by K. J. Parker
Teucer took it. Heavy, but soft. “What is it?”
“Mail coif,” Pilad said, keeping his voice soft and looking straight ahead. “We’re not supposed to have them, but I traded with the quartermaster, bottle of brandy I fetched from home. It goes over your head like a hood. He wouldn’t give us helmets. Covers the throat and the top of your chest, too. No, don’t open it now. Put it away before anyone sees.”
“Thanks,” Teucer said. “Why won’t they give them to us, if they’ve got them?”
Pilad grinned. “Too many of us, is why. Those aren’t ours, by the way, not for our side. That’s Western stuff, off dead bodies. One careful owner. Quartermaster buys it off men coming back off the front, flogs it to the recruits. Says he’ll take any mail we can get him, also helmets and leg plates if not too badly bashed up. So keep your eyes open, all right?”
Teucer nodded. “We could get in trouble.”
“Bit late for that.” Pilad yawned. “Want an apple? I got a couple left.”
“Later,” Teucer said. “You know, it doesn’t seem right, taking things off dead people. It’s like stealing.”
Pilad gave him one of those looks. “Really,” he said. “Where do you think those boots you’re wearing came from? Anyway, it’s not like we’re stealing anyone’s own stuff, it’s what they were issued with, it all belongs to some government. It’s not like pulling a ring off some poor bugger’s finger.”
“I guess,” Teucer said. “Even so. I’m not sure I want to live off carrion.”
“Crows manage.” Pilad gave him a wide smile. “Clever birds. Did you know they can count? It’s true. If two of you go and sit under a hedge and then one of you gets up and walks away, the crows won’t come back in to feed till the other one’s come out. Seen it myself, loads of times.”
Teucer couldn’t help grinning. “That’s bullshit.”
“True as I’m sat here. Would I lie to you?” He stood up, looked round. “Come on,” he said, “we’d better be making a move.”
Teucer hauled himself to his feet. It felt better now that there was an officer, though he hadn’t seen him for three days. Still, he was out there somewhere, like the Skyfather, dimly aware of everything and presumably taking an intelligent interest. Someone or something to believe in; that wasn’t too much to ask, surely.
A squadron of regular cavalry overtook them the next day, thundering past in a swirl of cloaks and dust. At the rear of their column, a dozen or so men were leading strings of riderless horses – remounts, or the horses of dead men; they went by so fast it was impossible to see very much. The day after that, they passed through farmland, the first inhabited and cultivated country they’d seen since they left home. Teucer could see sheep in a fold, smoke rising from half a dozen chimneys, a cart crawling along a distant road. By mid-afternoon they’d left it behind and were back up on the moors, where the only living things besides themselves were butterflies.
“I had the weirdest dream,” Musen said suddenly, as they started to climb again after a long march across a high, flat ridge. “I dreamed the war was over and we arrived too late, and everybody got something to take home except us.”
Notker said, “What sort of thing?”
“I don’t know. Big, all wrapped up in sacking. I remember we were standing in a great long line, and when we got to the front, this man in armour said, sorry, boys, it’s all gone.” He shrugged. “Maybe the war really is over,” he said. “Maybe I’m a prophet, like in Totona.”
Pilad shook his head. “Don’t think so,” he said. “For a start, the prophet in Totona’s a girl.”
Laughter. “So?” Musen protested. “I never heard it was only girls. My uncle, he reckons there was an old man in his village could tell what the weather was going to be, smack on every time. So it can be men, too.”
“Let’s hope you’re right,” Pilad said. “But I’m not holding my breath.”
Just before nightfall, they met a cart; big, bigger than a haywain, and piled so heavy that its axles were bowed with long parcels, wrapped in sacking. They could smell the cart long before and after it passed them. Musen went quite pale. Notker was about to say something but Pilad scowled at him and shook his head.
“War’s still on, then,” Teucer said quietly.
Pilad shrugged. “Could be they died of camp fever,” he muttered. “That’s what kills most people, so they reckon.”
“What’s camp fever?”
“The shits,” Pilad said. “But so bad it kills you. Mostly you get it from drinking bad water.”
“Oh,” Teucer said.
The next day they had to climb a very steep rise, which took them most of the morning. From the top, they could see for miles, though the view wasn’t particularly interesting: moorland, with tall mountains a long way to the north; a river like a slash oozing green blood. “That’ll be the Sannis,” Pilad said. “I’m guessing we follow it east till we reach Longamen.”
“Where’s that?”
“Where the fighting is,” Pilad replied, “or at least, that’s where it was when we were at Spire Cross. Anyhow, following the river won’t be so bad. We’ll have water, that’s for sure. And I’ll bet you there’s deer, or pigs. Bound to be rabbits, anyhow.”
They lost sight of the river soon after they started to go downhill, but knowing it was there made Teucer feel almost absurdly hopeful; a river, a clear line drawn across the landscape to guide them, this way to the war. He wasn’t so sure about that part of it, but at least there was finally something to see, aim for, follow. That had to be better than all the blank empty space.
Mid-afternoon, he heard Notker say, “Who do you reckon they are, then?” He looked round but he couldn’t see anything. Pilad stopped and turned his head. He was that much taller, of course. “Not sure,” he said. “Must be more cavalry, the speed they’re going at.”
“Headed this way?” someone else said.
“Can’t say. They’re moving away from us now, but the road loops and doubles back down in the valley. We’ll know soon enough,” he added, shifting his pack on his back. “Must be nice to ride everywhere, instead of having to damn well walk.”
Teucer took a few steps left and tried to peer round Pilad’s arm, but there was a rock outcrop in the way; he could see a slight smudge of dust in the air, but that was all. “I think they must’ve gone the other way,” Notker said. “Can’t see them any more.”
“Screw them,” Musen said.
Notker was trying to stuff a scrap of rag between his shoulder and the carrying strap of his bow case. “Give me my own two feet every time,” he said. “I hate riding. It’s such a long way down.”
“There’s nothing to it,” Pilad said. “You just sit there.”
They carried on for a while, climbing steadily. A lark burst out from the heather, making Pilad nearly jump out of his skin, and flew away shrieking. Musen muttered something about looking out for snakes, because you tended to get them wherever you found larks. That’s just not true, Notker said, because—
“They’re back,” someone said.
Teucer leaned back and craned his neck, and this time he could see them; at least, he could make out dust, rising almost vertically from the valley floor, a long way below. “You sure that’s the same lot?” he asked, but apparently it was too stupid a question to merit an answer. Whoever and whatever they were, there seemed to be a lot of them, moving quite fast. “First they’re above us, now they’re down there,” Oseir from East Reach said. “Wonder what they’re playing at?”
“Showing off,” Musen said.
“Could be.” Pilad uncorked his water flask and took two big gulps. “Bloody fools if they are.”
“You sure they’re on our side?” Notker asked.
Someone laughed. “With the cavalry, who knows?” said one of the Conegar men. “Don’t suppose they do, half the time.”
“Wonder if they’ve got any biscuits?” Oseir said. “We could trade them.”
“What would we
have that they’d want?” Pilad said.
They caught a few more glimpses of the horsemen through the afternoon and early evening, and when night fell and they lit their campfires it was in their minds that the riders might come across and join them; they’d have news, perhaps, or better food, or both. Come dawn, though, there was no trace of them to be seen, so it seemed likely they’d pulled out at some point in the night. “Maybe they’re escorting us,” Bajo from Stoneford said, “and they’ve gone on ahead to make sure the road’s clear or something.”
“You’d think they’d tell us, if they were doing that,” Musen said.
“Not necessarily. And anyhow, just because we don’t get told doesn’t mean they haven’t reported to the officer.”
“Him,” Musen said darkly. “Anybody seem him lately?”
“Could’ve done, for all I know,” Bajo replied. “On account of, I don’t know what he looks like.”
Thoughtful silence for a moment. “Well,” Notker said, “he’d be in uniform, wouldn’t he?”
“Like we are, you mean,” Pilad said.
“That’s different. He’s a regular.” Musen threw another chunk of dead thorn branch on the fire. It burned quick and cold, a lot of light and not much else. “I think he’s buggered off somewhere and we’re on our own again. That’s not right. We should have proper officers.”
Pilad laughed. “Then we’d have to act like real soldiers,” he said. “The hell with that.” He looked up at the sky. “Time we were on the road,” he said, and everybody got to their feet.
It took them the rest of the morning to get down the hill on to the plain; hard going, heather, bracken and shale, the gradient quite steep, the road broken and crumbling. By the time they reached the flat, the calves of Teucer’s legs were sore enough to slow him down, and he knew they’d be worse the next day. The level ground, though, was as good as a holiday. Something grazed here. The grass was short and soft, thick with clover and creeping buttercup. Teucer was tempted to string his bow, just in case they saw deer, but they were making far too much noise, so he left it in its case. When they reached the river, the smell of water was almost overpowering after so many days on the dry moor. They stopped, waiting for the officer to bawl them out for wasting time, but nobody spoke. Then they unslung their bow cases, quivers and packs and flopped down on the grass. It was flag iris season, and the riverbank was blue with them, knee- or even waist-high. Oseir and Notker stood up after a while, scrabbled about in the shallow water for flat stones, and started skipping them across the deeps between the stepping-stone reefs. Teucer watched them for a while, then asked, “Can you do that?”
Pilad shook his head. “My dad tried to teach me, but when I do it they just go splash.”
Suddenly, in spite of his sore legs, Teucer didn’t feel tired any more. He stood up and walked to a place on the bank where something (sheep, most likely) had broken down an easy ramp into the water. There was a small apron of shale, and he bent down to look for good skipping stones. He found one, then something caught his eye (upside down, seen from between his legs): horsemen, trotting towards them beside the water.
He straightened up. “They’re back,” he called out.
There were a lot of them. Pilad sat up and spat out the blade of grass he’d been chewing. Some of the others further downstream were waving and calling out. No need; the horsemen were headed their way.
“Been sent to find us, I bet you,” he heard Musen say to Oseir. “Probably we’re going to get a bollocking for wandering off.”
Odd-looking people. The first thing he noticed, once they were close enough to be more than horse and rider shapes, was the helmets they were wearing, because they flashed in the sun; tall and elegantly conical, like elongated steel onions, with a little tuft of white or black horsehair sticking out of the point on top. Whoever they were, they must have come from a very hot place, since they felt the need, in midsummer, to wear long wool cloaks with fur collars. Bowmen – something in common, except that their bows were absurdly short and round, like a pretty girl’s top lip. It hadn’t occurred to Teucer that they might be foreigners – but why not, it was a big empire, and if they were regulars, they could be serving hundreds of miles from home. If so, would he be able to talk to them and understand them? It’d be a pity if he couldn’t. He’d never met a foreigner.
“They ride with their bows strung,” someone he didn’t know said. He looked; true, and strange. You don’t keep your bow strung all the time, or it takes a set and loses its cast. Maybe it was different with the short cavalry bows, which were made out of horn and sinew rather than wood. It’d be nice if he got a chance to ask them, possibly even have a shot or two with a horn bow. He straightened up and lifted his arm to wave.
Something flew past him, level with the water. He guessed it was a dragonfly.
“Bloody lunatics,” said one of the Conegar men. Teucer wondered what he meant, and then he saw one of the riders draw an arrow from his quiver.
It was interesting how he did it. In Rhus, the quiver is worn on the back, a long way up, so that the fletchings of the arrows stand quite high over the right shoulder. The horseman’s quiver was on his belt, on the left side, so that the fletchings brushed the mushroom-shaped pommel of his saddle, around which his reins were knotted. To draw an arrow, he had only to reach down a few inches from his loose point. He did it without looking, fingering the arrow upwards from the quiver into his palm and nocking it in a single, fluid movement. When he drew, he didn’t lodge the string against the pads of his fore and middle fingers; he caught it between his thumb and a big, oddly shaped thumb ring made of horn or tortoiseshell. You’d have thought it’d be impossible, or at the very least awkward and excruciatingly painful, but apparently not. As he drew, he swivelled his left arm out sideways, peering over the bow for a target. He drew to the chest, and let the string pull itself off his thumb—
He’d shot one of the East Reach lads, Corden or Corder, something like that. He’d ridden up level with him, as he’d straightened up from a crouch to shout or wave his arms, and shot him, from a distance of seven or eight feet, straight into the chest, dead centre, just below the bone. Teucer saw the feathers sitting on the man’s chest, like a big horsefly.
And everything changed.
(There used to be an old man in Higher Town who had a trick he liked to play. He’d get a bit of charcoal and draw on a plank of wood: twelve black lines, forming a sort of sideways-on cube. You’d look at it, and to start with you thought you were looking down on it, but after you’d been staring for a second or two, it seemed to change, and in fact you were looking up at it from underneath. You actually felt a little jolt, as though you’d been nudged, and a very slight trace of dizziness.)
They’re the enemy, Teucer thought. Not our lot; the enemy, and they’re going to kill us, and there’s absolutely nothing—
Something bit him; he winced and yelped. It felt so much like a bee-sting. He felt something wet trickle down his face, just like rain when you’re caught out in a sharp shower. The horsemen were surging along the line, shooting as they passed. He saw Notker on the ground, and Pilad and Oseir. An arrow came so close to his face that he felt the breeze and heard it, swish-swish. Somewhere very deep inside his head, a voice he didn’t recognise, said, fall down.
He obeyed without thinking, only realising as he lay with his head under his left arm that he was doing this so as to make it look like he’d been hit and killed, so they wouldn’t shoot at him. But the horses will trample me, he thought, they’ll ride over me; trouble was, he didn’t dare move, because he could hear, and feel, the hooves going past, appallingly close, they made the ground bounce. Anyway, he was too cold to move, like the winter when he’d lost his way in a snowstorm and dropped down in his tracks; it hadn’t hurt and he hadn’t been scared because he was too frozen to feel anything at all. But his mind was racing, or a part of it, imagining and predicting all sorts of ways he could come to harm if he moved so much as an inch �
�� shot, trampled, speared, a hoof on the side of his head or his ribs, the crunch and the splitting noise. Stay where you are, said the voice, and for all he knew it was the Skyfather. The hooves were so loud they made his ears ring. I’m probably going to die, he thought, and it didn’t seem unreasonable. He closed his eyes.
There was noise for a long time, and then it dwindled quickly, and then it was dead quiet. Teucer considered moving, but it wasn’t as easy as that. He’d dropped in an awkward position, his left leg hinged at the knee under him; it had gone to sleep, and he couldn’t move it, not without using his hand and actually lifting it. In his mind he made up pictures; the horsemen all gone, everyone else dead; or the horsemen sitting quiet watching to see if anyone stirred, arrows on their strings. Both pictures were entirely credible. He stayed where he was.
And then he felt something; a tug on his right foot, a sort of side-to-side levering movement. It took him a moment to figure out that someone was trying to pull off his boot. The enemy, robbing the dead. He froze and held his breath, but maybe he tried too hard, because something tickled his throat. He fought it desperately hard, but he couldn’t stop it. He sneezed.
“Teucer?” said a voice.
He opened his eyes. “Musen.”
There was Musen, looking down at him, gripping his right foot in both hands. “Teucer.”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Musen dropped his foot. Its impact on the ground jarred his whole body, and his numb left leg erupted in savage pins and needles. “I thought you were—”
Musen had one bare foot. Teucer lifted his head to look past him, to see who else—
“Just me,” Musen said. “God, am I glad to see you.”
“Musen.” Indeed. On the one hand, he wanted to smash his face in for trying to steal his boot. Also, he’d known him all his life and never liked him very much. “What about the others?”
“There aren’t any. Come on.”
Made no sense. “What do you mean? What about—?”
