Red Clay: Chapter XII

The Motte and Bailey

Beneath the Cypress Moss

Colonel Hugh Lang had known orders would come soon. He felt them in the change of the wind, in the sudden hush of the house, in the way General Ypres’ stewards avoided his eyes that morning. The summons itself came simply—a little card from the telegraph office. He only glanced it over once.

Lang left another unopened envelope on the desk of the guest room at Miriador, his packed satchel beside it, his revolver belt coiled neatly beside his gloves. It was something important -at least it had been, before Frankin. He stepped away for a moment—to check the weather from the veranda—and returned to find Lady Xiren Quaid standing beside the desk, the envelope lifted delicately between two fingers, the way one might hold a pressed flower.

Her eyes widened when she realized she wasn’t alone. “I—” she began, startled by her own boldness. “I didn’t know it was yours. It had no seal. Only... your name.”

Lang said nothing for a beat -a million memories racing through his mind. Then he lowered his head, in a voice low and flat: “Keep it.”

She looked confused. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

Something about Miriador, its oaks and vines, its warmth and humidity. Allowed him to process what he couldn’t after the fall of Frankin and the flight across the Hollachucas. What it all meant, and what it could be for. The answers lied at Red Clay, both he and General Ypres would have to find it.

“You didn’t,” he said. “It’s not mine anymore.”

Xiren’s fingers tightened slightly on the envelope. She hesitated, eyes cast down at the name scrawled in heavy, angular hand across the front: H. Lang. She turned it over once, then twice, and murmured, almost without meaning to:
“Lizbe-”

It was barely more than a breath. The name floated in the space between them like a ghost.

Lang’s jaw shifted. His face—stoic to all but the most practiced court eye—gave no answer. He turned from her without a word and began to gather his things, wrapping the pistol belt around his waist. As he adjusted the weapon he paused. It wasn’t just any pistol, it was the one had left for her, the one she clutched in her hands as she drew her last breath. Lang let out a long sigh and stepped out the door.

The courtyard was still damp from the morning dew. Cypress branches hung low with moisture, and Homestead waited under the high stone arch, already saddled and restless.

Xiren followed him down the steps, her shawl clasped loosely at her throat. She said nothing of the letter. Nothing of the name. Nothing of what she’d seen on his face the night before. Nor would she speak the venom that she had before, it was all courtesy, old Southern Courtesy. A parting gift to someone who may never return.

“I understand you’ll be riding to Red Clay,” she said as he adjusted the girth strap. “Looks like your internment here ended afterall...”

Lang gave a faint nod.

She kept her tone light, measured. “I hope you tell Zachery, that I treated you fairly. I wish you help him achieve victory...”

Lang nodded again.

“I think you two -together, will give Calvin Caul a run for his money. The Mountain Tactician and the Southern Gentelman.”

He adjusted the saddle blanket. “He’s the better half of that.”

There was silence for a moment. Then Xiren stepped back slightly, folding her hands before her.

“Well,” she said, soft but sure, “Good luck, Colonel.”

Lang looked up at her finally—just a flicker of his eyes beneath the brim of his hat. “Thank you,” he said. And then, after a pause: “For your hospitality.”

She gave a small, practiced curtsy. “It was never an imposition.”

Without another word, Lang mounted. Homestead shifted under him but held steady. He touched the brim of his hat in parting and turned toward the eastern road.

Xiren watched him go until the dust swallowed horse and rider. Only then did she turn and slowly ascend the steps back into the house.

She read the letter standing alone on the balcony. The ink was heavy. The folds precise. Though it was not addressed to her, she read every word. By the time she reached the end, her hand trembled. Her chest ached. And in the hush of Miriador’s great house, with the sun rising pale over the garden cypress, Lady Xiren Quaid burst into tears.

She regretted everything she said, every spit of venom and animosity. Colonel Hugh Lang was more than a “Ridgie Fighter” a “monster”, but a human being that carried perhaps more ghosts than scars. Xiren felt like a fool for only realizing that now.

“Why is it” She muttered as she stared out at the tobacco fields, “always on the day you leave…when you realize thes things?”

The Long Road North

The road to Red Clay was mostly dirt and trees along the levee, casting long shadows that crawled across the ground. Colonel Hugh Lang rode without haste, his posture straight but not rigid, one hand on the reins, the other resting loosely on the pommel of his saddle. Homestead moved beneath him with an even, practiced gait—the kind of pace that said both horse and rider knew what waited ahead.

The letter, now nestled in the folds of Lady Xiren Quaid’s fingers, remained behind him like a lost limb. But he did not look back.

For miles, the road passed through still fields and abandoned croplands. Rice swales lay drowned and fallow, their irrigation trenches silt-choked and crisscrossed with crane tracks. Lang saw few farmers, mostly signs of them: a disused yoke still half-buried in mud, a tin pail rusted near an unused well, a scarecrow dangling on its frame like a hanged man. The whole southern belly of Restor seemed to hold its breath, as if the land itself waited to see who would claim it next—Caul or Quentin.

Lang passed an old river shrine with boards across the windows and a weathervane shaped like a plow. At its steps, a cluster of barefoot children watched him ride by, their faces blank. Did they know of the coming storm, he thought. They were too young -but so were the kids in Frankin and the countless villages up the Hollachucas. Nothing could be done for them either, he didn’t even fool himself into thinking that his war against Caul was some kind of defense of children like these. War was war, in all its destructive glory. And children would suffer no matter how ‘righteous’ the cause...

Lang tipped his hat to them and kept moving.

He rode Homestead hard, he hate doing it -but the urgency called for it. By midmorning the next day, Lang reached the first checkpoint outside the boundary of Fort Red Clay’s perimeter—little more than a sentry shack beside a narrow corduroy bridge. Two Aeyndale boys -recruits more than likely, stepped forward to flag him, their rifles held awkwardly.

Lang dismounted to show respect, and one of them recognized his green uniform.

“You—you’re the Colonel? From up in Daly?”

Lang nodded.

The other boy lowered his weapon. “General Ypres says he’s waitin’ sir. We’ll signal the main gate.”

Lang only replied: “Obliged.”

He remounted Homestead and the boys presented arms as he passed.

The road narrowed. Cypress grew thicker, the dirt dug out from the topsoil became an a thick orange colour. The scent of woodsmoke lingered faintly on the breeze—it was a comforting smell. Lang let Homestead leisurely walk the last mile. His thoughts were heavy, but his face showed none of it.

Atop a distant ridge, Fort Red Clay rose from the landscape like a half-buried fang. Brick walls made from that dirt beneath the topsoil, in the first years of settlement. Atop stones placed by masons perhaps over a millennium ago -by who Gods only knew. Its massive gun towers, and tiled slats, all bristling with preparations. Flags hung limp in the still air. Soldiers moved like yellow coated ants across the ramparts.

Lang clicked his tongue toward homestead… He wanted at least a light trot when he made his entrance.

The fortress looked older than it had a right to. Its walls hewn from the very ground that gave it name—ruddy, sunbaked, streaked with lime and silt—usually shimmered as if polished. Now it was patched with reinforced barriers of timber, sandbags, and the bones of other battles. A few black cannon barrels protruded through murder holes in the ramparts like staring eyes. Lang rode slowly up the main approach, his coat dusty, face shadowed under his hat. The gates were open, but guarded—four men in Aeyndale yellow -older and more professional than the boys at the shack, stood in front, rifles ready. These weren’t palace regulars. These were farmers conscripted late, too proud to run, too green to know better.

One of them stepped forward.

“Name and regiment?”

“Colonel Hugh Lang,” he said softly, “acting commander the Army of the Republic of Daly.”

Another soldier muttered, “The Colonel Lang?”

Lang nodded, “One and only.”

The first man snapped to attention. “Forgive me, sir. We weren’t signaled ahead of time.”

Lang gave a small nod. “Kids up road said they would.”

“Damn recruits!” The first man spat, “they better learn quick this ain’t summer camp no more!”

“I agree.” Lang said, “I’ll leave it to ya’ll to teach ‘em.”

“That we will, sir.”

They saluted as Lang rode through.

Inside the walls, the air was hot with smoke and powder. The inner yard buzzed with activity—Soldiers moving crates of ammunition, Sappers unspooling wire across the inner embankments, signalmen darting to and from the stables, hands ink-stained and frantic. The fort had changed since he was last there. When he and the Daly stragglers were first greeted by the Aeyndale yellows, it had been ceremonial -a show. But now they were truly preparing for war.

Lang walked beside Homestead, leading the horse toward the inner command post—a stone building -perhaps older than the fort itself, set behind the central tower. He passed a pair of sharpshooters oiling their rifles on a crate of quinine, two nurses bandaging a young bugler -no older than ten, who fell and scraped his knee. They treated the boy gingerly, but also with a trace of excitement -no doubt themselves training for when a boy with a “bo-bo” would be the least of their worries. There was also an old blacksmith sharpening makeshift pikes for unarmed recruits, the look on his face seemed to suggest knowledge of the brutal work that would be done with his creations.

Major General Zachery Ypres waited just outside the command post. He looked tired but unbowed, aristocratic as ever. The southern marshal of the old breed in full measure despite his relative youth. When he saw Lang, his mouth curled into a tight, sideways smile.

“Colonel,” Ypres said. “Good to see you back..”

Lang clasped his forearm. “And on the same side, sir….”

“River scouts say Caul’s ironclads took on fuel at New Boudoir two days ago. They'll be pushing upriver now.”

Lang nodded, his gaze drifting toward the eastern ridgeline. “New Boudoir. Your port on the Yangssippi’s mouth?”

Ypres’s expression cooled, and he nodded. “Caul’s emissary…. Lord Miles, was a feint.”

“Knew him?” Lang already sensed the answer in

“Old friend, from The Institute.” Ypres laughed to himself, “matriculated there when when his family couldn’t bribe him into Sindlaw or the Royal Military Academy. We then served together in Zapaillo under Caul. Guess he still serves him…”

He then changed the subject.

“City fell without a fight…before Governor Quentin made his decision to stand alongside y’all.”

Lang lowered his head, “No choice, Caul was never planning on giving him one. Wish he’d known that sooner. Ya’ll could’ve held him there.”

Zachery shook his head, “no uses dwelling on it. Point is we’ll fight him now. Together, Lang. And this time we’ll beat him.”

They walked together into the command post, where maps littered a central table and the air was thick with pipe and candle smoke. Major Hertrand—saluted sharply from the corner. His voice was clipped, his bearing precise, but his eyes lit up when he saw Lang.

“Sir. Thought I’d never see you again.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Lang said. “You holding up, Tradd?”

“Been worse, sir.”

Lang nodded once, then turned to the maps.

Fort Red Clay key was that it was a bottleneck. Placed at a key fork of the Yangssippi, one that went north into the Hollachucas, and the other that drifted lazily eastward, hugging the mountain range’s southern foothills, and carrying grain, cotton, tobacco -and just about anything else down to the sea. The fort -and what preceded it, was placed there as a vital defensive bastion for whoever inhabited the South’s lush and fertile land, from perhaps ancient horsemen coming down from the mountains, or longboated raiders coming upriver from the sea. Much like how Lang and his army came, and how Caul and his would be in the coming days.

“We’ve got enough powder to outlast a siege,” Ypres said. “that’s what she was built for.”

Lang studied the contours of the northern trenchlines and the rice marshes just beyond.

“Is that your intent, General,” he muttered. “Just to hole up here?”

Ypres glanced at him sidelong. “Hardly.”

Lang’s voice was low, almost dispassionate: “You know Caul, perhaps more than I.”

“You actually faced him.”

“But you studied under him. Remember, I didn’t fare so well the first time.”

He then grabbed a map of Aeyndale province and studied it, running his finger back up and down the contours of the Yangssippi.

“I do know some of his tricks,” Ypres started, “but not all of ‘em.”

“It’s a start.” Lang said.

They both then leaned in, studying the map’s curves and lines. Both men trying to anticipate Caul’s next move.

The War Council

“He’s heading upriver,” Zachery said flatly. “That’s pretty much a given. The real question is where and when I wants to land his forces.”

The air inside the command post was close and warm, the shutters drawn against the heat of the midday glare. Three lanterns flickered against stone walls; their flames steady despite the bustle. A map of the region—creased and annotated in three hands—dominated the central table, pinned at the corners by spent cartridges and one half-finished bottle of tobacco tonic.

Major Hertrand stood opposite Lang, his free hand resting on the map’s edge like a man anchoring himself in a flood. He looked thinner than Lang remembered, eyes darker. Not broken but stretched thin. Zachery Ypres leaned against the window frame, coat off, sleeves rolled high on his forearms. He cut a figure of calm nobility—sharp-featured, sunburned, hair swept neatly back—but the tips of his boots tapped faintly on the stone floor. He was waiting for a decision. Or bracing for one.

Lang pointed at the high ridge to the fort’s southwest, just beyond the rice paddies. “This area’s much too marshy for a landing. But it does provide the most expedient point to the fort.”

Hertrand nodded, already moving small carved tokens “upriver” to represent Caul’s floatilla of ironclad.

“Where are you thinking, Colonel?” Ypres asked.

Lang’s fingers shifted Southeast, and even east proper along the river line. “His flotilla will try to land here. Maybe here as a diversion.. There’s actually nothing stopping him from dropping troops off in a place we wouldn’t suspect.”

Ypres frowned. “Like those marshes?”

“Can’t be sure.” Lang pointed again. “This place here. What’s it called Belsay Grove?”

Brigadier General Shelby Tarnt stepped forward, “Belsay Manor…. Its much too far northeast. Caul couldn’t get his flotilla up there without getting pummeled by our guns.”

“Still,” Lang muttered, “It’s a good place, right?”

Ypres’s jaw tightened. “Can’t rule it out..”

Hertrand grunted. “If he does get there, he could get between us and Halbesbourg. That might be checkmate.”

“Hate being bottled up,” Tarnt muttered.

Lang raised an eybrow, “Bottled up? You’ve got the whole province to call on. And flat land to maneuver.”

Zachery Ypres shook his head, “Not so. Problems have arisen with recruitment. That’s why Caul’s quick move was so devastating.”

Tarnt grimaced, “He already has New Boudoir and has sailed halfway upriver before we could properly mobilize.”

“And that’s not even factoring the fact that Governor Quentin’s general mobilization order has been seemingly countermanded by Caul’s Royal Decree.”

“Sonuvabitch,” Hertrand turned to Lang, who said nothing, just stared at the map.

Zachery put his fist down on the river fork where Red Clay was, “That’s why we have to hold him here.”

“You’re just going to hole up?” Hertrand asked.

“What other choice is there,” Zachery said. “He’s sailing upriver faster than we can train and put troops in the field!”

Tarnt nodded, “It’s the smart move, boys. Don’t underestimate this old fort. There’s a reason its existed long before the pale man ever landed in Restor.”

Finally Lang spoke, “We can’t just wait. It’s the same move Cort made. Found what he thought was a good spot. Then waited. Hell, I waited.”

“We have to be proactive. That’s the lesson we learned,” Hertrand added.

“No offense gentlemen,” Ypres said firmly, “But I’m no Jebadiah Cort, nor is Fort Red Clay Frankin.”

Lang’s eyes went wide at that statement, and his blood seemed to boil. Ypres tried to be diplomatic to drive his point.

“Besides, Cort also moved up too far…before sitting to wait. We won’t do that. We’re going to be smart.” He then turned to Lang, stopping to stare him in the eye, he then did the same to Hertrand. “One of the main reasons Caul is doing this is because time is not on his side, gentlemen. As we speak Governor Quentin’s appeal -though unanswered, have no doubt had aftershocks in Brixton. No doubt parliament will be launching inquiries. They may even force the king to strip him of the title Lord-Commander, even disband the army. If we hold him we can get an optimal result.”

“Sounds like politics to me, sir.” Hertrand said.

“Politics wins wars.”

The tension simmered under the surface. Lang and Ypres were not enemies—but they came from opposite traditions: the rough calculus of the bush wars, and the regimented pride of the Southern academies. Ypres respected Lang’s mind but flinched at his bluntness. Lang saw Ypres’s courtly manners as a fine coat over brittle bone.

“Who’s to say our ultimate aims are the same?” Lang finally said.

Hertrand nodded, “we don’t want to rejoin the crown. We want to avenge our republic!”

Ypres exhaled slowly, running his palm over the back of his neck. “Right now our ultimate aims are the same. And that is fighting and defeating Calvin Caul.”

Lang gave a short nod, feeling now that his own bickering was useless. “Tradd—have our men sleep in shifts. We do our part in sharing the burden posting watch.”

The major saluted. “Understood, sir.”

Lang turned to the board again, studying the lines like a man searching for meaning in tea leaves. “Okay, we do your way, General.”

“I want you to have faith.” Ypres said, voice even. “This time we’ll stop him, together.”

Lang’s reply was quiet: “That’s all I can ask for…”

Ypres finally stepped forward and extended his hand.

“To that end,” Ypres said, voice firm.

Lang shook it.

As the men began to disperse, Hertrand lingered. His voice dropped to a murmur.

“I don’t like this all this waiting, sir...its all talk.”

Lang didn’t look at him. “Let ’em talk.”

“We have to do something...”

Lang’s eyes flicked to the map. “We might have to.”

Hertrand tilted his head. “Have to?”

“Caul may force us into it.”

Lang then turned to leave, his bootsteps trailing as Hertrand remained, looking over the map.

The Weight of Command

Twilight came slowly at Fort Red Clay.

The air thickened with the scent of mud, black powder, and boiled greens from the cookfires. Above the ramparts, the sky turned that dull bruised color it took just before stormlight—amber veined with steel. A breeze stirred the pines along the eastern ridge, but inside the walls, the fort felt like it was holding its breath.

Colonel Lang walked alone.

He moved with steady purpose, taking stock of his men. Faces. Postures. The little things that told a commander where the cracks were. The yard was full of them—men sharpening bayonets on sandstone, others smoking in silence, one pair of boys trading spoonsful of molasses as if it were gold. Most of the men didn’t recognize him at first. Often hearing, but not associating a face with the name ‘Lang’. To most of them he was just a dust-dark green coat and a face. When some realized who he was, they stood a little straighter. Some saluted. One older man—his beard gone mostly white—offered a tired grin and said, “Hey there, Ghostfoot.”

Lang nodded to the men, ignoring the older man’s quip.

At the southern row of tents group of Daly regulars huddled around a small campfire. They weren’t eating. Just talking—low, slow. One of them, a skinny sergeant with a scar down the back of his hand, glanced up as Lang approached and gave a hesitant wave.

Lang paused. Patches indicated they were from one of Cort’s shattered units that retreated into Frankin. They made it this far -what a story, he thought.

“How ya’ll holding up?” he asked.

“Grub could be better sir,” one of them -asergeant, said. “I mean, ain’t complainin’ none.”

Lang crouched beside the fire, resting one forearm on his knee.

“I’ll see what I can do..”

“Its really nothin’ sir.”

“Nonsense,” Lang said simply. “Good grub matters about as much dry powder.”

A few of the men looked at one another, polite -but unsure of what to make of their formerly absent commander who had been interned for the past several weeks at a palatial plantation house, while they slept in damp tents with on slosh muddy ground. The sergeant cleared his throat and spoke finally. His question was blunt, and without fear.

“Word is you were at the Governor’s Mansion in Frankin, sir. When Lady Liz… when she—”

Lang looked away, he didn’t speak…

A silence fell around the fire, but it wasn’t cold. The Sergeant didn’t go on, perhaps feeling Lang’s silence was a mercy all its own...

Before rising, Lang produced a small brass token—an old tradition from his Ranger days, he’d forgotten what it meant exactly—placing it on the edge of the firepit.

Then he moved on.

From the highest northern parapet, Lang stared out at the river -the mighty Yangssippi. It glinted in the dying light, winding like a dull blade toward the horizon. Smoke curled faintly in the east—nothing alarming yet, but it would be. It always was. He leaned against the brickwork, his arms crossed, staring out at the marshes. They looked peaceful from this high up. Beautiful, even. But he knew what lay beneath the tall reeds and shallow water—channels, sinkholes, snake pits. And if Caul sent men through them, the marsh would not be beautiful for long.

Behind him, the fort stirred with quiet rhythm. Feet on wood planks. A hammer ringing faintly from the supply yard. Laughter—brief and sharp—cutting through from the far tower, before dying just as fast. Lang breathed in deep, the red clay dust mingling with pine smoke and memory. Frankin had fallen. Lizbeth was gone—along with Daly—both the babe and the Repulic. He had nothing left to give this place but himself. But that, at least, was something he knew how to offer.

He stayed there a long while. Watching the marshes. Counting the torches that flickered beyond the trees. Wondering. Not about anything specicific, just lost in a moment.

The Quiet Front

Miriador had always carried silence with a certain grace—marble floors muffled by rugs, high ceilings that swallowed voices, and cicadas outside providing a low, constant curtain of sound. But tonight, it was a silence sharpened by absence. Lang’s departure had left something brittle in the air. Even the candles seemed to burn more cautiously.

Lady Xiren Quaid sat alone at her escritoire, the windows open, letting in the night heat and the scent of crushed gardenia. Before her were two letters. One folded, the one left to her by Lang -though more discarded than entrusted. The other, her own—sealed with green wax and marked with a single character: “D.”

Her eyes lingered on Lang’s letter. She had already read it twice -more in disbelief than anything. But she would not read it a third time.

Instead, she turned to Princess Deenya’s parchment. The ink had begun to brown at the edges, but the tone was clear as ever: He never stopped watching you. I fear you -and Zach, may be forced into dancing with him again…and this one may not end so cleanly.

Xiren’s reply had taken her hours to shape—not for lack of conviction, but because words were weapons now. And her blade had to be honed. She drew the green-sealed envelope closer and tapped it twice with her fingers. Then she rose, crossed the room in her slippers, and gently opened the rear parlor door. Waiting there was the courier girl. No older than sixteen, mute since birth. Her jet-black hair was tied in a tight braid, her frame almost weightless in its stillness. Xiren had once called her "little Wren." She trusted her with few things—but messages, always.

"I will draft a response, and you will carry it back to Her Highness...”

The girl nodded.

Xiren held her wrist for a moment longer. “It must reach Her Highness. No matter what.”

Another nod.

Xiren returned to her desk and poured herself a small measure of brandy. She did not drink it. Instead, she unfolded a fresh sheet of stationery and began writing again—names, potential allies -either out of conviction or convenience it mattered little. The salon networks she once lived in with wit and charm now had to serve her saving throw. If not just for Zachery, but for Aeyndale and those who called her home.

Lady Evandra had connections. But she also needed voices in the North. Countess Wyston of Storm’s Moor, or Gretchen, Marchioness of Fenlow. Each still hosted tea, read court bulletins, passed seemingly trivial gossip. But now, they would carry her messages to parliament, behind paper fans and silk handkerchiefs.

Caul had his ships, his guns, and those damnable dragoons.

But Lady Xiren had the written word.

And perhaps that would be enough to sway nations and their armies.

Gathering the Wolves

The deep Hollachucas swallowed sound—rifle cracks, footsteps, shouts—all devoured by the mist-drenched canopy and miles of wet stone. Here, in the oldest hills of North Restor, the land forgot everything except survival. Echoes were few and far between. And by the time they were heard, who’d ever made them were often long gone.

Captain Geoff Yamcy crouched low behind a granite outcrop, watching the Royal patrol pick its way through the creekbed below. Four men, maybe five, scouts from the Ardshire Fusiliers by what he could make out from their guidon. Their pristine maroon coats were mottled now with pinesap and mold. They moved clumsily. Outsiders always did. The mountains had a way of pulling at your feet, your lungs, even your soul. Something about them -something old, Geoff reckoned, older than the Quechachucho even.. It was out there and spared those who had made the range their home. But it was absolutely merciless against outsiders...

Yamcy signaled with two fingers.

To his left, Fedrico Zayapadas flashed a grin like a blade being drawn. Thumbing the hilt of the machete that rested in the notch in his sash, but he didn’t draw it. It wouldn’t be necessary The Royals below may have fancied themselves ‘Fusiliers’ but to Rico they were just “Cimarrones,” and they were going to learn the hard way why you don’t patrol with only five men.

“Think they know we’re watching?” Fedrico whispered, his voice just above the breath of wind.

“If they did,” Yamcy turned back as he wiped tobacco drool from his face. “they wouldn’t be dumb enough to stick ‘round.”

Below, the Fusiliers paused at a fallen log. One squatted to adjust his bootlaces.

Yamcy clicked his tongue twice, and ‘hauked a little chewing tobacco.

From the ridge above, a narrow-leafed sapling bent—and a rockfall let loose, sharp and sudden. Just enough to make them panic. One second too long, and one move too wrong. The lead Fusilier spun; rifle raised—but too late. The first shot rang out -from the opposite of where he turned and dropped him where he stood. The second followed, then a third. Screams bounced once, then vanished. By the time the smoke cleared, four Fusiliers lay dead in the water, and the remaining one had disappeared into the undergrowth—leaving a pair of boots, knapsack, and even his rifle behind.

Fedrico whistled low. “Five shots. Four bodies.”

“One’s crawling away -thinks he’s slick” Yamcy said. “He’ll tell the others. Exactly what we want.”

Fedrico grinned wider. “Bet they’ll give him hell for losing his weapon….”

“He’d be smart to dessert.”

About an hour later, they moved fast through the ravines, feet finding old paths by instinct. The Frankin Rangers had lived in these hills long before Daly’s secession. Now they were back—and the Royals were slowly learning, they wouldn’t be as easy to dislodge as those in the lowlands. By nightfall, they reached a ridge overlooking a hollow, used long ago by trappers and smugglers. Already, others waited there—dozens of men, some boys, two girls even, with rifles strapped across their backs. Hillfolk and Settlers with scores to settle. Didn’t take much to recruit them, no offers of pay or anything really. The Site of Maroon in the lush coniferous green was enough of a call to arms.

Fedrico and Geoff walked among them like shrine missionaries spreading the good tale. A few of the recruits saw them as some old Gods. But Fedrico wouldn’t take their admiration easily.

“Every gulch the Cimarrones take from us is a gulch too many,” he spat. “Your mothers, your fathers worked to till that land. Now the Cimarrones piss and shit on it! We take it back, and water it with their blood!”

He kicked over a crate. Knocking over a few rifles, hardtack, and a tin pot of coffee, some of the greenhorns became startled.

“You’ve got three nights to learn to shoot, stab, and sneak. You fail out there, you don’t die—your neighbor does. So, none of this fucking off!”

Yamcy said nothing. He simply watched with a stern expression as Rico barked. When he was done he turned back to Geoff, who merely smirked and gave him snappy salute.

Later, around the fire, the old traditions returned. A pot of meager rabbit stew was cooked. Then the rite began: Tolls for the Fire.

Each man had to offer one story—true and humorous. Only then was the stew passed around.

That night, as they laid their heads in the dirt beneath bent trees, Fedrico stared at the stars.

“You think Hughie made it down there, to Aeyndale?”

Yamcy shrugged. “I thought you said he didn’t like that name?”

“Fuck it!” Fedrico groaned. “He’s not here anyway.”

Yamcy didn’t blink. “Reckon he did.”

“Maybe he’ll send word….”

“If not, we just keep fight up here…till the bitter end.”

The Smoke on the Horizon

Nightfall wrapped Fort Red Clay in a hush that was too complete. No horses whinnied. No drunken Soldiers’ revelry and song. Only the creak of sentry boots on timber catwalks and the faint clink of rifles either being shouldered or brought to port arms. Even the might Yangssippi ran quiet beneath the parapets.

Lang stood atop the southwest bastion, coat drawn close, gloves tucked beneath his belt. Beside him, Major General Zachery Ypres leaned against the embrasure wall, scanning east to west through a collapsible Fieldglass.

They didn’t speak at first. It was like that for almost an hour.

At last, Ypres exhaled and handed Lang the glass. “See for yourself.”

Lang took it, adjusted the lens, and gazed toward the tree line beyond the marshes.

There they were.

Faint outlines of smokestacks. Dozens of them, smoke peeling upward in moon’s glow. Just visible on the far bend of the Yangssippi, smoke rose in slow spirals from the chimneys of ironclads moored at the bluff. Barge silhouettes shifted like beetles against the waterline. Too steady. The telltale glow of Caul’s approaching floatilla, distant but coordinated. Silent, but moving.

Lang lowered the glass.

“How many you reckon?”

“More than two dozen…” Ypres said. “He’s probably got cavalry screens following up on both sides of the river.”

Lang stared east, jaw working behind a clenched cheek. “What do you think he’s gonna do? He can’t sneak up like he did in Frankin…”

Ypres gave a nod. “If he sticks to playbook….”

Lang’s voice was flat. “You think he will?”

They stood in silence again, listening to the sound of nature all around them. Thousands of men in and around the fort’s perimeter -sleeping in cautious bliss. The miles narrowed that separated them from Calvin Caul and his fleet of iron gunships.

Lang adjusted his collar and stepped away from the wall. “You knew Caul, right?

Ypres hesitated. Lang had finally asked him earnestly, and now he would answer honestly. “In Zapaillo. He was my mentor.”

“Let’s hope he plays by the book then.”

Lang paused, then looked back toward the bend in the river. The gunships hadn’t moved, but he could feel the biting that Caul was up to something. Planning, lying in wait. The way predators do before a kill. Both he and Zachery silently knowing -deep down, that Caul wouldn’t be playing by his own book -because he never did.