by Lee Abrey
“They’ll keep anyone like you, Shawcross, who can fight, on the front. Unless you fancy losing a limb to a Sriaman?” I grimaced.
“Really?”
“Oh aye,” said the sarge, “you and me, we’re idiots. No escaping the front lines, officers have noticed we’re good at what we do.”
“Gods,” I said, “just when I thought I was getting smarter.” Sarge shook his head and patted my shoulder.
“Haka is the only one who’ll give us leave from the front.” He paused. “That hallucination, see her again?” I shook my head. “Me neither,” he said.
****
At first I was too busy staying alive to notice but the rumour mill was still following me. From Griff I heard that the crazy Duke of Starshore killed five men while he was still at school.
“Though some are saying ten at least,” he said, smiling, lying on his bed having a smoke. “They’re all somehow eyewitnesses or heard the story from you.” I shook my head. I had told the whole story to Griff but nobody else.
“Liars,” I said succinctly.
“And it’s also being hinted about that you were the lover of the Crown Princess of Highcliff who dumped you and broke your heart, so you joined the army to kill yourself.”
I laughed but was surprised at how close to the truth it felt. I hadn’t actually thought it through that far. It wasn’t true about being in love with Isabella, but joining the army to kill myself seemed to make sense. At the time I was a mess. Mother and Father helped, all the things that had happened, like being attacked by Aunt Kristen, shot when Virginia was killed, plus the brawl with Indigo’s friends and the stupid fight with Azrael.
“I must have been suicidal,” said Griff, sighing, “why else did I sign up for the army?” I nodded, breathing out smoke.
“I think I had a death wish.” Note the past tense. I didn’t any more. It was lost well before I met a Sriaman. I still couldn’t believe my stupidity in signing up and wanted to live rather badly.
Along with my prayers to the gods I became fatalistic. I would die, or not. Haka would take me for a sunbeam or, if she wanted someone to harvest souls, I would be that someone.
In order to facilitate the latter, every blade and point would be honed and sharp. My gear would be supple and well-cared for and my horses and I would be the best-prepared and equipped that we could be. I worked out every chance I had, making my skills so much reflex that I didn’t have to think what to do before I simply acted and defended myself or attacked the enemy. In my favour was my wealth. I could afford the best kit. I bought the same for Griff along with some horses. He tried to protest.
“Don’t be an idiot,” I said, “you’d do it for me.” He would, so that shut him up. Fortunate that my level of skill gave me a better chance than many of the ordinary soldiers, I would also be ready to turn and gallop away very fast, just the very moment they gave the order.
With the open country came real battles, no longer just Sriamans hiding in jungle. They came at us in large warbands and the slaughter on both sides was horrible. As we waited for the charge, the horses would get the scent of the Sriaman front lines in their nostrils and try to snatch the bit. We’d be holding them back, getting one last pipe down us.
Every time I reminded myself. I could do it. I did it once so could again. I must be able to. The right kind of stress would provide the impetus. I wouldn’t let myself die.
I could be dragon-shaped. Like I had that time with Miri, when I thought she was going to cut me again.
Before a Sriaman cut me in half, I would turn into a dragon and rip his bloody head off. Just like Fenric had said, my head would be in the treetops and I would be using the sum of all of my parts.
Every time we rode out, somehow this belief co-existed with being completely sure that I was about to die.
****
Chapter 37 – Buying Friends and Influencing People
By the three-month mark I’d forgotten an outside world existed. I was jolted out of that state of being when the outside world impinged on my reality.
Mail arrived, including a letter from my steward. There were many parcels, letters from the king, Grandmama Daeva, my parents, Azrael, all of them aghast at what I’d done. I wrote back pretending it was fine and would be the making of me. Personally, I was aghast too.
Despite her shock Grandmama Daeva was pleased and sent me a doubled allowance. I tried to get her to stop but she said I was to humour an old woman, so I used it to support her daughter, my mother. It was only fair that Grandmama take some responsibility for Mother. If I didn’t look after Mother it was quite likely she would turn up down in Cragleas on her mother’s doorstep, so I was sure Grandmama wouldn’t mind the use I put the coin to.
Father sent his spurs, the usual blunt, short cavalry type. They were usually given to officers who graduated the guild. I tried them out during schooling and hacking and discovered they helped with control but any of my horses would buck if I used them too firmly. Like using a curb bit, gentleness was required. Once I was more confident I began wearing spurs on duty. The extra level of control without having to touch the reins took my mounted work to a new level. I would try anything to improve my odds of survival.
King Theo of Sendren wrote, said he was very proud of me, which made me smile. Theo had become like a second father. Another alcoholic one, but less wearying than my own. Theo was also surprised at me joining the army, as was his grandson, the Crown Prince Azrael.
Azrael’s letter said he would consider my words on torture, though mostly he would be hoping we met again and that I had all my limbs and digits when that happened. He also sent several hampers. There was food of all kinds, books, and a large amount of very good mindweed. I shared the hampers with my platoon, buying goodwill. It also acknowledged that we were in this together and I was sharing the wealth. I made sure the non-com’s had their private packs of treats and offered one to the platoon captain. Despite us both being Blood, he treated me as though I was a loaded crossbow that might go off. A duke in the ranks? I was probably mad-and-dangerous.
“Compliments of the Sendrenese Crown Prince, sir,” I said, “mindweed, various pickles and spreads, cheeses, crackers, fruitcake, and excellent marmalade too.”
“Really, Shawcross?” said the captain, smiling a little nervously. I noticed nobody ever called me ‘trooper’ or when I was promoted, ‘lance-corporal’. Everyone in the battalion seemed to know exactly who I was. “Very kind of him,” the captain went on, “and of you. Sure you can spare it?”
“Aye sir, and I’ve already given some to the sergeants, so don’t let them bully you out of your share.” He was looking at the goodies, took a sniff of the mindweed pack.
“Sendren Gold?” he said, and suddenly grinned. “They’re not having this.” I smiled.
“Guard it with your life, sir.” I saluted, lazily but enough to cover me, and got out of there.
****
To my surprise I didn’t mind the army. I didn’t like a lot of it, but unless I wanted to become an outlaw and lose my title and lands I was stuck. Call me shallow but I liked being titled and wealthy. It had been a lovely surprise and I wasn’t prepared to give up my perfect life without a fight.
As an enlisted man and then a non-com, I wasn’t expecting to be given an easier ride than an officer, but discovered I wasn’t expected to be that good. During training sessions I was pretty much coasting. Since about four years old I sparred and did mounted combat most days, whereas many of the men around me had barely four weeks of lessons during basic training.
The lieutenant noticed I wasn’t working as hard as I could fight, and ordered me to help give tutoring to my squad and raise the standard. He said it would be good on my record, which was what the sarge had told him to say, and I didn’t mind, figuring it would help keep all of us alive.
There’s no difference between Blood and peasant when it comes to brains, and everyone could see the advantage in battle. As for the officers, I was better than
most, used to the levels attained by my father, Azrael’s veteran bodyguards and Theo’s crack Royal Sendrenese troops. Turned out they were good.
Once past a certain level of skill, surviving any kind of fight was a matter of luck. Pure and simple. You didn’t want to slip, it might wipe out all your advantages, but sometimes the best men slipped and died. You could back your luck with good hard muscles, as much training as you could fit into your life, a horse that if left to its own devices would tear apart the enemy with hooves and teeth, and then you could pray, or not. Some men didn’t.
It’s not true that there are no atheists in the front lines. Some lost their faith. Me, I became devout. I began to worship Haka, the goddess of death, and Zol, the god of war. With their help, it wouldn’t be me who slipped and died.
I always enjoyed getting high. Now I felt that if I smoked enough, at the end of my rapid intake I would be so busy touching the gods, as they said in Sriama, or communing with the eternal, that the charge against the enemy would go past unnoticed. With enough mindweed I could fight like an angel and not notice my own death.
Alcohol though, I kept in moderation. As the god Cleaden - in charge of both music and parties - said, there is no solace in the bottom of a bottle. I also didn’t know how a really wild drunk might manifest. I might proposition my commanding officer, try to kill a group of military polis, or perhaps cry over my lost young self. To save myself the embarrassment and bad publicity, I avoided booze.
Besides, after I escaped the stockade twice, the military polis were no doubt itching to get their hands on me. No reason to give them a third chance. I’d kill the bastards rather than let them take me again, even if that meant exile in Kavarlen. In case I had to run, every time we went out on the town I carried ten golds hidden inside my belt.
As a non-com, I was reasonably well-liked, but didn’t think I fitted in. I was a freak, a should-have-been officer who ended up a lance corporal. The army didn’t know what to do with me. Zol knows what I thought I was doing. Sure I was going to die every time, I wished for a quick death then fought like a maniac for my life.
The men liked to be round me because my crazy horses and I scared the enemy. I was the notorious Duke of Starshore, likely to do anything. I usually behaved myself, though I couldn’t be accused of being obsequious. Well, I could be accused of it, but saying I was sharing the wealth, like the very good mindweed and other presents Azrael and Master Thomas sent me, was my defence.
****
Chapter 38 - Battle
In early September, the day before my nineteenth birthday I was past my first six months. It was. Scouts found a large enemy force, thankfully before it crossed the border. We readied ourselves at dawn, each lost in our own worlds as we put on armour, tightening straps, easing fit by stretching and letting straps back out. The first men ready quickly lit smokes, causing a panic in those not quite dressed.
Our armour then was black and green camouflage, but as this was battle armour, regimental colour flashes on the buckler, shoulders, throat, and head. In my case, there was the red of the 5th Battalion, above the green of the 4th Division, and the white of 2nd Company, or the 5-4-2. On my helmet a blue flash showed my platoon with a red one for my squad. I was also marked with the one thin chevron of a lance corporal. Around my neck, stamped metal dog tags listed rank and company with my name, serial number, and blood group.
Outside the jungle the Sriamans fought mostly with axes. We cavalry fought with bows and straight one-edged sabres, an assortment of other weaponry on our belts. Lancers also used long steel-tipped lances with a leather loop that acted as spear-thrower, adding power to any throw or strike. We used something similar when hunting boar back in Sendren. I also carried spare knives in my boots, sleeves, and anywhere else I could put a sheath.
The Sriamans had the sensible idea that, human or Dragon, an axe would crush a limb or skull through armour, even if it couldn’t slice it. A good hard blow would still send a man flying. There was no use trying to take a blow from Sriaman axes, besides we only used small buckler shields. The hope was that we were fast enough to evade or deflect the blades. I wondered what someone in dragon shape might do, but unless Azrael persuaded the Dragon queen to join his new alliance of kingdoms it wasn’t going to be something I’d see.
It was why the Sriamans wired prisoners up instead of tying them up with rope, in case any knew how to shape-change or figured it out under stress. They thought dragon shape was always bigger than human shape so the shape-changer would be cut to the bone. I remembered Aunt Kristen had been a very small dragon, but aside from her I could see the reasoning. I needed to change before they wired my hands and feet together or I might die from loss of blood.
We fought differently but died just the same. Considering the Blood were faster and stronger, I thought the Sriamans brave to face us at all. They were excellent at something I wished we did more of, running away. Those who fight and run away, as my father always told me, live to fight another day. The Sriamans were thriving. Every year more of them made the journey south on a crusade to free our northern kingdoms, their lost southern paradise, from the monsters who stole it,. That was us, the monsters.
Chasing up the enlisted men as we went, Griff and I headed out to the stables, where the grooms had already dressed the horses for the battle. We each had three horses, two brought out for each skirmish. If we lost two we used a spare of someone else’s. Battles, such as they were, didn’t usually go on for more than half an hour and most were over in minutes. Pure exhaustion, mostly. You had to pause, regroup, catch your breath and if we let them, the Sriamans would usually run away.
Walking round Magpie and The Turk, I talked to them, checking the fit of armour and tack by sliding my fingers under straps and girths. Once satisfied we were ready the job began of making sure the squad was too. Finally we mounted and took the lances the grooms handed round.
Sun was coming up. Might be our last sunrise. As the first light hit us, we all looked. A bright gleaming that tugged at the heart, it sparked softly off bioplas and brightly off metal, dancing on the armoured horses stamping and snorting, all of us blowing steam. With remarkable deftness, we lancers all lit up pipes and started blowing smoke. A lancer, they said, could pack and smoke a pipe at full gallop, and I certainly could. It wasn’t easy but beat going into any action straight. Those bastards were trying to kill me and it never made sense to actually ride at them. From how much everyone else smoked, I wasn’t the only one who felt that way.
That morning we rode out at a trot, four squads, sixty-four lancers with the infantry about to follow. The infantry were jeering and making rude comments about our relationships with both our lances and our horses. We never worried. When you’re on a horse, you know any man on foot is just jealous.
Behind us were grooms riding one horse, leading strings of remounts, followed in turn by carts carrying spares of all kinds of equipment, others with doctors or vets, the ones for the dead, all rumbling along. We sang as we rode, in between long pulls of mindweed.
My da gave me some good advice-o,
And I’ll share it just to be nice-o,
Never take the last whore in the house, son
There’s a reason she’s there on the shelf
Never choose the last floozy for sale, boy,
Not if you value your health!
It went on, and the officers pretended not to hear. The corporals shouted at anyone who sang out of tune. Some fifteen minutes later we slowed to a walk and were told to be quiet. We went back to smoking.
A scout came galloping in, and I sucked on my pipe as if I was underwater and it my only air. I heard the news, Sriamans two valleys away. Time to go.
“Lancers!” I shouted. “Form up!” I marshalled men and kept smoking.
“We are to harass the enemy until the infantry arrive!” shouted a sergeant. “At the trot, ho!”
****
There were maybe twenty warbands, about four hundred men. More than usual. I h
ad been wondering why there were so many of us lancers out but that explained it. Until the infantry arrived we Kingdom men were outnumbered about six to one. Round the flank of the final hill, I sucked down the last of a pipe, closed the visor of my helmet and made sure the pipe was out before I tucked it into a pocket.
“Visors down!” rose the cry, up and down the lines. Magpie was pawing the ground and snorting. I kept him checked. We split into squads and began. We were not to engage in hand-to-hand. Strike and withdraw. The ground shook with the impact of the hooves of our horses.
The Sriamans felt us coming. The stragglers hurried to form up with the rest, to show us big shields instead of a flesh target. They didn’t use crossbows in the field, too long to reload. We rode into a hail of steel-tipped, narrow-shafted arrows from archers behind the shield wall. The horses also hated the hail of missiles, even protected inside their armour, which included eye-screens like my own. We were reasonably safe except from that lucky shot, but it was hard to face, especially charging at the shield wall.
Each squad was wheeling around the Sriamans to attack from a different point but with the same aim, to stop their movement south towards the border. With that in mind we left them a bolting direction, an open path back into their own country. Never make a man fight to the death, not if you can help it. Too many battles have been turned by a tiny group of desperate men with nothing left to lose. Instead, let the bastards run.
“Lancers!” bawled Sergeant Billings. “For Zol!” Magpie stretched into a gallop. Some of the Sriamans were running already. At the last moment, we wheeled parallel to the shield wall, jabbing with lances, doing some bloody work, trying not to lose weapons then dancing back out of reach. It was easy to misjudge how close you were while trying to stab over that heaving six-foot wall. Too close they might reach you, or even break the wall and come at you. The one thing they wouldn’t do was throw their axes, though we tried not to drop lances. They’d happily pick those up and hurl them back at us.