The Misrule series Box Set

by Andy Graham

  Flayme looked straight into his eyes

  (sniper’s eyes)

  and said, “I heard Axeford folk had some traditions to do with those trees.”

  The look she gave him would have made Ray Franklin blush, if Stann knew his grandson. Stann was too old to blush and Flayme too handsome. Fine lines around auburn eyes. A body hard and tanned from working outside for decades. But it was the hair that got him the most. White and streaked with silver, it hung loose around her shoulders. Unspoken tradition dictated that older women dye their hair and cut it short or tie it back; the loose look was for young women. But loose with non-dyed hair on a woman drawing her pension? Well fuck it, if Flayme didn’t have the raunchiest hair Stann had ever seen. “I could show you those traditions,” he said.

  “Thought you were supposed to climb across the branches that link over the road. Your hand and leg won’t stop you?” She took Stann’s half-hand in hers, the one ruined in Castle Brecan. The one he’d always claimed Rick had used to pay for his promotion to major. Her skin was warm, fingernails clean despite the manual work.

  “You only do the climb when you hit double figures. It’s harder than it looks, even for the nimblest of ten-year-olds. The branches thin out right over the centre of the road, where the concrete’s hardest.”

  “Don’t you fancy doing it again?” The wind was running its fingers through that loose hair of hers, tugging it in strands across her face. Stann’s own fingers itched to brush it clear.

  “When I hit three numbers, maybe. Be good for a centenarian. I won’t even cheat this time.”

  “You cheated?”

  “Tied the branches together the night before with some wire I’d painted brown. A fair fight only means you didn’t prepare properly.”

  “Naughty.” Her lips formed an O-shape. Moist. “I heard there was another tradition for kids about to leave for the military. One the parents turned a blind eye to.”

  One hand reached down past his waist, stopping just short of his thigh. That one touch was the most intimate thing Stann had felt in, oh, about fifty years. “That was just in case, to make sure the kids would die complete. I could show you that one, too?” Strands of hair stuck to Flayme’s lips. He brushed it out of her face, one callused knuckle against a weather-worn cheek.

  “You sure you’re still up to that? Modern clothes have all kinds of buckles and zips and poppers.” That hand of hers on his thigh pressed harder.

  “Might be a bit unsteady on my feet but I’m pretty good at undoing things one-handed.”

  “You know if you undo something a woman’s wearing, it’s only polite to do it up again?” No batting of the eyelids, no false modesty, just a straight-up question.

  Stann opened his eyes wide in mock surprise. “A woman’s clothes do up again? Well, I never realised that.” He winked and a pig snorted. The pair burst out laughing as the pig turned its squiggle of a tail on them and started nuzzling at tree roots.

  “Gonna catch you, Bacon,” Stann yelled. “Gonna make you pay for ruining the highlight of this young lady’s life.”

  She chuckled, low and throaty, and tilted her head up towards his. Her breath was warm on his lips and—

  “Stann!” A man’s voice.

  The moment was gone.

  “Now what?”

  Martinez hop-skipped towards them, across the unnatural green of the old bodyball pitch. He wound his way between the tufts of weeds and shrubs that had forced their way up between the squares of plastic grass. He had a pack and a rifle slung over his shoulders. Stann’s irritation dissipated in a laugh.

  “What?” Flayme asked, slipping that heavy-light hand that had almost been — but was just that crucial, heart-thumping centimetre too short — on his crotch, around his waist.

  “Look at us,” Stann said. “Two men with three legs and not enough fingers between them leading a bunch of veterans whose average age belongs in the last tick-box of all those endless forms that the government plagues us with. It’d be funny if someone else’s grandkid’s life was riding on this.”

  “No, it wouldn’t.”

  “No, Flayme, it wouldn’t. And that’s why we’re going to do this.” He kissed her forehead and was gratified to see spots of colour blooming in her cheeks.

  Martinez drew level with them. He was a good man; it ran deep in him. He was the man Stann had dreamed of being as a kid before it had all gone to shit. The pig snorted and stared at them with beady eyes. Flanking the pig was an army of ghosts: Finn Hanzel, the pig herder who Stann had helped all those years ago; sadistic Lieutenant Chel from Castle Brecan; Sub-Lieutenant Lacky, lucky to have survived Brecan and now probably living his retirement out in comfort somewhere; Private Lee and his coffins; Edyth, the wife Stann had married out of duty; Rick’s wife, the first woman Stann had fallen for; Donarth, the son he’d taken for granted until he was dead; and — he blinked the moisture away from his eyes — she was there too. The girl from Castle Brecan who haunted his dreams every night: brown haired, dark eyed and so painfully young, far too young to have died at Stann’s hands, the sniper’s hands that went with his sniper’s eyes.

  Stann let go of Flayme’s shoulder, his fingertips white from the pressure. “You still bitter?” he whispered. “You gonna die bitter, Tear’s Rotten Egg.”

  Flayme was watching him. Martinez was waiting. Ray was waiting. “Did you bring it?” Stann asked.

  Martinez patted the rucksack. “Brought them, too.”

  Rounding the edge of the forest that brushed up against the main road was a bunch of men and women. One of the women had dyed red hair, one of the men a crude-cut Mohican and paint-spattered trousers. The ghosts from Stann’s past faded into the forest along with the pig. “At least that brings our average age down from relic to decrepit.”

  Flayme punched him in the ribs. “Speak for yourself, old man.”

  “Do you two want a couple of minutes alone?” Martinez asked, his face way too controlled for Stann’s liking.

  “It’ll take more than a few minutes, son.”

  “Promises, promises,” Flayme whispered just loud enough for Martinez to hear. This time, Stann had the decency to blush.

  “Show me what you brought me then.”

  Martinez unclipped his pack and unfurled the flag that had been wrapped in paper for decades. One by one, the villagers from the Free Town of Tear, the dozen or so veterans Stann had found and the others, assembled around the flag, curious and expectant.

  “Legend has it that this was the original flag of Greenfields.” Stann used his quiet voice, the one he started his stories with around the Hallowtide fires. The voice that drew people in and gave them a choice: shut up or piss off. Most chose to listen because they wanted to see what fairy tales Stann would come up with: Cracks that rotted the marrow in your bones, devils who stole the sunshine in winter and buried it underground, the Hell Sky and many more.

  “Hell Sky,” he whispered. He looked away from his listeners, away from his responsibility. The bank of clouds moving in from the west was a drab grey, not the black wing of clouds bubbled through with crimson that marked the Hell Sky. No angels were coming to claim the innocent that had fallen to the Great Deceiver in the night. Not yet, at least. The thoughts flashed through his mind in the time it took to draw in a breath. Today, Tear’s bitter old man, the rotten egg who had spent years carving out a reputation that was as nasty as it was deserved, was in a different mood: thoughtful, bordering on reconciliatory. It wasn’t Flayme, nor was it the fight to save his grandson. It was something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

  Not just my grandson, though, is he? Ray is as much Rick’s as mine. When it comes to settling up old debts, that has to count for something, doesn’t it?

  “The original flag of Greenfields,” Stann repeated. The nervous mutters in the crowd quieted. “The flag that the militia of Axeford, Tear and a bunch of other villages long gone rallied around. They united under this flag to fight the invaders decimating our countr
y. It gave them hope, put steel in their arms and courage in their veins. This is the flag stitched with the blood of the people who gave their lives for us. The people whose tears became the white trees of the Weeping Woods around us. This is that flag.”

  His voice was rising. Heart thumping so much it was making him shake. Clenching his half-hand into half-a-fist, he gave in to the emotion. “Crap,” he yelled to the stunned listeners. “Total crap. The men and women who fought for us in Greenfields died in excruciating pain. They watched their loved ones being hacked to bits. We lost, royally. The original flag was burnt and probably, if I know soldiers, the ashes pissed on for good measure. The story was renamed Screamfields.”

  The crowd were muttering now, nervous faces looking for reassurance from their colleagues. Martinez’s head was cocked to one side, a curious expression on his face.

  “The folk we’re facing have got guns and grenades, not swords and axes. And bombs ain’t no joke.” Stann’s half-hand strayed down to his prosthesis before he could stop it. The jubilant mood of his audience was subdued. He glanced towards the treeline. He didn’t want any more ghosts asking him questions at night; he didn’t want to give that Hell Sky a reason to shine red in the morning. “I’m going to get my grandson back. You can tag along, but you come with me and you’ll face much worse odds than our ancestors did.”

  A gust of wind swept through the fields and disappeared into the forest, chasing itself and hissing through leaves. The momentary elation Stann had felt not that long ago was gone. Out of nowhere, he felt every one of his seventy-odd years. The silence weighing over the people gathered near the Arch Trees didn’t help. Had to be done. They had to know. He’d go alone. He’d—

  “How bad are these odds?” someone asked.

  “Dire, by the sounds of it,” a woman replied.

  “I’ve had dire odds before,” someone else said. “It’s called hospital food.”

  A few chuckled.

  “How about diabolical odds?” a voice cried.

  “Yeah, I’ll do diabolical.”

  “Me too!”

  “What about disastrous?”

  “Dreadful?”

  “Dumb.”

  The dumb odds suggestion was met by a chorus of booing.

  “Doomed!”

  They burst into laughter.

  “We’re all doomed, doomed, doomed,” they cried. It became a chant that they shouted to the sky, weapons held high and hopes even higher.

  Flayme leant close. “I think you got yourself an army, Mr Taille.”

  Over the shouts and hoots of laughter, Stann heard the crack of fabric in the breeze. Martinez had unfurled the banner and was flying it from his crutch. The twin Arch Trees of Axeford glistened in gold, silver and green thread. The branches spread from one side of the flag to the next, entwined in a knot in the centre.

  In the midst of the celebrations, which to Stann felt like a barbecue on a frozen pond, Flayme pulled him over and said, “Minor question, oh glorious leader. How are we getting there?”

  “That was my job,” Martinez said. And once more, one of the little gods, Timing, played up to the occasion.

  A dull thud filled the air, silencing the rowdy cheers and celebrations, save for one solitary laughing shout of “dumb!” that fell quiet.

  Heavy and black and menacing, two choppers appeared over the crest of a hill. Nose tipped down, the black dots at the ends of their guns were visible from here. “10th-Legion issue,” Martinez said with a wink.

  “How?”

  “Like any organisation,” Martinez said in his best recruitment sergeant’s advertising voice, “the army is built upon the virtuous pillars of tradition, discipline, money, backhanders, favours and revenge.” His grin turned nasty. “Turns out Ray Franklin has more friends than anyone knew.”

  “Seems like everyone has access to a helicopter in Ailan,” Stann said, wryly.

  “Know a guy that can get you a nuclear sub as well, if you want.”

  As the chopper carrying Stann Taille and his ageing army disappeared into a cloud bank, Randall Soulier’s appeared out of one.

  Below him, the Donian Mountains were covered by a thick rash of trees. They extended as far as the eye could see, broken only by a white hill that shimmered. The forest was teeming with more life than any city. Many of these trees were older than the country of Ailan himself, the mountains as old as the world, pitted and scored by time. Knowing these things only intensified the irrational hate he felt for this place. There was a change in the note of the rotor engines. “We’re here, sir,” a voice crackled in his headphones.

  In a massive clearing below sat a number of helicopters. Eighteen, Randall realised without having to count them. It was an odd talent of his that he hadn’t told anyone about since childhood when it had led to a predictable number of taunts.

  (He was also able to name the exact day any date fell on, but in a rare, almost friendly moment his adoptive dad had suggested he not make that public. “You’re a freak, anyway. Let’s not give anyone any more ammunition, OK, sunshine?”)

  The eighteen choppers below sat fat, squat and brooding. The rotors on some were folded back on themselves, impossibly small to make such a large chunk of metal fly. The machines were disgorging and gorging Unsung legionnaires up and down ramps. From his vantage point in the skies, he felt he could stamp on the black choppers below. Only then, he’d have no army and he’d have to hunt down and kill Ray Franklin on his own. The rational part of his mind that wasn’t fogged by hate knew that he’d come off worse in that particular battle.

  As they approached the ground, the details became clearer: six guns on each chopper, four bombs apiece and one exhaust, most still glowing. Three cables ran from the generator to a command post. The expressions on the legionnaires’ faces were watchful, curious, bored — lots of bored — and nervous. The command post had been set up alongside gun emplacements. Someone was shouting. Someone was always shouting in the Unsung. Someone was always swearing, too. An exhaust flared, sending a gout of flames into the air and men into an ant-like frenzy. An explosion made Randall jump, giggle. The giggle became a nasal snort. He clamped his hands over his mouth and narrowed his eyes in a manner he hoped looked presidential. He studied and looked and scrutinised, but the one thing he was looking for, he couldn’t see: Captain James Brennan. The souring in Randall’s stomach got worse when he realised that the man hopping from foot to foot, just outside the circle of grass being flattened by the downdraft of the rotors, was the rattish private from Donia. Moronman, or whatever he was called, had that gleeful look of someone revelling in the bad news they carried.

  Malakan hopped from foot to foot. Knew he was doing it. Didn’t care much. Randall’s chopper touched down, skids bouncing. Bending slightly. The door slid open. Malakan, still shielding his eyes from the grit and grass that the rotors were spitting into his face, raced over, stooped, like he’d seen in the movies.

  Randall brushed past him, whatever words he said by way of greeting were ripped away by the rotor noise. Malakan chased after the VP. Is Randall president yet? Does that make him the P? Does the P think I’m scuttling? Malakan wasn’t. He had News.

  The door to the command centre slammed shut behind them. The legionnaires inside snapped to attention, all except a well-built, blonde-haired major who didn’t acknowledge the newcomers. The VP, the P, Randall, picked up a sheaf of papers from the desk. Glanced at them. Nodded once. Frowned.

  Must be important work, Malakan thought. Unless the documents were there to make Randall look good. But why were his eyes screwed half-shut like that? Did he have problems seeing? Was that the look of a powerful man or one whose trousers needed a dry-cleaner? People pretending to lead were odd, Malakan decided. He scratched his nose. It felt like it was twitching. Should he wait with the news? That’s what people did, right? Build tension and anticipation.

  The P rounded on him. “I asked you a question.” Randall’s yell blew any pretence at gamesmanship or und
erstanding of his adopted president out of Malakan’s ears.

  “Brennan’s dead, sir.” Deference seemed the most tactful approach with a madman. At least until you were the one with goons and money to hide behind.

  “What?”

  “Brennan’s dead, sir.”

  “Told you he was a liability,” came a sing-song whisper from the major. He still had his back turned to Malakan and the VP.

  “Yes, well. Of course. I knew that. It was my plan. I—” Randall slammed both hands down into the desk. “How did it happen?”

  “The Donian people betrayed us. One of the Elders stabbed a legionnaire. In the eye. This one.” He pointed with his thumb. “Then the bonesetter killed another, then it kicked off, sir, there was shooting and stabbing and brawling everywhere and someone pushed over a stone throne and—” He wasn’t sure why he stopped talking. Once he got going with anything, he wasn’t one to stop. That’s why Malakan thought he’d be good at torturing or questioning or whispering or whatever the Ailan folk called it. There was a space now Brennan was dead. Wasn’t there?

  The VP held up a finger. It was trembling ever so slightly, the wrist pivoting back and forth on one point. “One question. One answer. Single words. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir. Course I understand. I—”

  That trembling hand that was pivoting about one point closed around Malakan’s neck. The officers in the tent were suddenly busy. “I’ve done this before,” the VP hissed. “To someone way more important than you. Don’t think I won’t do it again.”

  Malakan, to his credit, had the urge to both knee Randall in the nuts and nut him in the face. No matter how long you were out of Donia, their warlike, rebellious nature was a hard habit to break. Self-preservation, however, was an even harder master to disobey, and the two Unsung guards that had accompanied the VP off the chopper seemed as if they would think no more of trimming Malakan’s fingers as his fingernails.