by K. J. Parker
He yelled at them not to fuss as they pulled him to his feet; it was ridiculous, bothering with him when there were thousands of men gradually dying on the other side of the brake. Before he could forbid it, someone sent a runner for the surgeon. Stupid. No time for that.
'We've got to get out of here,' someone was saying. 'They don't seem to be following up right now, but we've got to assume we'll have their cavalry after us any minute. Does anybody know where anybody is?'
Orsea had views of his own on the subject, but quite suddenly he wasn't feeling too good. Dizziness, like he'd been drinking; and he couldn't think of words. He opened his mouth to say something, but his mind had gone blank. His arms and head seemed to weigh far too much…
When he woke up, the sky had turned to canvas. He looked at it for a moment; he could see the weave, and the lines of stitching at the seams. He realised he was lying on his back, on cushions piled on a heap of empty sacks. His throat was ridiculously dry, and he felt so weak…
'He's coming round,' someone said. (Fine; treat me like I'm not here.) 'Go and fetch Ducas, and the doctor.'
He knew that voice, but while he'd been asleep, someone had burgled his mind and stolen all the names. He tried to lift his head, but his muscles had wilted.
'Lie still,' someone else said. 'You've lost a hell of a lot of blood.'
No I haven't, he wanted to say. He let his head slip back on to the cushion. There were heavy springs bearing on his eyelids, and the light hurt. 'Where is this?' he heard himself say, in a tiny little voice.
'God only knows,' someone said, just outside his limited circle of vision. 'Just to the right of the middle of nowhere. We've rounded up what we can of the army and the Mezentines seem to have lost interest in us, so we've pitched camp. Miel Ducas is running things; I've sent someone to fetch him.'
He definitely knew that voice, but it didn't belong here. It was absurdly out of context; it belonged in a garden, a little square patch of green and brown boxed in by mud-brick walls. His father's house. Now he knew who the speaker was; his second oldest friend, after Miel Ducas. Fancy not recognising someone you'd grown up with.
'Cordea?' he muttered.
'Right here.' There was something slightly brittle about Cordea's voice, but that was only to be expected in the circumstances. 'They got the arrow out,' he was saying, 'they had a hell of a job with it. Apparently it was right up against the artery, nicked it but didn't cut into it. The doctor didn't dare draw it out, for fear of the barbs slicing right through. In the end he had to go in from the side, so you're pretty badly cut up. Infection's the biggest risk, of course-'
'Shut up about my stupid leg,' Orsea interrupted. 'What about the battle? How many…?'
He couldn't bring himself to finish the question. Simple matter of pronouns; how many of our men did I kill?
'Nine thousand dead.' Cordea's voice was completely flat. 'Two thousand badly wounded, another three thousand cut up but on their feet.' Cordea paused. 'Miel insisted on going back with his lancers and the wagons; he picked up about eight hundred before they started shooting at him. Of course the surgeons can't cope with numbers like that, so we'll lose another two, three hundred just getting home. Actually, it could've been a whole lot worse.'
Well, of course it could. But it was plenty bad enough. 'Has anybody got any idea what those things were?' Orsea asked.
Cordea nodded. 'Tell you about it later,' he said. 'Look, it was me said that Miel should take charge; only I couldn't think of anybody else. Are you all right with that?'
Orsea tried to laugh. Talk about your stupid questions. 'Absolutely fine,' he said.
'Only, I know you and he don't always get on…'
'Cordea, that was when we were twelve.' He wanted to laugh, but apparently he couldn't. 'What about moving on?' he said. 'We can't just stay here, wherever the hell we are.'
'In the morning. They're shattered, we'd lose people if we tried to move out tonight. We've got sentries, in case they attack.'
'How far…?' Dizzy again. He gave in and closed his eyes. If he let himself drift back to sleep, maybe he'd wake up to find it had all been taken care of. He'd never wanted to be a duke anyway. 'Ask Miel…' he began to say, but the sentence didn't get finished.
'It's a real stroke of luck, him getting wounded.'
He'd opened his eyes but it was still dark; there was just a glimmer of lighter blue. He lay still.
'There's going to be hell to pay,' Miel's voice went on, 'but we'll make out he's at death's door, it'll go down well. No need to tell anybody it was one of our arrows.'
'Tell them he was a hero, fighting a desperate rearguard action so the army could escape,' someone else said. 'I'd rather we were bringing home a victory, but a glorious defeat's not so bad. Better than a bloody good hiding, anyway. How's the water holding out?'
'Not wonderful,' Miel answered. 'Thank God we were able to save the barrels, or we'd be completely screwed. As it is, we'll probably get to the foothills tomorrow night, and there's plenty of springs coming down off the mountains. You'd better cut the ration, though. The horses should come first, we can't afford to lose any more.'
'All right.' The second voice was getting further away. 'We were right, though, weren't we? I mean, basically it was a good idea.'
He heard Miel laugh. 'No,' he said. 'No, it was a bloody stupid idea. Maybe next time when he says, let's not pick a fight with the Mezentine Empire, somebody'll listen.'
(But that's wrong, Orsea wanted to say. I was against it to begin with, but then they explained and I realised they were right. It made good sense, it was the bigger, broader view, and the only reason I was against it at the start was fear…)
'Doctor's here,' someone else called out. 'Is he awake?'
'No,' Miel replied. 'At least, I don't think so. Tell him to wait, I'll take a look.'
They lit a lamp so the doctor could see what he was doing. Not anyone Orsea had ever seen before; he looked drained, as was only to be expected. His eyes were red, and all he said when the examination was over was, 'He'll keep. Just don't bounce him up and down too much.'
'I'll bear that in mind.' Miel turned his head, knelt down beside him, and for the first time since the battle, Orsea saw his face without the thick, obscuring smear of caked blood.
'Hello,' Miel said. 'How are you doing?'
He was glad he hadn't had to see it before they stitched it up; but Miel wouldn't be getting the sort of stares he was used to from the pretty girls in future. Orsea felt bad about that; he knew how much it meant to him, always being the best-looking, never having to try. Well, that was a thing of the past, too.
'Awful,' he replied. 'How about you?'
Miel shrugged. 'Things are pretty much under control,' he said. 'One more march should see us off this fucking plain. I don't see them following us up the mountain. I've sent ahead for what we need most.'
Orsea closed his eyes. 'I was lucky,' he said.
'You bet. Another sixteenth of an inch, the doctor said-'
'That's not what I meant. I was lucky I got hurt. It meant I got to sleep through all the worst bits, and you've had to cope. I'm sorry about that.'
Miel clicked his tongue. 'Forget about it,' he said.
'And your face.'
'Forget about that too.' Miel's voice tensed up just a little, nonetheless. 'It was pretty comical, actually. Ducked out of the way of one of those bolt things, tripped over my feet, laid myself open on a sharp edge. Of course I'll tell all the girlies it was hand-to-hand combat with the Mezentine champion.'
'You were standing over the crumpled body of the Duke,' Orsea said. 'Outnumbered five to one-'
'Seven.'
'You're quite right, seven to one; and they were all in full armour, and you'd lost your sword, so all you had was a tent-peg-'
'A broken tent-peg, please.'
'Naturally' Orsea sighed. Actually, that's not so far from the truth. In fact, what you did was rather more important. You see, I wouldn't have been able to-'
'Balls.' He heard Miel shift; he was standing up, presumably. A leader's work is never done. 'The doctor says you need to rest. I said, it's what he's best at. Try not to die in the night.'
Orsea pulled a grim face. 'Just to spite you, I will,' he said, 'and then you'll be left with all my messes to sort out on your own.'
Miel frowned at him. 'That joke's still funny this time,' he said, 'but next time it'll just be self-indulgent. While you're in here with nothing to do, you can think of a new one.'
'Seriously.' Orsea looked at his friend. 'I feel really bad about it, you being landed with all of this.'
Miel shrugged. 'It's my job,' he said.
'At least get someone to help you. What about Cordea? He's not the sharpest arrow in the quiver, but he's smarter than me-'He stopped. Miel had turned away, just for a moment.
'Oh,' Orsea said.
'Sorry,' Miel replied. 'My fault, I'd assumed they'd have told you. Blood poisoning, apparently.'
'I see.' For a moment, Orsea couldn't think; it was as though his mind was completely empty. He ought to say something, but he couldn't remember any suitable words. Miel shook his head.
'Get some sleep,' he said. 'It's the most useful thing you can do.'
'Sleep?' Orsea laughed. 'Sorry, but I don't think I can.'
But he could; and the next thing he saw was bright daylight through the open tent-flap, and the doctor prodding his leg with his finger.
'You're lucky,' the doctor said, 'no infection, and it's scarring up nicely. Mind you,' he added, with a kind of grim zest, 'one wrong move and it'll burst open again, and next time you may not be so fortunate. Try and keep your weight off it for now.'
'Thanks,' Orsea replied through a mouthful of sleep, 'but I've got an army to move up the mountain, so I don't-'
'No you haven't. Miel Ducas is handling all that.' He made it sound like the arrangements for a dance. 'You can help best by staying put and not causing any trouble.'
'Fine. Don't let me keep you.'
The doctor grinned. 'I was all finished anyway. I'll look at it again this evening. Remember, nothing energetic. They've put together a litter to carry you.'
The doctor left before he could argue, which was annoying. He wanted to protest; how could he let himself be carried about on a litter when there were wounded men-seriously wounded men-who were going to have to hobble and crawl, and who might well not make it all the way? But, as the tent-flap dropped shut behind the doctor's back, he realised it was pointless. They wouldn't allow it, because he was the Duke and he wasn't allowed to die of impatience and nobility of spirit. If he tried to dismiss the litter-bearers and walk up the mountain, it'd only lead to fuss and delay while Miel and the others told him not to be so bloody stupid; if he protested, he wouldn't impress the doctor, and nobody else would be listening to him. With a sigh, he decided to reclassify himself as a cumbersome but necessary piece of luggage. The galling thing, of course, was that they could manage perfectly well without him; better, probably. After all, he was the one who'd got them all into this appalling situation.
They came and dismantled the tent around him; brisk, efficient men in muddy clothes who seemed to have the knack of not seeing him. They left him on his pile of cushions and sacks under a clear blue sky, in a landscape crowded with activity. He watched them loading the carts with folded tents, barrels, sacks, unused arrows still in their sheaves, boxes of boots, belts and spare side-plates for helmets, trestle tables and wounded men. Finally his litter came. Two Guards captains hauled him on to it; the porters lifted it on their shoulders like a coffin, and joined the queue of slow-moving baggage threading its way on to the narrow path. From his raised and lordly position he could see a long way over the heads of his people (wasn't there an old saying about that, how we're all dwarves on the shoulders of giants; we're lesser men than our fathers, but because we inherit their wisdom and experience, we can see further). First he looked back in case there were any signs of pursuit. It was impossible to make out much on the featureless plain, but he convinced himself he could see the battlefield and the thorn hedge. The grey blur in the air; would that be a huge flock of crows picking at the dead, or smoke from fires where the tidy Mezentines were burning up the litter? He could see the heads of the army, flashes of light on helmets that were beginning to rust, since nobody could be bothered with scouring them down with sand twice a day. On the way out they'd marched in ranks and files, smart and neat as the hedges round formal gardens. Now they trudged in knots and bunches, and the gaps between each group looked like bald patches in a frayed coat.
(Invade Mezentia, they'd told him; clever men who'd chafed at the old Duke's timid caution, because they knew that the longer the job was left, the harder it would be. Attack them now, while there's still time. It's us or them; not aggression but simple, last-ditch self-defence. The old Duke had had the perfect excuse: the long, bitter, unwinnable war against their neighbours, which drained away every spare penny and every fit man. But that war was over now. They'd had to grin and bear painfully humiliating terms-land and water-rights and grazing-rights on the eastern mountains given away instead of fought over to the death-but it had been worth it because it made possible the pre-emptive strike against the real enemy, and thanks to the last fifty years of relentless campaigning and slaughter they had an army of hardened veterans who'd drive the Mezentine mercenaries into the sea. The alternative, biding still and quiet while the Republic strangled them to death at their leisure, was simply unthinkable. Besides, with an army of twenty-five thousand, how could he possibly lose?)
They were taking the Butter Pass up the mountain. Not through choice. They'd come down into the plain, five days ago, by way of the main cart-road, a relatively gentle gradient and firm going for the horses. But they were a whole day east, thanks to the fear of the Mezentine cavalry, and they didn't have enough water left to go round the foot of the mountain. The Butter Pass was a different proposition altogether. It was adequate for its purpose; once a month, hundreds of hill-farmers' sons trudged down it with yokes on their shoulders, each carrying a hundredweight of butter and cheese to the cluster of tents where the Mezentine buyers were waiting for them. Going back up the mountain, they had a much lighter load: a few copper pennies or a roll of cotton cloth (third or fourth quality), at most a keg of nails or a rake and a hoe. Taking an army up the Butter Pass was the sort of stupid thing you only did if you had to. It was slow going. To get the carts up without smashing wheels or shearing axles, they had to stop every fifty yards or so to shift boulders, fill in potholes, cut away the rock or improvise embankments to widen the path. Boulders too big to lever aside had to be split, with hammers and wedges or by lighting a fire to heat them up and then quenching them with buckets of precious, scarce water. It was a vast, thankless expenditure of effort and ingenuity-no praise or glory, just a sigh when the obstacle was circumvented and a grim shrug as the next one was addressed-and all Orsea could do was watch, as his bearers lowered him to the ground, glad of the excuse for a rest. It was all wrong; he should be paying off his debt by leading the way. In his mind's eye he saw himself, dusty and bathed in sweat, leaning on a crowbar or swinging a big hammer, exhausted but cheerful, first man to the job and last man off it, and everyone feeling better for knowing he was there with them-instead, he watched, as if this was all a demonstration by the corps of engineers, and he was sitting in a grandstand, waiting to award prizes. Miel Ducas was doing his job for him, and doing it very well. He thought about that, and felt ashamed.
There was still an hour's light left when they gave up for the night, but everybody was too exhausted to carry on. There had already been unnecessary accidents and injuries, and Miel had called a halt. Instead, men stumbled about on a sad excuse for a plateau, struggling to pitch tents on the slope, wedging cartwheels with stones to stop them rolling; the whole tiresome routine of unpacking and setting up, lighting fires without proper kindling, cooking too little food in too little water. They pitched his tent first
(were they doing it on purpose to show him up? No, of course they weren't); the doctor came, looked, prodded and failed to announce that the wound had miraculously healed and he'd be fit for duty in the morning. One by one the survivors of his general staff dropped by. They were genuinely anxious about his health, but they didn't want his orders or even his advice. Finally, Miel Ducas came, slow and clumsy with fatigue, squatting on the floor rather than wait for someone to fetch him a chair.
'Slow going,' he reported. 'I'd sort of counted on making it to the hog's back tonight, so we could get on the south-west road by noon tomorrow. As it is, we might just get there by nightfall; depends on conditions. And if it decides to rain, of course, we're screwed.'
Orsea hadn't even considered that. 'Who said anything about rain?' he said. 'It's been blue skies all day.'
Miel nodded. 'Talked to a couple of men who make the butter run,' he said. 'According to them, it's the time of year for flash storms. Clear sky one minute, and the next you're up to your ankles in muck. That's if you're lucky and you aren't swept away in a mudslide. Cheerful bastards.'
Orsea couldn't think of anything to say. 'Let's hope it stays dry, then.'
'Let's hope.' Miel yawned. 'Once we reach the hog's back, of course,' he went on, 'it's all nice and easy till we get to the river; which, needless to say, is probably in spate. I have absolutely no idea how we're going to get across, so I'm relying on inspiration, probably in the form of a dream. My ancestors were always being helped out of pots of shit by obliging and informative dreams, and I'm hoping it runs in the family. How about your lot?'
Orsea smiled. 'We don't dream much. Or if we do, it's being chased by bears, or having to give a speech with no clothes on.'
'Fascinating.' Miel closed his eyes, then opened them again. 'Sorry,' he said. 'Not respectful in the presence of my sovereign. How's the leg?'
