by Sam Bowring
‘And I’m to go with them?’
‘Aye.’
This clearly appealed to Bel. ‘When?’
‘Soon. Within a couple of days.’
‘Which troop?’
‘Under Munpo.’
‘Are you going?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’ said Bel. ‘Don’t you miss it?’
Corlas smiled.
‘So why don’t you come? Doesn’t some time away slaying monsters sound like just the holiday you need?’
Corlas stared at his hands splayed on the mess hall table. The truth was, he was very aware of how long he’d been trapped behind the wards. For a moment he allowed himself to be swept along by Bel’s enthusiasm . . . then he remembered blood-drop eyes watching from amongst leaves.
‘I cannot,’ he said.
‘But the Throne respects you. He’d let you go if you asked.’
‘No. Do not try to convince me.’
‘But –’
‘No!’ said Corlas angrily, startling Bel mid-chew. For a moment his shoulders rose and fell, but he mastered himself. Leaning back with a sigh, he met his son’s worried eyes.
‘I’d go with you, lad, if I could. But I cannot. Please don’t ask me again. Now,’ he stood, picking up his plate, ‘finish your meal and then I’ll tell you everything I know about huggers.’
Fifteen / Troop
Fifteen
Troop
Troop
‘Now, Hiza,’ said Bel smugly, ‘I don’t want you losing sleep over me – especially since sleeping is about the only thing you can do.’
‘Very funny,’ said Hiza. He lay in a bed in the Hospital of Arkus, the sun shining warmly into his open room. ‘Is this what you came for? I thought you had your fill of gloating yesterday.’
‘I had to say goodbye,’ said Bel. ‘And thank you once more for breaking your ankle.’
‘Hmf,’ said Hiza. He absently went to scratch his foot, discovered there was plaster in the way and scowled. ‘Bloody hospital,’ he said. ‘What I’d give to be coming with you.’
Bel grinned. ‘I know.’
‘Oh, get out,’ said Hiza. ‘Get out before you float out. I can see how eager you are to be off.’
‘I’ll bring you back a hugger claw.’
‘Don’t bother. I’ll be getting one for myself any day.’
Bel smiled at his friend and left the room. He strode along white corridors, manoeuvring smoothly around healers and patients. As boys, his gang had explored the hospital many times and any laid-up soldiers who tolerated questions and told war stories would find themselves with an eager audience. To get on the boys’ bad side, however, was to run the risk of being mercilessly tormented. Many a healer had come running in response to shouts about mischievous children and caught nothing more than the echoes of laughter. Bel wondered if there were any bold scamps around to bother Hiza.
He left the hospital and headed for the barracks, a barely concealed bounce in his step. Hiza had spoken true: he was filled with excitement. Today he’d meet his new troop, and tomorrow they would leave for Drel.
•
News of his transfer preceded him. It was an unusual occurrence to be pulled from the keepers early and Bel’s new comrades were highly curious about why the exception had been made. As Troop Leader Munpo introduced Bel to them at the barracks, the expressions on the assembled faces were varied – from friendly, to dour, to unreadable.
Bel met each pair of eyes, nodding and smiling no matter the reaction he received.
‘All right,’ finished Munpo in his dry, croaky voice. ‘Let’s take it out the back.’
The troop leader was a wiry fellow who constantly smoked brittleleaf rolls. His gnarled skin put his age anywhere between forty and sixty, he wore his lank brown hair slicked back in a ponytail, and craned his neck in a way that put Bel in mind of a vulture. His head bobbed up and down slightly as he led them to the training grounds, adding to the effect. Walking behind him in the group, Bel noticed a ropy blade called Hunna looking him over. Hunna nodded in acknowledgement.
‘Howzit goin’?’ he said.
‘Good, thanks.’
‘Yeah? You lookin’ forward to killin’ some huggers?’
‘Absolutely, my man,’ said Bel, knowing that others were paying attention to the exchange.
‘You better be,’ said Hunna. ‘’Cause these ain’t no common browns, ya know. Green huggers are worse than browns.’
‘Indeed,’ said Bel. ‘More intelligent, more coordinated, they stalk you through the trees and you never hear them coming.’
Hunna frowned.
‘You fought huggers before, Blade Bel?’ said a steely voice from his other side.
It was Gredda, Munpo’s penulm, which made her second in command of the troop. She was a muscular woman of around thirty with mousy hair tied back in a ponytail. Bel wondered if she remembered him from when he’d been small and had brought her sword back into the barracks.
‘Many times,’ he said. Gredda raised an eyebrow. ‘As a child, admittedly,’ he continued. ‘Equipped with only my trusty wooden sword, I kicked their hairy arses from one side of the Open Halls to the other. I wasn’t allowed to fight them at dinnertime, though.’
A couple of chortles followed, but Gredda remained stony-faced. ‘So you really don’t know what you’re in for,’ she said.
‘If you say so.’
‘Some of us are curious, Blade Bel, as to how you came to be with us.’
‘Oh,’ said Bel, as if this was surprising news. ‘You mean why was I pulled out of the keepers early? Well, that’s no secret. My partner broke his ankle, and rather than have me sit idle while he heals his heels, they boosted me into a troop that needed an extra soldier. This one.’
Gredda scowled. ‘That’s horse shit. Why didn’t they just assign you a new partner?’
‘Yeah,’ chimed in Hunna. ‘Think no one’s lost a partner in the keepers before?’
‘We heard they moved you ’cause you’re a favourite of the Throne,’ said Gredda.
‘Ah,’ said Bel. ‘So that’s what you heard.’ He smiled. ‘Well, it’s true I know the Throne, but that’s not why they moved me.’
‘No?’
‘Nah. They moved me because I’m the best.’
Now he knew he had everyone’s attention.
‘Is that so?’ spat Gredda derisively.
‘Indeed.’ Bel fired a wink at her. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t heard of me. I’m a master of the sword, a demon with the bow, as skilled a warrior as ever there was. Why, you’ll never meet anyone with such lightning-fast reactions, such eagle-eyed accuracy, such sure-footed –’
Bel’s foot hit a tussock of grass and he stumbled to fall on the ground. He rolled onto his back with an exaggerated look of surprise on his face.
‘Arkus!’ he exclaimed. ‘They didn’t tell me there’d be grass on this mission!’
The soldiers guffawed and Bel was glad his prank had paid off. Only Gredda marched on unimpressed.
‘Why din’ they just tell us they was sendin’ a troop clown?’ said Hunna, offering Bel a hand. Bel took it and they fell back into step. ‘So, serious,’ said Hunna in a low voice. ‘Why did they send you over?’
‘I’ve told no lies, comrade,’ said Bel. ‘I’ve told no lies.’
•
Together the troop trained, and Bel knew he was being watched. If his talents were on display, so be it. The troop would get their show.
Standing in a line of soldiers firing down the archery range, Bel notched arrow after arrow into his bow. Each shaft flew straight and true, hitting the target’s red centre some twenty paces away. As he turned from the range he saw that he’d impressed his onlookers, one notab
le exception being M’Meska, a Ryoshi Saurian. She stood upright on powerful hind legs, reaching Bel’s shoulders in height. Her body was covered in bright green scales and her tail was a pace long. Above her snout she had yellow eyes on either side of her head, and Bel knew she’d be a hard one to sneak up on. A row of spines ran from the crest of her head down the back of her neck, and rose in anger as she watched Bel sinking arrows into targets. M’Meska was the acknowledged champion bow of the troop and, as the line of archers switched over, she walked past Bel with a silent snarl, pointedly taking his former position in the line. She proceeded to fire impressively, though she hissed in anger as one of her shafts sank into the border of red and yellow, further from the centre than any of Bel’s.
Swordplay was next, using practice blades. Munpo arranged the bouts in a tournament style, three pairs jousting at a time while the others watched. Bel’s first match was against Hunna, which he won swiftly in two quick movements. Hunna was annoyed, claiming he’d not been ready, and demanded a rematch. Bel granted it to him, and again won swiftly. As he glanced towards those watching, he saw that their admiration for his skill was in danger of becoming begrudging. Perhaps he had won a little too easily.
He forced himself to draw out his second bout, against a well-muscled blade called Keit. Keit was a natural swordsman, flexible and strong, and far superior in skill to Hunna. Back and forth they went, swords flashing with speed and precision. For Bel it seemed like a dance, and he almost laughed with pleasure as his opponent forced him backwards under a barrage of blows. Cheers went up amongst the onlookers, and Bel realised with annoyance that they were barracking for Keit. Although he knew he should let Keit win, vanity proved more powerful than humility. As calls for Keit filled his ears, he suddenly found himself standing over the fallen man, his sword levelled at Keit’s heart. The troop fell silent as Bel reached out to offer the man a hand up. Keit’s hard blue eyes stared up at him, and for a moment Bel thought his offer was refused – but then Keit’s hand caught his in a strong grip and Bel helped him to his feet.
‘Well fought,’ said Bel.
‘And you,’ said Keit. ‘Corlas must be quite a teacher.’
‘That he is,’ came the dry voice of Munpo.
The troop leader removed a brittleleaf end from his chapped lips and flicked it away, then drew his sword from its frayed scabbard. He nodded at Bel, who realised he was being challenged by his commanding officer. Staring at Munpo, he resented the man for placing him in such an awkward position. He had no desire to show up Munpo in front of his troop, but he didn’t trust his pride to let him take a fall to such a dilapidated opponent. Corlas had spoken of the man with respect, but even so Bel couldn’t imagine the wiry little warrior posing much threat. Reluctantly he took up an answering pose, sword held ready. It was too much for the soldiers still jousting, who stopped to watch their troop leader challenge the new blade.
Munpo took a step back, inviting Bel to attack. Bel lunged and their swords clashed. Munpo’s grip was surprisingly strong, his sword steady against Bel’s blows. The troop leader edged backwards, blocking Bel’s sword each time with understated moves, defending only a small circle around himself. He was quick, and Bel found his defence difficult to penetrate. He aimed a powerful swing, hoping strength alone would unbalance Munpo. Munpo simply lowered his blade, and Bel stumbled as his blow met no resistance. Munpo attacked for the first time, stepping forward to spike his sword, dagger-like, at Bel’s stomach. Already off balance, Bel had to put more effort into his defence than he would have liked, batting away the attack gracelessly. Munpo pressed his advantage, little jabs and slices coming one after the other in quick succession. Such was the economy of his movement that he remained totally steady as he continued forward. Bel’s defence was bigger by comparison and he knew he was expending more effort than Munpo. He tried to control his frustration at being pressed back by the quick little man, just as Munpo swung his sword back in a wide arc, leaving his left side exposed. Bel seized the opportunity, swiping quickly, but Munpo was already dodging away. Too late Bel knew it had been a trick, luring him to attack when he was already off balance. Munpo bounced forward to press his practice blade against Bel’s rib cage.
As the troop applauded the victory, Bel stared at the older man. Munpo, who’d barely broken a sweat, nodded at him. ‘We’ll talk about this later,’ he said.
Conflicting emotions fought in Bel. Although he had not wished to beat this man in front of the troop, he’d considered the choice of losing to be his. He knew he wasn’t invulnerable – Corlas still beat him sometimes, but Corlas was a hero and his teacher besides. Against the spindly Munpo, Bel found it hard to accept defeat. Added to that, the rest of the troop was clearly glad that he’d been proven fallible. He understood this, of course, but he would have preferred to have secretly known that he could have won if he’d wanted to. It was a sobering blow to his ego.
Outwardly he took it with good grace. He nodded respectfully to Munpo and stepped back into the troop, where he received a few slaps on the back.
‘Head up, blade,’ said someone beside him, who turned out to be Keit. ‘Munpo is wilier than a fox in a henhouse.’
‘Indeed,’ agreed Bel. ‘Though such a fox would look better fed.’
Keit barked a laugh, and suddenly Bel was very thankful that Munpo had won.
•
After dinner the troop went to the Soldiers Bar, located next to the mess hall in the barracks. Being the only bar in the Halls, it wasn’t just a meeting place for soldiers and so did a strong trade most nights. It was a long room, with squares cut into the floorboards through which trees grew from the earth beneath. Along the walls lanterns shone brightly, their heat rising up through the non-existent roof into a sky of twinkling stars. The bar itself ran the length of the far wall, while in the rest of the room attendants moved between tables taking orders. None of the noise travelled outside the bar due to the ‘Essence of Walls’, and thus didn’t disturb sleeping soldiers elsewhere in the barracks.
Bel was waiting at the bar for his next drink when M’Meska stepped up beside him, a tall glass of bloodfire in her bluntly clawed hand. He noted that a tail was a handy thing to lean on when its owner had consumed too much bloodfire.
‘You lucky today, Varenkai,’ she said in a voice ill equipped for human language, rasping and full of odd clicks. ‘Hit target good, yes?’ She upended the glass of thick liquor down her throat.
‘If anything,’ said Bel, ‘I’d say you’re the lucky one.’
‘What mean?’ demanded the Saurian, slamming her glass down empty on the counter.
‘Since I’m about to buy you a drink.’
He gestured at a bartender, and a moment later a mug of ale and another glass of bloodfire arrived. The Saurian grunted and took another large swig.
‘You do know that’s bloodfire, not water?’ said Bel, counting out copper.
‘I know,’ said M’Meska, missing the friendly dig. ‘Saurian blood not so thin as Varenkai, and sun not shine so bright in Halls as at Furoara Sands. I need warm my blood so far from home.’ She gulped from the glass at a rate that made Bel queasy.
‘Now,’ said M’Meska, ‘you.’ She tapped the bar, summoning the bartender. ‘Two,’ she said, holding up two claws.
‘Ah,’ Bel began in protest, ‘I don’t think –’
‘Warm your blood,’ said the Saurian. She held up her claws again at the hesitant bartender. ‘Two,’ she repeated.
The bartender shrugged and soon two glasses of bloodfire stood before them on the bench. Bel stared at his with some trepidation.
‘Drink,’ said the Saurian, lifting her glass in a clumsy toast. Bel, not wishing to offend the strange soldier, lifted his too. They drank, Bel sipping and M’Meska swallowing greedily.
‘Bah,’ said M’Meska, licking her lips. ‘You shoot like Saurian, but still drink like human.�
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‘Thank Arkus for that,’ said Bel, coughing; his throat burned. He quickly drank some ale to wash it down.
‘Be wary, Blade Bel,’ came a creaky voice from beside him, and the smell of stale brittleleaf wafted past his nostrils.
‘Troop leader,’ Bel acknowledged.
‘We have a long ride tomorrow,’ said Munpo, ‘and I’ve seen the aftermath when men try to match a Saurian at drink. It isn’t pretty.’
‘Bah,’ reiterated M’Meska and moved away, bobbing birdlike on her hind legs. A barmaid with a drink tray had to sidestep quickly to avoid her swinging tail.
‘Can I buy you a drink, sir?’ said Bel.
‘You may, soldier.’
Again Bel gestured to the bartender. Munpo took out his brittleleaf pouch and began to make himself a roll. ‘What did you think of today?’ he asked.
‘Seems like a good troop, sir,’ answered Bel. ‘I’m glad to be part of it.’
‘Mmm-hmm,’ said Munpo, sealing the roll over his lips. ‘And you did well in the bouts.’
‘Sir.’
‘But you lost to me,’ said Munpo, putting the roll in his mouth and lighting it. Smoke issued over the counter. Munpo nodded to the bartender as his ale arrived. ‘Any ideas why?’
Bel licked his lips. He was feeling a little foggy from the drinking, and the question irritated him. ‘You’re a quick man, sir,’ he said after a moment. ‘And a skilful fighter.’
‘True,’ said Munpo matter-of-factly. ‘But those aren’t the reasons. I saw you fight Hunna and Keit. I know, just as Keit does, that you could have beaten him sooner than you did. I imagine he’s thankful that you didn’t injure his pride as you did Hunna’s, but he doesn’t deceive himself. That said, I know he would not refuse you a rematch.’ For the first time Bel saw Munpo smile, a dry enigmatic smile that tweaked the corners of his mouth then dropped away quickly. ‘I almost thought you were going to let him win,’ said Munpo.
‘I thought about it.’
‘Mmm. Now, why did you lose to me?’