by Peter Fane
Here, alone in the cold and the dark, the great weapon sang for him.
It sang for him, even now.
Colj frowned.
Master Falmon must know this, surely.
Or Lord Garen.
Or Lord Doldon.
But if any of them did know, then why had the boy not been brought into the ancient battle rites? Why had the boy not been taught the correct counterpoints, trained to unleash the weapon’s divine rage? The war music was here, swelling the room, waiting for any blessed soldier to hear. Since this was so, why was this little warrior dressed in rags in the freezing dark, cleaning this mighty weapon with a scrap of cloth, his garments falling off him in tatters?
Fury stirred in Colj’s center.
He acknowledged its presence and its justice, and let it flow through him. Dear Saj, too, had been humble in his gift.
Perhaps they did not know. But how could that be? And what to do with this little warrior? This little soldier who worked so hard for their cause. This warrior who had within him the power to save them all.
He must be tested, Colj realized.
He looked down at the boy.
The boy looked back up at him.
“Well done,” Colj told him. The boy nodded. He was tired.
“Finish your work. Get some sleep.” Colj glanced at the great war cannon, then looked back to the boy. “In two days, you will face battle together.”
The boy stared up at him. His eyes were glassy with fatigue. He seemed weak on his feet. The little soldier needed his rest. Colj understood. They were all tired.
Colj looked closely at the boy. Through the boy’s bright ja, Colj could sense his confusion. The boy did not fully understand Colj’s words.
“I will see to it.” Colj nodded, speaking slowly so that the boy would understand. “You will be tested.” He put his hand on the great cannon. “You will face battle together. You have my word, little soldier.”
THE SECOND DAY
6
THE NEXT MORNING, down in his little nest, down under a rickety bunk at the very back of the cleaners’ barracks, Little Dan Eadle woke and yawned—.
Or tried to yawn.
But he couldn’t breathe.
Something stinky covered his mouth.
And he couldn’t see, either.
Something pushed down on his face, mashing his eyes shut.
His chest was warm and tingly, almost burning.
He shook his head, as hard as he could. He kicked and tried to roll over—but something held him down.
His pals?
No way . . . .
Monsters!
Scary monsters from the dark!
He had to warn his pals!
“Watch out, Chief!” Little Dan tried to shout, but that stinky thing over his mouth stopped him from yelling.
The monsters had caught him.
They’d spread his arms and legs, stretched him open.
Black wire wrapped his wrists, bit into his skin.
He tried to kick, to move any which way.
But he couldn’t budge.
He couldn’t breathe.
His head spun. Red shapes wiggled in his eyes.
And he still couldn’t breathe.
The monsters—they wouldn’t let him breathe.
He thrashed his head back and forth, trying to get a breath.
Impossible.
Lungs on fire.
He tried to holler to his pals, but the monsters wouldn’t let him breathe, so how was he supposed to yell? And if he didn’t yell, how would his pals know to run?
Whispering now.
Monsters, whispering in the dark.
“Get his ankles there,” someone hissed, close to his ear.
Dan went still.
He knew that voice.
It was his pals!
It was Chief Tendal and the gang!
Not monsters!
His pals!
Thank the Sisters! For truth!
Then the stinky thing came away from his face. Little Dan took a huge gulp of air and coughed, “Chief, I’m sorry, I thought—.”
“Shut up,” the Chief hissed and elbowed Dan in the stomach. FUMP! Dan grunted, eyes clamped shut, and tried to double up, but he couldn’t because they’d spread him out, tied his wrists and ankles to the lower legs of the bunk. He couldn’t breathe again. His face went hot. It seemed kind of early for the beat-up game, but he would try to play right. Yes, sir. Try his best. “Every day’s a day to do better,” he said in his head in Master Falmon’s rough voice. Try to breathe, soldier. Just try to breathe. One of the rules. You had to take it. You can take it, soldier.
“Tighter.” Dan heard the Chief order, felt them pull his legs farther down. More twine wrapped around his ankles.
“Stupid cry baby,” someone muttered.
Dan gulped for air. The sound was ragged. He did feel tears in his eyes, shook his head to get rid of them, and blinked. You couldn’t cry.
“Cry, baby, cry,” someone said.
“Cry, baby, cry.” They started slowly. “Cry, baby, cry.”
But he wasn’t crying. He knew the rules.
Dan tried to take a breath, to show them he wasn’t crying. And even if it looked like he was crying, he wasn’t really crying. The tears had come on their own because he couldn’t breathe, and that wasn’t his fault. He knew how to play. Yes, sir!
Then he almost did start to cry. But the moment he felt tears coming, he bit the side of his tongue as hard as he could, took a gulp of air, and shook his head. He knew how to play. He could take it. The most important thing to remember in the beat-up game: If you want to win, you had to take it. No flinching, no crying. And there were all kinds of other tricks you could use to play and to win. You could pretend like you were someplace else. He used that one all the time. And if you couldn’t do that, then you could pretend that you were somebody else. He used that one all the time, too.
“Cry, baby, cry!” They chanted.
Sometimes, he’d pretend he was big Captain Colj. “A big, strong ogre,” Dan said to himself, using Captain Colj’s deep ogre voice. An ogre could take lots of hits. Your pals could pound on you for hours, but they’d never really hurt you. Or you could pretend you were Lord Michael, the best fighter in the whole world. Your pals could punch you and kick you all night long, but it wouldn’t hurt. Or—best of all—you could pretend you were Stormy, made of magical high silver. They’d tie you up and play the beat-up game on you forever, but they’d never really hurt you, not even a little. You can take it, soldier! Dan knew the rules. And he knew how to play. Boy, did he ever.
“Cry, baby, cry!” The chanting continued.
Little Dan felt a weird, slightly crazy grin spread across his face.
“For the Tarn!” he shouted as they wrapped more twine around his ankles. “For the Remain!”
Someone laughed over the chanting. Little Dan tried to laugh, too. But he couldn’t because he still couldn’t breathe right.
“Cry, baby, cry!” Faster now. “Cry, baby, cry!”
Little Dan looked over at Chief Tendal and tried to smile. Then he said, “I like to play the beat-up game with my pals, Chief. Yes, sir! I like it. I’m a good soldier. I can take it. And I’m gonna win.”
The Chief’s eyebrows shot up.
“Shut up,” he said to the others.
“Cry, baby, cry!”
“Shut up,” the Chief said again.
Everyone shut up.
Dan nodded. That was another really great thing about the Chief. He was always in charge. A good soldier. And a good pal, too. Not like Stormy, of course. Not that good. But still real good.
The Chief looked down at Dan, then shook his head. “Always knew you was a dumb-butt crazy turd, Eadle. But man, you crazy. I got some questions for ya, pal. What you doin’ down there with Master Falmon and the others last night? Crazy Bill says he saw ‘em go down there when you was down there doin’ your boot lickin’. What’s goin’ on? W
hat you see? What they say?”
Dan blinked. His stomach wasn’t really hurting anymore so he finally was able to take a deep breath and look around.
They’d surrounded his nest completely. Two of his pals were at each of his feet, one pal at each of his arms, and Chief Tendal there, next to his head. Four or five of the others were standing in front of the bunk. Rost Gonnerdun was above him, looking down over the edge of his bunk, his face going red from hanging his head down like that, not saying anything because Rost Gonnerdun was mute and only made this funny little hooting sound. Dan suddenly remembered a time when the Chief had tried to play the beat-up game with Rost Gonnerdun, but Rost Gonnerdun couldn’t really yell right and that was an important part of the game, to yell and scream and stuff, and Rost only made that weird hooting all the time, so he couldn’t really play. “Gotta yell while you take it, soldier,” Dan had told him later. One of the rules. But Rost had only smiled and hooted at him.
Someone had taken Little Dan’s toolbox from its place in his nest, knocked it over, and kicked his rags and brushes and the rest of his gear all over the floor. His lamp’s loop was busted, one of his empty jars of polish was broken, and it looked like someone had tried to break his oil tin. They’d taken his pillow, too. But that was just an old pants leg he’d stuffed with rags, so that wasn’t too bad. Dan would never say it out loud, but this was a part of the game that he didn’t really like, when they messed with your gear and broke your things and stuff, because it made it harder to do the work. But then again, you couldn’t always like everything, and they were his pals. And a pal was a pal, no matter what.
Dan looked around at their faces. He knew them all. He smiled at them. He didn’t know all their names, of course. He was real bad at remembering names, anyway. But Benjy Dalter was there, Chief Tendal’s second-in-command, holding his own lamp, looking kind of itchy. Benjy Dalter didn’t really like the beat-up game, but Benjy was still part of the Chief’s gang. And there was Juder Lown and Mateo Zouder and Crazy Bill Femp. Little Dan couldn’t remember the rest of their names. He knew those guys because they were always closest, he could see their faces, and because they were always in on the game. Dan knew Crazy Bill because Crazy Bill was crazy mean and he liked the crazy bad games. A few of the others carried lamps, too. The flames glowed and smoked and made their eyes glow.
Dan was breathing better now. You had to get your breathing right to play the game good, to take it like a soldier does. Yes, sir! Dan pulled at the twine at his wrists and ankles. It was tight. He hoped the Chief would untie him when they were done playing, because a couple of times—lots of times, actually—the Chief had forgotten about him and Little Dan had been down there in his nest all day until Val or one of the other girls found him and let him loose.
The Chief nodded, like he was reading his mind. “You’re not goin’ anywhere, Eadle. You gonna stay there ‘til we get what we want. Now, give. We know there’s gonna be action today. Or is it gonna be tomorrow? What you hear, pal? What you see when the High Lords was down there? What they say? Cough it up.”
Little Dan smiled. He’d played this version of the game before. It was one of his favorites. Like a test.
You will be tested.
Yeah. Just like what big Captain Colj had said.
“You will be tested,” Dan said to himself in Captain Colj’s deep voice.
A test to see if you’d be a traitor.
The way to win was like this: You imagine that the Chief was one of the Evil King’s bad spies, and if you told the secret, then you were a traitor, and then Lord Michael would cut off your arms and your legs with his black sword. But if you took the hits, if you didn’t tell the secret, then you were a good soldier, and then the Silver King would hear about how good you were and say that you did a real good job, and if the Silver King said that you were good . . . .
“Then you is good,” Dan said.
“Cough it up, little boot-licker.” The Chief grabbed Dan’s ear and twisted it hard. Dan yelped in spite of himself. The Chief nodded. “Down there all night long, kissin’ butts and lickin’ boots. Think they gonna like you?” The Chief twisted Dan’s ear again, harder this time. It didn’t hurt, not really. The Chief would never really hurt him. Dan knew that, for truth. The Chief smiled. “I decide who moves up down here. I decide who does what. Now, give—you stupid, lying, crazy, little, crazy.”
With each word, the Chief twisted Dan’s ear harder, still smiling.
“Ain’t tellin’ you spit,” Dan yelped. “I don’t tell nobody the secrets. No, sir!” Then, to show them all he wasn’t scared, to show he knew the rules, that he was a good soldier, Dan added, “You go eat a turd. A big stinky one, you, you traitor spy . . . you, uh, you turd muncher! Eatin’ a stinky old turd like the Evil King eats! With farts on it!”
The Chief blinked, looked from Dan to the others. Then he snorted. Then he laughed. The rest of them laughed with him. They sounded like donkeys. Dan laughed, too. One of the rules. Laugh with the pals.
“Oh, I see!” The Chief grinned. “You know all the secrets, eh? I bet Lord Garen made you promise to keep ‘em, too, didn’t he? Stupid little worm. Smartest lord in the Realm made you promise to keep his secrets? Makes perfect sense. Perfect sense the cleverest lord spends the time talking to a stupid, lying, little, crazy.”
The Chief dotted each of those last words with a knuckle rap on Dan’s head, each one harder than the last. Dan moved his head back and forth so he couldn’t get him in the same place twice. He knew that trick. Yes, sir. The Chief taught him that one last year. It wasn’t really a flinch, so it didn’t get worse when you did it; it was more like a dodge.
“Yeah.” The Chief’s grin got bigger. “Makes a lot of sense, Eadle. Now, I’m gonna ask you again. What’s goin’ on? What you hear? What they say? I’m in charge. These’re my men, here. They gonna pick to see who goes out today, I know it. Or tomorrow. Whenever it is. I can smell it. We might not see action, but then again, we might. You better spill it. Ain’t gonna hurt you, Eadle. We’re pals.” The Chief smiled. “Just tell me what you heard down there. What you see?”
Dan shook his head.
The Chief cocked his head. “What’d Master Falmon say? Were the High Lords there? Crazy Bill says Lord Doldon and Lord Michael were there, and Master Falmon and Colj, and Lady Kyla and Captain Dyer. Even that dwarf and his dragon—all of ‘em down there. That true? What about Lord James?”
Dan shook his head, lips tight. Crazy Bill looked down at him, his eyes all mean and crazy. Then Crazy Bill licked his crazy lips, winked, and mouthed, “Sweets.” Dan sure hoped the Chief wouldn’t leave him alone with Crazy Bill. Crazy Bill liked the bad games, the ones you played with a knife or a nail.
“Think you don’t have to tell me?” The Chief frowned, pretending to be angry. “Think your boot-lickin’ down there makes you somethin’? You ain’t nothin’ down there, stupid crazy. You ain’t nothin’ here. So cough it up.” Then he smiled and said real quiet, “C’mon, pal.”
Little Dan shook his head. He knew that trick, too.
The Chief sighed. “Gimme that lamp, Dalter.” He held out his hand to Benjy Dalter.
Benjy Dalter looked at his lamp, then handed it over.
The Chief held the lamp down by Little Dan’s face.
“Ever smell burning hair, Eadle? Or skin?”
The Chief waved the smoky flame next to Dan’s eye. Dan pulled away, twisting his face towards the wall. This happened during the game sometimes, too. He still had a scar on his tummy from the last time they’d played with fire together, but that was a long time ago and that had been Crazy Bill’s fault. That one had hurt at first, but then Dan had realized that it only was hurting in his head, so he’d pretended he was Stormy and he hadn’t felt anything else after that. The Chief would pretend to hurt him, but he’d never hurt him for real. He was a good pal.
“It stinks.” The Chief moved his fingers through the smoky flame. “Stinks like a burnt turd. Smells like a
burnt up little Eadle. Now, tell the truth.”
“Ya,” Juder Lown snickered. “Tell the truth.” Crazy Bill Femp didn’t say anything. He just stared at Little Dan like he did with those crazy mean eyes.
Benjy Dalter slapped Dan on the leg, “C’mon, Dan. What you see down there? We just wanna know what’s going on, that’s all.”
“Shut up, Dalter.” The Chief smiled. “Just tell the truth, Eadle. Tell the truth.”
“Tell the truth,” they started. “Tell the truth. Tell the truth.”
As they chanted, the Chief moved the lamp back and forth in front of Dan’s face with the rhythm, bringing the flame closer and closer to his nose.
“Tell the truth! Tell the truth! Tell the truth!”
Dan shook his head.
“I’m not kidding, Eadle,” the Chief said. “You start talkin’ or I’m gonna give this to Crazy Bill, cook one of your ears off.”
“For the Tarn!” Little Dan yelled. “For the Remain! I don’t tell no secrets! I’m a good soldier! Every day, that’s the way, I don’t say! No secrets! No, sir! Chief Tendal, sir! No, sir!”
“Tell the truth! Tell the truth!”
“Hold his head there, lads. You do it, Bill. Start with one of his eyebrows.”
Little hands held Dan’s face still, nails digging his cheeks. Someone punched his shin to the rhythm of the chant—not exactly fair, but not really against the rules, either. Crazy Bill smiled and licked his lips and took the lamp.
“Tell the truth, tell the truth—!”
“Let him up, Tendal.”
A girl’s voice.
Everything stopped, the chanting, the punching, the game, everything.
“Let him up, I said.”
Little Dan groaned.
It was the worst thing that could ever happen.
It was Val and her girls.
The Chief stood up, turned around. “How I discipline my men isn’t up to you, Val. You got your people. I got mine.”
“I like this game!” Little Dan hollered. “I can take it, Val. I’m a good soldier! Get outta here!” He didn’t want Val to be there. When Val and her girls came, his pals got hurt.
