Vlora shivered, though the air still retained much of the damp heat of the day. “I’ve built up plenty of calluses toward death. But some days …” She lifted her eyes past the burial, over the fires of the Riflejack camp, and across the river to a sea of flickering lights that spread out in the distance on the other side of the river. The Fatrastan Second Field Army had arrived yesterday. It was enormous, over fifty thousand men plus auxiliaries and camp support, and as much as Vlora would like to have taken comfort in their presence, she was all too aware of that warrant of arrest sitting on the table in her tent.
Olem searched his pockets, giving up after a few moments. He seemed to sense the direction of her gaze. “I’m not entirely pleased,” he said, “that they decided to camp there.”
“I don’t think we’re meant to be pleased.” For the first time since coming to this damned country, Vlora felt small. Her brigade of mercenaries – just over four thousand left after this last battle, and most of those wounded – was barely a footnote in the eighty thousand or more soldiers assembled within shouting distance here on the banks of the Hadshaw. If she walked up to the ridge, she could see the Dynize camp to the south, watching her and the Fatrastan Army with a caution that their brethren had lacked. She felt as if they were a hammer poised above her, and the Fatrastans were the anvil. “I gave the order releasing the Landfall Garrison and the Blackhat volunteers over to the Fatrastans.”
“I heard. Are you sure that’s wise?”
“If we get sandwiched between these two armies, as I suspect we will, five or six thousand men won’t make a difference. Besides, they’re Fatrastan. Having them tell the tale of the Battle of Landfall might gain us some goodwill.”
“We must have made a good impression, because about a thousand of them have asked to sign on.”
“Even knowing about the arrest warrant?” Vlora asked. She raised her eyebrows in surprise. Soldiers could be loyal to the death, or they could blow away with the next foul breeze. She expected anyone willing to join a mercenary company to be the latter.
“They’re mostly Adran expatriates asking to join. Even here, so far away, Adran patriotism has run high since the Adran-Kez War.”
“I’ll take it, I suppose,” Vlora said reluctantly. “Sign them up and spread them out among the companies. We’ll need to fill out our numbers if we get out of this situation.”
“And if we don’t get out?”
“Then they’ll learn firsthand about the risks of being a soldier of fortune.”
“I see the calluses have grown back already.”
Vlora gave him a tight smile, though he probably couldn’t see it in the dark. “Have our scouts reported anything from either camp?”
“Nothing of particular note. The Dynize are probing both sides of the river with quite a lot of caution. So far they haven’t made any move to set up on our flanks. Seems that the Mad Lancer desecrated a few hundred of those Dynize cuirassiers and left the bodies where they’d be found. I have no idea what the Dynize are used to, but that probably turned a few stomachs.”
“Including mine. One of these days I’m going to have to rein Styke in, and I’m not looking forward to it.”
“Neither am I.” Olem turned his head toward her. “Is that my jacket?”
“Yes.”
He reached into the breast pocket. A match flared to life a moment later, lighting his cigarette and illuminating a pleased smile. “There’s some communication between us and the Fatrastans, but mostly trade. Our boys are making good use of their camp followers while they have them.”
“And spending all the money Lindet paid us to defend Landfall. Soldiers have no sense of planning for the future, do they?”
“If they did, they wouldn’t be soldiers. I say let them enjoy themselves while they can. We might be fighting those Fatrastans soon.”
Vlora’s stomach clenched, and she instinctively glanced south toward the Dynize camp. Hammer and anvil. The arrival of the Fatrastans had only delayed the inevitable. How much more time did she have to plan until the enemy decided to strike? How long could this standoff last? Hours? Days? Weeks? And when it finally happened, which army would turn on her first? “We could turn them against each other,” she murmured.
“Eh?”
“The Dynize and Fatrastans. If they didn’t both want my head, they’d focus entirely on each other. They’d barely even notice us.”
“We could fake your death,” Olem suggested.
“I’ve never been good at such crass deception,” Vlora said with a grimace. “Besides, it’s too obvious. We need something more subtle.”
“Distract them and slip away?”
Vlora caught sight of a figure walking up the slope toward them, and she thought she recognized the shadowy form. “Perhaps,” she said slowly. The figure stopped some twenty yards away.
“General? Colonel?” a voice called.
“Up here,” Vlora responded.
Olem squinted into the night. “Is that Gustar? I haven’t seen him since the battle.”
Vlora waited to answer until Gustar had reached them, snapping off a shadowy salute. “Ma’am, sir. Major Gustar reporting in.”
“Gustar,” Vlora explained to Olem, “was one of just a handful of officers who wasn’t wounded the other day.”
“Pure luck, ma’am,” Gustar interjected.
She continued. “Right after the battle, I sent him and a squad of dragoons as far north as they could go in twenty-four hours. I’m glad you made it back in one piece, Major. What can you tell us of the road to the north?”
Gustar removed his hat, dragging a sleeve across his brow. “The short version, or the long version?”
“The short, for now.”
“Very good. I can tell you that the Second Field Army came down the Hadshaw from the Ironhook Mountains via keelboats. They stripped everything on their way – supplies, conscripts, local militias. From what we could discover, every town for a hundred miles in that direction pooled everything they had into the Second Army.”
“Leaving them defenseless,” Olem said flatly.
“Yes, sir.”
“If only I were the pillaging type,” Vlora murmured. “Go on.”
“Supposedly there are two more armies on their way down from Thorn Point and Brannon Bay, but with the seas compromised, they could take weeks to arrive. No one knows anything about the armies recalled from the frontier to the northwest.”
“They’ll come down the Tristan River,” Vlora said. “I’m not worried about them. Just what’s north of us.”
“That’s it,” Gustar said. “If we head northeast, we’re not going to run into anything. There’s no word of the Dynize landing this far north, and everything Lindet has between us and New Adopest is contained in that army across the river.”
“Excellent,” Vlora said. “You and your men help yourself to a double ration and hit your bunks. You deserve to sleep in tomorrow.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Another salute, and the major headed back down the hill.
Vlora waited until he was out of earshot, and said, “Gustar fought in two battles and didn’t blink an eye when I ordered him to ride for forty-eight hours straight. The man deserves a promotion.”
“Agreed,” Olem said. The tip of his cigarette flared. “Were you going to tell me about this scouting mission?”
“I …” Vlora wasn’t entirely sure why she hadn’t told Olem. “It didn’t seem important at the time, and we’ve been more than a little busy the last two days. I sent Gustar on a whim. I didn’t expect the path from here to New Adopest to actually be clear.”
“So we are going to try and slip away, then beeline it to the coast and head for home?”
“It’s not elegant,” Vlora admitted. “But yes, that’s my backup plan. It may be our best bet of getting out of Fatrasta alive.”