In her appetites she was ever blind, taking all within her reach.
I may walk in to find her recalling neither me nor herself. Grief and horror and recrimination, and jugs of wine. There may be nothing left of Toras Redone. Denied her chance to die with her soldiers, denied again upon the morning that followed, by my own hand—
Oh, she should recall that, I would think. In a flare of hate, she will recall my staying hand.
Courage retreated before love. A brave man would have let her drink deep the poison.
Sad tidings, my love. He lives. You live. And so do I.
The Hust Legion? Well, the iron lives, too. You’ll know its voice by the laughter, the black chatter of crows feasting upon the dead. Listen, then, to war’s cold welcome.
He reached out, closed his hand upon the door’s heavy iron ring. It was time to look upon what was left of his love.
* * *
‘In times of war, privileges of rank are won in blood. Or so,’ Prazek added, ‘we make it known.’ He reached out to add another chip of dung to the fire. A small hearth, set well away from the others of the camp. Faror Hend had seen it from a distance while walking the perimeter, ensuring that the pickets were in place, and that two of every three soldiers on guard were, in fact, facing inward, upon the camp. For all that, there had been no desertions since the distribution of the Hust weapons and armour. None, indeed, since lieutenants – now captains – Prazek and Dathenar assumed temporary command of the Hust Legion.
Curious, Faror Hend had made her way to the flickering flames out upon the plain, fifty paces beyond the pickets, to find the two officers from Lord Anomander’s Houseblades attending a private fire ringed by stones that had been collected from a nearby cairn. Upon seeing her hesitant approach, and even as she had begun turning away, Dathenar had spoken an invitation to join them. And now she sat opposite the two men, feeling out of place.
Gallan had once called them his soldier poets, and after half a week in their company, official and otherwise, she well understood the honorific. But theirs was a wit too sharp for her, and even to witness it was to feel one’s own mind as something too blunt, likely to stumble should it seek to keep pace with the two men. Still, it proved a modest wound, given how entertaining they often were.
But this was a night for sober reflection, at least thus far, and what eloquence was loosed sounded wry, almost bitter at times. More to the point, it was heavy with exhaustion, and Faror had come to comprehend the sheer effort of aplomb. In the watery light of the fire, the faces before her were drawn, haggard, revealing all that they were wont to hide from others. This particular window’s view humbled her.
‘Private fires,’ said Dathenar, nodding in answer to Prazek’s earlier assertion. ‘We tend them as would any common soldier or peasant, and by any starry measure above we are just as unnoticed in the eyes of the firmament. Rank, my friend, is an impostor.’
‘It is the dung in my hand that belies my artless grace, Dathenar. Clumsy and feckless of gesture, I long for an able servant to make these flames dance as is proper. Perhaps it is the cold, or the too brief interim of desiccation afforded this chip, but I feel no heat from this fire. A cold serpent entwines my bones this night, and not even the fair face of Faror Hend can defeat this hearth’s woeful dearth.’
Dathenar grunted. ‘With a fire tended between us and her, my friend, we dare not reach through the heat, though we might – in most private and complimentary fashion – yearn for her softer warmth as a place beyond what burns.’
‘Sirs,’ said Faror Hend after a moment, ‘it seems my presence is an imposition—’
‘Not at all! Prazek?’
‘Anything but! Faror Hend, by the flame’s soft glow, your lovely visage blesses the night. If we falter, it is from beauty’s reflection, so poorly do we hide our longing. I see you surrounded in darkness, like the mien of a moon that looks upon a sun we cannot see. As Dathenar noted, you are well beyond our reach, humbling our regard.’
‘Forgive us,’ Dathenar murmured.
‘If I am reduced to a view, sirs, then best I keep quiet, to better serve your elevation of my worth.’
‘Ah, Prazek, see how she stings? In our appreciation we are unmanned.’
Faror Hend sighed. ‘Commanding this legion is surely a burden. But you are not entirely alone, sirs. And more help may be on the way, when Galar Baras returns with Toras Redone.’
‘Will she ride Galar Baras home, I wonder?’
Faror Hend blinked at Prazek, startled by his question. ‘It is said her spirit is broken, and no surprise at that. Hunn Raal was clever in his infamy. But then, he did offer her the poisoned wine. Was that a gesture of mercy, do you think?’
Prazek eyed her for a moment, and then shrugged. ‘Rank is the issue here, alas. There are times when it is the spine of an army that carries its commander, but these are rare moments. Propriety insists that it is the commander who must bear the army’s burden, roughly measured by its will, its heart and its resolve.’
Dathenar added, ‘But a legion of prisoners, well … we must find our spine, I think. No armour intended for mortals can sustain flesh weakened by a damaged spirit. No weapon can lend its wielder the ferocity of its purpose. We are fitted in the trappings, but they are not enough.’
Faror Hend shook her head. ‘You two have done well. You must know that. Better, in some ways, than Galar Baras. You weave seduction with your words and manner. You invite in us a confidence we cannot muster on our own.’
Prazek grunted. ‘Fourteen dead men, each and all slayers of women and children. Someone is confident enough, it seems.’
‘I fear Wareth is not working too hard on finding the murderer,’ Faror Hend said. ‘Although, that said, he worries on Listar’s behalf. Oddly, that man still lives, even though he refuses added protection.’
‘There is a clue there, I should think,’ Dathenar observed.
‘Some feel the accusations are suspect,’ she replied. ‘Those against Listar, I mean. Sergeant Rance looks upon him and shakes her head, saying he is no killer. I am inclined to believe her.’
‘Women see nothing in him, then.’
‘Nothing to suggest he has blood on his hands, no.’
‘Then the murderer,’ concluded Dathenar, ‘agrees with you. A woman wields the knife.’
Faror Hend nodded. ‘That is generally accepted, sir.’
‘Wareth drags his feet.’
‘Perhaps he hopes the situation will simply go away,’ Faror suggested. ‘That at some point, the killer will be satisfied that enough justice has been served.’
‘You sound doubtful.’
‘I cannot say, Dathenar. Justice, I would think, acquires strength upon its deliverance, enough to sustain the zeal.’
‘She speaks of momentum,’ Prazek murmured, poking at the fire with a flimsy stick. ‘The unseen current. Will without mind. An army can find it as easily as can a mob. We must hope for Toras Redone’s resurrection. We must hope that the Hust Legion will find sure guidance to whatever fate awaits it.’
‘And much of that responsibility,’ Faror said, sighing, ‘falls to us officers as well. Before you two arrived, well, Galar Baras did not have many from which to choose. Wareth, Rance, Rebble, Curl – you’ve met them now, and the others. Even Castegan—’
‘Castegan,’ Prazek interrupted, making the name a growl. ‘We know his cut, Faror Hend. Leave that man to us.’
‘Though as yet unknown, sir, I already regret his fate. I surely would not want both or either of you to set upon me your sanction.’
‘Opprobrium will do for that man,’ Dathenar said, waving the stick in a dismissive gesture. ‘He is lonely and grieves, yet twists both into spite for the survivors, of whom he is the first and foremost. We will turn him about.’
‘Or slap him silly,’ Prazek said.
‘Rance,’ said Dathenar after a moment, looking up at Faror. ‘She is the quiet one with the wounded hands, yes?’
‘She heats a
brimming cauldron every morning,’ said Faror. ‘Nigh unto boiling. Then, behind her tent, stripped down to the waist, she plunges her hands into the scalding water. She scrubs them raw with pumice and lye.’ After some hesitation, during which neither man spoke, she continued. ‘She has no memory of drowning her newborn babe. But her hands remind her. The pain reminds her too, I suppose. She answers what she never felt, and cannot recall, with rituals of hurt. Sirs, I beg you, this is not to be challenged. It may be that she cannot command a company, but that she holds herself together at all is, to me, remarkable.’
‘I knew few details,’ Dathenar said in a low voice, ‘but I sensed well something unbreakable within her. Faror Hend, we would burden her further.’
‘Sirs—’
‘This legion wears and wields madness,’ Prazek said. ‘It will need its own spine. Neither Hust’s history, nor its fame, nor even its infamy, will suffice this rebirth. The weapons and armour laugh, but the timbre of that voice betrays helplessness. So, we cannot look even to the fever of magic iron.’
‘We have prisoners,’ Dathenar said, his gaze hard upon her. ‘This is our lot. Up from pits and holes carved down through rock and earth. Up from where we put them. No outside authority will reach them, for their habits long ago rejected that authority. There is a vast difference between kneeling and being forced to kneel. Galar Baras was right in plunging into their midst. Now it falls to us to take their stock, to see what we can use.’
‘But Rance’s inner torment?’
‘We will be cruel, yes.’
‘She does not scrub her hands raw out of some manic need to cleanse unseen stains, Dathenar. If either of you think the symbol so crass as that—’
‘No, Faror, we heard you well enough.’
Prazek nodded. ‘A ritual intended to awaken pain, because the pain keeps her here, keeps her conscious. Keeps her alive.’
‘Nothing of that can belong to the Legion, sirs.’
In answer, Prazek drew his new sword. The reflected flames licked down its length with a lurid red tongue. A dull muttering sound rose from the blade, breaking then into a low, dreadful laugh. ‘This attends us all, Faror Hend. Every edge, however, promises pain, yes? Prisoners – by the title alone we see their plight. All was taken from them. For each, some past incident has been made into a shrine of hurts, betrayals, losses and sour violence. Like penitents they can but circle this unholy moment, whipping their backs to keep it alive. They will speak of forgetting what they have done. Some will even claim to have done so. Others will protect their shrine, believing it a place of righteous justice, thus absolving themselves of all responsibility. But all this – all these pronouncements, these evasions, these pathetic defiances – they are helpless and hopeless. Each man, each woman, up from the pit, is burdened with what they must live with.’
Dathenar added, ‘Loss of freedom delivers its own pain. This is an army that ritually scalds itself every dawn. The soldiers fill their days with talk of freedom – some even seek to run away – but now, at last, they begin to see. There will be no freedom, neither here nor there – out beyond the campfires, beyond the pickets. No freedom at all, Faror Hend.’
‘We must make of the Hust Legion,’ said Prazek, sheathing the weapon once more, ‘a promise. To each prisoner, each soldier. Wake with pain? March with pain? Eat with it? Sleep with it? Breathe it with every breath drawn in, every breath loosed? Oh yes, my friends. And here is the Hust Legion, an answer to you all.’
‘The Hust Legion builds the fire in the crisp light of the sun’s rise,’ said Dathenar. ‘Sets the cauldron upon the coals, and calls the soldiers into line. Hands into the scalding water, thus beginning the pain of a new day.’
‘We will make this legion their home,’ Prazek said. ‘A familiar temple to house their familiar, personal, shrines of pain. The iron now laughs, in proof of its imprisonment, its helplessness. When we are done with our soldiers, we shall make the iron weep.’
Faror Hend stared at the two men, their harsh visages lit in flames. Abyss below, I face two monsters … and find myself blessing their every word.
* * *
Tent walls made for flimsy barriers, and through the entirety of Wareth’s short career as a soldier of the Hust Legion he had felt neither safe nor protected by them. The waxed canvas even failed in disguising an occupant’s presence come the night, with oil lamps or lanterns painting silhouettes upon the walls. When, as he prepared for sleep, the scratching came upon the front flap, followed a moment later by the tap of a knife pommel on the ridge pole, he considered for a long moment the prospect of not responding. Yet there had been no hiding his presence, and to pretend otherwise seemed both puerile and petty.
Grunting an invitation, he sat upon the cot to await yet another messenger with still more bad news, as it seemed the litany was unending, and when enough people were gathered anywhere the train of news never paused. It was no wonder that most officers stumbled between exhaustion and incompetence, as each fed the other. That history recounted the tales of battles gone awry, filled with appalling errors in judgement, a cascade of fatal decisions and the pointless slaughter of hundreds, if not thousands of misled soldiers, no longer surprised Wareth.
Logistics could gnaw like termites through the base of a tree—
Sergeant Rance stepped through the tent entrance.
‘What now?’ Wareth asked.
She flinched at his tone, and half turned as if to leave again – and in that instant Wareth comprehended that nothing official had brought her into his company. Silently cursing, he raised a staying hand and said, ‘No, wait. Do come in, Rance. Take that bench there – someone delivered it for reasons unknown to me. Perhaps the seating of guests? That seems reasonable.’
‘It’s nothing, sir,’ she said. ‘I saw the light, and motion, and wondered at your being awake this late.’
‘Well,’ he said, watching her tentatively settle on to the bench, ‘there is some good timing in all this, Rance. I found myself drawn short by a thought. Tell me, what do you know about the habits of termites? I recall seeing mounds – nay, towers – in the drylands to the south, constructed of mud. But here in Kurald Galain we mostly know of them as delivering ruination to wood. I have in my mind an image of a large tree riven through by the insects – did I see some such thing as a child? I must have.’
She studied him with an odd expression, and then said, ‘I recall a house that collapsed, in the village where I lived. The beams were found to have been eaten through from the inside. Their cores were dust. Or so I heard, sir. I do remember seeing the wreckage. It had more or less fallen in from each side. The weight of the roof timbers, I suppose.’
‘Logistics,’ Wareth said. ‘The line of messengers, busy messengers, with busy words. Even as this army sleeps, problems spread like some plague – or an infestation.’
‘It’s been three nights since the last murder.’
‘We’re all armed now, Rance. I’d imagine that those men fearing retribution for past crimes have taken to sleeping in their armour. More to the point, a sword left out of its scabbard will betray the arrival of a stranger.’
‘It will?’
Wareth nodded. ‘I suppose I should have explained that, but I imagine that the soldiers will make their own discoveries. Indeed, for all I know, the armour will do the same. A Hust camp needs no watchdogs, no geese. A Hust soldier standing on guard cannot be sneaked up on if he or she keeps a blade bared. But now, why, the armour could well suffice.’ He paused, and then cocked his head. ‘Hardly a sound defence against intrigue or treachery, however. Nothing in Henarald’s iron can sniff out poisoned wine, after all.’
‘They said it was a curse,’ Rance said.
‘What was?’
‘The termite infestation, sir. A curse upon the family, and the father in particular. Careless with his cock.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘The rooster in his yard, sir. It used to escape, terrorizing the younger children.’
‘Ah. Well then, was there something specific you wished to discuss?’
She glanced away, and then shrugged. ‘I am to report to Captain Prazek and Captain Dathenar on the morrow, immediately following the seventh bell.’
‘You are?’
She nodded, and then frowned. ‘You knew nothing of it? Oh. Then I wonder what they might want of me.’ A moment later she straightened her back, and then slowly slumped – though whether in defeat or relief, Wareth could not tell. ‘I am to be dismissed. That’s it. Well, I’m surprised it took this long.’
‘Rance, I’m not aware of anything like that. They would have spoken to me first, I assure you. No, they have some other purpose for wishing to speak to you. And, to be honest, I’m glad you’ve told me. I will accompany you tomorrow.’
‘Sir, there’s no reason—’
‘I selected you, remember? In fact, you are my responsibility.’ Still something uncertain flickered in her gaze. Wareth considered for a moment, and then he said, ‘A coward upon the field of battle is driven by an overwhelming need to survive, to escape from all threat, all risk. But upon the day to day matters away from that field of battle, a coward can well display virtues, such as loyalty. And on occasion, both fortitude and integrity might rear their pale heads into day’s light. Said virtues might even assemble all at once, in a single moment.’ He offered her a wry smile. ‘I am too easily painted in a single hue, Rance.’
‘I know that,’ she replied. ‘In that single colour you can hide other things about you. Few will see. Few will bother. Even the title itself – coward – can be used to hide behind, if you’re clever enough.’
He shrugged. ‘I’m not, alas.’
She snorted. ‘And here I thought you lied well, as cowards should be able to do.’
‘Titles have that way, Rance. Coward. Murderer.’ Seeing her blanch, he shook his head and added, ‘You misunderstand. I can claim both, you see. On the day we were freed, I killed a man with a shovel—’
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