‘Everything’s well enough,’ said Yolk as he set down his shovel, though under his good humour he looked, in fact, a little pensive. ‘The colonel’s had us doing some burying.’
‘Uh.’ Tunny worked the stopper back into the ink bottle. He’d done a fair amount of burying himself and it was never a desirable duty. ‘Always some cleaning up to do after a battle. A lot to put right, here and at home. Might take years to clean up what takes a day or three to dirty.’ He cleaned off his pen on a bit of rag. ‘Might never happen.’
‘Why do it, then?’ asked Yolk, frowning off across the sunlit barley towards the hazy hills. ‘I mean to say, all the effort, and all the men dead, and what’ve we got done here?’
Tunny scratched his head. Never had Yolk down as a philosopher, but he guessed every man has his thoughtful moments. ‘Wars don’t often change much, in my considerable experience. Bit here, bit there, but overall there have to be better ways for men to settle their differences.’ He thought about it for a moment. ‘Kings, and nobles, and Closed Councils, and so forth, I never have quite understood why they keep at it, given how the lessons of history do seem to stack up powerfully against. War is damned uncomfortable work, for minimal rewards, and it’s the soldiers who always bear the worst.’
‘Why be a soldier, then?’
Tunny found himself temporarily at a loss for words. Then he shrugged. ‘Best job in the world, isn’t it.’
A group of horses were being led without urgency up the track nearby, hooves clopping at the mud, a few soldiers trudging along with them. One detached himself and strolled over, chewing at an apple. Sergeant Forest, and grinning broadly.
‘Oh, bloody hell,’ muttered Tunny under his breath, quickly clearing the last evidence of letter writing and tossing the shield he’d been leaning on under his hammock.
‘What is it?’ whispered Yolk.
‘When First Sergeant Forest smiles there’s rarely good news on the way.’
‘When is there good news on the way?’
Tunny had to admit Yolk had a point.
‘Corporal Tunny!’ Forest stripped his apple and flicked away the core. ‘You’re awake.’
‘Sadly, Sergeant, yes. Any news from our esteemed commanders?’
‘Some.’ Forest jerked a thumb towards the horses. ‘You’ll be delighted to learn we’re getting our mounts back.’
‘Marvellous,’ grunted Tunny. ‘Just in time to ride them back the way we came.’
‘Let it never be said that his August Majesty does not provide his loyal soldiers with everything needful. We’re pulling out in the morning. Or the following morning, at the latest. Heading for Uffrith, and a nice warm boat.’
Tunny found a smile of his own. He’d had about enough of the North. ‘Homewards, eh? My favourite direction.’
Forest saw Tunny’s grin and raised him a tooth on each side. ‘Sorry to disappoint you. We’re shipping for Styria.’
‘Styria?’ muttered Yolk, hands on hips.
‘For beautiful Westport!’ Forest flung an arm around Yolk’s shoulders and pushed his other hand out in front of them, as if showing off a magnificent civic vista where there was, in fact, a stand of rotting trees. ‘Crossroads of the world! We’re to stand alongside our bold allies in Sipani, and take righteous arms against that notorious she-devil Monzcarro Murcatto, the Snake of Talins. She is, by all reports, a fiend in human form, an enemy to freedom and the greatest threat ever to face the Union!’
‘Since Black Dow.’ Tunny rubbed at the bridge of his nose, his smile a memory. ‘Who we made peace with yesterday.’
Forest slapped Yolk on the shoulder. ‘The beauty of the soldier’s profession, trooper. The world never runs out of villains. And Marshal Mitterick’s just the man to make ’em quake!’
‘Marshal… Mitterick?’ Yolk looked baffled. ‘What happened to Kroy?’
‘He’s done,’ grunted Tunny.
‘How many have you outlasted now?’ asked Forest.
‘I’m thinking … eight, at a quick guess.’ Tunny counted them off on his fingers. ‘Frengen, then Altmoyer, then that short one …’
‘Krepsky.’
‘Krepsky. Then the other Frengen.’
‘The other Frengen,’ snorted Forest.
‘A notable fool even for a commander-in-chief. Then there was Varuz, then Burr, then West…’
‘He was a good man, West.’
‘Gone too early, like most good men. Then we had Kroy …’
‘Lord marshals are temporary in nature,’ explained Forest, gesturing at Tunny, ‘but corporals? Corporals are eternal.’
‘Sipani, you say?’ Tunny slid slowly back in his hammock, putting one boot up and rocking himself gently back and forth with the other. ‘Never been there myself.’ Now that he was thinking about it, he was starting to see the advantages. A good soldier always keeps an eye on the advantages. ‘Fine weather, I expect?’
‘Excellent weather,’ said Forest.
‘And I hear they have the best bloody whores in the world.’
‘The ladies of the city have been mentioned once or twice since the orders came down.’
‘Two things to look forward to.’
‘Which is two more than you get in the North.’ Forest was smiling bigger than ever. Bigger than seemed necessary. ‘And in the meantime, since your detail stands so sadly reduced, here’s another.’
‘Oh, no,’ groaned Tunny, all hopes of whores and sunshine quickly wilting.
‘Oh, yes! Up you come, lads!’
And up they came indeed. Four of them. New recruits, fresh off the boat from Midderland by their looks. Seen off at the docks with kisses from Mummy or sweetheart or both. New uniforms pressed, buckles gleaming, and ready for the noble soldiering life, indeed. They stared open-mouthed at Yolk, who could hardly have presented a greater contrast, his face pinched and rat-like, his jacket frayed and mud-smeared from grave-digging, one strap on his pack broken and repaired with string. Forest gestured towards Tunny like a showman towards his freak, and trotted out that same little speech he always gave.
‘Boys, this here is the famous Corporal Tunny, one of the longest serving non-commissioned officers in General Felnigg’s division.’ Tunny gave a long, hard sigh, right from his stomach. ‘A veteran of the Starikland Rebellion, the Gurkish War, the last Northern War, the Siege of Adua, the recent climactic Battle of Osrung and a quantity of peacetime soldiering that would have bored a keener mind to death.’ Tunny unscrewed the cap of Yolk’s flask, took a pull, then handed it over to its original owner, who shrugged and had a swig of his own. ‘He has survived the runs, the rot, the grip, the autumn shudders, the caresses of Northern winds, the buffets of Southern women, thousands of miles of marching, many years of his Majesty’s rations and even a tiny bit of actual fighting to stand — or sit — before you now …’
Tunny crossed one ruined boot over the other, sank slowly back into his hammock and closed his eyes, the sun glowing pink through his lids.
Old Hands
It was near sunset when he made it back. Midges swirling in clouds over the marshy little brook, yellowing leaves casting dappled shadows onto the path, boughs stirring in the breeze, low enough he had to duck.
The house looked smaller’n he remembered. It looked small, but it looked beautiful. Looked so beautiful it made him want to cry. The door creaked as he pushed it wide, almost as scared for some reason as he had been in Osrung. There was no one inside. Just the same old smoke-smelling dimness. His cot was packed away to make more space, slashes of pale sunlight across the boards where it had been.
No one here, and his mouth went sour. What if they were packed up and left? Or what if men had come when he was away, deserters turned bandit…
He heard the soft clock of an axe splitting logs. He ducked back out into the evening, hurrying past the pen and the staring goats and the five big tree stumps all hacked and scarred from years of his blade practice. Practice that hadn’t helped much, as it went. He knew n
ow stabbing a stump ain’t much preparation for stabbing a man.
His mother was just over the rise, leaning on the axe by the old chopping block, arching her back while Festen gathered up the split halves and tossed ’em onto the pile. Beck stood there for a moment, watching ’em. Watching his mother’s hair stirring in the breeze. Watching the boy struggling with the chunks of wood.
‘Ma,’ he croaked.
She looked around, blinked at him for a moment. ‘You’re back.’
‘I’m back.’
He walked over to her, and she stuck one corner of the axe in the block for safe keeping and met him half way. Even though she was so much smaller than him she still held his head against her shoulder. Held it with one hand and pressed it to her, wrapped her other arm tight around him, strong enough to make it hard to breathe.
‘My son,’ she whispered.
He broke away from her, sniffing back his tears, looking down. Saw his cloak, or her cloak, and how muddied, and bloodied, and torn it was. ‘I’m sorry. Reckon I got your cloak ruined.’
She touched his face. ‘It’s a bit of cloth.’
‘Guess it is at that.’ He squatted down, and ruffled Festen’s hair. ‘You all right?’ He could hardly keep his voice from cracking.
‘I’m fine!’ Slapping Beck’s hand away from his head. ‘Did you get yourself a name?’
Beck paused. ‘I did.’
‘What is it?’
Beck shook his head. ‘Don’t matter. How’s Wenden?’
‘Same,’ said Beck’s mother. ‘You weren’t gone more’n a few days.’
He hadn’t expected that. Felt like years since he was last here. ‘I guess I was gone long enough.’
‘What happened?’
‘Can we … not talk about it?’
‘Your father talked about nothing else.’
He looked up at her. ‘If there’s one thing I learned it’s that I’m not my father.’
‘Good. That’s good.’ She patted him gently on the side of the face, wet glimmering in her eyes. ‘I’m glad you’re here. Don’t have the words to tell you how glad I am. You hungry?’
He stood, straightening his legs feeling like quite the effort, and wiped away more tears on the back of his wrist. Realised he hadn’t eaten since he left the Heroes, yesterday morning. ‘I could eat.’
‘I’ll get the fire lit!’ And Festen trotted off towards the house.
‘You coming in?’ asked Beck’s mother.
Beck blinked out towards the valley. ‘Reckon I might stay out here a minute. Split a log or two.’
‘All right.’
‘Oh.’ And he slid his father’s sword from his belt, held it for a moment, then offered it out to her. ‘Can you put this away?’
‘Where?’
‘Anywhere I don’t have to look at it.’
She took it from him, and it felt like a weight he didn’t have to carry no more. ‘Seems like good things can come back from the wars,’ she said.
‘Coming back’s the only good thing I could see.’ He leaned down and set a log on the block, spat on one palm and took up the wood axe. The haft felt good in his hands. Familiar. It fitted ’em better than the sword ever had, that was sure. He swung it down and two neat halves went tumbling. He was no hero, and never would be.
He was made to chop logs, not to fight.
And that made him lucky. Luckier’n Reft, or Stodder, or Brait. Luckier’n Drofd or Whirrun of Bligh. Luckier’n Black Dow, even. He worked the axe clear of the block and stood back. They don’t sing many songs about log-splitters, maybe, but the lambs were bleating, up on the fells out of sight, and that sounded like music. Sounded a sweeter song to him then than all the hero’s lays he knew.
He closed his eyes and breathed in the smell of grass and woodsmoke. Then he opened ’em, and looked across the valley. Skin all tingling with the peace of that moment. Couldn’t believe he used to hate this place.
Didn’t seem so bad, now. Didn’t seem so bad at all.
Everyone Serves
‘So you’re standing with me?’ asked Calder, breezy as a spring morning.
‘If there’s still room.’
‘Loyal as Rudd Threetrees, eh?’
Ironhead shrugged. ‘I won’t take you for a fool and say yes. But I know where my best interest lies and it’s at your heels. I’d also point out loyalty’s a dangerous foundation. Tends to wash away in a storm. Self-interest stands in any weather.’
Calder had to nod at that. ‘A sound principle.’ He glanced up at Foss Deep, lately returned to his service following the end of hostilities and an apt display of the power of self-interest in the flesh. Despite his stated distaste for battles he’d somehow acquired, gleaming beneath his shabby coat, a splendid Union breastplate engraved with a golden sun. ‘A man should have some, eh, Deep?’
‘Some what?’
‘Principles.’
‘Oh, I’m a big, big, big believer in ’em. My brother too.’
Shallow took a quick break from furiously picking his fingernails with the point of his knife. ‘I like ’em with milk.’
A slightly uncomfortable silence. Then Calder turned back to Ironhead. ‘Last time we spoke you told me you’d stick with Dow. Then you pissed on my boots.’ He lifted one up, even more battered, gouged and stained from the events of the past few days than Calder was himself. ‘Best bloody boots in the North a week ago. Styrian leather. Now look.’
‘I’ll be more’n happy to buy you a new pair.’
Calder winced at his aching ribs as he stood. ‘Make it two.’
‘Whatever you say. Maybe I’ll get a pair myself and all.’
‘You sure something in steel wouldn’t be more your style?’
Ironhead shrugged. ‘No call for steel boots in peacetime. Anything else?’
‘Just keep your men handy, for now. We need to put a good show on ’til the Union get bored of waiting and slink off. Shouldn’t be long.’
‘Right y’are.’
Calder took a couple of steps away, then turned back. ‘Get a gift for my wife, too. Something beautiful, since my child’s due soon.’
‘Chief.’
‘And don’t feel too bad about it. Everyone serves someone.’
‘Very true.’ Ironhead didn’t so much as twitch. A little disappointing, in fact — Calder had hoped to watch him sweat. But there’d be time for that later, once the Union were gone. There’d be time for all kinds of things. So he gave a lordly nod and smirked off, his two shadows trailing after.
He had Reachey on-side, and Pale-as-Snow. He’d had a little word with Wonderful, and she’d had the same little word with Dow’s Carls, and their loyalty had washed with the rainwater, all right. Most of Tenways’ men had drifted off, and White-Eye Hansul had made his own appeal to self-interest and argued the rest around. Ironhead and Golden still hated each other too much to pose a threat and Stranger-Come-Knocking, for reasons beyond Calder’s ken, was treating him like an old and honoured friend.
Laughing stock to king of the world in the swing of a sword. Luck. Some men have it, some don’t.
‘Time to plumb the depth of Glama Golden’s loyalty,’ said Calder happily. ‘Or his self-interest, anyway.’
They walked down the hillside in the gathering darkness, stars starting to peep out from the inky skies, Calder smirking at the thought of how he’d make Golden squirm. How he’d have that puffed-up bastard tripping over his own tongue trying to ingratiate himself. How much he’d enjoy twisting the screw. They reached a fork in the path and Deep strolled off to the left, around the foot of the Heroes.
‘Golden’s camp is on the right,’ grunted Calder.
‘True,’ said Deep, still walking. ‘You’ve an unchallenged grasp on your rights and lefts, which puts you a firm rung above my brother on the ladder of learning.’
‘They look the bloody same,’ snapped Shallow, and Calder felt something prick at his back. A cold and surprising something, not quite painful but certainly not p
leasant. It took him a moment to realise what it was, but when he did all his smugness drained away as though that jabbing point had already made a hole.
How flimsy is arrogance. It only takes a bit of sharp metal to bring it all crashing down.
‘We’re going left.’ Shallow’s point prodded again and Calder set off, hands up, his smirk abandoned in the gloom.
There were plenty of people about. Fires surrounded by half-lit faces. One set playing at dice, another making up ever more bloated lies about their high deeds in the battle, another slapping out stray embers on someone’s cloak. A drunken group of Thralls lurched past but they barely even looked over. No one rushed to Calder’s rescue. They saw nothing to comment on and even if they had, they didn’t care a shit. People don’t, on the whole.
‘Where are we going?’ Though the only real question was whether they’d dug his grave already, or were planning to argue over it after.
‘You’ll find out.’
‘Why?’
‘Because we’ll get there.’
‘No. Why are you doing this?’
They burst out laughing together, as though that was quite the joke. ‘Do you think we were watching you by accident, over at Caul Reachey’s camp?’
‘No, no, no,’ hummed Shallow. ‘No.’
They were moving away from the Heroes, now. Fewer people, fewer fires. Hardly any light but the circle of crops picked out by Deep’s torch. Any hope of help fading into the black behind them along with the bragging and the songs. If Calder was going to be saved he’d have to do it himself. They hadn’t even bothered to take his sword away from him. But who was he fooling? Even if his right hand hadn’t been useless, Shallow could’ve cut his throat a dozen times before he got it drawn. Across the darkened fields he could pick out the line of trees far to the north. Maybe if he ran…
‘No.’ Shallow’s knife pricked at Calder’s side again. ‘No nee no no no.’
‘Really no,’ said Deep.
‘Look, maybe we can come to an arrangement. I’ve got money…’
‘There’s no pockets deep enough to outbid our employer. Your best bet is just to follow along like a good boy.’ Calder rather doubted that but, clever as he liked to think he was, he had no better ideas. ‘We’re sorry about this, you know. We’ve naught but respect for you just as we’d naught but respect for your father.’
The Heroes Page 60
