by Lee Abrey
“It’s not sir,” I said, “I’m a trooper, and aye, a hand with the horses would be good. Dream and The Turk will both double-up if the others would rather not walk.” Turned out that was an option they were all happy to take and they helped me tack up the horses. I began getting my armour out.
Our armour was something my late friend Virginia would have said was anachronistic, out of time. More technologically advanced than our culture should have been able to make. It was a layered bioplas design known to our ancestors, brought back to Galaia by Dragon. Parts stayed fluid to absorb impact, others went rigid to stop penetration. Mine was cavalry armour and looked like ordinary army issue, but was a better fit and higher-rated against axe-blades. More expensive, naturally. I found it horrifying that the rich had a better chance of survival.
“The Turk,” said one of them, “what’s that mean?”
“I read a book about horse-breeding,” I said, “they mentioned a founding sire called The Turk. Ancestor breed of our Pesertines. The picture looked a lot like this fella.”
“He’s a beauty,” said the soldier who’d spoken to me first. “Your own horses?”
“Aye,” I said, “I was lucky enough to already have these three.”
“Very lucky, sir.” I tried again,
“I’m really not sir, it’s Polo.” They all gave me sceptical looks. “By the way, what did you mean,” I said, “keep moving at speed? Are there Sriamans here?”
“Aye, they like to snipe this road, sir,” said the one about to mount The Turk.
“Oh,” I said, not having realised I was literally on the front line.
“Every time someone leaves off armour outside the fort, sir,” said the first soldier, “there’s a Sriaman will have a shot. We got a band of twenty earlier in the week but we lost a whole squad yesterday. We’re out again this afternoon. See if we can track the buggers.” A whole squad was twenty-two men including officers. He pointed up the hill. “Go like the clappers, sir. Once you’re through the gate, bear right and stop sharp before the tower boys decide you’re a Sriaman in disguise. We’ll stop with you. That helps the horses not bolt straight for the stables. Nothing worse than getting accidentally attacked by your own side.” He grinned. “We’ll leave you to report to the gatekeeper.” The soldiers all looked at the jungle as we mounted up.
“The horses are fond of a gallop,” I said, “but they’re all wearing curb bits. They’ll stop, you don’t need to haul on their mouths.”
“Understood sir,” said the first soldier, and saluted cheerfully. I gave up, and saluted back. The horses were happy to head up the road at speed. The soldiers were happy too. Riding uphill with the mail was much preferred to running.
The jungle was burned back and cleared to about thirty yards either side of the path, then the plant life began to encroach. Within another few yards, the undergrowth was thick enough to stop a horse. I could see how a sniper could hide easily. Nobody shot at me. Maybe the Sriamans were still having breakfast.
Pulling the stallions up inside the gate was an interesting exercise, but they gave in eventually and I was glad to see the soldiers were light-handed on the reins. While waiting for the gatekeeper to check me in I was able to strip off my armour. He pointed out the stables so I headed there next, apologised to the grooms for bringing horses in hot, and arranged for them to be walked to cool down. The grooms took charge of the tack, gave directions to the horse armoury and the other armoury. I saw the flaw in my travelling then, should have gone to the armouries first, instead I had to carry it all and the temperature was climbing.
As I spoke to people I adjusted my accent to make it less Blood, more half-peasant. I couldn’t hide my eyes but could try to fit in a bit. After the stables and armouries were the admin offices. Admin kept me waiting for fifteen minutes. Not because they were doing anything important or even anything much, but because that way I would always be grateful if I spent less time than that waiting at their counter. Admin looked at my papers, gave me more, and told me to report to Sergeant Billings, Room 83, over in the main fort building.
I trekked across there. The sun beat down and I was glad to be out of armour. A shower, that would be next, once I was done signing in, and food. I was starving. I needed coffee too. I could at least satisfy one urge, and lit a smoke. Along with having an ex-army father, most of my childhood was lived next to a garrison where I spent a lot of time, so the army felt weirdly normal to me. I knew all the rank markings and who expected saluting or didn’t. There were rules. I could do rules. It was alright.
The door to Room 83, a large broom cupboard that served as my platoon’s non-com office, was ajar. I looked for the sergeant and spotted a likely one.
“Sergeant Billings? Trooper Shawcross, reporting.”
“Penth’s bloody foreskin,” said a lance corporal, looking me up and down in a way I could only describe as predatory.
“Now Dandy,” said the sergeant, who nodded and took my paperwork, “where’s your manners? Say hello, show the nice trooper you’re that well-trained.” I smiled and nodded as Dandy said hello. “He’s known as Dandy because he likes floral shirts off-duty.” Galaia knew what they’d make of my silk underthings. “I’m Sergeant Billings,” said the sergeant, and pointed to his stripes. “Do not salute me.”
“No sarge,” I said obediently. He narrowed his eyes.
“There can’t be that many Blood troopers around, reckon you’re the duke.” I tried not to look guilty. He looked at my paperwork. “Trooper Polo Shawcross, Duke of Starshore. Hope you’re not expecting an easy time.” I shook my head and prepared to grovel.
“I wasn’t born to wealth or titles, sarge,” I said, “I won’t cause trouble. My da’s a peasant and he was a soldier.” I didn’t mention who my father was or that he’d been a commissioned officer. I was trying to make a good impression.
My arrival brought the squad up to strength, twenty-two men including officers. The squad was part of a cavalry platoon nearly wiped out during what the sergeant described as ‘a bad business’, which left almost sixty of the eighty fighting men dead. The other new replacements were almost as green as me. The platoon’s first posting since the bad business was Fort Merion.
“Right, that’s the history lesson,” said the sarge, “where’s your gear?”
“Just outside, sarge,” I said, “armour’s in the armouries.”
“Horses?”
“Three in the stables.” He nodded.
“Good lad. You’re in Barracks B, down by the back of the stables. They’re probably all exercising horses. We’re all on a rota for exercise time, thanks to the lack of space. Nothing else for us to do.”
“Many cavalry here, sarge?” I said. He shrugged.
“We’re the only mounted platoon but all the infantry officers have horses. A waste. There’s nowhere else to ride except up and down the river road.”
“Not a pleasure ride,” I said. “Though I didn’t get shot at.” He shook his head.
“The fun of being sniped at wears off, and constant lunge and manege work inside the walls gets boring for horse and man. Instead of being out in the open country where we could be useful we’re surrounded by mountains and jungles with horses completely useless. I reckon lancers here are some admin officer’s idea of a joke.” He sighed. I finally understood what the colonel had meant by this posting not having as much action. He meant cavalry action. This was a punishment post after all.
“The officers are sending begging messages to anyone we can think of who might be able to swing a transfer,” the sarge went on. “In the meantime the only time we can use a lance is inside the fort grounds.” I was already feeling like the victim of a series of surreal jokes and this just crowned it. I began to smile.
“You’re serious, sarge?” He grinned.
“Oh aye, lad,” he said, “welcome to the army. We’ve been here two weeks now. Whatever you do, don’t go up on the wall or outside it without full armour. Town’s out of bounds, been
abandoned. They reckon inside six months the fort will be too.”
“They’ll let the Sriamans have it?” I said, and they both laughed.
“No lad,” said Sergeant Billings, “hopefully we’ll be gone before some poor division gets the job of pulling the place down, and burning the town as they go.”
“We don’t leave anything for the Sriamans,” said Dandy, eyeing me a little, “if we can help it.”
“Aye,” said the sergeant, “especially not live men.” He looked at Dandy. “You’re like a bloody great gay vulture, Dandy, stop slobbering over the lad.” Dandy hmmph-ed but went back to paperwork.
“Get to Barracks B, Shawcross. Breakfast oh-seven-hundred, so not long now. Showers are signposted, as is everything else. You’re on duty tonight, on foot, eighteen-hundred. Assemble outside your barracks.”
****
Chapter 27 – First Impressions
Having faced the non-com’s I had to face the troopers. The barracks were empty aside from one man smoking on a bunk. I wrinkled my nose at the smell of whatever it was. He rolled to his feet, coming to attention.
“Sir?” he said, squinting at me through the smoke, “you’re in the enlisted men’s barracks.” I nodded.
“I’m supposed to be here. I’m not a sir. Trooper Shawcross.”
“Shawcross?” I nodded. He blinked, looked at me again. “Not the Shawcross’s from Redditch?”
“Oh aye,” I said, “my da’s Evan Shawcross.” I hated myself, talking like a peasant and using my father’s name, but I had to survive the army somehow.
“The one who went into the Military Guild?” he said, and I nodded. He laughed. “My da knows your da. I’m from the farm next door.” We laughed. “Oh, sorry,” he said and offered his hand, “Griffin Tanner, Griff to most people.”
“Polo Shawcross,” I said, and we shook. Then he frowned.
“Polo Shawcross?” he said. I nodded. I braced myself. What horror had he heard about me? “You’re the one got beaten up and put in the stockade before you even fronted for basic training?” I nearly laughed with relief and did smile.
“Aye,” I said, “then they arrested me again for being late signing in. Which bunk’s free?” He gestured to the bunk above his.
“And that’s your kit area,” he said, pointing. “They said you were tortured?” I shrugged. It was still fresh in my mind and I didn’t want to think about it.
“Aye,” I said, “not a good way to begin in the army.” He shook his head.
“You don’t want to offend the military polis.”
“I didn’t mean to,” I said, and while I unpacked explained what had happened.
Once I that was done I broke out my mindweed and shredded some into a bowl. The bowl was possibly a bit flashy, polished wood inlaid with silver and bone. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought such a pretty one, but it was part of a set and went with a silver and bone pipe with the carvings of Sendrenese scenes.
“Here, Griff,” I said, “no idea what that stuff was you were smoking, but try some of this.”
“That,” he said, reaching eagerly for what I offered, “was army issue. Sarge told me it’s made of old socks. And this,” he sniffed the bowl, “smells like heaven. Is that Sendren Gold?”
“Aye,” I said. Sendren Gold was a particular blend of Sendrenese mindweed cured in orange brandy.
“Once tasted never forgotten,” he said, “One of my favourites.”
“Mine too,” I said, not adding that my duchy lands grew it by the acre and I got it free.
“Smells wonderful,” he said, “nice to have some good stuff. Army issue is a bit rough. Now I’ve read all the books, getting high is the only thing to do round here.”
“I have some books, see if there’s anything you’d like.” Turned out Griff was into detective novels, nothing else. Still, better than someone who didn’t read at all. I had one detective novel in my bag so he took that. I passed him the pipe again, and we began smoking in earnest.
“Thanks,” he said, “and thanks for the book. I’ve wanted to read this one.” He gave me a shrewd look. “So, what brings someone like you to a place like this anyway? You really wanted to join the army?” I shook my head.
“Gods no, I was drunk. Didn’t even know I was in a recruiting office.” He laughed and breathed out smoke.
“You’re kidding?” he said. “Me too! I was so drunk I didn’t recognise my own signature and called the polis in. They said I better do it, seeing the recruiting officer said we discussed my enrolment in detail and he was their idea of a credible witness. They could put me away forever if I lost in court.” He shook his head. “I’d just finished school, a year late because I got held back when I was seven, didn’t take to reading at first. Wasn’t sure what I’d do. Maybe travel for a while before going on to a guild.” He shook his head. “Then I did a stupid thing.”
“Aye,” I said, “I know how that feels.” We both sighed. Then laughed.
Griff had never lived away from his parents before. I felt very mature, having lived away from mine for years and being used to the resultant freedoms. Except during the last few months of the previous year, when they moved to Malion to be near me. I tried not to think about that.
There was so much I was trying not to think about.
****
By the time the rest of the barracks returned ready for breakfast, Griff and I were firm friends. The others weren’t in the mood to be friendly, which wasn’t my fault. All the water, electricity, and therefore breakfast, were off. The men could put up with the heat, mud, and sweat only if they could wash it all off and eat. I was dying to do both so it put a damper on my day too.
There was much bad-tempered grumbling, which eased a bit when I offered them all a smoke to say hello. They seemed friendly enough then and we all chatted. Back on Blue Hill Farm I was sometimes in daily battle with the water pumps and solar panels, and said so.
“You should get over there, Polo,” said Griff, “I know nobody understands the plumbing here.” I wasn’t supposed to volunteer, but it was hard to refuse in front of everyone, so I said sure and Griff offered to escort me.
There were about ten men standing around, poking the main control board of the system. I thought the various support staff would have it under control but I was wrong.
“Faulty panel?” I said. They shrugged.
“Keeps switching off,” said one, scratching his head. “Maybe the thermostat?”
“I think it’s the solar array,” said someone else, “stupid thing. It’s triggering the breaker. But I don’t know which one. They’re all testing dead, and if that was true, well it can’t be, you never get all going at once.”
“Damn solar panels,” said another, “never can tell what’s wrong with the buggers.” Griff looked at me expectantly. I decided to wade in.
“Problem might not be the panels,” I said, “they switch off when the hot water tank doesn’t fill. Anyone looked at the tank intakes?” They all looked at me with eager expressions. Expressions that nonetheless said they didn’t know what I was talking about. “Um,” I said, taken aback by their complete ignorance. “I’ve got some experience with these systems. Does anyone else?”
“No sir,” said one man.
“Not a sir,” I said, and smiled, “Trooper Shawcross.”
****
Once we tracked the blockage, they remembered I was the lowest-ranking person there, and let me do all the hard work including jumping into the cisterns to check various valves. At least it was cooling. Turned out a crucial intake valve silted up, stopping water entering the tanks, so the heating sensibly shut down, and a short in the system meant the power shut down too. Maintenance was non-existent, no point if Fort Merion was going to be demolished soon. As one of the men commented, the place was kept working enough to keep the walls up.
However, as most of the men followed us around, accidentally learning about solar panels, electricity and plumbing along the way, it did mean my platoon ha
d an excellent first impression of me. Polo Shawcross didn’t mind hard work. Nobody seemed to have figured out quite who I was, maybe my notoriety wasn’t preceding me. Well, not all of it. I didn’t know much, but it was just enough. Some four hours later the water was heating again. By then I needed a shower badly. I hosed off under cold water, which didn’t get the grease off. That could wait. At least the mud was gone, it was very unpleasant.
In view of the emergency, as a colonel put it, a slap-up breakfast would take precedence over hot water. So we all waited for food, variously starving, hot, dirty and sweaty, some of us all of those things at once. By accident I was famous in the fort. Men kept saying good on you, Shawcross, which was nice if a little embarrassing. Give the cooks credit, they went for the quickest options everyone would like. Being hero of the hour wasn’t bad, they served me first. I had a bacon-and-egg roll and coffee very quickly. Life seemed better even if grubby. After several rolls and more coffee, I also had first crack at the hot showers.
The shower blocks were rows of cubicles with a shutter-door closing which only reached from about knee to shoulder. Anyone my height could see into his neighbour’s stall. There were a few men around who were over six foot like me. It was one of them who brought it up.
“Zol’s balls, Shawcross, what bit you?” he said. I ducked my head out of the water, running my hands over my hair. He was looking at my arm, about to notice the ones on my hip.
“A dragon,” I said truthfully, “but only a small one.” The man laughed. They were going to figure out who I was eventually. At least now they had a good first impression thanks to me being the saviour of the fort’s power and water.
Despite the occasional needling over gossip or the teasing over my title, connected family and coin, my fellows in the army seemed to take me pretty much for who I was.
It was a relief after some of the places I’d lived in.