by Lee Abrey
“I’m fine for coin, happy for it to go a good cause. How much did you win, sarge?” He grinned.
“I’d have to say, lad, my retirement’s looking very bright all of a sudden.” He gave me a look. “You told him, didn’t you?”
“That I wasn’t as green as I looked?” I said. “Aye, I did, though he guessed so I couldn’t lie. We fought fair.”
“Remember,” said the sarge, “officers are one thing, but don’t you go standing on honour when it’s Sriamans.” I smiled.
“I won’t, sarge.”
I headed for breakfast and a shower, schooled horses until lunchtime, after that more schooling, cleaning tack and kit, followed by another shower. We were on our way to the evening meal when the good news arrived.
The officers had found something for us to do in the morning. This something involved walking in the jungle.
****
Chapter 30 – The Problem With Officers
Just at dawn we were all lined up, ready to go, though not very keen. It was a trait I shared with my fellow-lancers, not a hatred of walking, more a complete inability to understand why one would do it when there were horses to ride.
My mother was sure that walking everywhere was good for me, and How The Peasants Did It. Mother was very big on that, always trying to get in touch with her peasant roots, despite her cat’s eyes that shone with emerald and black opal like a starfield and despite my peasant father arguing with her that the commoners quite liked the luxury of horseback or coach travel. I was interested to note my peasant brothers-in-arms all bitched about walking as much as I did.
“We’ll be going out on foot patrol,” Sergeant Billings said, ignoring us. We were only being smart or whining so no sense in paying any attention. Wanting to keep a low profile, I was trying not to talk too much, but blurted out,
“On foot, sarge?” The man next to me snorted and nodded at my words.
“We don’t walk, sarge,” he said, “that’s why we joined the bloody cavalry!” There were mutterings, to the tune of,
“Walk?”
“What, are they crazy?”
“Why?” Dandy and the other non-com’s said to shut up. The sarge shook his head and held up his hands.
“I agree, lads, I agree. If Thet wanted us to walk, why did he give us horses? However there is no point to a horse on the trails that surround this fort.”
We all grumbled, but it was true. Horses could scramble in and out the access road, but the other local tracks were simply too narrow and dangerously steep. You couldn’t wield a lance in the jungle. Well, you could try, but the lance turned into a weapon against the user, catching on trees and foliage. Riding boots were likewise surplus to requirements, the slippery soles making moving in the mud almost impossible.
As already ordered, Griff and I had walking boots on, but the other lancers were clinging to riding boots. The various non-com’s had to check the soles of our feet as if we were horses and order men back to barracks to change.
There were sixteen troopers accompanied by four non-com’s and three officers. The non-com’s were two lance corporals, a corporal, and Sergeant Billings. The commissioned officers were Lieutenant Porky and two second lieutenants. The idea was, and it wasn’t a bad one, that the older more experienced non-com’s would keep the younger Military Guild graduate officers in line.
The lieutenant, Oliver “Porky” Portland, was someone I knew vaguely. He was in third year at the Military Guild when I was a first year. Thankfully he wasn’t one of the people who bore me a grudge for the cadets I’d killed. First thing he said to me was,
“Ah, Shawcross, good to see you,” he said, nodding his head. “Bad business I thought, that nastiness at the guild. Not fair, but what can a man do, eh? Thought you were hard done-by. Still, you’re going to get to see some rather good action with our lads.” I pasted on a smile.
“Lovely sir,” I said, “those damn Sriamans won’t know what’s hit ‘em, eh?” Sergeant Billings rolled his eyes at me behind the lieutenant’s back, but I figured sucking up to the officers couldn’t hurt. Besides, knowing how inbred the various Blood families were, it was quite likely Porky and I would end up close relations, required to spend the high holidays with one another forever, so it made sense to be polite.
I barely managed it. Porky, as he insisted I should still call him when it was just us, was from Bronlea right down south, and nice enough. His eyes didn’t match the man at all, being big, brown and long-lashed like a doe, though no doe ever had the brown of the iris shot through with glittering iridescent petals of white opal.
Striking didn’t cover it. It was always hard not to stare. Possibly the most beautiful eyes in the world and they belonged to someone called Porky because he tended to snort when he laughed.
His eyes would have looked fabulous on a woman or been interesting on an effeminate man. If it were me I would have bought sunglasses, possibly before I bought food. People being people, even the Blood tended to stare. Maybe it was why he was how he was, always trying to show that despite those eyes he was as masculine as the next man.
Lieutenant Porky was very concerned for our morale and with guarding against unnatural vices. I thought he meant being homosexual but apparently it was masturbation. I’d never heard of anything so silly, masturbation wasn’t unnatural. Homosexuality wasn’t either. Galaia knew what Porky would make of the amount of cocksucking that went on in the showers. However I had more sense than to argue from the ranks.
To combat our natural proclivities to seek sexual relief in unnatural ways, Porky thought it good for us to keep busy, something Sergeant Billings had suggested to him as being a good thing to think. His original thoughts had involved cold showers and running, which the sarge managed to veto.
“Let their chaps,” the lieutenant said, meaning the fort’s other personnel, “have a bit of a break while we hone our combat skills, hand-to-hand with the enemy.” Some of the lancers looked eager. Though they quickly covered it, the non-com’s looked horrified.
“We will be mounted guards on the mail,” Porky went on, “which unfortunately is the only useful job for the horses here.” I had done the gallop up, doing it again except when I was leaving did not appeal. Risking my life and my horses for mail that could be carried up? Porky was still sounding terribly enthused.
“We will supply extra men,” he went on, looking noble, “on foot patrols through the jungle, day or night. We’ll learn new fighting methods which will look excellent on our records.”
At the sergeant’s signal the two lance corporals waved us into a cheer without Porky seeing. This stopped his speech, which was a Good Thing. We applauded and cheered while Porky grinned, those strange eyes shining with enthusiasm that seemed completely genuine. I wondered how he’d made lieutenant. Had all the officers died and there was only him left? Turned out that was exactly what had happened. He’d survived when most of the platoon was killed.
I assumed he was mad, but whether mad-and-dangerous and likely to run amok in the officers’ mess or worse, in the enlisted men’s, who could tell?
****
On our first expedition outside the fort the disasters began early. We borrowed infantry armour, ours being designed for mounted combat. Theirs was lighter, easier to move in. Lieutenant Porky wasn’t really fat but did have the short-legged chunkiness of some branches of the Blood families. Dressed as an infantry officer in tight armour, it was hard not to laugh at how round he appeared to be.
“Come on, lads!” he called to us, already at the gate, bouncing on his toes like an excited ball. “Get them going, sergeant!” There was open groaning amongst troopers, repressed groaning amongst officers, and the non-com’s stayed busy getting us marching. Several of the men had never fought on foot and I had never fought at all. Not the enemy, anyway. We hustled to the gate.
“Atten-shun!” Dandy bellowed, quieting the mutterings.
“We’re off on an adventure, men,” said Porky, with that tone of someone who
knows you’ll be thrilled, as to a man we all gaped, unable to believe our ears.
It reminded me of Mother’s delusional ideas of what other people might find fun. Sarge coughed. “There are no scouts spare,” Porky went on, “so I’m going to scout and I’ll need some volunteers to come with me, eh? Take the war to the bastards like we all want to!”
“Sorry, sir?” said Sergeant Billings. “Did you say you were scouting?” I was also wondering if I had heard it right. Oblivious, the lieutenant was still raving about taking the war to the Sriamans.
“Is he always like this?” I said in a low voice.
“Every bloody time so far,” muttered Griff. The sergeant took a breath.
“Sir,” he said, “if I might suggest-” He moved closer to Porky, keeping the conversation away from our ears. It was the pattern of their dealings. Billings would suggest, very quietly but implacably. Porky would be variously shocked, amazed, educated, enthralled, or would scoff. Fortunately, usually he did as the sergeant advised and everyone pretended it was the lieutenant’s idea.
“Ah,” said Porky, nodding and looking wise as his little confab with the sarge finished. “I’ll take your choice then, sergeant.” We all put on our helmets, and Billings sent three off with the lieutenant, including Lance Corporal Dandy. As they headed out, Dandy was tactfully turning the lieutenant’s map the right way up, suggesting it might be easier.
“Dandy came out of the scouts,” said the sarge in a low voice, “let’s see if he can keep that idiot lieutenant alive.” He looked at the two second lieutenants and spoke at higher volume. “So, sirs, would you like me to deal with our marching order?” They thought that was a brilliant idea and asked him where they should stand. The sergeant’s smile was benevolent, his tone sweet.
“Upright, sirs, to begin with, but how about we put you at the front. We’ll set some scouts of our own and I’ll bring up the rear?” To my surprise, the sub lieutenants only nodded and did as they were told. I knew them vaguely too and didn’t understand how they made it through the guild. They were failing third year when I last saw them, midway through my first year. The sergeant saw me watching the interplay.
“What with the lieutenant up scouting,” he said softly, “they shouldn’t see much trouble. Safer for them. Poor babies.” The corporal sniggered and I bit my tongue. Then I bit my cheek for variety.
It was how I got through the army, that and trying to be invisible. The invisible trick worked that time, the sarge sent other people out to scout around our column. With eight gone scouting the squad was down to fourteen. We had an assortment of borrowed infantry weapons and our own, bows of various kinds and swords. I was wondering something, figured the sarge was the one to ask. Once he was comfortable, I hung back a little.
“Sarge,” I said quietly, “what’s with these officers? How are they getting through the Military Guild? I went there, I know how damn hard it is. Even at the most basic level you need to be able to read a map.” Even through the mesh of his helmet’s visor I could see the pitying look he gave me.
“You’re a nice lad, Shawcross, no matter what they say about you. But you’re an idiot.” I began to laugh, managed to muffle it.
“Aye, sarge.” He shook his head at me.
“No, idiot,” he said, “listen. They pay coin, get through their exams that way.” My jaw dropped for the second time in less than half an hour. I knew an officer could buy his way out of the army or off the front lines, but not that graduation could also be bought. “It’s getting more common,” the sarge said with a curl of his lip.
“But,” I said, and couldn’t think what else to add. The Military Guild was corrupt? No wonder the front line was moving south. I shook my head. “That’s completely crazy,” I said.
“Aye,” said Billings, grinning at me, “welcome to the army, lad.”
****
Chapter 31 – Meet the Enemy
We trudged along, stopping every so often on the sarge’s order to look and listen. I was pretty sure there could be a hundred Sriamans in the jungle right next to me and unless they waved politely or held up a sign I’d never know.
“Polo,” said Griff, very softly, and touched my arm. He pointed at his ear then ahead. Had I heard that? All I could hear was dripping water. Some parrots were making a racket ahead of us.
“Birds?” I said softly.
“No,” said Griff, sounding worried. I shook my head, unable to hear anything that sounded like a Sriaman. I was drenched, miserable and so bloody hot I might as well be spitted over an enemy fire. Then I thought about parrots making noise, how the ones in the grounds of the Green Dragon Citadel did it for many reasons but there was a particular screech when there was a predator around. I froze, listening.
Suddenly there was a scream up ahead. We mostly jumped. Nearly everyone took off in the direction of the scream, except Griff, me and the non-com’s. We looked to the sarge.
“Halt!” the sarge shouted. “All you idiots, halt!” but only two of them did. “Take cover!”
What started as an orderly movement ended in a rout as a hail of bolts came out of the brush on each side. I dived off the path by the shortest way, so did Griff, and next thing we were alone, everyone else apparently on the other side of the path. Griff and I regrouped. That is we found each other, kept our heads down and tried to figure out what to do.
There was a shout in Sriaman. Something urgent. It didn’t seem to be any of the phrases I knew, which admittedly were “Good morning”, “How are you?” and “Take off your clothes, my friend will pay.” I learned them from Father when I was about five, to Mother’s horror and Grandmama Daeva’s amusement. Grandmama spoke Sriaman.
Griff nudged me but I saw the four Sriamans too, sliding through the dappled shade, coming towards us. The execution squad, I presumed. Almost invisible among the trees but to get to us they would have to leave cover of the trees.
“Now what?” said Griff. He and I were on our feet by now, bows ready and glancing nervously around for the sergeant. From the shouting on the other side of the track it sounded as if the sarge and others might be busy. As the Sriamans left cover we shot at them so they split up and dodged through the thick brush. We dodged about a bit too but stayed together. I lost sight of the Sriamans about when I ran out of arrows.
“Leave it to me,” I said, “I’ll distract them. When they focus on me, you start yelling for the sarge from behind a tree.” I had never seen Sriamans in the light before. They looked pretty much like our scouts, except they were wearing dresses. Our scouts might grow beards, but they never wore dresses on duty.
It wasn’t really a dress, just looked that way to my eye, a stiff leather tunic over short breeches, with long lace-up boots to make up the shortfall in trouser-length. The jungle was full of things to cut a man. You wouldn’t want to do without something on your legs and feet. The Sriamans armoured up in various laminates of wood or leather, less covered-up than ours. They didn’t use bioplas at all.
The main difference was that their helmets never covered their eyes. Not for the last thousand years, since Dragon came. Anyone covering their eyes was Dragon or a Blood spy. The habit left the Sriamans open to good archery. I noticed inconsequentially that one of them had quite beautiful Kavar enamel work on the front of his shin-greaves. The style was one I’d seen before in the citadel’s collection. It was quite different from the more stylised Sriaman work, this one was vines and tiny flowers, a common Kavar motif.
I took a deep breath. I couldn’t see how to use a sword in the thick growth. Right, I thought, here we go.
****
I stepped out, undid the visor of my helmet and pushed it back on top of my head. They saw me and seemed pleased to have found one of the Blood apparently surrendering. The four of them spread out slightly, looking behind me as well as at me. I needed to distract them more. I gave them my best smile.
“Good morning,” I said loudly but politely, “how are you?” They seemed distracted by that so I k
ept going. “Take off your clothes,” I added in a seductive purr, “my friend will pay.”
All four of them shot at me. I couldn’t believe it. Nobody even asked how I was. I was in chest-high growth with some big ferns around. One moment I was thinking it might be time to dive behind a tree, the next I realised I should be near a tree for that plan to work. Until then I hadn’t spotted the flaw.
On my back under a tree fern, I lay winded, from the impact of several crossbow bolts then the ground, thinking that baiting Sriamans was probably something I should avoid in the future. They didn’t seem to have senses of humour. Their aim was lousy though, nobody shot me in the head. To my surprise, I didn’t seem to be dead. I heard Griff, shouting for the sarge.
I thanked the gods, unsure who was responsible for my bioplas armour. Was it Penth the maker? The armour had stopped the bolts going through me but it couldn’t take away the thump. At close range it was past being punched and more like being hit with Penth’s blacksmith hammer.
The very moment I could move I would close my visor. I twitched, sat up, decided I had one last thing to say and scrambled to my feet.
With me presumed dead the Sriamans were heading for Griff. He was advancing across a small clearing, calling them names in Anglic, looking fierce and waving his sword. I saw two of the enemy outflanking him. They were going to slaughter him. I coughed and wheezed, all part of my plan to distract them, and something spiked into my shoulder. Deeper into my shoulder. I was worried for both of us then because I noticed there were three crossbow bolts sticking out of my armour. They didn’t seem very far in but were making moving a bit tricky, so I removed them at speed, discovering as I did so the one in my shoulder was embedded into me a small way. Still a bit stunned, holding the bolts, I ran in the general direction of Griff and the Sriamans.