by Lee Abrey
Having charged in then out, I was fifty feet away from the Sriamans - moving happily away at a flat gallop - when I heard the awful noise of a horse screaming. One of the Sriamans had left the shield wall, found a fallen lance and gutted the sarge’s horse. I looked back over my shoulder just as the sarge fell heavily, his horse rolling over him.
The poor beast was floundering and screaming, belly split open, kicking at its own gizzards. I didn’t think but sat down in the saddle and turned back. Jessop, one of the troopers, turned too. I signalled to him to help the sarge while I kept the Sriamans away. Billings was wounded but alive and conscious, dragging himself along the ground. Jessop was nearly there.
I rode past them to the Sriaman who gutted the horse. He wasn’t adept with the spear, waving it high. He died quickly. There were another couple coming at us. I took down one as the other bolted back towards the shield wall, which opened then reformed. I galloped up, stabbed the lance towards the wall then lost it in some Sriaman. Time to fall back.
As I did, I saw Jessop and the sarge. What in the name of Galaia was Jessop doing? He was dismounted next to the sarge. I guessed later that he wasn’t practised enough to haul the sarge onboard, which we were all supposed to be, but at the time I was just furious.
“Jessop!” I bellowed. “Get the sarge and bloody get out of there!” I turned back to find Sriamans trying to get past me. I drew my sabre as Magpie danced sideways. Haka touched my blade, it touched a Sriaman who stood, staring dumbly at the red-fountaining stump where his hand had been. Within a heartbeat I killed him, half-severing his head.
Blood covered me and Magpie as Haka took another soul. Trails of blood spatter ran off my sword and sprayed up in the air, a crimson rain that drifted back to the ground. I noticed inconsequentially that the sun was shining. I apologised to the man and said the prayer for the dying,
“Haka treat you kindly and Galaia bring you back to us when she can.” Then I killed two more. I was in another place, one where Haka and Zol sustained me.
Any horse would sense fear and lose his nerve. I might feel fear but for my horses I had to be unafraid. Fear was pointless. I would fight well enough by reflex or I would not. Sriamans came at us. I focused my will on the stallion.
Magpie moved into an elevated trot in place, chewing his bit, lifting each hoof in slow cadence, carefully up then placing it down before changing the rhythm into the half-pass, moving sideways, before forwards into the capriole, the great leap with the kick behind.
All the time, my sabre swung and found the enemy, Magpie’s hooves cut them down. We danced the dance of war.
The Sriamans were tired of me picking them off. The shield wall separated and men poured through, maybe twenty moving toward me at speed. I snapped out of my trance. Now seemed a good time to start running away again.
In a change of focus I heeled Magpie round. To my horror, Sergeant Billings was still on the ground. Well, he’d crawled as far as his downed horse and cut its throat. At least the poor beast had stopped screaming.
Jessop was on foot, his horse bolting back towards our lines. He was fighting with a stray Sriaman who’d leapt up from the wounded. They loved doing that. I winced as the Sriaman’s axe clouted poor Jessop in the head. I didn’t have time to mourn. I did have time to get to the sarge before the Sriaman did. I sheathed my sabre and headed Magpie that way, yelling,
“Sarge! Sarge! To me!” Billings heard and tried to stand, hopping, balanced on a broken lance. He only had to hold on a moment. Magpie and I galloped up, the reins loose on his neck.
It was something we practiced as an exercise, usually swinging an able-bodied man up behind which only needed one arm. I couldn’t do that with the sarge. I was going to have to use both arms, put him across the front of the saddle, and hurt him a lot. He might even struggle and fight me. With any luck at all, he’d pass out. He did. I got my arms around his torso as he turned into dead weight, hauled him up.
I started to heel Magpie away, but he spun in the opposite direction, back towards the enemy. I couldn’t even correct, just grimly held on, thinking if the crazy horse didn’t start going straight soon the sarge and I were going to fall off and it was going to be embarrassing. I lost a stirrup. I tried not to jab the big stallion with the spurs because if he started to buck, we were completely screwed. I shouted,
“Magpie!” He stopped the spinning and kicked out behind. As I got my toe back in the stirrup there was the noise of shod hooves crushing armour and bone. I turned my head slightly and saw a Sriaman go flying, breastplate caved in. Right beside us but I hadn’t seen him at all. I hauled Billings more securely against me. Magpie was striking out with his hooves and Sriamans seemed to be everywhere.
Thanks to the sarge’s body I couldn’t get to my sabre. I could reach a knife from my boot and hurled it at the nearest, catching the man right next to him with a very lucky shot in the eye. I shouted at Magpie and he spun, nearly unseating me again, but this time leaping into a fast gallop away from the enemy.
That wasn’t the end of it. With Sergeant Billings back to the vanguard I took a new lance. As Magpie was still full of bounce, we returned for the next sally.
****
Back at the fort and on my way to the showers, I went to see the sarge in the infirmary. He was sitting up in bed, one leg in traction. I was unhurt, face still freckled with blood come through my visor during the battle.
“Hey sarge,” I said.
“Shawcross,” he said, looking drugged, eyes nearly closed and pupils down to pinpricks, “suppose you’re expecting a thank you.” I grinned.
“Nah, sarge,” I said, “me and the crazy horse saw you there, and there was space on the front of the saddle. No thanks required.” He smiled.
“Bastard,” he said, “thanks.” I smiled. “Sad about Jessop eh?”
“Aye,” I said, “I saw it happen. It was quick. How’s the leg?”
“Poor Rufus rolled on me,” he said, “docs say it’s pretty good considering. I’m not likely to be riding to battle again, which doesn’t bother me at all. A limp I can deal with. A desk job and only six months before retirement sounds good.” I nodded. “And my retirement fund is much healthier than it used to be, you’ve been good for it.” We smiled at each other. “You were shouting some strange things at the enemy. In Sriaman.”
“I was?” I remembered swearing a lot, and we always learned bad things to say to the Sriamans, as they did to us.
“Aye,” said the sarge, “you were.” He looked at me. I looked back.
“What,” I said, unable to remember, “like calling them names?”
“No, you said,” he said, and paused, “well, you shouted it, I am Haka’s Chosen, Zol the Faceless One, the Harvester of Souls, come to me!” He smiled. “It was pretty impressive, you bellowing in front of that number of Sriamans, daring them to try you.” I raised my eyebrows. I didn’t think he was lying but really didn’t remember.
“I did?” I said, and laughed. “No wonder they looked at me funny.” He laughed too, and jarred his leg, wincing.
“You’re a strange one, Shawcross.” I smiled.
“Thanks for noticing, sarge.” I handed over a pouch of mindweed and a pipe. “I had this spare. You need anything?”
“Not now I have some mindweed,” he said, “cheers. You know they’re going to make you a hero?” I laughed.
“Let the bastards try.” He held out his hand and clasped mine.
“You know I can’t say enough,” he said. I nodded, he squeezed my hand and that was that. Well, not quite.
****
Despite me saying it was the crazy horse’s fault, I was made corporal and given a medal. Suddenly the proud if embarrassed holder of the Red Dragon, for exceptional bravery in a wartime action.
At first I was excited over being promoted, thinking I’d be transferred out of the lancers, but the officers of the 5-4-2 expressly asked that regulations be ignored and I be left in situ, because of the platoon massacre just be
fore I arrived. They didn’t want to break the spirit of the newly-bonded men. Corporal Shawcross was good for morale
When Lieutenant Porky told me I nearly bit through my tongue trying not to scream. It was lucky he mentioned it first, so when the colonel of the battalion, presenting my medal, said how glad he was that I was staying with them, I was over the shock, able to smile and thank him instead of shrieking with horror.
The Duchy of Starshore sent their decorated duke several wagonloads of treats. I shared the booty round, with the sarge in hospital, Dandy who was acting-sergeant, the two lance corporals, the lieutenant and sub-lieutenants. A tithe was put aside for the non-com’s mess. Likewise for the enlisted men. Let the other officers come begging. They did of course, being officers. They wouldn’t normally come to a non-commissioned officer but I was Blood and so were they, so we could sit in the neutral territory of the veranda outside the non-com’s quarters, discuss family connections and they’d cadge some of the Sendren Gold. It was fine, there was plenty.
The Army of the North did provide us with mindweed, but like pretty much everything else with AotN stamped on it, it wasn’t good quality. If you wanted quality - equipment, horses, or food - you bought it yourself. I quietly imported a number of Pesertine stallions like mine and gave them to various men. My only stipulation was that if they and the horses survived, they use the beasts to raise the quality of their local bloodstock wherever they settled.
The army mounts were supposed to be Pesertines or one of the big warmbloods that many kingdoms bred. In practice, a number were draught-crosses, strong but slow, not quick enough for the work they were meant to be doing.
Men might die horribly, but horses more so. Most weren’t naturally brave, but did it for us. They took our will and let it inspire them, then died in their thousands. It made me weep if I thought about it, and I did think about it. I would go into Magpie’s stable, run my fingers along the scars he was amassing despite armour, hide my face against his silky neck, and cry over the latest awful injury I’d seen, the latest poor beast to have its jugular opened. I prayed he’d make it. Even if I didn’t.
The Turk, my bay, was put down after a bad battle where he was hamstrung. I’d managed to lead him back to our lines, him hopping slowly on three legs. There was no saving him so I paid for an overdose of poppy instead of the more frightening death of having his jugular opened. I stayed with him, stroking his velvety nose, until the end.
I redoubled my efforts to get out of the lancers. Having reached a good level of fluency in Sriaman, I asked every officer who came calling if he needed me on staff. I bought their favour with my excellent mindweed and pleasant manner, trying to get one of them to pull strings and get me other duties, and screw the company’s morale.
Though I hadn’t offered my body, it was only because it hadn’t seemed likely to sway anyone.
I wasn’t game to offer coin. If attempted bribery was reported I’d end up with ten years in the stockade.
****
Chapter 39 – Free At Last
Finally, about eight months in, I met a captain who knew a lieutenant colonel in the scouts. I was sent to meet the lieutenant colonel, who decided he’d back my application.
“But you promise me, Shawcross, a year.” I saluted properly, at attention.
“Aye sir.”
“Swear it on your life. I’m not having you flibbertygibbetting off to someone else in a few months, trying to get a new posting because you’re bored.” I held up my right hand. I felt sick. It was an awful oath to take.
“I swear on my life.”
So it was, to my intense relief - ten months into my first year, about the end of November - I finally transferred into the scouts. I thought it would be safer, at least for my nerves. I was sorry to say goodbye to the men I liked but Porky was a captain now, in charge of our platoon of eighty, with more scope to kill us all.
Everyone was frantically trying to transfer out and let Haka take morale. Not even the craziest lancer wanted to be in Porky’s Platoon. Porky had never been so much as wounded but I counted him personally responsible for most of the deaths in our squad, including the first corporal, who wouldn’t have died if Porky hadn’t been lost and led us into an ambush.
The sarge was about to retire and Dandy and Griff were to be transferred. Like me, Dandy was going to the scouts, in his case back to them. Griff, the lucky bugger, was seconded to some general’s staff as an interpreter. He did it on merit, aced the final exam, plus his record in the services was better than mine.
I had been reported for sarcasm more than once.
****
Game was so plentiful back in Sendren that I had never bothered learning the niceties of being a quiet woodsman. One simply made a noise, the game bolted from cover and I tried to kill it. In the case of wild boar, before it killed me.
As I began my scouting career I couldn’t move quietly to save my life, almost literally. In the first month a Sriaman plugged me with an arrow because I was moving noisily through brush in the dark. However I was prepared to learn silence, and though lacking in some ways, I fitted in because of my obsession with being prepared.
Providing you remembered I had no sense of direction and wasn’t the man to pick if you needed someone guaranteed to be covert, I was nonetheless useful. I could see in the dark and read a map or a compass. I did as I was told and didn’t hide my shortcomings.
The other thing we shared in the scouts, none of us wanted to die. You didn’t pretend to be an expert at something you didn’t understand just to save your pride. Pride be buggered. We took risks, not out of craziness but out of trust in our abilities, though we weren’t necessarily sane. A scout squad was tight, more like brothers than different ranks. We called each other mate a lot. You followed who was in charge because they would keep you alive.
Coming up for twenty by then, I was an old man in the army. No longer just notorious, but with a reputation as a good fighter and for never leaving anyone behind.
My sexual depravity? It fitted in well, the scouts were known for it.
****
Each battalion had scout units attached in squads of sixteen. If there was a possible sighting of a Sriaman we rode towards the sighting then spread out to see what we could see. More than one or two of the enemy seen, we took two squads, because two or more Sriamans usually meant a warband was around. We also went out in smaller groups attached to companies of other soldiers.
In the scouts we were in smaller groups and never rode directly at Sriamans. We either hid in forts or went out quite sneakily looking out for signs of the enemy. When we saw them we usually only needed to ride off and tell someone else. I felt almost indescribable joy when I first spotted a Sriaman warband and - after checking numbers, position, details, direction - was able to fall back, tell an officer, then ride safely away.
Scouting parties were usually men with hunting or tracking experience and several who could speak Sriaman, a mix of ranks. If the officer-in-charge died, the best man for that job took over. Nobody much cared whether he was an officer or not.
The Sriamans we found were often neither spies nor scouts, just some poor bastard separated from his warband, as might easily happen to any one of us. We tried to capture them alive then - before taking them back as prisoners - interrogate enough to figure out which category they fell into. Naturally, thinking they were about to be burned over a fire, they fought hard. I would explain in Sriaman that we weren’t even going to hurt them but would free them in a fairly short time and let them stay in our land, but most were so crazy with fear they couldn’t hear me. It was easier to knock them out and take them back to the base for further interrogation.
Once the army was sure they were ordinary soldiers we let them go. We didn’t have prisoner-of-war camps. Those weren’t cost-effective and the Army of the North was blowing its budget already. For the released Sriamans there was work with local farmers or they could go home. The latter wasn’t really an option as death was t
he only reward for a Sriaman who went back over the border. About a third of the local farm workers were Sriamans.
After two years they could apply for Kingdom citizenship. If they could afford it, and some could or were invited, they were free to move through the kingdoms or go to Kavarlen. Most of them stayed. It was one of the big surprises of the north, that a large number of the population were actually Sriamans who’d adopted our ways.
If the Sriaman government was more patient, just time would mean the North was mostly Sriaman blood with no need for a war, though of course the northerners - as the community tended to euphemistically refer to the Sriamans not at war with us - weren’t loyal to the current Sriaman regime, quite the opposite. Many married local women and were known as pillars of their respective communities.
There was even talk about letting them join the army. The generals were huffing but it seemed a fine idea to me and to most of the army. Sriamans to fight Sriamans made sense.
****
Chapter 40 - Surviving
Six months into that year I was outside the all-officer baths, the only place the commissioned and non-commissioned officers met. One couldn’t really say they mixed. I was probably the only enlisted man most of the officers ever spoke to in any kind of social situation. I was relaxing after a shower, sitting on a bench in the sun, having a smoke. A cat’s-eyed man came out of the baths.
“Got some mindweed to spare?” he said. I nodded, gestured to the seat next to me, then tapped out the pipe, and repacked. He took a hit. Neither of us was in uniform and with my eyes he assumed I was an officer too. We talked a bit, got on well. He asked who I was. I gave my lazy salute.