Kraisorn didn't bother helping the wounded. He simply stepped through the wreckage of the camp, his boots clicking against the abandoned shields. He stopped by a leather satchel tucked under a fallen bench and flipped it open with the toe of his boot.
"Bua, come here," Kraisorn commanded. "Stop leaning on that stick and make yourself useful."
Bua trotted over, dropping the iron rod. She knelt by the bag and pulled out a stack of parchment tied with a heavy wax seal. She broke the seal without asking for permission and scanned the lines.
"It's not just a vanguard," she said, her voice flattening. "There's a list here. Names of house guards within your own palace. They've been on the southern payroll for six months."
Kraisorn stilled. The playful glint in his eyes didn't vanish, but it hardened into something much sharper. "Names? Give me the first one."
"Captain Pravat," Bua read.
Kraisorn let out a short, dry laugh. "Pravat. I gave that man his position. I even paid for his mother's funeral. The sheer lack of gratitude is staggering. It's almost offensive."
"You killed his brother three years ago for dropping a tray of tea," Phichai reminded him, walking over while wiping his blade on a clump of grass. "I imagine his gratitude had its limits, My Lord."
"Details, Phichai. Mere details," Kraisorn snapped. He reached down and snatched the list from Bua's hand. He tucked it into his breast pocket and patted it. "Well, this changes the afternoon's itinerary. I was going to have a nap, but I think a few more executions are in order. We can't have the help plotting behind my back. It's untidy."
Bua stood up, brushing the dirt from her knees. "If you kill the Captain now, the rest of them will bolt. You'll have a mutiny before you've even had your tea."
Kraisorn sat atop his stallion, his posture as rigid as a tombstone. He didn't wear armor; he wore a silk waistcoat and a look of profound irritation. Below the ridge, the southern soldiers were huddled around a small fire, their spears stacked like kindling.
"They're eating," Kraisorn whispered, his voice dripping with disdain. "Look at them, Bua. Eating. In the middle of an invasion. It's positively middle-class."
Bua sat on a smaller mare behind him, her legs swinging casually. "They're not invading yet, you pillock. They're waiting for the signal from the spy you've currently got pinned to a post. Which, incidentally, isn't coming."
"Quite right," Kraisorn said. He turned to Phichai, who was checking the tension on his crossbow. "Phichai, be a dear and go down there. Tell them they're trespassing on my lawn. If they don't leave in thirty seconds, I shall be forced to be very, very cross."
Phichai looked at the fifty armed men, then back at the Duke. "My Lord, there are fifty of them. There are three of us. Well, two and a half, counting the girl."
"I'm worth ten of you, Phichai," Bua muttered.
Kraisorn laughed, a sharp, barking sound. "He's right, Phichai. She's much more observant. Now, go on. Don't be a coward. It's bad for the brand."
Phichai sighed, spurred his horse, and trotted down the slope. The southern soldiers scrambled for their weapons the moment they saw him. The clatter of steel filled the air.
"He's going to get poked," Bua observed.
"Probably," Kraisorn agreed. He reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a small, heavy flintlock pistol. He checked the powder with the practiced ease of a man who killed for sport. "But it'll be a grand distraction. While they're busy poking Phichai, we're going to ride in from the flank and cause a bit of a scene."
"We?" Bua raised an eyebrow. "I don't have a weapon."
Kraisorn tossed a heavy iron rod toward her. She caught it with one hand. It was weighted at the end, blunt and brutal.
"It's a mace, darling. Or a very heavy stick, depending on your education. Try not to hit the horse. I quite like this one."
Kraisorn didn't wait for a rebuttal. He kicked his stallion into a gallop, screaming a war cry that sounded more like a drunken cheer than a military command. Bua followed, her teeth clenched, swinging the iron rod in a slow circle.
They hit the camp like a falling house. Kraisorn fired his pistol into the chest of the nearest soldier before the man could even raise his shield. He didn't reload; he simply used the butt of the gun to smash a man's jaw as he rode past.
Bua, surprisingly, didn't hesitate. As a soldier lunged for her horse's reins, she brought the iron rod down on his helmet with a sound like a cracked bell. The man folded instantly.
"Not bad!" Kraisorn shouted over the din. He had drawn his sword now, the blade whistling through the air with terrifying precision. He wasn't fighting like a soldier; he was dancing. Every movement was fluid, arrogant, and ended in a spray of red.
"Watch your left!" Bua yelled.
Kraisorn ducked a spear thrust without looking, his sword coming up to gut the attacker in one smooth motion. He straightened his waistcoat and winked at her.
"I saw it, rat. I was just giving him hope. It makes the end so much more poignant."
In less than five minutes, the camp was a wreck. Half the men were fled into the woods, and the other half were staying very still on the grass. Phichai stood in the center of the mess, his cape torn but otherwise unharmed.
Kraisorn dismounted, stepping over a body to reach the fire. He picked up a discarded skewer of meat and sniffed it.
"Cold," he grumbled, tossing it back. "Absolutely useless, these Southerners. Can't even cook a proper breakfast while being slaughtered."
He turned to Bua, who was leaning on her mace, breathing hard. "Well? Did you enjoy yourself, or are you going to complain about the manual labor again?"
Bua wiped a smudge from her forehead. "You're a lunatic. You could have been killed five times over."
"But I wasn't," Kraisorn said, his eyes gleaming. "And now, we have a map, a few prisoners, and I've worked up a marvelous appetite. Phichai, bind the survivors. We're taking them back to the palace. I want to see if they scream in the same key as the tax collector."