes,” Khathan jumped in, “I guarantee it on my honour.”

  Havor nodded back at him, “Good. John, Mar, this is your mess, clean it up. Dismissed.”

  Khathan saluted. Ravindra copied his salute. The Dravani had very different customs regarding rank. Southern armies were far less formal and based on individual prowess rather than the formality of rank, and it showed in Ravindra’s manner. Then, together, they, with Mar and Dryden, left the tent and stepped back into the rain.

  “What do you need us to sacrifice, specifically?” Mar asked pointedly as they walked back towards where the native squadron was billeted.

  “What pains your soul to give?” Ravindra said as they walked past a row of horses. He glanced at them as they went by.

  “I won’t sacrifice my horse, don’t ask,” Dryden said as they walked, “I doubt any man here would be willing, either.”

  “I would not ask,” Khathan said, “Your horse is the same you rode out of Vurun, is she not?”

  “You’ve a good memory, Captain. It would be sacrificing a cherished friend.”

  “What else do we have but men and horses?” Ravindra turned, “You would burn men before animals? We’ve little to give.”

  “Must it be living?” Mar replied.

  “Perhaps,” Ravindra shrugged, “My village's holy men always gave offerings that hurt. It was not always a life.”

  “There is something, John,” Mar sounded sad as he spoke.

  “You’ve an idea?” Dryden asked him.

  “My aethium. I’m the one what destroyed the temple, I’m the one who’ll pay the price. Fair’s fair, eh, old chap?”

  “Is it enough?” Dryden asked Ravindra, who shrugged.

  “One way to find out, lads,” Mar said, patting his coat, looking for his matches. He found the small box, took one look at it, crumpled it up and tossed it away, “My left hand for a bloody box of matches that’s not utterly sodden. Has anyone a light?”

  “Come, we’ll make a light here in the shelter,” Khathan said as they arrived at the place where Uroth and Bhanu were waiting.

  The men of the native squadron all seemed to creep closer to watch as the officers huddled around. A hundred pairs of eyes all watched intently. A man from among the Dravani soldiers went and found a small statuette of Ammamaha in his saddle bags, then returned and placed her down on a sheltered rock. Men pushed forward to place small offerings around her. Flint was struck to steel, and a tiny tinder was used to light a candle. Men held giant palm fronds to protect the makeshift shrine from the rain. Light glowed in the dark just a little brighter than it ought to have. Khathan knelt e Mar and Dryden.

  “What next?” Mar asked, taking the vial of dark aethium from his pocket.

  “I don’t know, we worship other gods in Gulud,” Khathan replied, almost amused. The Vastrums seemed to think all these kingdoms and colonies were the same, when in fact there were dozens of different peoples, languages, and religions across the subcontinent. Men were as different between Gulud and Dravan as in Vastrum and Gant.

  Ravindra knelt between them, almost uncomfortably close, “I will ask the blessing. When I am done, burn it before her, yes?”

  Mar nodded.

  Ravindra began to speak quickly. The tongue of Dravan was spoken like a song, and it flowed like verse through the pouring rain. Khathan had heard it many times but barely spoke a word of Dravani. The man seemed to sing his way through the invocation to the rain goddess. He closed his eyes, put his hand to his heart, then to his head, and said, “Make your offering.”

  Mar grimaced as he unscrewed the cap of the vial. It seemed a great difficulty to him. Khathan knew the man was addicted to the stuff. All sorcerers were addicts. The catalysts had long been used in the kingdoms of the subcontinent before Western conquerors arrived. He knew the effects well enough, though he had never partaken of them. The sorcerer’s hand trembled as he poured the vial's contents into a small pile.

  “All of it, Mar,” Dryden said, as the wizard seemed to hesitate at the last bit.

  He sighed at the Major’s urging and let the last of it go, pouring it all out. A hush went over the assembled men who leaned in to watch. The sorcerer took the tiny sputtering candle, tipped it down, and set the aethium aflame. In moments, the dust had burned away in a flash of indigo light. Only the sound of the unceasing rain could be heard all around. A horse whinied somewhere. Someone cleared their throat.

  “What’s next? Is the rain just supposed to stop now?” Mar asked softly.

  “I do not know whether your offering will please Ammamaha,” Ravindra admitted.

  Dryden stood and looked around at the rain coming down, “Damn. Weather or no, we must ride.”

  Many faces stared back at him. Khathan could see their refusal written plain as day. Ravindra stepped between the Dravani soldiers and Major Dryden. “We have tried to appease her as best as we can!” He shouted to them in Vastrum so all could understand him.

  A man began shouting in Kathalan. Khathan could not understand his words, but the meaning was apparent from his gesturing and the reactions of Bhanu and Uroth. The man felt Mar was to blame for the temple's destruction and should burn for it. The crowd of native soldiers was becoming unsettled. A Dravani soldier pushed back at the Kathalan and shouted at him. Bhanu ineffectually pushed back at his own countrymen, as did Sergeant Uroth. It had little effect. Several Kathalans surged forward, trying to grab at Mar. Khathan could see Dryden’s gloved hand gripping his hilt, his face twisted in a sneer as hands stretched out for the wizard. The Dravani men pushed back. A flash of steel glinted amongst the men as a khukuri was drawn among the Kathalans.

  Khathan knew what would come next. He leapt up onto a rock that sat nearby. “Order!” he bellowed. His voice cut through the driving rain, “I will have order, or I will have your blood!” Men quieted and stopped pushing, cowed by the furious red-turbaned, black-bearded Guludan, “That man there!” He pointed to the man with the knife, “Take him!”

  Hands seized the man who had drawn a knife on his fellows. The Kathalan man struggled and cried out as the troopers around him grabbed him.

  “You want a burnt offering to your goddess so badly that you would cut down your kin?”

  “They are not my kin!” He shouted as he struggled.

  “They are! We bled together on the Brurapura! We slew the enemy together, with all their elephants and dragons!”

  The man was silent.

  “Major, what does the 13th do to men who draw blades on their fellows?” Khathan knew very well, as he asked, he had seen it before.

  “We hang them,” Dryden said grimly, his hand still resting on his hilt.

  “Bhanu, he is your countryman. He is yours to punish. Find a good tree.”

  Soon, the Kathalan man who had drawn his knife was swayed gently in the breeze, hanging by his neck from a nearby banyan tree. Water ran down his cold, dead face in rivulets. Men looked on as he hung there limply. Bhanu, the young nobleman who served as the lieutenant of the Kathalan contingent, watched quietly while the rest of the men milled about and slowly began to disperse. Mar had made himself scarce. Ravindra was elsewhere, preparing men to travel. Dryden and Khathan stood watching from a little further off.

  “It is always a bad business when such measures are required,” Dryden said softly, “It never gets easier.”

  “They will learn your ways with time,” Khathan said, “Dravan, Kathalamanyr, Gulud, Ayodh, we are all enemies old as time. With Vastrum, we all fight for the same side, but we are like oxen pulling in different directions.”

  Dryden grunted, then changed the subject, “We have tarried long enough, Captain. Harsh as it seems, we must ride from here.”

  “Very well,” Khathan began to turn, then stopped and looked up. The droplets hitting his face seemed a little softer. The rain is slowing.”

  Dryden looked around, rain still came down hard, “It does not seem any less.”

  Khathan grinned, “No, it is less,” He had seen many monsoon rains. He knew.

  As they walked back towards the main part of camp, Dryden stopped suddenly, “You know, my friend, I think you may be right. The rain is less.”

  They were not the only ones to notice. A cheer rose from the camp as men realised the rain was finally easing, “Look!” Khathan smiled wistfully and pointed. A small patch of blue, the first they had seen in weeks, was peeking through the clouds. He stopped and looked back at the body of the man hanging there. A sacrifice had been made, and now the sun had begun to shine again. It made him sad. “Truly, the gods are callous to demand so much of men.”

  “It is the way of the cruel, Captain, be they gods, kings, or simple soldiers. It is the plight of the innocent to fall before them.”

  “I only hope, Major, that we do not become hardened to it.”

  “We are not cruel men, Captain. We only do what we must to fight another day.”

  “I hope you will forgive me, sir, for saying so, but indifference is the refuge of tyrants.”

  Dryden grunted, “You may be right, my friend. You may be right.”

  They broke camp within the hour. The sun shone, and the roads were still muddy but passable. Somewhere in the deep jungle, birds called, a beast roared in the distance, and the Bloody 13th marched somberly on through the emerald hills of Desha.