Near the far end, Galar Baras and Toras Redone reined in, and then slowly dismounted in time to greet Prazek and Dathenar, who arrived and saluted the commander.
She was not quite sober as she regarded the two captains, her glassy eyes amused, her expression ironic. ‘Anomander’s lieutenants. Or, rather, captains now, of the Hust Legion. Silchas Ruin empties his brother’s martial treasury.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘Report, then, on the readiness of these soldiers.’
Dathenar cleared his throat. ‘Commander, most welcome. We invite you to inspect the new recruits.’
‘Recruits.’ She seemed to chew on the word for a moment, and then glanced at Galar Baras. ‘Captain, I understand that none of these … recruits are in fact volunteers.’
‘You could say that,’ Galar replied. ‘The pits were closed—’
‘But their punishment has not ended, with forgiveness bargained and a deal struck. Rather, it’s been extended, and in place of hammers and picks, they now wield swords.’
Galar Baras nodded.
She faced Dathenar again. ‘Which are you?’
‘The other is Prazek, sir. We are less interchangeable than it might at first seem.’
‘Spoken true,’ Prazek added. ‘I am less inclined to the disingenuous.’
‘Yet more to pontification,’ Dathenar added.
Prazek resumed. ‘Are these soldiers ready, you ask, sir?’ He scratched at his beard and pondered for a moment, and then said, ‘Readiness is a curious notion. Ready for what, precisely? An argument? Assuredly. Betrayal? Possibly. Courage? Of a sort. A battle? Oh, I should think so.’
She studied him for a moment. ‘Less disingenuous, you said.’
‘I was being—’
‘I gathered that,’ she snapped. ‘Your opinion, Dathenar?’
‘Dilemmas regard us upon all sides, commander. Officers culled from the least objectionable among them still reveal a host of flaws. Surviving soldiers of the old legion vacillate between horror and shame. Swords defy their wielders in refusing to duel, leaving them fisticuffs and mundane knives. Armour howls in the night at the scamper of a mouse. These recruits step in time, however, and wheel in a fashion, and close shields, and when we speak of the coming clash, why, something dances in their eyes.’
‘Discipline?’
‘Poor.’
‘Loyalty to the soldier to either side?’
‘Unlikely.’
‘That said,’ Prazek opined, ‘they are likely to strike fear in the heart of their enemies.’
‘Hust iron will do that.’
‘Indeed, sir. But more so the evident inability of their officers to control their soldiers.’
‘Then you two have failed.’
‘So it seems, sir. Will you now cast us out? Demote us? Send us into the ranks, cowed as curs under boot?’
‘Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
Prazek smiled.
Toras Redone paused and then said, ‘Join me, all of you, and let us walk this gauntlet. We will speak more in the command tent, where I can have a drink, and you two can tell me, in your scattered manner, how you plan to fix this.’
‘Sir?’ Dathenar asked. ‘Command of the Hust Legion is now yours, surely. Level your orders upon us, and we will do all that you ask.’
‘Level of head, smoothly planed, as it were,’ Prazek added.
Toras Redone snorted. ‘I command soldiers, not savages. Galar Baras, I should have heeded your warnings. They would have us march in aid of Kharkanas and Mother Dark? Abyss below, I see a weasel in a rabbit’s den.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Dathenar, ‘in a supporting role …’
She looked at him, but his expression remained unchanged, stolid and serious.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Try as you might, you’ll not make me laugh.’
‘Yes sir.’
Prazek gestured. ‘Commander, would you be so kind as to begin the inspection?’
* * *
Wareth stood in front of his company. He had watched, from the corner of his eye, the extended conversation between the three captains and their commander. If meant to test the fortitude of this newfound discipline, it would have little effect either way – this was not an instance of soldiery quavering beneath the stentorian, icy regard of superior officers. Rather, it was the gimlet regard of criminals, murderers one and all, fixed brazen and defiant upon those who presumed to command them.
At last, however, Toras Redone set out to walk the arrayed ranks, and where she passed, the Hust iron lifted a high keening, rippling with her passage. Some among the front lines flinched at the sound. Others grinned, and then studied the commander with renewed attention.
She suffered their insolence, each step measured in the manner of someone who knew how to control their inebriation.
Her pace did not change until she came opposite Wareth, where she halted and faced him. ‘Ah, my mercy.’
He met her eyes. ‘Sir.’
‘Something you would say?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Out with it, then.’
‘Welcome back, sir.’
Oddly, his words seemed to rattle her. After a moment, she said, ‘Should I offer the same to you, Wareth?’
‘I am unchanged, sir.’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘it seems we have something in common.’
Then she had moved on, and Wareth was left, alone once more in front of his troops. The sword at his hip was shivering inside the scabbard, as if to mock his cowardice, and behind him someone muttered something that elicited low laughter, until a snarl from Rebble silenced everyone.
Now you see for yourself, Toras Redone. But then, perhaps you are right for this. I could smell the alcohol fresh on your breath, see the settled wastage in your face bespeaking your determination. Abyss knows, your marriage to Calat Hustain must be a disaster, to have led you to this state.
But sometimes not moving is the greatest act of cowardice one can find. Safe in the hole, the cramped walls, the sodden womb of staying right where you are.
Galar, she will do, when it comes to leading us all into ruination. Did you know this?
* * *
When the inspection was done and the soldiers had been dismissed, Faror Hend joined the other officers in assembling within the command tent. Present were Wareth, Rance, and the other criminals who had been promoted, along with the quartermaster, Castegan and now Galar Baras. Flanked by Prazek and Dathenar, Commander Toras Redone had been invited to sit in the worn but plush chair, into which she sank, cradling a jug of wine.
‘Is this everyone? Good. I haven’t got much to say. None of us asked for this.’ She paused to drink down two quick mouthfuls. ‘I trust you hold no delusions about me. The legion I once commanded is gone. In its place, a nightmare waiting to happen. Criminals?’ She gestured lazily at Wareth and the others. ‘I speak plain, but none of you are officers, barring the titles you’ve been given.’ Her gaze levelled on Wareth. ‘Abyss take us, we have a coward in our midst – oh, he holds the proper pose, but it seems that is all any of us has. A pose. Will that be enough to disabuse Hunn Raal’s ambitions? Enough to make Urusander’s Legion recoil? I doubt it. Mother help Lord Anomander. Mother help Kharkanas.’
There was silence, and then, reluctantly, Faror Hend cleared her throat and said, ‘Commander.’
Toras Redone settled her bleary eyes upon her. ‘Oh yes, the lost Warden. You have something to say?’
‘Yes sir. What the fuck is this?’
Toras Redone blinked.
‘If we’re only here to pity ourselves, we could have gone back to our tents and done it there, as we’ve pretty much been doing ever since we got here. Shall we all get drunk with you now, sir? Not yet acquired our quota of wallowing?’
‘This one,’ said Toras Redone, ‘has spine. No wonder she seems so out of place.’
‘Fine,’ she replied. ‘I’m happy to leave at your convenience.’
‘Commander,’ said Dathenar, ‘the officers a
ssembled here have done exceptionally well under the circumstances.’
Toras Redone affected an exaggerated frown. ‘You chastise me, Dathenar?’
‘I am dismayed by your quick dismissal. The state of this legion was, until your arrival, the responsibility of myself and Prazek. Castigate us as it please you, but as to the matter of those officers under us, ignorance is an unworthy display.’
Toras Redone snorted. ‘And on the field of battle, who among you here can rally his or her soldiers? A buckling company? A handful of squads holding the centre of a line? Who here can make a fist of every command? Dathenar, you and Prazek cannot be everywhere. Nor can Galar Baras.’ She pointed a finger at Rance. ‘You, sergeant. Tell me, who among your soldiers will follow you?’
‘None, sir,’ Rance replied. ‘They follow no one.’
Castegan spoke up. ‘Commander, I did warn Galar Baras against this madness. True, it was all by command of Silchas Ruin, but Galar could have refused it, and done so with his honour intact. Silchas is not Anomander, after all.’
Toras Redone slid her gaze across to him. ‘Ah, dear old Castegan. I imagine your optimism overwhelmed all and sundry. Galar Baras maintained his honour by following orders. Whatever misgivings he held he kept to himself. But I have been warned – a new sorcery afflicts the Hust iron.’ She drank again, three long swallows, and then settled back further in the chair. ‘They judge us,’ she said in a low tone. ‘Each sword. And that dreadful armour. Judgement. Condemnation. Iron has no respect for flesh. It never did. But these blades, they now thirst.’ Abruptly, she shook herself. ‘Prazek, prepare this legion to march. We leave tomorrow. Pray Lord Anomander finds his way home. Failing that, Silchas Ruin can take command of what he has wrought.’
Faror Hend said, ‘Then I will take my leave—’
‘No you won’t,’ cut in Toras Redone. ‘You, I want at my side, if only to prop me up.’
‘Find someone else.’
‘None but you, lieutenant. Now, all but Galar Baras and Prazek and Dathenar, out. You have work to do. Warden, see that my wagon is well stocked.’
Faror Hend stared down at the commander for a moment longer, then saluted and departed the tent.
Outside, she found a few of the others milling. Wareth met her eyes and smiled. ‘Well played, Faror.’
‘We waited for this? Abyss take us.’
‘As it will,’ Wareth replied, glancing across at Rance, and then at the two guards standing nearby, waiting to escort the woman back to her tent. After a moment, he offered Faror Hend a smile. ‘We assemble. Face the enemy. Give the orders, and then see what happens.’
‘She was unduly harsh on you,’ Faror said.
Wareth shrugged. ‘Not unexpected. Her mercy was never meant to absolve me, nor mitigate her contempt. We were fighting a war, after all.’
Rance spoke to Wareth. ‘You must tell her. About me.’
‘I leave that to Prazek and Dathenar.’
‘The commander will decide the right thing to do,’ Rance said. ‘I welcome the end to this.’
Frowning, Wareth said, ‘Has it not occurred to you, Rance, that there may not be time … to deal with you? She wants us on the march tomorrow—’
‘What?’ Rance’s face filled with dismay.
Faror Hend grunted and then shook her head. ‘Expect two more days, at least, before we are ready.’
‘Still,’ said Wareth, ‘too little time.’
Faror Hend stepped close to Rance. ‘An end to things … well, yes, Rance, I can see how you might long for that. But what if dying doesn’t end anything?’
At that, Rance recoiled. After a moment, in which terror twisted her face, she spun round and rushed away. Her two guards were startled by her haste, and hurried to catch up.
‘You seeded a cruel thought, Faror Hend.’
‘My patience is fraying. In any case, in this mood I should speak with no one else for the rest of this day. After all,’ she added bitterly, ‘I have to see a wagon stocked with wine.’
‘She never liked Castegan,’ Wareth said. ‘Sobriety makes for a cautious soul. She was never one for being cautious.’
Faror Hend studied Wareth for a moment, and then, shrugging, she set off.
* * *
Galar Baras watched his commander – his lover – getting drunk. Prazek had taken a seat at the map table, where he seemed to be studying the supply report Seltin Ryggandas had left there before departing. Dathenar paced near the tent flap, as if silently debating something, a frown marring his brow.
‘I should have left this to you, Galar,’ Toras Redone said, her words thick and low. ‘But that cell made me bored. You’d think I’d welcome such solitude, just me and my … wine. And now, well, look at us. If the corpses had been raised up, by swords refusing death itself, I would have led them. Vengeance was a fire I could have stoked, fury a storm I would have ridden. We would have caught Hunn Raal unawares, and descended upon Neret Sorr. An army of undead, silent but for their screaming weapons, to deliver righteous slaughter.’ She lifted the jug, sloshed it to gauge how much was left, and then drained it. When done, she let the jug fall to the floor beside the chair, loosed a heavy sigh, and continued, ‘But the dead don’t care. Neither lust nor vengeance stirs their motionless limbs. No indignant rage flashes in their lifeless eyes. I walked among them, and with each body I stepped over, I felt something more taken away from me. Some … essence. Dathenar, bring me another jug – there, against the back wall. Excellent, a man who knows to follow orders. We’ll need that.’
Prazek looked over from where he sat by the table. ‘And so each death surrenders its name, choosing but one, whispered again and again, from countless pale lips. And that name is Loss, and to utter it is to feel it. Diminished, death by death, this essence of what we once were.’
Dathenar stood near her, watching as she tugged free the jug’s stopper. Then he said, ‘Fallen friends cease to ask how you fare, cease to answer in kind. They may retreat from your thoughts, but never quite far enough. If in our minds we walk as one among many, in the midst of families knotted by blood and by choice, and witness, as years pass, the crowd grow ever smaller, then we come to comprehend – as we must – a day when we walk alone, abandoned by all.’
‘Or contemplate another kind of abandonment,’ Prazek said, nodding, ‘when it is we who must leave the others. A last step comes to us all. Regret and sorrow will ride the final breaths of each of us, moments of pity perhaps for those who must remain, those who must take another step, and then another, trailed by none but ghosts.’
‘They were my friends,’ said Toras Redone in a ragged whisper. ‘One and all. My family.’
‘You are not entirely alone,’ Galar Baras pointed out.
She smiled, but her eyes remained fixed on the dry earthen floor. ‘I walk no reasonable path. The fewer that remain, the more easily we find ourselves lost.’ She drank again. ‘But this womb is red and sweet. It bears the colour of blood, but is quick to lose its warmth. It enlivens the mind, in the instant before it dulls every thought. It licks the cunt, only to take all feeling away. For all that, I am eager for the insensibility, so easily mistaken for lust.’
‘Yet you berated Wareth for his cowardice,’ said Dathenar.
She scowled. ‘No wonder Silchas sent you packing.’
Prazek spoke. ‘We have stood guard upon many a bridge, Dathenar and me. Lofty our presumption of stout diligence, our capacity to fend either approach.’
‘But the river runs past,’ Dathenar said, ‘with mocking indifference. Such is the fate of those who guard the civil, this span of bold traverse upon which peasants and kings will walk, each in their time. Stand in vigil, even as the stone and mortar rots beneath our boots. You would share pity before death’s distant bell? Be on with it then, commander. The river’s surface ripples with black and silver, a commingling of despair and hope.’
‘And what lies beneath that surface, alas, is anything but clear.’
Galar Baras
stared at the two men, one to the other, and then back again as each spoke. Their voices possessed a cadence. Their words carried him frail as a leaf upon a stream. Glancing down, he saw desolation in his lover’s eyes.
‘Pity,’ she finally said, as if tasting the word yet again. ‘It suffices. But I keep my tears in a jug. You’ll see me astride my mount on the day of battle. I will not shy from that fate.’
‘We have spoken nothing of fate,’ Prazek said.
‘By its utterance the word invites,’ Dathenar observed.
‘Surrender,’ said Prazek, ‘by another name.’
‘Yet it awaits, a promise to the future, in which all power is yielded. To swim or drown beneath a reckless sky.’
‘I’ll order the advance when such is required of me,’ said Toras Redone. But her red eyes were glazed, her lips wet. ‘You three will command a thousand each. You will array your eight cohorts into a flattened wedge and march to close. I expect we’ll hold a flank—’
‘I will advise Lord Anomander that we take the centre,’ said Prazek.
She lifted her gaze with an effort, studied him. ‘Why?’
‘Should our side prevail, sir, it may be necessary for our flanking allies to turn on us.’
Toras Redone let her head tilt forward again, until she was peering at the jug on her lap, or her hands that held it as if it was a baby. ‘Now there is a fate unanticipated – forgive me my addled mind. Of course we take the centre, as we will be the wild beast with blood in its mouth. Cut-throats and thugs, sadists and murderers, our iron shrieking its own thirst. None of you can rein that in, can you?’
‘It’s not likely,’ said Dathenar, resuming his pacing.
‘Would that Hunn Raal returned to us,’ she then said, ‘with yet more wagons loaded with fatal casks. We could make husks of the armour, again, and take every hand from every sword. And,’ she lifted the jug and kissed its broad mouth, ‘begin anew.’
Galar Baras wanted to weep. Instead, he said, ‘Some other discarded or neglected segment of the population … but none comes to mind, alas.’
Prazek rose as if bidden by some unseen signal from his friend, who moved to draw back the tent flap, and as he stepped into the dull light beyond he said, ‘Well, there’re always children, though the armour might need refitting.’
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