The Whispers of War [Wells End Chronicles Book 2]
Page 18
Right foot, left foot, right foot, miles and then leagues passed by under the conscript army's feet. The Corporals maintained their attention to their special projects. One inventive noncom decided his wasn't marching fast enough and had the poor sod jog to the front of the line and back. Two of his fellow conscripts had to carry him until the joined companies stopped to set camp for the night.
Ethan found a soft looking spot of trampled grass and sank onto it with a sigh. The only thing he wanted to do was get the boots off his feet.
“Wha'cho think yer doin’ scrip? Yer day ain't over.”
The Corporal's nasal voice grated against Ethan's nerves. He was really getting to hate that man. “What is it now Cobb?”
Instantly the Trading States soldier was at Ethan's nose, bending over and shouting into his face, “That's Corporal Cobb to you scrip, an doan you fergit it! You an’ me, we's got us a bit ‘o clean up duty, seems like the perfik job fer a strappin’ country lad like yerself, git'cher lazy arse off'n that grass an’ foller me, now, scrip!”
When he screamed, Corporal Cobb's voice rose in pitch, which elevated its nasal qualities to world class levels. To Ethan it sounded like fingernails on slate. He stood to his feet, stifling the groan that wanted to give voice to the abuse of his body, “Very well, Corporal Cobb, let's get it done, whatever it is.”
Cobb peered at Ethan sharply as if looking for a hint of sarcasm in his special project's reply. Finding none he straightened his shoulders and stepped back a pace, “Awright scrip, let's move those big feet o’ yourn. Over there to where ya see the horse an’ oxen, they's needin’ a bit o’ seein’ to, well one part o’ ‘em does,” He laughed loudly at his own joke.
The smell told Ethan what he was in for. Mucking out from underneath the livestock was a favorite duty given to those the military wished to humiliate. Cobb had no idea Ethan spent most of his childhood doing just that on the Wool Coast. Dung held no terrors for him, nor did it hold any surprises. The odor wafting from beneath the oxen brought back distant memories. He actually found himself looking forward to the work. It would be a change of pace away from the endless marching.
A flat bladed shovel came flying at him from the side and he caught it with his right hand almost absentmindedly.
Corporal Cobb whistled, “Fast one ain'tcha? Betcha kin handle a sword. Well, let's see iffn you kin clear out that muck with yer new sword here. Yer kin parry it inta that honeywagon over there,” Another spate of hyena like laughter exploded out of the Corporal and he walked off toward the mess, tapping his noncom's quirt against the side of the open-backed wagon sitting to the side of the camp's temporary corral.
Plop, plopplopplop. The ox behind Ethan reminded him of why he was there.
Someone in the upper ranks either had a heart or knew it was stupid to break a perfectly good tool. For after a half-hour of shoveling the assorted presents offered by the oxen and horses, a private came by and took Ethan's place along with a suggestion he swing by the mess area before all the stew was gone.
The taste of the stew made Ethan wonder if he wouldn't have been better off with the livestock. It was over spiced, burnt and filled with grayish green lumps of gristle. Its only saving grace was the bread the cooks served it in. They used round loaves of dark brown bread, thick with molasses and sweet with honey. Cut in half, with one of the halves hollowed out to provide a bowl for the stew, the bread helped a less than appetizing meal go down.
Water was the only drink, but for Ethan it was enough. He finished the stew and the bread to the last crumb. He didn't remember falling asleep.
Morning arrived before the sun did, along with Corporal Cobb's boots, “C'mon scrip, up an’ at ‘em. We march alla way ta Grisham today, git yer lazy arse up,” He punctuated his demand with another poke with the toe of his boot.
Ethan surged to his feet, his right fist poised.
Cobb stepped back. His short sword was in his hand and very steady, “I'd hold it right there me boyo. That is iffn yer wants ta keep all yer giblets in one place.”
Ethan kept his eye on the Corporal's blade as he straightened from his crouch and allowed his hand to unclench, “You don't have to use that Corporal. I was just startled that's all, no trouble here.”
“That's better,” Cobb resheathed his sword. “We march till an hour past dawn, then breakfast.”
“You said we're going all the way to Grisham,” Ethan straightened his tunic now filthy from the wear and tear of his forced travel.
Cobb moved his eyes across the rest of the camp as the other noncoms moved through the predawn gloom rousing the conscripts, “Aye, that I did.”
“How far is it?”
The Corporal didn't answer at first and the dim conditions hid his expression from Ethan, “No reason I should tell ya scrip, cepp'n yer been a real easy one ta ride. Consider it a favor, the only one yer gonna git. We'll be seein’ the city right about dawn, should be makin’ the gates in time fer lunch. Now git yerself in line scrip, move it!”
They marched, as Corporal Cobb said, until the sun had risen one hour into the sky and then broke for a brief meal. The Corporal was correct in his estimate. A dark smudge appeared on the horizon as the sun brightened the eastern sky. It coalesced into the city-state of Grisham on its hills as the combined companies continued to move north.
The rising sun brought with it an unusually hot day for the season and the temperature sapped what little energy the marchers had. No one spoke within the ranks. Even the noncoms confined their barked orders to those of a single syllable. Everyone was tired and only the ever-increasing silhouette of the city kept them going.
A cloud of dust and the rank smell of days old sweat followed the companies as they approached Grisham's newly repaired gates. Riders sent ahead earlier made sure the gates were open as the companies arrived and that any observing crowds were kept well back by the City Guard. This, to insure that none of the conscripts were harassed and that the conscripts had no chance of vanishing into said crowd.
Ethan remembered dimly passing through the gates and the Market Square. Most of his attention was concentrated on placing one burning foot in front of the other. Sweat collected in his eyebrows and dripped down his cheeks. Out of an inborn sense of stubbornness he'd long since given up wiping it away. It was a small act of rebellion, petty and entirely ineffective, but it gave him some small satisfaction nonetheless. Out of the corner of his eye, shops, dwellings and pubs flowed past as the marchers neared the City Guard compound.
They reached the Guard compound where the conscripts were separated from their captors and herded into a long low-ceilinged structure open at both ends. Inside it they were made to stand single file along the two walls and strip. Those who hesitated were encouraged to comply by the guard members overseeing them. The remaining conscripts then held them upright until they regained consciousness. The stink of their dirt streaked bodies rapidly filled the enclosed space.
“What're they gonna do to us?” The man next to Ethan's right tried to cover himself while they waited for what came next.
Ethan didn't answer. A part of him reviewed flashbacks to his days in basic training for the watch. This felt like those days, they treated him like a child badly in need of discipline, he'd hated it then. Hopefully experience would prove a buffer against what was expected.
“They're gonna kill us. I know they are.”
“Shut up, gnomic,” The man on the other side of the complainer mouthed the curse without moving his head.
The one who complained stood only as high as the other fellow's shoulder but he bristled anyway, “You got no right. I can...”
His neighbor turned and looked down at him. The fellow's thick lips twisted in a self assured sneer, “You'll what, skrud, tell yer mommy on me?”
“Pipe down both of you,” Ethan kept his voice at a harsh whisper, “the guards are looking at you.”
The smaller of the two gulped and shrank back a half step. His antagonist gave Ethan a brief glare
that said this wasn't over.
Several large wagons carrying what appeared to be over-sized wine barrels were pulled into the building and stopped between the two lines of naked men. Right behind the wagons several Guard one-stripers came in with buckets and towels.
“Oh Bardoc,” Ethan groaned inwardly, “we're to be scrubbed down like livestock.”
A number of the one-stripers unhooked pairs of long hoses from the underside of the wagons and screwed the ends to spigots set into the lower end of the barrels. A murmur mixed with tones of apprehension and curiosity swept through the ranks of conscripts. Then the hoses began spewing water, cold water, and the murmurs changed abruptly to gasps and yells of shocked pain.
Ethan's breath whooshed out of him as the water hit. It was bitingly cold, like falling through the ice on Firth Lake in winter. The guards played the hoses across both lines as the conscripts flinched and danced around under the spray. Ribald comments and laughter-filled suggestions were offered by the watching noncoms, a number of them included references to their odor. To Ethan's ears a few showed surprising ingenuity.
The hoses stopped and then other one-stripers rushed forward wielding brushes and buckets of soapy water. They attacked the loosened grime on the conscripts’ bodies with vigor and lots of strong smelling soap.
Ethan put up with a few suds-filled scrubs from his attendee and then snatched the brush from his hand. The two noncoms closest stepped forward with raised truncheons but stopped as Ethan began to scrub himself.
“Got a smart ‘un here Jessup,” The older of the two nodded in Ethan's direction.
“Seems so, Lowwol, seems so. Bet he's worn steel,” Jessup ran a practiced eye over Ethan as the dirt washed away, revealing the telltale scaring, “Might be interesting to see what he can do.”
Lowwol nodded, “Maybe we can get the Captain to schedule a match against that hot young blade he's got, what's his name?”
“Adam.”
* * * *
“There's so many of them!” Thaylli remarked as she and Adam watched the conscript companies file past their vantagepoint on the Colonel's third floor veranda.
“Sure seems to be,” Adam replied, “Why so many, Colonel Cuperti?” He turned to ask his host.
The Colonel murmured to his wife, “Why don't you see if our Lieutenant's young lady would like to try on that string of pearls you got during our trip to Southpoint, Hirittia.”
“Pearls?” Thaylli clapped her hands and turned to face Sirena Culperti, “And I can try them on?”
Hirittia beamed at the girl's reaction, “Why of course you can, my dear. Come with me, I'm sure they'll look striking against that bosom of yours.”
The Colonel and Adam watched as Thaylli was led from the balcony.
“You don't want her to hear what you're going to tell me,” Adam made it a statement as he turned back to watch the flow of conscripts pass beneath the balcony.
“No, I don't,” The Colonel gusted out a sigh as he laid his forearms over the railing, “I don't want Hirittia to hear it either.
“We've a war coming our way young fellow, I'm sure you've heard the rumors.”
Adam nodded.
“Well, by and large most of them are true.” The Colonel held up a hand, “Oh I don't mean the ones about hoards of half-naked savages who live on the corpses of their enemies, or that one about Dragons bursting through the city gates, pure claptrap, all of them.”
Adam kept what he knew about the Dragon rumor to himself.
The Colonel leaned forward on the railing, “No, I'm talking about the ones that tell of the Duke turning into a raving madman and starting this war, about the Southern Empire putting together an army nearly twice the population of Grisham herself, and about the number of those men we see below us who'll never see their families again.
“That's why there's so many of them down there. You can't face an army of millions with just a guard and a few watchmen.” He turned to look at Adam, “You've got to use men to kill men, that's the way of war and that's the way of armies. A soldier's primary job is to break things and kill people.”
“So these men are forced to fight in a war they had no business in starting?” Adam felt his gut wrench.
“That's it,” The Colonel replied, “a sad business at best.”
“Adam look, they're absolutely beautiful!” Thaylli rushed onto the balcony ahead of Sirena Culperti.
The Colonel's wife stood behind her. “They do look nice on her, don't they dear?” She tilted her head to look at her husband.
Adam turned at Thaylli's call. The string of pearls shone against the pale skin of her bosom where they lay. The largest of them had to be three quarters of an inch through, at least. She watched his face expectantly for approval.
“Hirittia, you've done it again,” The Colonel murmured, “You keep presenting tasty treats like her before me and I just may forget my vows.”
The Sirena dimpled, “Oh go on, you old fool. Well young man, what do you think? Are you going to stand there all day and play at being a statue? Say something.”
Adam closed his mouth and swallowed. The effect of the Sirena's ministrations on Thaylli had sent every gland in his body into a gallop. He swallowed one more time and tried again, “I ... I think it's time we went back to our place.”
Thaylli's expectant expression changed into one of feral delight. Gottcha!
Both the Colonel and Hirittia erupted into peals of laughter. The memories of when they'd been young were never far from the surface.
“Come my dear,” Sirena Culperti hooked her arm through her husband's, “I think we've done enough damage this day.”
“But, the pearls,” Thaylli started to lift them from her neck.
Hirittia forestalled her with a hand, “No dear, you keep them. I never had the background to display them properly anyway. I'm sure Cluthbert would agree with me.”
“Not even if the very pit itself froze over,” Her husband grunted, half to himself.
She smiled fondly at him while Thaylli examined her gift with small squeals of delight. “You are such a wise man Cluthbert, that's why I married you.”
* * * *
Captain Bilardi ascended the steps leading to the north tower apartment slowly, one step at a time. He wished to take the time for thought as he answered the confused summons delivered to him several minutes earlier. The messenger boy, Gupp was his name? Had had no explanations other than that the Duke seemed most anxious to seem him.
His father's madness was troubling. Each day brought a new cause for concern. That skinning of the chambermaid ... Even the Earl of Berggren, when he lived, at his worst had never done such a thing. The Trading States were well rid of the fellow. Evil, used judiciously, had its purpose if one needed to rule a large and quarrelsome populace, but Cloutier had been stupidly evil and from the stories being bantered around, he'd died a stupid death—emasculated by the very maid he'd been trying to rape. Now there was justice for you.
The landing leading to the Duke's private apartments appeared as he rounded the final curve in the tower stair. As usual two of the largest guardsmen were stationed before the apartment doors. They snapped to attention and saluted, right hand to left shoulder, as the Captain approached.
“How is he?” Bilardi stood before the guards, looking at the doors.
“Seems ok,” The one on the left shrugged, “Hasn't thrown anything for a while.”
“Yesterday it was tiny little dragons comin’ outta the walls spittin’ fire at his toes. Took the maids most of the evening to mop up all the water,” The one on the right offered.
“Water?” The Captain arched an eyebrow in question.
The guard on the left shrugged again, “Had to put the tiny little fires out with something.”
“But he's better today?”
“Like I said, Milord Captain,” The guard twitched his head toward the doors, “seems to be ok, even asked for lunch like nothing happened. He's in there eating it now.”
“He's on the terrace,” The right hand guard called the Captain's back, “Said he wanted to enjoy the day with his squab.”
As the guard said, the Duke was on the terrace with a plate filled with the skeletal remains of a half dozen young pigeons. He looked up at the Captain's approach with a tiny leg poised before his mouth, “Ah! There you are my son. Here, you must try this, the cook has outdone herself,” He thrust the leg toward the Captain.
Bilardi the second held up both his hands while shaking his head, “Thank you father, but no. Enjoy your meal. I have eaten already.
“Why did you summon me? Not that I'm not glad to see you well, father, but...”
“But you've the business of preparing for a war waiting on you. Yes, I'm quite aware of how serious you take your responsibilities my son,” The Duke bit a small chunk out of the squab leg.
Captain Bilardi waited while his father chewed and swallowed.
The Duke continued, “No, I have not called you away from your duties merely to bask in your affection Captain, I sent the messenger because of something I've heard. The madness only clouded my mind not my ears and not my memory.”
“What did you hear father?” The son took one of the chairs opposite the Duke's table, “Tell me, are you in danger?”
Duke Bilardi smiled around another mouthful of squab, “Not as long as Grisham's walls stand.” His expression changed to one of concern, “No my son, my worry is for you and your future. What can you tell me about this hot new blade you recruited last month?”
The Captain grimaced, “Only that what he does with a sword looks more like magik than bladesmanship.”
His father put down the breast portion he'd picked up, “Surely he cannot best you?”
Captain Bilardi's short laugh sounded sour, “We tried a couple of passes, he and I, I came out of them looking like a scratcher.”