Konstantins Crusade English version, E W [most read books of all time TXT] 📗

around the camp from some of the locals and quickly learned to appreciate the hot beverage, especially after a night with little sleep. Cyrus on the other hand  shuddered at the thought. It smelled good. But the brew from it was too bitter for his taste. Actualy most of the other Gejarn seemed to stay away from the stuff.

Slowly he made his way back to the tents of his company, past more cooking fires and sleepy faces. Racers and envoys ran around exchanging messages from other areas of the camp or the latest orders. Apparently there had been attacks on the other side oft he siege as well, but they had suffered the main blow this night. Some men stood guard, but not many. So far, they had never been under assault during the day and so the posts were only a show of force. An excuse to make the men feel safe, Cyrus thought. But there was no security here.

The dead and wounded of the previous night had long since been taken away, back  to the relatively quiet outer edges of the camp or to the makeshift cemetery. That's what the officers called it at least , Cyrus thought. In truth, it was just a pit that had been set up a little behind the camp in the jungle, along one of the supply roads that the Guard had cleared from the thick underbrush  on arrival. But of that, the officers did not tell. On paper one could believe that it was almost obligatory to commit to the guard ... without risk. That the Empire would take care of his men.

 That one would slowly rot in a pit in the jungle, covered only by a handful of earth, that, they did not tell the recruits of course. Cyrus felt the old fury rise in him. Not at the men around him. They were just as trapped  up here as he was. And he himself ... He was not here because he had a choice, except to die. Lies ... false facts and stories of fame. How many of the men who died yesterday had believed they would return home loaded with gold and foreign treasures? The truth, of course, was different. Cold, damp earth and nothing more.

Around him, there was a lot of activity. Some soldiers  led a group of horses through the maze of lines and ropes that held up the  tent rows, small lines formed before the fires used for cooking.

He made his way to the closest one. A dozen different dishes simmered over the flames, their fragrance mingling with each other, causing a slight nausea in Cyrus. Fresh meat and vegetables fried next to things he would hardly have called edible. Oat porridge, which contained more water than grain, and in which was a spongy substance that had once been dried meat months ago, but was now often moldy. And what was still edible was tough as leather and some of the men joked that a strip of it could catch a bullet. The temperature and the humid air werent exactly ideal for keeping food. Nevertheless, a good dozen other men stood around the individual fires, ate and talked.

"The food is not getting better ," one of them said.

"Get me fresh supplies and I'll cook you a feast," replied another man, wearing a dirty white apron over his uniform. Probably the cook. And presumably he had heard this saying often enough. "Half of our supply caravans either disappear or are attacked. We can be glad that we still get fresh supplies at all."

"Dying with an empty stomach isnt exactly a nice thing.", One of the other Soldiers.

"And what is moral worth if it ruins the Empire?" shouted a nearby officer who was about to get a second plate of the better rations. "You are here to fight, not to feel well."

Something about the man was strange, Cyrus thought. For one thing, he did not wear the usual blue uniform of the Guard. Instead, he wore a gilded harness that mirrored the sun, along with a yellow jacket, boots, and a gold-trimmed cloak. Did the man belong to the military at all or was he one of those nobles who wanted to try themselves at playing soldiers?

"The Emperor will not be pleased if half of his men desert him because they do not even get breakfast anymore, Kazimier.", the cook, interjected before turning to Cyrus . "Rank and department?"

"Thirteenth Heartland Regiment. Infantryman. "Cyrus replied and the cook nodded and disappeared to get his ration.

"I didn’t think any of you were left after yesterday." One of the nearby guards turned to the wolf.

"Not many," replied the officer, whom the cook had addressed as, Kazimier, and now also looked at Cyrus. "We will probably have to allocate the remains to a new unit. I think our hetman can use a few new people ..."

No, thank you, Cyrus thought, taking his food from the cook. There was a reason he had not known how bad the losses of his unit actually were. It was easier if you did not care. Cyrus started to turn around in the hope that the man would drop the subject. The longer it took to be assigned to a new regiment, and then see those die as well, the better.

"Hey I'm talking to you, flea bag." A hand dropped onhis shoulder before he had made more than ten paces. "You come with me and help me find the rest of your regiment ..."

Cyrus shook the hand off and turned to face the man. Still in motion, he pulled a flintlock pistol out of his belt and pointed it at him.

"No."

"Is this going to be a mutiny?" A thin smile crossed the man's face. "Men!" The officer gestured to the other soldiers by the fire, none of whom made any effort to come to his aid.

"Well I do not know how my comrades see it here, but I serve the Emperor.” One of them replied.” Not a commander of a detachment who does not even wear a decent uniform.  And I think our friend Wolf sees it the same way. Of course, you may like to bother the High General with that, and I quote, „Flea bag", but until then, that's your problem. "

Kazimir's own smile faded and Cyrus walked away slowly , looking for a quiet place to eat. A spark of gratitude stirred in him as he thought of the men that had defended him. Still, it was better, he thought, not to worry too much about others. At first he made that mistake. Faces and names that had long disappeared. There was little arguing  about his fate. He had learned that here. And anyway ... at least it could not get any worse. He had just threatened an officer. And why? Because he wanted his rest ... just for a day at least ... And what could happen? He would die in this place. He had come to terms with that a long time ago. The only question was how much of his soul was left when that happened.

Ahead of him, the tent rows of the camp opened to a small clearing where a dozen horses grazed at what thousands boots had left of green grass. Two men took care of them, loosening their armor and chafing them with straw, while a larger group settled on a row of dry rocks furhter away. A fire crackled  between them and their armor leaned in neat clusters around their guns nearby. The steel glittered golden in the sun. And above it rose a banner that had already puzzled Cyrus when he saw it for the first time. A dragon. The wolf frowned as he thought back to last night's battle. The golden armor, the figures on their horses, who had almost looked like they had wings ... Now he could see that this impression had not been so wrong. The armor in the trampled grass had spine bars attached to thin, metallic feathers, as golden as the rest of it. Except for the coat of arms. The Dragon. The dragon was wrong. Who were these men?

Cyrus in turn settled on a stone nearby and watched the little group more closely while he ate. It did not taste like much, but a boring hot meal was better than nothing at all.

One of the knights leaned back in the grass with a clay pipe and smoked. The red stubble on his head was completely shorn on one side, forming the image of a dragon. Yet again. Why this coat of arms? The man seemed to be the only one in the group who had not taken off his armor, only the corresponding helmet hung from a strand of leather on his belt, along with a rider saber and a small fist shield. As Cyrus continued to watch the group, another figure approached the paddock. The newcomer could not have been more distinguished from the knights. He was tall, Cyrus was sure he would have been on par with the man if he did not even tower above him, but that was the only impressive thing about him. His clothes betrayed him. As colorful as a peacock thought Cyrus. A shirt dyed in two colors according to the Empire's latest fashion and a plump hat with a huge peacock feather hanging from it. The boots he wore also seemed less made for the softened meadow and more for some ballroom. The mud stood up to his ankles and had crusted the once-secure gilded buckles of his shoes, making him move stalked. Like a stork. Graceful but somehow ... ridiculous. The only thing about him that seemed to fit in with the environment was the sword he wore, but the weapon, like everything else on him, looked more like ornament. And the coat. The coat he wore was plain but it was his color that had made Cyrus pay attention. Turquoise with a golden emblem on his shoulder that he could barely make out in the distance. Every soldier in the imperial army knew thos colour. His life could depend on it. A magician? Cyrus had rarely seen the men of the Sanguis Order in the camp. They had their own tents, away from those of the regular soldiers, and were seldom seen mingling with them. And with good reason, Cyrus thought. However, this did not seem like the usual figures he associated with the Order. He looked too  young and... not really menacing, the Gejarn thought. Had it not been for the cloak that clearly identified him as a man of the Order, Cyrus probably would not have paid any attention to him. Now, however, the newcomer only raised more questions. Especially because he seemed to avoid the group of golden riders and approached him instead. At least it could not get any worse, he thought.

 

 

 

Chapter 5

 

 

 

 

 

The last thing he needed today was having to deal with the Order. Keeping an eye on the approaching man, he put his empty bowl aside and started to get up.  Before he could make more than a step, the stranger raised a hand to greet him. Cyrus considered for a moment, to just ignore him and