Hand of the Wicked

Chapter Eight

It was several days later at dawn when they spotted a great cloud of dust rising on the horizon. There was little wind. It could only mean they were closing on the enemy. They were also running out of time to catch the enemy before they reached the city of Ghinai. As they came out of the vastness of the desert they began to see shrubs and trees growing. It would only be a day now before they arrived. The horses and men were all pushed to the point of exhaustion. Dryden wondered what condition they would be in when they caught their enemy. Dryden’s hand still ached badly. It was not festering and rotting, but he found that he could not move two fingers on his left hand well. The surgeon suggested that the tendons had been cut. Even Rosie was slowing somewhat. She was a lively mare on most days. She still powered forward, but he doubted she could effectively charge the enemy. When she had carried him out of Vurun, they had made perhaps fifteen miles per day. It was gruelling for those on foot, but it was little to cavalry. She had been fresh until those last desperate battles. Forty-five miles per day, at night, for a week, in loose sand, and she was tired. Only Mar seemed to be well, which seemed the opposite of how it ought to have been. They slept under the stars and rested at a sprawling oasis that night. The horses were watered. The food carts were growing lean, but there was hay and food enough for now. The men slept hard. Commander Havelock woke them an hour early. He knew they were tired, but driving the enemy onward was more important than the other concerns. Dryden knew that they hated the acting colonel for it. They rode out again while it was still light. Something like thunder rolled on the wind as they rode, though there was not a cloud in the sky.

At sunset, they arrived at the top of a great escarpment that cut the desert in two. Below them the river Jaxa wound through the desert like a huge snake. Sunlight reflected from ripples on the water like brilliant scales. Where the river went, a vast green plain of lush patchwork farmland surrounded it. Beyond the farms, and bridging the river was the city of Ghinai. Minarets and huge temple domes jutted up from the sprawling city like blue and green and gold jewels shining in the sun. Gunfire could be heard in the distance below them. Puffs of musket smoke rose from the old stone walls of the city. Ghinai’s great golden gates had already been opened. The enemy was already in the city. Smoke was beginning to billow from somewhere in the city behind the walls. The city had not yet fallen, but it was falling. Muskets continued to fire. Someone was still fighting.

“To the city!” Havelock shouted, “To Ghinai!”

A bugle sounded. The Dragoons, Lancers, and Hussars, all together went down the old road that had been carved into the side of the escarpment. Dryden went with the 13th. Sustra led the Dravani Lancers. Major Trant led the Hussars. The city was not particularly close, but neither was it far. It had looked much closer from above. They went at a trot over those last few miles down the old road towards the gates of Ghinai. Fearful eyes stared out of their hovels and watched the cavalry pass. The enemy had not touched the slums outside the walls. That was not their goal. The 13th rode by in relative silence.

Finally, they arrived at the city. The gates had been torn asunder by some great force, pieces of them had been thrown a hundred yards and the bronze of the gates still glowed hot. Dryden wondered at what could have done this. Perhaps the witch had unleashed some great sorcery that they had not seen. They rode into the city fast. A great boulevard went through from the gate to the bridges that crossed the Jaxa. Dryden had never seen the vast bazaar of Ghinai that sprawled along that avenue, but he had heard tales of the smells and colours and sights. Now it was burned and ruined as if a great storm of fire had blown through and left that place a smoldering corpse. Bodies lay strewn around, the wood and cloth of the market were burned, and goods were scattered. Somewhere a child cried and a woman wailed. Muskets fired deeper into the city. They could not stop to help the dying or wounded, they had to catch Aisa. Dryden spurred Rosie and they continued down the long boulevard past the destruction wrought by the Vuruni. He did not wait for orders, he knew what needed doing. Men followed after him.

They were well into the city when they first spied the enemy. Several dozen Vuruni were dismounted and waiting for them with jezails. They were among tossed-over carts and market stalls. The first volley from the enemy hit home. He knew some men had fallen. Bullets whizzed around Dryden. Rosie reared slightly. Dryden shouted, “Don’t let them reload!” And spurred his horse. She shot forward towards the enemy and leapt their barrier. He was upon the enemy before they had time to load the next volley. His sabre was in his hand. He cut a Vuruni down, looked for the next, and cut him down too. Then the men of the 13th were swarming with him through the enemy’s makeshift defenses. The fight was over swiftly. A handful of men were wounded or killed.

The 13th moved on through the city. They passed vast and vibrantly painted white and blue and green temples. They went past palaces of gold with spires that rose above into the evening sky. Somewhere ahead a fire raged and shots fired into the night. Finally, with the last light of day dying in the sky, they caught sight of the enemy who was crossing the bridge over the Jaxa. The bridge built by Varo the Conqueror in the days of yore. Above the bridge, the Vastrum garrison in Ghinai still stood. Muskets fired down into the massed enemy cavalry that was crossing. It was not a large fort, but they had withstood whatever assault the Vuruni had made. Now witch’s clans fled as the 13th approached. They could not fight the forces of Ghinai and the Vastrum cavalry regiment at the same time. Dryden spurred his horse hard to catch them. Dryden saw that most of the enemy was already across the river.

“You there! Hold!” A voice shouted from above. Dryden ignored it at first. But the voice shouted more urgently, “Hold, damn you! They’ve rigged the bridge! Find cover!”

Dryden pulled on his reins and Rosie stopped short of the bridge. The rear elements of the enemy still held the bridge. Even in the moments before the bridge blew, Dryden did not think they would do it. Not with their own men holding it. He saw the witch Aisa An-Beya across the bridge watching. He knew it was her, with her tan face, gold eyes, black hair and cloak flowing in the wind. Her face was stone. Their eyes met across the water. She had the same anger as when he had first met her. Then it went. The bridge exploded. Dryden and Rosie were knocked to the ground by the blast. Enormous stones flew through the air and crashed back down into the river. Water was thrown high into the air and fell down like rain. A great ball of fire and smoke rose above the city. Something cracked into Dryden’s head as he lay on the ground, and the whole world swirled around him. He heard men and horses crying out in pain. Then hands grabbed him and through the ringing in his ears he heard a calming voice say, “I’ve got you Major, I’ve got you.”