Beon scowled at Tamas, and Tamas was reminded of Ipille’s famous temper. Would Beon reach over and strike him for that? And would Olem shoot him the moment he did? Part of him wanted to find out. But this wasn’t the time. “This isn’t Kez,” Tamas said softly. “And you decided to march with me instead of with the Deliv. You will be accorded respect, but your royalty means little here, son of Ipille.”
“Not even my father would break a flag of truce,” Beon said after a moment, chewing on his words as if he hoped to convince himself of their truth.
“I think he would. I know he did. You can go see the bodies of those grenadiers yourself, if you like. They’re in some wagons back near the rear of the column. I intend on flinging them at your father’s feet before I fling him in a dungeon and ransom him back to Kez for all the krana in your damned country.”
Beon drew himself up, fingers tightening on the hilt of a cavalry saber that wasn’t there. “You go too far.”
“Sir,” Olem said quietly. Tamas tore his gaze away from Beon long enough to look at his bodyguard. Olem held his cigarette to his lips with one hand, gazing over his fingertips calmly at Tamas.
Tamas felt his anger slip. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said to Beon.
“Then see his messengers!” Beon said. “You can avoid more bloodshed.”
“No, no. You’re not right about your father. You’re right that I went too far and I apologize for that. Your father attacked us under a flag of truce – likely unaware that the Deliv were as close as they were. He will pay for that crime, though I suspect it is his people who will pay the price and not he himself. Further bloodshed is unavoidable.”
There was something that bothered Tamas. Ipille must have known that the Deliv forces were on their way. He must know that Deliv had already invaded Kez from the northwest. Why would he dare such a raid against the Adran camp?
Each time he pondered it, he came to the same conclusion: Ipille had somehow learned of Ka-poel and her power over Kresimir and had gambled everything on her capture. Perhaps even now he was learning how to bring Kresimir out of his slumber so that the god could destroy everything in his path. Had Ipille grown so desperate? The stories Taniel had told Tamas about the night he stole Kresimir’s bloody bedsheets had made Tamas’s skin crawl. How could even Ipille want anything to do with such a creature as this mad god?
Tamas wondered briefly if the Deliv royal cabal would be able to put up any kind of fight in the face of such power.
This wasn’t information Tamas was about to relay to Beon. Instead, he said, “Your father’s messengers are a delaying tactic. He will try to put me off as long as possible while he brings up fresh troops from Kez. I will not allow that to happen.”
Beon relented and stared at his saddle horn in contemplation. Tamas welcomed the silence, hoping that Beon would remain that way, and wondered how Taniel had reacted to his sending Vlora and Gavril to help. It had been a difficult decision – one that might drive Taniel to distraction, but Tamas hoped that Taniel’s drive to save his savage lover would force him to work with Vlora. There was no deadlier pair in the powder cabal than those two, save Taniel and Tamas himself.
Maybe Gavril could keep their heads level.
Olem drew Tamas’s attention to a messenger galloping down the lines. She wore the blue-and-silver uniform of an Adran dragoon. The woman was covered in sweat and dust, and Tamas noted blood on her silver collar. She reined in ahead of him and saluted.
“Corporal Salli reporting, sir, of the Seventy-Ninth Dragoons. Sir, a moment to catch my breath, sir!”
“Granted,” Tamas said, exchanging a glance with Olem. The Seventy-Ninth were supposed to be scouting the western plains. Had the Kez Privileged from the other night tried to cut across the plains and run into his dragoons? “General Beon, if you would excuse me.” Tamas waited until the Kez prince had fallen back out of earshot, then said, “Are you wounded, soldier?”
A quizzical look crossed her face, then she touched her collar. “Oh, this? Not my blood, sir. Belongs to some Kez cuirassier.”
Olem brought his mount up next to hers and offered his canteen, which she took gratefully, draining half in one go and splashing a little on her face and neck before handing it back. “Thank you, sir.”
“Your report?” Olem asked.
“We were attacked a little north of Gillsfellow by Kez cuirassiers. We outnumbered them two to one, but they managed to surprise us, and took their toll before we were able to recover and win the day.”
“How many did you lose?” Tamas asked.
“A hundred and twenty-seven dead, three hundred and twelve wounded. We killed one hundred and seventy-one of the enemy and captured twice that many, most of whom are wounded.”
“Could be worse, I suppose.”
“It is, sir. We lost Colonel Davis.”
Tamas swore. Colonel Davis was a capable cavalry commander, if a little shortsighted at times. “Gillsfellow is north of us. Damn it, how did they get behind us? And what the pit are they doing so far north?”
Corporal Salli shook her head. “Not sure, sir. I passed two companies of our dragoons on my way to give a report. The Thirty-Sixth has been badly mauled, and their major has lost all his messengers. Gave me a report for you.” She handed the report to Olem. “I also spotted more Kez in the distance, about eight miles northwest of here. Looked like dragoons, at least a regiment of them.”
Tamas took the report and glanced over it before handing it to Olem. “Get some rest, Corporal. I’ll have orders ready for the Seventy-Ninth in a quarter of an hour.”
The messenger saluted and rode on down the line. Tamas swore again under his breath. “I can’t afford to lose any more senior officers. Find out if there’s anyone worth promoting among the Seventy-Ninth. If not, find a replacement from that list I gave you earlier.”
“Yes sir,” Olem said.
“Also, send messengers to our dragoon regiments. Let them know that Ipille is trying to win superiority of the plains. He must have sent all his remaining cavalry north the day after the parley. They should keep their eyes out for traps. He’s trying to distract us and I won’t let that happen. Send a messenger to Sulem and see if he can spare a couple thousand dragoons to reinforce our own.” Tamas tried to make sense of everything in his head. The battle would have taken place not far south of where Taniel was chasing those Kez Privileged. Perhaps the Kez cavalry were screening for the retreating grenadiers.
“Our cuirassiers, sir?”
“They’re too slow out in the open. I’m keeping them in reserve for when we meet the Kez lines. If Ipille wastes all his cavalry in a bid for the plains, he’ll have nothing to counter ours when it comes to the real battle.”
“But they’ll be behind us, sir.”
“And cut off from communication with the main army. A fact we can use to our advantage. See if Sulem has any riding Privileged.”
“Oh, that’ll be a nasty surprise for Ipille’s cavalry. Excellent thinking, sir.”
“Looks like another one coming in, sir.” Olem nodded up the line to where a horseman had just crested a hilltop and was coming down toward them along the road.
“Shit. What is it this time?”
The messenger was one of Tamas’s own – a ranger from the vanguard. “Sir,” he said before he’d come to a stop.
“Tell me we’re getting close to the enemy camp.”
The messenger grimaced. “We are, sir. A little under four miles.”