Devil of the 22nd Read online

  Yes, he was lucky, and maybe a natural leader, that was the truth. He was competent and maybe born for the army. He loved life and death now more than anything he’d ever known. He was circus-master and grand deceiver, who had propped up bad officers for a decade, and now he was in an army without captains, or colonels, or even generals. So what exactly does that make me?

  He almost laughed. Kurt the Fake, except maybe the real. Kurt men called the Devil behind his back because no one quite knew his loyalties, and because after a hundred battles, he just wouldn’t die. ‘Kurt the Devil’, they said, because of three days of red slaughter once under his command, because he helped put down two mutinies and hanged every last wailing traitor, because of savage cliffs and thousands of panicked barbarians and horses who fell to their doom while Kurt pushed the men from behind with an arrow in his chest screaming ‘Forward!’

  Twenty years of it. Twenty years strung together and faded to a single, blurry chain of violence. Twenty god-cursed years of death and war, and here he was, still alive. Just lucky, maybe. He finished his drink.

  Or maybe not. Maybe some of what men said was true and Kurt really was devil-touched, a chosen son of chaos. Maybe he was the wiliest, most ruthless killer living in a shit-heap of killers. Maybe he had more lives than an army of cats, and more plunder buried in the earth than a nobleman. Maybe he was all these things just because men said so, because they believed.

  Kurt opened his tired eyes and donned the mask he wore even while alone.

  To hell with it, he thought. I’ll do what I always do. I’ll make a great cloud of dirt blood and tears until no one can move, or see. Then I’ll charge my way through it because no one else has the balls.

  And not for the emperor, or Keevland, or the damn republic, not anymore. For the men, then? Maybe in part. But that wasn’t enough for him and it never had been. He knew it, and so did they.

  This time he’d do it just because he could. He’d pit his will against reason, and against fortune, and against all the forces opposing a low-born man of action whose whole life was proof that meaning and justice didn’t exist. And by God, he’d bloody win.

  Chapter 2

  “Damnit. So?”

  Torsten propped himself up on an elbow and wiped sleep from one eye. He made a brief show of pushing his doxie out with contempt. She groaned and rolled her eyes, dressing without hurry.

  “Morning, Kurt.” She smiled.

  “Morning, Lina. How’s Aldo?”

  “A grumpy terror, like his father.” The girl beamed.

  Torsten made no expression, and Lina sighed without concern as she stood and walked by Kurt, waving as she passed through the tent flap.

  “So?” Torsten stared, looking like he’d swallowed brine.

  Kurt gave a wide, mischievous grin. “So we’ve got work to do.” He stood and threw open a side-flap to let in some sun, and Torsten collapsed to the bed and covered his eyes. A few empty bottles of army moonshine sparkled in the sun, and Kurt decided not for the first time that without Lina and constant tasks worthy of his talents, his friend would be a rather successful drunk.

  “I despise your enthusiasm.”

  “I’m aware.” Kurt paced. “We’ll need to rally the men, as many as possible.”

  “All the men, or just ours?”

  “All of them. Well, everyone healthy. Only the best recruits.”

  Kurt enjoyed the rare moment of the shrewd old warrior’s surprise. Torsten rose to a sit, bed-sheet falling away to reveal his thick, scar-addled torso.

  “What the hell are you up to? What were those orders?”

  For a tiny moment Kurt considered the many possible lies he’d invented, but looked at his friend and discarded them.

  “We’re going into Helvati territory.”

  Torsten blinked.

  “Why in God’s name would we do that.”

  “Because those are our orders.”

  “Surely those are Colonel Gottfried’s orders.”

  “Yes, and if we want to keep up the charade, then we’ll have to maintain the good Colonel’s reputation.”

  “Then the charade has outgrown its usefulness.”

  Kurt shrugged, knowing he may very well be right.

  “I think it hasn’t.”

  Torsten stared, then shook his head and looked away.

  “So you have some other plan. Fine, don’t tell me.”

  Kurt raised his brow in mock offence. I don’t, he thought, finding this hilarious. Or at least I don’t yet…

  “Isn’t love of my country reason enough?”

  Torsten sneered. “Sometimes I forget how full of shit you are.” He stood and cracked his wide neck, looking idly for some sign of his pants. “How in the name of God am I going to sell anyone on this?”

  “Tell them…” Kurt shrugged. “Well, you just do the rookies. Tell them we’ll keep them fed, and give them new boots. That should do it. I’ll handle the veterans. Just tell the captains and anyone else important to meet at the hall tonight.”

  “And Harmon?”

  Kurt winced. “Yes, Harmon too.”

  Torsten snorted and crossed his arms. “I’ll get the 2nd. We’d better go armed.”

  Kurt winked and stood, patting his friend’s shoulder.

  “That’s the spirit. What would I do without you?”

  “Get killed.”

  Kurt turned and pushed through the flap, mind and attention already turned towards the day. He’d crossed half the veteran’s quarter before he considered the words.

  “Yes, likely,” he muttered, bursting into his command tent where a dozen messengers sat at tables playing dice. Kurt smiled widely and raised his hands, turning on the charm and energy he’d need to sustain now until the end of the campaign.

  “Look lively, boys, and get your quills. Rald we’ll start with you.”

  The youngest, most competent and literate ex-cavalrymen in Kurt’s ‘employ’ leapt to his assigned section of a long, wooden table.

  “To Under-Sergeant Martel.” Kurt paced as he dictated. “Remember Vindoba? It’s time for that favor.”

  * * *

  In a few hours Kurt had sent his messengers all over the camp, then waited for the rumors to swirl. According to his messengers, some soon whispered ‘the army is finally being paid!’, others ‘disbanded’. Yet others believed the Eastern Army had been given orders to move, or that the War Ministry finally found the resolve to finish pacifying the Eastern tribes. Kurt started this last one intentionally.

  First he sent requests to the most successful camp merchants offering coin and trade for supplies. He bought what little shot and powder remained, and told his men to roll their wagons to the veteran’s quarter through the most visible routes, spurning all questions. He sent word to Adela—the camp grandmother of sorts, who had helped Kurt bury plunder over the years—and told her to make a show of packing her things. He expected this, more than anything, caused a stir.

  Some general raucous and nervous excitement followed him around all day. By mid-afternoon it seemed the prices of everything in camp had doubled. Men started collecting their finest gear, some deserted, others quarreled over long-standing debts and favors.

  By the time afternoon gave way to evening, veterans crowded the old officer’s tent like pigs sniffing fresh slop. All wore their uniforms, most so faded and with so many patch-jobs and personal ornament one could no longer tell which division they’d come from, nor even if they wore old imperial blue, or new Republican yellow. At this point, no one much cared. The standards of the 2nd and 3rd divisions were planted reverently near the fire—the leather grips worn, the iron poles rusted, the currently attached flags ripped and faded. These were the only actual standards in the army.

  “Gentlemen!”

  Kurt raised both hands high as he picked his way through the now-staring men. Torsten and his bodyguards stood close-by. The conversation and laughter faded as the gathered thirty or so men nudged their fellows and pointed with their
chins, many smoking tobacco from old, stolen pipes, or drinking army brew.

  Over the years—even when there were officers—these men had sat through many such informal meetings with Kurt at their head.

  He had no official authority to give commands, nor to punish or reward. But he had served in the army since he was thirteen. He had seen twenty years of brutality and blood, on foot and on horse, with sword and bow, cannon and musket; he had served in the infantry, the cavalry, the front-guard and the rear-guard, both as soldier and leader, through civil war and conquest, on three coasts of the known world, in a thousand battles in victory and defeat. And he was still healthy, still alive.

  Many of those closest to him were still alive, too. For a decade he’d manipulated and deceived officers and linemen alike, avoiding the worst duty, finding patrols with the best plunder and least risk, and out-right mocking his orders. All the while he kept getting richer. And whether or not the men here trusted him, most of the best and brightest who did what he told them came away a little richer, and still alive, too. All of them knew this. Kurt knew they knew.

  “We’ve got orders.”

  Kurt leapt to the table highest on the peak of the small slope, then turned and held up his empty folder. Some men winced, some smiled or groaned, according to their nature. Kurt tossed the empty folder into the nearest campfire.

  “Fuck ‘em.”

  A round of laughter swept the group.

  “But for the first time in two years, brothers, it’s official. It’s signed and bloody sealed. Red Division, serving under Colonel Gottfried.” Again, the men laughed. “Has full license and authority, handed down to us by the United Republic of Keevland, to pillage as we please.”

  The men squinted or glanced at each other. No one cheered. One of the captains popped maybe a mushroom into his mouth and spoke as he chewed.

  “No offence, Sarge, but we already do. Countryside’s picked clean.”

  Others grunted in approval. By now the routine of illegal plundering was so common and understood no one pretended otherwise.

  “You’re right, of course,” Kurt nodded. “But it’s time for greener pastures. Our orders let us roam.”

  A little grumbling swept the group. Most of the gathered men had built rather comfortable lives in the make-shift camp. They had tents—or even a few tents—with women and proper furs, friends and routines. To admit this, though, would be seen as weak—as civilian. The hardest and most influential men were true warriors and lovers of violence, and they set the tone.

  “Where, Old Man? Ain’t nowhere to move, ‘cept through savages. Nothin’ to steal ‘cept treenuts and squirrels.”

  The men silenced and Kurt knew why. Only Harmon called him ‘Old Man’—an old joke because Harmon had served only one year less.

  Kurt nodded and looked until he spotted him in the crowd—two-hundred pounds of man-eating gorilla, hunched over a bench playing with a knife.

  “Yes, except the savages have one thing in abundance.” He smiled. “People.”

  Harmon snorted, and his band of loyal killers looked about in confusion.

  “It’s a slave-run, gentlemen,” Kurt explained. “We’re going to slash and burn our way North and East, through forest and hills, and we’re going to take anyone we find.”

  “Slavery’s illegal,” called a captain, and some of the men chuckled.

  “In Keevland, yes,” Kurt answered. “So we’ll take them South to the sea, and sell them in Lynos, or the island bazaars.”

  The men took that in and whispered, or smoked or drank and gathered their thoughts.

  “Dirty business, slaves,” said Adalard, another captain and the unofficial quartermaster—called ‘Larder’ for obvious reasons.

  Kurt waited for explanation, completely confident the ruthless man was not demonstrating some form of moral repugnance.

  “Have to feed them, house them, keep them bound and together and hope they don’t get sick, or get away. And they’ll cut your throat if you let them. It’ll make marches hard, and camping hard.”

  “Let me worry on logistics, Larder. And if we move slow, we move slow. We’re not in a rush.”

  “And who’s responsible for the slaves?” Adalard asked, looking out at the gathering like a damn politician. “The man who captures them? And who bargains with Lynosian merchants? Who makes sure we aren’t getting cheated?”

  Some men grunted their agreement, but Kurt understood the greedy bastard was really just offering his services. And now that the conversation had moved to divvying up plunder Kurt was actually relieved.

  “And where exactly will we be collecting these slaves, then?” voiced another captain. “There’s a lot of bloody forest, Sarge.”

  Here we go. The moment of truth. No reservations, no fear.

  “We collect in Helvatia.”

  Even the bonfire seemed to hush and squint its eyes.

  “Oh, fuck off.”

  Kurt couldn’t tell who called it, but a few men laughed. Others shouted them down. Edmund—a tall, wiry man, and the oldest Captain, stood.

  “Now you all know me.”

  “Aye we’ve all heard you start your bloody sermons,” said Harmon, voice low, “just say your peace.”

  Men laughed, but Edmund ignored them.

  “And we all know you, Kurt. We know you’re clever, and if you say there’s profit to be had then I for one believe you. But Helvati are hard fucking men. So why not pick smaller tribes, eh? Easier targets?”

  Because I actually intend to carry out our orders, Kurt thought, or at least look like I tried. But of course he couldn’t say that.

  “Yes, they’re hard. But we haven’t given them any cause to be worried. They’ll be surprised, disorganized, and we’ll move quick before they rally. And as hard as Helvati men are, their women...well…” He shrugged.

  A few men toasted and laughed or grunted agreement because Helvati women were tall and curvy with dark hair and eyes, and considered beautiful by most every Keevish soldier with any sense.

  “Some we’ll keep, as you like,” Kurt went on. “The rest we sell. And precisely because the Helvati are so hard, gentlemen, no slaver ever raids them. I expect there won’t be any at all on Lynosian markets. The prices will be outrageous. We’ll make a bloody fortune.”

  Eyebrows and mouths quirked in interest now all around the fire, and Kurt held back his smile. He watched the greed and lust mixing and spreading together like a disease. But he moved on. He didn’t want them considering the fall out, the future fights with doxies, or really anything at all.

  “I have here a document of partnership,” he held it up. “It says each man will receive one share of the general profit of all slaves sold, or if not him then whoever he designates, to be paid in full no later than three months after our return to camp.”

  Many of the eyes turned to Adalard for approval, and he paused, then nodded slowly, as if deciding this was fair. Kurt had, of course, already gained his support. The bastard actually drafted it.

  “All other plunder,” Kurt continued, “is the purview of the individual man, though of course how you divvy that amongst yourselves is your business.”

  At this the men turned at once to murmur and debate. The noise rose and Kurt let it. Bargaining and division would be based on experience and relationships, and the complexity of this would keep men’s minds and tongues churning or wagging for hours, maybe days. Murmurs turned into louder voices, arguments and laughter, until Kurt at last gestured at Torsten, who fired a pistol in the air. The gathering silenced.

  “So, gentlemen.” The fire popped, and a few voices could be heard further away in the camp. Kurt met the eyes of the men in turns, document raised. “Who will sign it?”

  Under-Sergeant Martel stood at once, as requested.

  “I will. Me and mine. Any damn thing to leave this stinking camp.”

  He walked forward to stand before the head table, and the men loyal to him rose to follow. Kurt’s most loyal rose wit
h them—a mix of cavalry and light infantrymen from a dozen divisions—instructed to wait for this moment. Between them they soon packed the empty spaces between the crowd of seats, forming a line to sign up. Some called out to the other men, mostly light-heartedly, as cowards and peace-loving civilians. The veterans though were largely immune to this, and looked to their captains. The captains looked to Harmon.

  With a sniff the big man dropped his knife, as if bored. He glanced around the gathering as if he’d just noticed it, and didn’t much approve. Then with a long, deep sigh, he stood, and casually joined the line. The other captains glanced at each other, then near in unison, they stood. The rest of the gathering followed.

  Chapter 3

  It took three days to gather the men and put them in some semblance of marching order. Kurt didn’t concern himself with the camp followers, knowing many would load up their lives and keep on the army’s heels regardless, no real knowledge or interest of where they were going. Or of what a shitshow it might be.

  He sighed and squinted at the swiftly rising sun. A thin, grey layer of cloud had rolled in from the East, and the smell of moisture filled the air already with the promise of a wet, miserable day.

  “We could always wait.”

  Torsten sat mounted next to him in full military kit, expressionless. But Kurt saw the man’s amusement and glared.

  “Haw.” He spurred his charger, and the huge roan snorted and sped to a trot.

  Kurt wiped all trace of annoyance from his face and mind, winking at a few of the recruits as he rode down the line. Nevermind the weather, or the disorder, or the damn camp women still weeping their goodbyes to some of the men. We’re finally bloody moving!

  “We march till noon, gentlemen. Follow your captains, do what they tell you. We’ll be out of Keevland before sunset.”

  He made the gesture to proceed, the two standard bearers waved their faded flags, and the army drummer beat a quick, steady march.