A finger jabbed at his shoulder. ‘This order must be attended to at once, General Mitterick. At once!’ Felnigg nearly shrieked the last words, blasting Mitterick with spit. He could hardly believe the man’s obsession with proper form. Rules cost lives at times like these. What kind of an officer insisted on them in a headquarters while outside men were fighting? Dying? He ran a furious eye over the order:
Colonel Vallimir
General Mitterick’s troops are heavily engaged at the Old Bridge. Soon he will force the enemy to commit all his reserves. I wish you to begin your attack immediately, therefore, as discussed, and with every man at your disposal. Good luck.
Kroy
The First had been attached to Mitterick’s division and so, as their commander, it was his responsibility to clarify their instructions. Kroy’s order was lean and efficient as the marshal himself, as always, and the timing was apt. But Mitterick was damned if he was going to miss an opportunity to frustrate the marshal’s chinless stick-insect of a right hand man. If he wanted it by the book, he could have it by the book and bloody choke on it. So he spread the paper out on top of his map, snapped his fingers until someone thrust a pen into them, and added a scratchy line of his own at the bottom almost without considering the content.
Ensure that the enemy are fully engaged before crossing the stream, and in the meantime take care not to give away your position on their flank. My men and I are giving our all. I will not have them let down.
General Mitterick, Second Division
He took a route to his tent flap that enabled him to shoulder Felnigg rudely out of the way. ‘Where the hell is that boy from Vallimir’s regiment?’ he bellowed into the thinning drizzle. ‘What was his name? Leperlisper?’
‘Lederlingen, sir!’ A tall, pale, nervous-looking young man stepped forward, gave an uncertain salute and finished it off with an even more uncertain, ‘General Mitterick, sir.’ Mitterick would not have trusted him to convey his chamber pot safely to the stream, let alone to carry a vital order, but he supposed, as Bialoveld once said, ‘In battle one must often make the best of contrary conditions.’
‘Take this order to Colonel Vallimir at once. It’s from the lord marshal, d’you understand? Highest importance.’ And Mitterick pressed the folded, creased and now slightly ink-blotted paper into his limp hand.
Lederlingen stood there for a moment, staring at the order.
‘Well?’ snapped the general.
‘Er …’ He saluted again. ‘Sir, yes—’
‘Move!’ roared Mitterick in his face. ‘Move!’
Lederlingen backed away, still at absurd attention, then hurried through the boot-mashed mud and over to his horse.
By the time he’d struggled into his wet saddle, a thin, chinless officer in a heavily starched uniform had emerged from Mitterick’s tent and was hissing something incomprehensible at the general while a collection of guards and officers looked on, among them a large, sad-eyed man with virtually no neck who seemed vaguely familiar.
Lederlingen had no time to waste trying to place him. Finally, he had a job worth the doing. He turned his back on the unedifying spectacle of two of his Majesty’s most senior officers bitterly arguing with one another and spurred off to the west. He couldn’t honestly say he was sorry to be going. A headquarters appeared to be an even more frightening and disorientating place than the front line.
He rode through the tight-packed men before the tent, shouting for them to give him room, then through the looser mass making ready for another attack on the bridge, all the time with one hand on the reins and the order clutched in the other. He should have put it in his pocket, it was only making it harder for him to ride, but he was terrified of losing it. An order from Lord Marshal Kroy himself. This was exactly the kind of thing he’d been hoping for when he first signed up, bright-eyed, was it really only three months ago?
He’d cleared the main body of Mitterick’s division now, their clamour fading behind him. He upped the pace, bending low over his horse’s back, thumping down a patchy track away from the Old Bridge and towards the marshes. He’d have to leave his horse with the picket at the south bank, unfortunately, and cross the bogs on foot to take the order to Vallimir. If he didn’t put a foot wrong and end up taking the order down to Klige instead.
That thought gave him a shudder. His cousin had warned him not to enlist. Had told him wars were upside-down places where good men did worse than bad. Had told him wars were all about rich men’s ambitions and poor men’s graves, and there hadn’t been two honest fellows to strike a spark of decency in the whole company he served with. That officers were all arrogance, ignorance and incompetence. That soldiers were all cowards, braggarts, bullies or thieves. Lederlingen had supposed his cousin to be exaggerating for effect, but now had to admit that he seemed rather to have understated the case. Corporal Tunny, in particular, gave the strong impression of being coward, braggart, bully and thief all at once, as thorough a villain as Lederlingen had laid eyes upon in his life, but by some magic almost celebrated by the other men as a hero. All hail good old Corporal Tunny, the shabbiest cheat and shirker in the whole division!
The track had become a stony path, threading through a gully alongside a stream, or at any rate a wide ditch full of wet mud, trees heavy with red berries growing out over it. The place smelled of rot. It was impossible to ride at anything faster than a bumpy trot. Truly, the soldier’s life took a man to some beautiful and exotic locations.
Lederlingen heaved out a sigh. War was an upside-down place, all right, and he was rapidly coming around to his cousin’s opinion that it was no place for him at all. He would just have to keep his head low, stay out of trouble and follow Tunny’s advice never to volunteer for anything—
‘Ah!’ A wasp had stung his leg. Or that was what he thought at first, though the pain was considerably worse. When he looked down, there was an arrow in his thigh. He stared at it. A long, straight stick with grey and white flights. An arrow. He wondered if someone was playing a joke on him for a moment. A fake arrow. It hurt so much less than he’d ever thought it might. But there was blood soaking into his trousers. It was a real arrow.
Someone was shooting at him!
He dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and screamed. Now the arrow hurt. It hurt like a flaming brand rammed through his leg. His mount jerked forwards on the rocky path and he lost his grip on the reins, bounced once in the saddle, the hand clutching the order flailing at the air. Then he hit the ground, teeth rattling, head spinning, tumbling over and over.
He staggered up, sobbing at the pain in his leg, half-hopped about, trying to get his bearings. He managed to draw his sword. There were two men on the path behind. Northmen. One was walking towards him, purposeful, a knife in his hand. The other had a bow raised.
‘Help!’ shouted Lederlingen, but it was breathy, weak. He wasn’t sure when he last passed a Union soldier. Before he came into the gully, maybe, he’d seen some scouts, but that had been a while back. ‘Help—’
The arrow stuck right through his jacket sleeve. Right through his arm inside it. This time it hurt from the start. He dropped his sword with a shriek. His weight went onto his right leg and it gave under him. He tumbled down the bank, jolts of agony shooting through his limbs whenever the ground caught at the broken shafts.
He was in the mud. Had the order in his fist still. He tried to get up. Heard the squelch of a boot beside him. Something hit him in the side of the neck and made his head jolt.
Foss Deep plucked the bit of paper out of the Southerner’s hand, wiped his knife on the back of his jacket, then planted a boot on his head and pushed his face down into the bloody mud. Didn’t want him screaming any. In part on account of stealth, but in part just because he found these days he didn’t care for the sounds of persons dying. If it had to be done, so, so, but he didn’t need to hear about it, thank you very much all the same.
Shallow was leading the Southerner’s horse down the bank into the sogg
y stream bed. ‘She’s a good one, no?’ he asked, grinning up at it.
‘Don’t call her she. It’s a horse, not your wife.’
Shallow patted the horse on the side of its face. ‘She’s better looking than your wife was.’
‘That’s rude and uncalled for.’
‘Sorry. What shall we do with … it, then? It’s a good one. Be worth a pretty—’
‘How you going to get it back over the river? I ain’t dragging that thing through a bog, and there’s a fucking battle on the bridge, in case you forgot.’
‘I didn’t forget.’
‘Kill it.’
‘Just a shame is all—’
‘Just bloody kill it and let’s get on.’ He pointed down at the Southerner under his boot. ‘I’m killing him, aren’t I?’
‘Well, he isn’t bloody worth anything—’
‘Just kill it!’ Then, realising he shouldn’t be raising his voice, since they was on the wrong side of the river and there might be Southerners anywhere, whispered, ‘Just kill it and hide the bloody thing!’
Shallow gave him a sour look, but he dragged on the horse’s bridle, put his weight across its neck and got it down, then gave it a quick stab in the neck, leaning on it while it poured blood into the muck.
‘Shit on a shitty shit.’ Shallow shook his head. ‘There’s no money in killing horses. We’re taking risksies enoughsies coming over here in the first—’
‘Stop it.’
‘Stop what?’ As he dragged a fallen tree branch over the horse’s corpse.
Deep looked up at him. ‘Talking like a child, what do you think? It’s odd, is what it is. It’s like your head’s trapped at four years old.’
‘My parts of speech upset you?’ Chopping another branch free with his hatchet.
‘They do, as it goes, yes.’
Shallow got the horse hidden to his satisfaction. ‘Guess I’ll have to stopsy wopsy, then.’
Deep gave a long sigh through gritted teeth. One day he’d kill Shallow, or the other way around, he’d known it ever since he was ten years old. He unfolded the paper and held it up to the light.
‘What’s the matter of it?’ asked Shallow, peering over his shoulder.
Deep turned slowly to look at him. He wouldn’t have been surprised if today turned out to be the day. ‘What? Did I learn to read Southerner in my sleep and not realise? How in the land of the dead should I know what the bloody matter of it is?’
Shallow shrugged. ‘Fair point. It has the look of import, though.’
‘It do indeed have every appearance of significance.’
‘So?’
‘I guess it becomes a question of who we know might find ’emselves tempted to fork out for it.’
They looked at each other and said it together. ‘Calder.’
This time White-Eye Hansul rode up fast, and with no hint of a smile. His shield had a broken arrow shaft in it and there was a cut across his forehead. He looked like a man who’d been in action. Calder felt sick just seeing him.
‘Scale wants you to bring your men up.’ There was no laughter in his voice now. ‘The Southerners are coming across the bridge again and this time they’ve come hard. He can’t hold out much longer.’
‘All right.’ Calder had known the moment would come, but that didn’t make it any sweeter. ‘Get them ready.’
‘Aye.’ And Pale-as-Snow strode off barking orders.
Calder reached for his sword hilt and made a show of loosening it as he watched his brother’s men – his men – stand up from behind Clail’s Wall and prepare to join the battle. Time to write the first verse in the song of bold Prince Calder. And hope it wasn’t the last.
‘Your prince-li-ness!’
Calder looked round. ‘Foss Deep. You always come upon me at my brightest moments.’
‘I can smell desperation.’ Deep was dirty, and not just from a moral standpoint. Even dirtier than usual, as if he’d dived into a bog, which Calder didn’t doubt he would have if he’d thought there was a coin at the bottom.
‘What is it? I’ve a battle to die gloriously in.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t want to stop ’em strumming ballads in your honour.’
‘They already sing songs about him,’ said Shallow.
Deep grinned. ‘Not in his honour, though. We found something might be of interest.’
‘Look!’ Shallow pointed off to the south, white teeth smiling in his mud-spattered face. ‘There’s a rainbow!’
There was, in fact, a faint one, curving down towards the distant barley as the rain slackened and the sun showed itself again, but Calder was in no mood to appreciate it. ‘Did you just want to draw my attention to the endless beauty all around us, or is there something more to the point?’
Deep held out a piece of folded paper, creased and dirty. Calder reached for it and he whipped it theatrically away. ‘For a price.’
‘The price for paper isn’t high.’
‘’Course not,’ said Deep. ‘It’s what’s written on that paper gives it value.’
‘And what’s written on it?’
The brothers looked at each other. ‘Something. We found it on some Union lad.’
‘I’ve no time for this. Chances are high it’s just some letter from Mother.’
‘Letter?’ asked Shallow.
Calder snapped his fingers. ‘Give it me and I’ll pay you what it’s worth. Or you can peddle your rainbows elsewhere.’
The brothers exchanged glances again. Shallow shrugged. Deep slapped the paper into Calder’s hand. It didn’t appear to be worth much at a glance, spotted with mud and what looked suspiciously like blood. Knowing these two, definitely blood. There was neat writing inside.
Colonel Vallimir,
General Mitterick’s troops are heavily engaged at the Old Bridge. Soon he will force the enemy to commit all his reserves. I wish you to begin your attack immediately, therefore, as discussed, and with every man at your disposal. Good luck.
Then what might have been a name but it was right in the crease, the paper was all scuffed and Calder couldn’t make sense of it. It looked like an order, but he’d never heard of any Vallimir. An attack on the Old Bridge. That was hardly news. He was about to throw it away when he caught the second block of writing in a wilder, slanting hand.
Ensure that the enemy are fully engaged before crossing the stream, and in the meantime take care not to give away your position on their flank. My men and I are giving our all. I will not have them let down.
General Mitterick, Second Division
Mitterick. Dow had mentioned that name. One of the Union’s generals. Something about him being sharp and reckless. My men and I are giving our all? He sounded a pompous idiot. Ordering an attack across a stream, though. On the flank. Calder frowned. Not the river. And not the bridge. He blinked around at the terrain, thinking about it. Wondering where soldiers could be for that order to make sense.
‘By the dead,’ he whispered. There were Union men in the woods over to the west, ready to cross the beck and take them in their flank at any moment. There had to be!
‘Worth something, then?’ asked Shallow, smirking.
Calder hardly heard him. He pushed past the two killers and hurried up the rise to the west, shoving between the grim-faced men leaning against Clail’s Wall so he could get a view across the stream.
‘What is it?’ asked White-Eye, bringing his horse up on the other side of the drystone.
Calder snapped open the battered eyeglass his father used to use and peered westwards, up that slope covered with old stumps, past the woodcutters’ sheds and towards the shadowy trees beyond. Were they crawling with Union soldiers, ready to charge across the shallow water as soon as they saw him move? There was no sign of men there. Not even a glint of steel among the trees. Could it be a trick?
Should he keep his promise, charge to his brother’s aid and risk offering the whole army’s bare arse to the enemy? Or stay behind the wall and leave Scale the one with
his backside in the breeze? That was the safe thing, wasn’t it? Hold the line. Prevent disaster. Or was he only telling himself what he wanted to hear? Was he relieved to have found a way to avoid fighting? A way to get rid of his idiot older brother? Liar, liar, he didn’t even know when he was telling himself the truth any more.
He desperately wanted someone to tell him what to do. He wished Seff was with him, she always had bold ideas. She was brave. Calder wasn’t made for riding to the rescue. Hanging back was more his style. Saving his own skin. Killing prisoners. Not doing it himself, of course, but ordering it done. Poking other men’s wives while they were doing the fighting, maybe, if he was really feeling adventurous. But this was a long way outside his expertise. What the hell should he do?
‘What’s going on?’ asked Pale-as-Snow. ‘The men are—’
‘The Union are in the woods on the other side of that stream!’
There was a silence, in which Calder realised he’d spoken far louder than he needed to.
‘The Union’s over there? You sure?’
‘Why haven’t they come already?’ White-Eye wanted to know.
Calder held up the paper. ‘Because I’ve got their orders. But they’ll get more.’
He could hear the Carls around him muttering. Knew they were passing the news from man to man. Probably that was no bad thing. Probably that was why he’d shouted it.
‘What do we do, then?’ hissed White-Eye. ‘Scale’s waiting for help.’
‘I know that, don’t I? No one knows that better than me!’ Calder stood frowning towards the trees, his free hand opening and closing. ‘Tenways.’ By the dead, he was clutching at dust now, running for help to a man who’d tried to have him murdered a few days before. ‘Hansul, get up to Skarling’s Finger and tell Brodd Tenways we’ve got the Union out there in the woods to the west. Tell him Scale needs him. Needs him now, or we’ll lose the Old Bridge.’
The Great Leveller: Best Served Cold, The Heroes and Red Country Page 103
