by Lee Abrey
There had been a doctor though, seeing a woman. Her mouth was swollen, as if someone had hit her. Pretty little lass with grey eyes. I remembered the scent of her. Vanilla and roses. The memory swirled around, resisting my attempts to focus. The doctor shrugged again. “That’s all the military polis know too,” he said.
The memory was gone. Me? Raped someone? Beat her? Wait, a woman was hit. Punched hard in the face. I remembered that, but not who or who by. “Anyway,” said the doctor, “you take it easy, I’ll be back.” The thought about the woman disappeared.
“Can I get some food?” I said. He nodded.
“I’ll bring you something, or the nurses are liable to spit in it.” I took that to mean he at least had some doubts about my guilt, but he was the only person in the place who did.
After some food I was sitting on the porch talking to the doctor when the stockade guards arrived and said I was to go back with them. The doctor said I wasn’t fit to leave. As if to prove his point I fainted when they grabbed me but was dragged back to a cell anyway.
If I was in the army and from this base, why didn’t anyone know who I was? I wasn’t wearing dog tags and everyone muttered and frowned. Was I a spy? I asked what kind of spy had my eyes, which led to more muttering, then they left me alone. I passed out or fell asleep.
****
I woke as guards came in, two big Blood men. They dragged me to a room, shackled me to a chair, and began to beat me methodically, careful not to hit my head, break bones, or mark me much. They kept reminding each other not to hit me in the head or where I was stitched.
“He’s just been concussed,” said one, apparently serious, “don’t want to give him brain damage.” I wanted to laugh but then they hit me again and it overwhelmed my sense of humour. Already, pain from the wound in my head and everything else was spiking into crescendos. “What is your name?” one would say, right in my face, spitting on me. The other would hit me in time with each word, every impact an explosion of agony. Maybe with a rubber cosh, maybe with his fists. They also liked stringing me up to use as a punching bag.
“Zol’s balls,” I spat back, if I could speak when they paused, “I don’t know, I was hit on the bloody head!” Other times, I threw up. They were unmoved by that or by tears. Whatever I said or did, the answer was the same.
“Not the right answer! Tell the truth!” More spit and again, the hitting in time with each word. “Why - did - you - rape - the - girl - then - try - to - kill - her?” It didn’t matter what I said, how many times I said I hadn’t raped or hurt anyone or that I didn’t know my own name, they just kept hitting me. Being hit was unpleasant in so many ways.
A thought flashed through my mind, something I read about a revolutionary cell. They thought themselves freedom fighters and the government of the day called them terrorists. If arrested and tortured the terrorists tried to give their co-conspirators twenty-four hours grace, time to run. Once the time was up they could say anything, tell everything, nobody would blame them. A day was the most any of them could be expected to stay silent under torture.
I had nobody to protect and no information to trade. How could I turn anyone in? I began making up interesting tales. I didn’t know where the stories were coming from but in hindsight would realise they were anecdotes from my own life and the lives of nearly everyone I knew.
My guards suspected the stories were lies and deprived me of sleep. Someone got the bright idea to give me a dose of poppy juice to see if I told the truth at last. Used to poppy juice from my times in hospital, I floated happily above the silly pain, and told stories that were even more outlandish. They were stunned, but stopped hitting me. I believe I related the story of the Kavar diplomat’s wife and the cucumbers.
Then the shift captain came in, found the torturers sitting awestruck as they listened to my erotic reminiscing. They were both put on a charge. The shift captain took over. I was as honest as possible and told him everything I remembered. He beat me too, then decided I either really didn’t know who I was or was a master spy. Again, I couldn’t figure out how they thought Blood would be spying for the Sriamans, who hated the Blood, but there was no logic involved. They left me in a cell for a couple of days while they considered what to do to me next.
They did send the doctor in. He looked worried but administered pain relief and first aid. Despite my treatment I seemed to be healing, but my memory was still a blank. When I had a coherent thought I was getting desperate. I exercised my body as well as the cell would allow. The food was awful. Late one afternoon I caught an appetising whiff of frying from outside somewhere and my stomach rumbled.
The thought came that the aroma was like the market we visited, where we ate the garlicky lamb kebabs. Suddenly memory came washing back, lacking detail at first but gradually filling in, except the rape and attempted murder. I still didn’t remember those. The recent past was a bit patchy, and at that time I didn’t remember the night of my arrest at all. However, I knew my name. The guards in the stockade didn’t care. They ignored me shouting.
Fenric and Ross heard me from some distance away, where they were awaiting trial for assault, torture and kidnap. Other people heard me too. Some of them weren’t trapped in a stockade, had heard about the missing men from Sendren, and were able to pass the word to the Lady of Starshore, still anchored at the town wharves.
Belinda was on board the Lady. Having been on her way to catch the ferry home, she realised that was Polo’s yacht and came up to say goodbye to Fenric and Ross. Then she was struck by a thought, what if they didn’t want to see her again?
“But you were so nice and put all that coin down for my room,” she said, when I got to talk to her about it, “and it was only to kill an hour because the ferry I was supposed to catch was late. Then the captain said you were all missing, so we decided to coordinate our efforts.” She dimpled. “And I met Archie.” Archie looked smug.
Having finally found out where we were and why, Belinda hurried to the base with several of my men and Captain Ernst. She explained to the base commander that she was the supposed rape victim, and the one who hit her in front of an inn-full of witnesses was the one making false accusations.
The military polis still dragged their heels and it was another forty-eight hours before they let us out or arrested the ex-fiance. Johnny wasn’t even charged with making false accusations but with wasting the time of the military polis and striking Belinda.
****
The whole experience made me realise torture didn’t work, mainly because some people were innocent and others were sadistic creeps who got off on causing pain. The latter caused problems because they didn’t care about truth, or even lies, they enjoyed the torture.
When it came to suspects, the accused might try to tell the interrogator what they wanted to know, even if they made up every word. Some would die rather than talk or, being innocent, fail to say the right words and die anyway, so the torturer became a murderer. I wrote to Azrael, telling him to ban torture in Sendren, and in his proposed new kingdom.
For a couple of days I stayed on my yacht, though each morning I was admitted to the base to school my horses. We stockade survivors were spitting with anger over being arrested on trumped-up charges by people with no authority over us. We might as well be angry at a tidal wave.
I was told privately it was lucky they weren’t pressing charges. When Fenric and Ross attacked a commoner they had overstepped the mark. Being ten years or less out of the army they were also liable for extra charges of bringing the service into disrepute. Anger over what Johnny did to Belinda wasn’t an excuse. The lawyer I consulted actually laughed when I said that wasn’t fair.
“The Army of the North can do whatever it likes to anyone,” he said, “part of their deal for keeping the kingdoms safe.” He shrugged. “The fact the border’s moving south doesn’t seem to impinge on that. The army’s rights are enshrined in legislation in every kingdom.” I felt a sinking feeling. The same kind as when realising I rea
lly did sign up for the army.
“So,” I said, and sighed, “there’s not much I can do?”
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” the lawyer said, and smiled, “perhaps I wasn’t clear. There is nothing you can do.” His fingers traced a zero. “Nothing. You cannot sue for false imprisonment, assault, failure to provide medical care or any of the things one would normally expect. Ordinary people have no protection from the army.” He smiled again. “Nor do soldiers. And you’re a bit of both.”
“So I’m screwed?” I said. He laughed.
“Aye, completely.”
****
With me finally on my way into the army and not in the stockade, the Lady of Starshore and the men were going back to Sendren, Belinda with them. She and Archie were having a bit of a fling, him having been free while the rest of us were in gaol. Fenric said it was on the rebound but if it made them both happy, who were we to gainsay it?
I gave Belinda a letter to show to my steward if she made it to Starshore, asking him to treat her as a guest of mine. I was a bit sad not to get a second chance with her but, like Fenric, I figured if she and Archie were making each other happy that was a good thing.
****
The battalion colonel asked to see me so I went. The army owned me even though I wasn’t officially in it yet.
“No sense in you going into barracks, Shawcross,” said the colonel. “They tell me you were at the guild for two terms and did well, so we’ll check you through the exams and let you off all that basic training, eh? Be easy for a strapping lad like you. Then we’ll post you somewhere interesting, just for drawing my attention.” Four weeks of basic training didn’t really appeal.
I bit my tongue.
****
Chapter 25 - Welcome to the Army of the North
Two days later, sadly pronounced fit, I presented for exams. The gate corporal took my name, let me in, and said to wait over there a moment. Four military polis arrived. Naturally, I began backing away from them and demanding to see the battalion colonel. The military polis said I had to face a disciplinary board over my tardiness in presenting for duty, but it was a mere formality. I surrendered quietly.
“Shawcross, P, charged with being late to induction and basic training,” said a corporal reading out the charges. I wasn’t allowed to speak, tried to anyway and was gagged. To teach me a lesson for signing up late, the sentence was four weeks in solitary, the same length of time as basic training.
My previous gaolers were glad to have the chance to teach me a lesson for having my previous charges dropped.
****
It felt like a week or more before the colonel got me out, but was only three days. Daily beatings and no sleep made it seem longer. The colonel arrived in my cell and tsk-ed.
“I told you, Shawcross, I wanted you in the army now. Why didn’t you tell them?”
“I did try, sir, at the hearing. They gagged me.” He looked at me.
“They actually gagged you?” he said.
“Aye, sir, completely. They’re beating me every day. I’m supposed to serve four weeks in solitary, and there’s an idiot who’s sure I’m guilty of rape and murder. He doesn’t care those charges were found to be false and dropped.”
“Sadistic sons of bitches,” said the colonel, “I suspect many of them are genuinely crazy. Well, you’ve learned an important lesson, Shawcross, never cross the military polis.” I lost it but kept my tone calm.
“With respect, sir,” I said, “I didn’t cross the damn military polis. They attacked me, imprisoned me on false charges, twice, denied me medical aid, tortured me and so on.”
“Aye, and then you antagonised them by getting let out. And let off. Twice now.” He shook his head. “Silly of you, Shawcross, that’s bound to make them bloody annoyed. Anyway,” he said with a grin, “welcome to the Army of the North.” There was no fighting the army so I surrendered. “Did I tell you,” said the colonel, “I think I served with your father?”
He led me out, still chatting amiably. To my surprise the colonel knew and liked Father. We walked across the base together as he told me a funny story about their first leave on the east coast, when the military polis chased them for miles after they were involved in a brawl. The two of them ran rather than let the bastards catch them.
“More sensible than your option, Shawcross, remember that. You don’t look well,” he said, “do you need a day off before you do your exams?” I said I would like a day off. I tried to be charming. Who knew when this man might do me a favour because he knew Father?
****
Barely back on my feet, the exams weren’t the easy ride I was hoping for. The non-com examiners bossed me until I was wheezing. I had to run a thousand paces in full armour, ride to a standard, and unsheathe a real sabre without decapitating myself. I did cut my hand putting it back in the scabbard. The non-com’s relished that part, though they gave first aid, but their day was made when Magpie decided to put on a bucking display at the very beginning of the riding test. I lost one stirrup and was about to be spun off when Magpie stopped. The action was so sudden I nearly fell off anyway.
It was before the sergeant had said go so he waited until Magpie had all four hooves back on the ground, though he spent the time laughing as did everyone else when they weren’t cheering the horse on. Magpie took it all as his due, nodding his head and snorting as we waited for the signal. The big piebald settled down and did a perfect dressage test, followed by some good work at speed. They handed me a lance.
This was one of our favourite games, Stick-the-Sriaman. When I was at the Military Guild, they claimed men were playing a variant of this game before the stirrup was invented. A ring hanging from a string represented the enemy. One galloped at it, ideally catching the ring with the point of lance, spear or blade, and breaking the cord. The ring had originally been valuable, a prize not just a target. The examiners set up five, one after the other, but on a zigzag course, a good test of control. I collected five out of five.
Magpie and I did a mounted spar with an officer, horses and men padded up, but even then mounted sparring was fairly dangerous. Men and horses would get carried away and forget the rules. The officer was very in control and landed some hard clouts on me. The examiners gave me excellent marks, possibly for not crying when I was hit. Both times the officer was concerned he might have broken bones.
****
Sent to the colonel again, I limped in and handed him my results. He looked impressed.
“Thought you might try to pretend you weren’t up to par, Shawcross, but I see you tried hard. Probably best if you lay low for a bit. Let the military polis forget about you, eh?”
I gave a small smile, waiting to see if anything required a response. “Managed a bit of a treat for you, lad,” he said and handed me my papers, “should see some action.” He thought any young man would enjoy where he was sending me. It didn’t seem right to say, “Oh bugger, sir, I was hoping you’d send me behind the lines to some backwoods platoon.” Instead I said politely,
“Thank you sir, I appreciate your help.”
“Probably not as much excitement as you’re hoping for,” he said, “but a good platoon, least they were. I think one of the lieutenants was at the guild with you. Did you know Porky Portland?”
“I did know Porky, sir, he was a third year when I started.” I made the right noises, waiting to be dismissed.
He did so, saying I must say hello to my father for him. I thanked him again and said I would. I didn’t look at the orders until in the anteroom on my way out. When I saw the cavalry sub-branch’s name I nearly walked into the outside door. The colonel’s secretary smirked. I knew he’d report to the colonel so pretended to be pleased.
“Zol’s balls,” I said, grinning, “the lancers? This will be brilliant.” Trooper Polo Shawcross was not only in a frontline cavalry platoon but in the lancers, the craziest cavalry of all.
I barely had time to get kitted out properly before I was posted, wit
h a special note on my orders.
Blood - not to spar with peasants.
****
Chapter 26 – Perfectly Rational
There was another river journey, a day and a night. I caught up on sleep and then with my platoon at Fort Merion. The fort was on a cliff high over the river with a stone pier and a walled town below, the latter abandoned. Behind the fort were the foothills of a mountain range, covered in thick jungle and wreathed in strange mists. I landed at the pier with horses and baggage, along with the fort’s mail, told to wait until someone came to collect me. It was only just light and I was still in fatigues.
“Don’t step off the pier, sir,” said a sailor, “but you’re safe down here.” I kept saying I wasn’t a sir but it made no difference. With my eyes, no matter what I said they immediately decided I was an officer.
The boat pulled away, heading upriver for one last stop before the water became too shallow for anything more than a canoe. It was suddenly very quiet. I listened to the water while I walked my horses up and down the pier, something they thought more boring than being on a boat. All three were trying to get to the road up the hill, probably smelling the oats in the stables there. The horses stopped, all listening to something. Were Sriamans in the jungle to each side of the road?
Then I heard men running down the hill. Sounded like army boots, which meant they weren’t the enemy. Before I had time to think too much about it, four young soldiers arrived at a fast run. They were in full infantry armour, helmets on, though they flipped their visors up to say hello.
“Welcome to Fort Merion, sir,” said one of them, panting, “once you’re armoured up, keep moving at speed up the access road, gate’s open. We’ll take the mail. Like some of us to ride your spare mounts?”