The Might of Evil Dreams (A Novel of the Elemental Chronicles)

Prologue - Turned Upside-Down

^^Above: Engraving of the Battle of Yorktown, the conflict that decided the outcome of the Revolutionary War. And if you've seen or heard the soundtrack to "Hamilton", you know how it ended.^^

Yorktown, Virginia

October 1781

The bombardments had been going on for days. Officers were getting restless, knowing the French and the Americans were getting closer. Just the other day, one of them had mentioned they wouldn't be able to hold out much longer. The allied armies were dirty fighters, and yet they attacked with surprising swiftness and stealth. Especially the Continentals – they didn't seem to have half the training of the British army, but they made up for it in grit and stamina.

Captain Thomas Haywood was finished loading his rifle, but sat in the same position, unmoving. Three years ago, he'd been at home with his brother Francis by his side. Blissfully unaware of what was to come. But even then, he saw a darkness in Francis that stayed with him. Something about his younger brother unsettled him, but to this day he couldn't put his finger on it.

"Oi, Tom, what's up?" Corporal John Burke nudged Thomas with the end of his musket from behind as he approached. "Why the long face, eh?"

"I was thinking of home," he said. "Do you miss it?"

"'Course. All the time." Burke reached into his coat and pulled out his pipe. "Miss my Bella most of all."

Thomas sighed. His parents wanted him to find a suitable wife, and soon. There'd been no hope for Francis. Their mother once worried that he secretly fancied men instead. Thomas knew the truth. His brother was too occupied with his own mental state, seeing things that no one else could and often attacking the air with a frightening and increasing violence. Inexplicable, and yet untreatable.

"Your brother again?" asked Burke, through with tamping down the tobacco in his pipe and was now lighting it.

"How did you guess?" Thomas wished he could hide his emotions better, but it wouldn't have done any good. John Burke could read people much better than anyone he knew.

"Get this faraway look in your eyes, Tom. Like you're someplace else."

"I am someplace else. With my brother."

"Burke! Haywood!"

The both of them snapped to attention. Emerging from between two trees was General Roland Oliver, commander of the 43rd Foot Guard. His hard blue eyes were narrowed, and he was gripping the hilt of his sabre in a white-knuckled fist.

"What are you doing lolling about, Corporal?" Oliver snapped. "I thought I already gave you orders."

"Just finished up, General." Burke was nonchalant, something Thomas didn't even dare to try in front of the the man. He'd probably rip into him the same way he was doing to John right now.

"Then go check again," hissed Oliver. "I have those bloody Frogs dogging us from all sides now."

"Yes, General. Right away." Burke saluted and brushed past Oliver, leaving Thomas alone with him.

"I expect promptness next time, Captain," Oliver said to Thomas, without even a greeting. "You won't get this kind of time on a battlefield. Let alone quiet."

"I know, General." Thomas stood and picked up the overturned bucket he'd been using. "I needed time to think, that's all."

"About what?" Without his bi-corn hat, Oliver and Thomas were the same height. But he was wearing it now, and it allowed him to tower over anyone he spoke to. "You have neither a wife nor a betrothed at home, and you seem less than inclined to write any letters to family. The rest of the men do. Keeps them sane, I think."

"It's my brother, General. He's been having a tough time of it since I left for the war, Mother tells me." Thomas rubbed at his unshaven jaw.

"Your home life is of no concern to me," said Oliver, jabbing Thomas in the chest, over his gorget. "Rally the men, Haywood. I expect the Frogs will be advancing any day now."

"Yes, General. Sir."

||

At exactly noon the next day, the French descended on them, although Thomas didn't know it initially. The 43rd were hardly expecting it, and took their time making repairs to weapons, tack, provisions. But a shout from deep within the woods, followed by a gunshot, spurred them into action. Thomas yanked on his coat and seized his rifle, running up to meet their assailants. He could already see white coats flashing between the trees. It was the bloody French.

He fired instantly at an oncoming soldier. The man jerked backward and fell into the bush. Promptly another was behind him, shouting what Thomas guessed were insults right in his face. The second soldier fired but missed, and at close range Thomas had no choice but to use his bayonet.

The battle went on for what seemed a long time. Whenever Thomas dispatched a soldier, there seemed to be an inexhaustible supply to replace him. He sustained a gunshot wound to the shoulder and a bayonet stab to his calf, and was pressed against a tree with the French firing non-stop at him when he came across Burke, prone on the ground and unmoving.

"Corporal!" Thomas dragged himself forward, turning Burke onto his side. Blood bloomed across the red of his coat and the white of the waistcoat beneath. "Burke!"

Burke's eyes cracked open, a nasty cut sending red streaming across his forehead. He coughed, and blood dribbled from his mouth. "Tom..."

Thomas didn't know what to say. There was no hope for him now, he could see that. "Just hold on, Burke, hold on..."

Convulsively, Burke clutched a handful of Thomas's coat. Now his eyes were wide and rolling with fear. "Tell Bella, Tom...tell her..."

He never heard the rest. A French soldier descended on them, slamming the butt of his rifle into Thomas's head, so hard it knocked him sideways and made black spots flash in his vision. And just before he blacked out, he saw the soldier stab Corporal Burke through the chest.

It was only much later that he found out they'd lost. Their colonies were gone. The Americans had defeated them. And John Burke, his best friend and comrade, was dead.