Polo Shawcross: Dragon Soldier

by Lee Abrey

  The corporal, I never did fix his name in my head, was pulling his helmet back on, visor still locked in the up position, knees bending as he dropped. I beat him down as the next bolt took the corporal between the eyes, toppled him over backwards.

  If I hadn’t moved the bolt would have hit me first. It might not have killed me but there was always the lucky shot that caught you up close or on a joint or buckle or on an area thinned to allow you to move and bend. I lay in the dirt with my brain re-running the time Virginia’s head exploded, then the corporal hitting the ground in front of me, then Virginia, then the corporal. I began to make bargains with the gods, mostly to do with not being barbecued.

  “Everyone down!” the sarge shouted, dropping too. “Take cover!” I scrabbled towards anything that might shelter me. Some of the men were still standing. “Down I said! You brainless bloody morons!” Others were shouting and a sub-lieutenant, the one who’d been sick, was suddenly saving lives, knocking men to the ground. Men already on the ground were grabbing at those struck immobile. One of the soldiers who cracked his head on the tree had fallen into the stream. The other was still lying unconscious next to a buttressing tree root. All of us were trying to get into cover. Lance Corporal Dandy went after the one in the stream, dragged him back to shore, then left him behind a tree and bellied over to the sergeant.

  The sniper who killed the corporal kept letting off bolts but so far hadn’t hit anyone else. I wriggled round a tree, facedown in the dirt, offering Galaia, the world-goddess in whose green skin I sheltered, the promise of good husbandry over my duchy if she would only hide me. I would protect the balances of nature while making Starshore’s livestock and poultry the best in Sendren, in the old kingdoms - damn it - in the World! Just save me, Galaia, and sorry for all those times I used your name and your breasts in vain. I carefully raised my head a little and a bolt thunked into a tree ahead of me. That was two Sriamans.

  “Another bastard,” I shouted, “six o’clock!” I scrabbled for better cover, and suddenly realised I had made the wrong promise. It was another of Thet’s daughters, Maia, who was responsible for livestock and poultry. Galaia was in charge of the growing things. I needed to grow crops and trees!

  “Galaia’s tits!” I swore as I bellied along. There was a mass movement out of the killing zone as another bolt near-missed the sarge. He moved so fast I understood how he’d stayed alive this far. The man had a turn of speed that was remarkable. I went after him, figuring to stay alive too.

  “Well done, Shawcross,” said Sergeant Billings, as I landed next to him, “that’s it, draw their fire.” I panted, thinking about religion. Did the gods really mind us using their names in vain? It was a notion put about by some temples, but our local priest had concurred with my observation that there was nothing in The Book of Thet about it. If Galaia had a problem with me using her breasts as verbal stress relief, I hadn’t noticed. The gods had been pretty good to me.

  Maia was responsible for living things that weren’t rooted in Galaia herself. Hence me. I added to the prayer quickly, as their sister, Haka the goddess of death, was short-sighted but too vain to wear spectacles and might trip over me, there on my belly in the dirt. There was no logic to death, nothing fair about it, so Haka being short-sighted made sense to me.

  My breathing wasn’t tearing at my throat so badly, and I looked around. I was back on the river shore in the big grove of trees, right where I wanted to escape. As if to remind me I could be next to die, maggots wriggled in the body pit, making the decaying bodies twitch and heave in a nauseating fashion.

  Maia, I prayed earnestly, I’ve always looked after the creatures in my care, even my mother’s suicidal sheep, and I spoil my horses. I earned an enemy for life by defending a pony, so please save me. The advantage of a pantheistic religion, one can always find a god to call on.

  Thet, I continued, father of the gods, you want me to follow your tenets. I tried to think, what were the tenets of Thet? Being nice to people, I was pretty sure. Respecting knowledge. Passing it on. I was supposed to avoid neighbour’s wives. That was tricky, women being the predatory creatures they were and me quite happy to be prey. Whatever was required, if Thet would get me out of this I would do it. If he wanted me to marry a frog, I would have agreed.

  The whole exchange took only seconds, bargains sealed, my future behaviour set out in exchange for my life. Until the next time, when I’d trade my life for more promises. I didn’t keep them but the gods were very easygoing and kept saving me.

  I reasoned that the corporal must have forgotten to ask the other gods to keep him out of Haka’s way and was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Haka had harvested his soul. I had to admit it didn’t look like he felt much. If aimed correctly, a crossbow bolt to the head might not be a bad way to go. I wriggled to a safer position, hoping to avoid being shot again this week. The wind shifted, blowing the stench of the charnel pit over us and I tried not to breathe.

  Suddenly a woman appeared in front of me. Long blonde hair, a fringe over her green eyes, putting me in mind of a pony, and so visible that I’d have thought her real if I hadn’t seen her appear out of thin air. She was wearing clothes that reminded me of Cree, my not-ghost. She crouched, looking around, wrinkling her nose, and then looked at me.

  “You’ll live,” she said softly. I stared as she vanished. The sarge was frowning.

  “Did you see that?” he said. I looked at him. He’d seen her too.

  “We’re hallucinating,” I said.

  “We?” said the sarge, sounding testy. I shrugged.

  “If you saw a woman, sarge, then we.” He made a disbelieving noise.

  I knew just how he felt. Was she some friend of Cree’s? “You’ll live” was the kind of thing Cree said, but I didn’t have time to think as the sarge sent the best shots off to snipe back at the Sriamans. He left me, for which I was grateful. They weren’t gone long when there was a crashing noise as something fell out of a tree.

  “Got one!” someone shouted, and the other sniper seemed to be gone already so we carefully got up, trying to stay out of the way of the overlooking valley side.

  “Dandy!” said the sarge, his voice a hiss. “You’re acting corporal! Those two,” he said, and waved a hand at the stunned pair of troopers, both of whom were awake now, “manure duty! A month! And no leave until then. They also get to bury the dead.”

  I was thinking smugly of silly people who tried to get out of work. The sarge shocked me out of my happy state. “Shawcross, you’re closest. Get those bloody tags!” He lowered his voice. “That’s for including me in your hallucination!” I groaned and asked Thet, who I was sure was in charge of medicine, if I could please not be sick inside my helmet.

  ****

  Chapter 34 - Pipedreamings

  The lieutenant returned, proud of finding the right path leading out of the valley to the south and surprised to find us with a body of our own. He seemed disappointed to have missed the battle completely. The sarge put a cross on the lieutenant’s map so the fort could send out a team to mark the grave. It was the one mark of ours the Sriamans wouldn’t remove, a grave marker. We did the same for their graves, which were marked with the axe of the dead man, as each axe was unique.

  It was not the best of days. The others were keeping busy and trying to stay upwind. Those not on guard were paddling in the stream and discussing brothels. I listened, trying to distract myself from my task.

  There was no way to get the tags without getting into the pit. I had to get the branches out of the way then lift the bodies on top out, the sarge telling me that a big strong lad like me didn’t need assistance, no sense in everyone getting grubby.

  He at least stood by talking to me, keeping count of the ID’s I found. I removed all the bodies, or at least what we were pretty sure were eleven of them, then found there were two lots of tags missing. I had to stand in the pit, carefully digging for the missing chains and tags in the slurry of fermenting ash, flesh, and maggot-happin
ess at the bottom. Once done, the two disgraced troopers refilled the pit and covered the bodies with soil.

  Grubby didn’t quite cover the state I was in but somehow I didn’t throw up. I dunked myself in the stream a few times fully armoured, clutching the dog tags, hoping water would help, but still nobody would walk near me on the way back. Even Griff coughed, wheezed, began to gag and shooed me away. The wind was blowing from behind us so I had to walk at the front of the column.

  I handed in the tags at the fort administration office. The officer on duty took them without looking then began to gag at the stink of what he had in his hand, though it may also have been the smell of me hitting him. With some satisfaction I realised he was the same person who’d made me wait fifteen minutes when I arrived at the fort. I left the sarge to give the report. I wondered if he’d include the woman who appeared. As I walked, I peeled off armour, boots and uniform, left them outside the appropriate cleaning sections with a warning over serious contamination, and walked nude to the showers. Griff brought scented weekend leave soap and clean fatigues. After my third shower, I gave up. The stench was inside my soul.

  We sat outside on a bench, smoking mindweed. I was thinking a stiff drink was in order. The sarge came past.

  “Well done, you two,” he said, “I’ll not forget you going into that pit, Shawcross. Came to tell you we’ve pulled guard duty again. Starting midnight.” He sighed. “Swing shifts will be the death of me.”

  “Beats going outside, sarge,” said Griff. I wasn’t really capable of speech. I just nodded.

  “Aye,” said the sarge, “get yourselves fed and get some sleep.”

  ****

  I finally managed to talk again during dinner. Or was it lunch? I forced myself to eat because I had to fight. What day was it? Who knew, who cared? Was I still alive? That was all there was.

  I was sitting alone outside after dinner when the blonde woman appeared again. I tried to think at her.

  Are you a friend of Cree’s? She tilted her head.

  “Cree?” she said, aloud, as if she didn’t know him. I blinked. “Oh, Cree, yes. he says don’t panic.” She looked too real. Her accent was strange and she began talking gibberish. “Polo, do you remember the crown in the dream? The silver one?” I shook my head. Then she vanished again.

  Cree was always slightly see-through but the woman looked as if I could touch her. I could definitely smell her. White musk and rose. I nearly wept at the notion of something so pretty. And at how mad I must be to imagine it. Her talking was like speech, not the mind-to-mind that Cree used.

  Typical, the stress of being trapped in this jungle fort was proving too much for me. Most of the other lancers hated the posting too, but for different reasons to mine. They wanted to be fighting. Aside from the genuinely life-threatening patrols, the only risk was being picked off by lucky shots from Sriaman snipers. It was the mantra of the front for any kind of officer, always reminding the men,

  “Keep your bloody visor closed! The Sriamans will aim for the one man stupid or lax enough to take his armour off and provide a good target. If you’re Blood,” they would always say to me, “if you have to undo your helmet at night, never turn to the enemy. Armour will protect you from all but a lucky shot.”

  No matter how many times I heard the phrase it always made me want to smile. It wasn’t a lucky shot if it killed you. I sweated inside the segmented bioplas armour, wishing to be back in Sendren, safe at home, playing at being Duke of Starshore, a depressed young idiot who nonetheless might have found a way out of a dose of teen angst without three years of the army.

  Even Blue Hill Farm, with Father drunk, suicidal sheep and cold showers, I would bear without complaining. I drew the line at the idea of coping with Mother, even inside my head. I could cope with almost anything to get out of the army. I adjusted that wish to being dry and out of the lancers because I didn’t want to ask for too much on top of the gods keeping me alive.

  Griff laughed at my sudden attack of religion, especially at my careful bargaining with every god I could think of. I did miss friends back in Sendren, missing being part of other people’s lives. I was very grateful for Griff’s company. It was good having a friend and for once I had a peasant friend who was a big a misfit as I was, so I wasn’t just a freak by myself.

  We were freaks because everyone around us was right where they wanted to be, except this particular posting. They joined the cavalry deliberately. The three commissioned officers, all Blood like me, were as mad as the enlisted men. Having to spar with officers, I wasn’t as insulated from their insanity as most.

  All the other lancers of every rank wanted to do was kill Sriamans, spar, and drink. They weren’t that interested in women. Or men. I checked the latter, much to the amusement of the sarge.

  “No, they’re not all gay, Shawcross,” Billings said. “Why do you think so?” Right then four of our lads came running out of the showers chasing one of the others. All of them squealing like girls, wrestling around on the small lawn, much slapping on arses before a shrieking return to the showers. We watched until the little drama disappeared back inside.

  “Well,” I said, with a gesture in their direction, “probably gay, but repressing or hiding it?”

  “I see your point,” said the sarge, chuckling, “but no, they aren’t as far as I know. Are you?”

  “Me sarge?” I smiled, feeling cheeky. “In a consensual melee situation, anything’s possible. How about you?” He gave me a look.

  “You’re a bad child, Shawcross. Go find some work to do before I find you something.”

  “I have boots that need polishing, sarge,” I said, and bolted.

  ****

  Despite Lieutenant Porky’s entreaties to keep occupied in other ways, masturbation was excellent stress relief. I kept walking in on men going cross-eyed. For my fellow lancers - who had relationship issues the way other people had underwear - self-pleasure had a bonus, as the only emotional involvement was with one’s hand. Even easier than a brothel, and free.

  Suddenly I understood what Stefan Westwych meant when he said certain young men would make perfect army fodder. My old enemy Indigo Sutherland would have enjoyed the lancers, all the repressed homosexuality oozing out as gung ho masculinity. Not all of it was repressed, I had plenty of offers. I refused, not out of any principle, but to avoid complications. Sparring with the officers was one thing, sucking cock was another, and most of my invitations came from the Blood. I think the enlisted men didn’t proposition me because I had a reputation as heterosexual thanks to the books about me. Most of the homosexuality went on in certain areas after certain hours, so if you didn’t go to say the showers or behind the barracks late at night, you might not know it was going on.

  Though I couldn’t spar with a peasant, I could train with them. The sarge made me his show pony, which meant I usually demonstrated manoeuvres before he made the rest of them do the drill. Some of them started calling me Sarge’s pet. I didn’t mind.

  Despite the corporal’s misadventure, survival rates for non-commissioned officers were higher than any other group in the army. Non-com’s were where they were by merit, not because of either a drunken signature or Daddy’s influence and coin. Sticking close to the sarge would probably keep me alive. Becoming a non-com would also help.

  Did I mention I was over the idea of suicide? All I longed for was life. The army wasn’t the right place for me. Reasons for me not joining had always included disliking being bossed about and not wanting to die horribly. I wasn’t fond of wearing uniforms or large groups, and I liked sex of any kind much more than fighting. Oh, and the biggest reason of all was that being hit hurt. It hurt a lot, and one should only court it in the pits, for personal confidence and physical training. One should never court being maimed or killed, which was what signing into the army meant.

  To top off my martial misery, lancers didn’t read. I couldn’t even borrow some decent porn with words, though there were a number of rather filthy picture
books going round. That first fort was ten miles from the nearest library. As I said to Griff, there was no way I could stand the lancers for the next three years. Griff and I were the only ones who liked to read, and Griff’s tastes ran more to detective novels than my eclectic tendency to read everything within reach.

  I would have to go mad to enjoy the army. It was simply demented to charge at an enemy that roared, licked its lips, and took dying in battle as the mark of a sainted hero. Exterminating Dragon and the Blood was a tenet of their existence. We were a horrible medical experiment that should never have been allowed to live. Before Dragon came, Sriama used to justify their constant border incursions by saying the southerners had more than their share of the landmass and that Sriama deserved half of Pangea. After Dragon, they justified war because alien invaders had taken land that Sriama had a prior claim to. Now they were crusaders bringing redemption.

  There was no such thing as prisoner exchange on the Northern Front. Anything was better than risking capture, being put still alive over an open fire. The Sriamans tried not to hang around to be captured either, despite us treating any prisoners of war rather well. I kept extra weapons on me at all times and decided to cut my throat rather than let them take me alive, even practising in the mirror how to do it. As one does for one’s life, I fought hard, but not from bravery. I was just skilled, scared and desperate.

  Most lancers were crazy, but the non-com’s seemed at least as sane as I was. I stuck close, tried to find out how they managed that in the midst of the slaughter. Dandy seemed to sense I wasn’t his kind, and though he didn’t stop looking, he never made a pass at me. It’s a homophobic myth that gay men will always try to seduce straight ones. It’s the ones pretending to be straight that are a threat to those who’d rather not be buggered. I knocked out a few of those during my time. Men who won’t take no for an answer deserve violence no matter who they’re trying to rape. However, I’m reminiscing, losing the thread of my experience.