“We could have made it over those walls, sir.” Tamas paced back and forth in the small space of his captain’s tent. The dry desert air tasted of defeat, the whole camp brooding, sullen, and quiet this evening save for the cries of the wounded in the surgeons’ tents.
Captain Pereg sat with his boots up on his cot, leaning back in his chair while he stared, perplexed, at the layout of playing cards sorted face up on his bedside table. The jacket of his dark-blue uniform lay on his bed. The buttons of his white undershirt were undone, the collar wilted and damp with sweat. He scratched at one brown muttonchop, picked a card up, paused, then returned it to its place.
“Captain!” Tamas said, jerking Pereg’s attention away from him game. “We could have made it.”
The captain let out a long sigh. “I don’t know what you expect me to say, Sergeant. General Seske did not agree, and he had a much better view of the battlefield than you.”
“I was on the battlefield, sir.”
“And he could see the big picture. There’s no need to second-guess the general. He’s been an officer for well over a decade.”
“That somehow precludes him from making terrible decisions?”
“Too many soldiers died before they could reach the walls. The attack could have lost us even more men.”
“Or could have been a successful follow-through that ended the siege,” Tamas retorted.
“Seske’s a general. Our general.”
“Through no merit of his own,” Tamas grumbled.
Pereg lifted a card, stabbing it in Tamas’s direction. “Now look here, Sergeant. I won’t have you disparaging the king’s officers, not even in private – especially my aunt’s husband, even if we don’t have the best of relationships. You’re a damned good soldier, and I’ll put up with you because you’re worth any three sergeants, but do not forget your place. You’re a commoner. Seske has noble blood.”
“That’s the problem, I think.”
Pereg shrugged. “And one we can’t do a thing about.”
Easy for you to say, Tamas thought to himself. You’re the youngest son of a baron. You’ll be a general in twenty years yourself while I’ll be lucky to make captain in that time.
“You only lost, what, one man from your squad today?” Pereg asked.
“Gerdin’s wounded, but we don’t think he’ll make it through the night.”
“See?” Pereg said, flicking a bit of sand out of his ear, “you should be ecstatic. You’ve lived to fight another day and brought most of your men through it with you. That’s a victory in my book.”
I like you, Pereg, but you’re an idiot. “We were lucky. Nothing more. Captain, I need to get over that wall.”
Pereg looked up from his cards sharply. “You’re not still going on about a promotion, are you?”
“You said yourself, sir, I’m a commoner.” Tamas leaned over Pereg’s table. “The only way I can become a commissioned officer is through valor in combat.”
“You’re a powder mage,” Pereg said. “A damned killing machine if I’ve ever seen one. In any other country you would have been hanged just for what you are. The Privileged,” he lowered his voice, looking over his shoulder as if a sorcerer might be hiding in the corner of his tent, “the Privileged do not like your kind having any power. You should be grateful you’ve made it to sergeant. Get to master sergeant one day and you’ve got yourself a career to be proud of. By Kresimir, you’re only nineteen and already a sergeant!”
Pereg was right, of course. Never mind his common blood – powder mages were universally despised by the nobility and their pet sorcerers. They claimed it was a base magic, used only by the very dregs of humanity. Tamas knew the truth – he knew they were scared of what he could do. He tried to figure out how to express to Pereg the urgency of his situation, of the weight on his chest every morning that he didn’t make progress toward climbing the ranks. He couldn’t afford to relax for even a single campaigning season, because everything about his career was stacked against him.
“I’ll clear the damned fort by myself if I have to, sir. I just need to get inside the walls and the garrison will fall. I guarantee it.”
“And I,” Pereg said, scowling at his cards, “need to win this game or I’ll break a fantastic streak.”
Tamas wanted to kick the chair out from under Pereg and watch him fall on his ass. “The queen of rooks,” he said.
Pereg’s scowl deepened as he searched the cards, then his face brightened. “Ah, there we go. Thank you, Sergeant! Look, go give your men an extra ration of beer for work well done today.” He looked up, tapping the queen of rooks thoughtfully. “And take my advice – ambition is not becoming of a commoner. It’ll only get you killed.”
“How’s Gerdin?” Tamas asked when he returned to the small group of tents occupied by the twenty-second squad of His royal Majesty’s Ninth Infantry.
Private Farthing looked up from poking a long bit of sagebrush into the dung fire. He was of medium height, with a pockmarked face burnt from years in the Gurlish sun. When Tamas met him he’d been a round little cuss, gasping with every step, but the campaigns had turned him into a battered strip of shoe leather. “Died thirty minutes ago,” he said.
Tamas sank into a stool beside Farthing and rubbed his temples. Another man gone. Three dead from the previous failed charge at Tilpur’s walls, and two the time before that. He wondered if they’d bother to give him any new soldiers or if they just planned on waiting until he bit it so they could incorporate his squad under another sergeant.
“And Mordecia’s arm?” Tamas asked.
“Just a scratch. She’ll be good to go in a week as long as it doesn’t fester. Sarge, can I ask you a question?”
“What is it?”
“Rumor has it that another sergeant heard me complaining on the line today. They, uh, they won’t put me in front of a firing squad, will they? It was just a little moaning on my part. They know that, right?”
Tamas stared into the low, flickering glow of the dung fire. “I’m not going to let them shoot you over a little bellyaching in the face of death, Farthing,” he said with a sigh. “Anyone asks tell ’em the sun was getting to you. Worst thing you’ll get is a week digging latrines.”
Farthing breathed a relieved sigh. “Thanks, Sarge. You’re a decent fellow. Want to hear some good news?”
“Always.”
“Remember my cousin? The maid in General Seske’s retinue?”
“Yeah.”
“Saw her tonight. Said that she overheard that we’ve orders to pull out. Today’s attack was the last big push and the higher-ups don’t think Seske has the ability to take the fort before the end of the campaigning season.”
Tamas let his face go slack, forcing a neutral expression. Inside, he felt like he’d been kicked in the gut. The end of the campaigning season, and he had yet to make master sergeant. If they pulled out without another fight he wouldn’t have a shot of promotion until next year. He couldn’t – wouldn’t – wait that long. “Good,” he said “That’s very good.”
“Anyway,” Farthing continued, throwing another chip of dung on the fire. “How’d your talk with the captain go?”
Tamas grunted a response. He already had a reputation as an upstart, but even he knew better than to bitch about superior officers to his men. Besides, he had more to worry about. Good news? This was horrible news. His career – his life – stalled for another season because Seske wasn’t more creative than tossing men at the enemy cannons and hoping the Gurlish ran out of grapeshot.
They sat in silence for several minutes, listening to someone from a nearby squad sing a quiet drinking song, the tune slowed down to account for the mood of the camp.