Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

The sergeant had administered “justice.” He couldn’t sanction fighting amongst the company, he said, and ruled that Winter had to stand and receive two blows for the ones that she’d given. In the interest of fairness, he himself would deliver them. The first punch, to her face, had nearly broken her nose; the second, in the gut, had left her curled and retching on the floor. The rest of them had looked on, laughing.

Involuntarily, Winter’s hand went to her cheek, where the massive bruise had blossomed. Davis saw the movement, and his smile twitched wider.

“D’you think, Sergeant , that we could have a word in private?” Davis said. “Man to man. For old times’ sake?”

Winter, anxious to get away from the curious looks of her new company, nodded jerkily. The three Old Colonials rose. She led them back toward her tent, away from the pots and the fires, and into the narrow alley between two canvas walls.

“Sergeant,” Davis said. “You, a sergeant. Fucking martyrs, this army is really gone to shit, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t want it,” Winter said. “I told the captain-”

“I thought I was sending you out for a suicide mission,” Davis interrupted, “and the captain makes you a sergeant. How the hell did you pull that one off?”

“Prob’ly sucked his cock,” Peg said.

“Saint does have a pretty little mouth,” Buck mused. “Practically like a girl’s.”

“Was that it, Saint?” Davis said. “You engage in a little persuasion? Thought you could put one over on old Sergeant Davis? Hell, that’s not so bad, a little cock-sucking for a double promotion. Should have let him fuck your arse-then you might have made lieutenant, and I’d have to salute you . Wouldn’t that be a hell of a thing?”

“What do you want?” Winter managed.

“What do I want?” Davis echoed. “God, I’m not sure. I suppose I want an army where little pieces of shit like you aren’t promoted over the heads of better men, to where you can get people killed. But I’m not likely to get it, am I?” He shrugged his massive shoulders. “How about this? You go to the captain and tell him you’re done being a sergeant. It’s too much for you. You can’t handle it. Suck him off again if you have to. Then you can come on back to old Sergeant Davis. Won’t you like that?”

“He wouldn’t let me.” Winter felt her hands curl into fists. “I tried to tell him no, but he wouldn’t-”

“What, because you were too good to be a sergeant?” Davis leaned close to her, until she could smell the foul rotted-meat stink of his breath. “Fucking Saint. You’re just too good for this world, aren’t you?”

“Maybe we ought to, you know, help him along,” Buck prompted.

Davis smiled. Winter saw, suddenly, that he was going to hit her. She tensed, ready to dodge, but Buck and Peg were on either side of her, boxing her in.

“Sergeant?”

It was Bobby’s voice. Davis froze. Winter looked cautiously over her shoulder. The boy stood at the end of the little alley, framed by the firelight.

“We’re still talking,” Davis rumbled. “Piss off.”

“The thing is,” Bobby said, advancing, “we were in the middle of a game, and we can’t go on without the sergeant. So if you wouldn’t mind having your chat in the morning?”

Buck stepped in front of Bobby. The Old Colonial had at least a foot and fifty pounds on the boy. He loomed.

“Sarge said piss off,” he growled. “We’re busy.”

“But-”

Buck put one hand on each of Bobby’s shoulders, pressing hard. The boy’s legs buckled, and he fell involuntarily to his knees.

“Listen, kid,” Buck said. “Just crawl back out of here, and you won’t get hurt.”

Winter caught Bobby’s eye. Go! She tried to communicate the message, but apparently it didn’t get across. The boy smiled and flicked his eyes upward.

“’Scuse me,” said a deep voice, behind Davis. Corporal Folsom stepped forward and smiled at Winter.

Davis half turned, his face twisted in rage, and then paused as he reassessed the situation. He was a big man, used to commanding respect by physical presence alone, but Folsom was nearly as tall as he was. Moreover, Davis’ bulk was layered with fat, the product of years of soft living in Ashe-Katarion. The corporal had a laborer’s build, corded with muscle. There was something in his stance that spoke of a familiarity with violence-he stood on the balls of his feet, ready to move.

Peg turned to face him, too, and there was a moment of dangerous silence. Winter wanted to scream, or run, or do something . She wanted Corporal Folsom to push Davis’ fat face through the back of his skull, but at the same time the thought terrified her. Standing up to Davis led to pain: that lesson had sunk into her very bones. Better to avoid notice. But there was no avoiding notice now.

A clatter of boots behind Bobby broke the pause. Corporal Graff turned the corner, puffing a little, and behind him came a half dozen brawny soldiers. Davis reached a decision. He straightened up, and his face twisted into a parody of a smile.

“My, you do take your games seriously,” he said, slapping Peg jovially on the shoulder. “Well, I suppose the sergeant and I had more or less finished our business.” He grinned down at Winter, eyes flashing murderous fire. “Now you take care, Saint. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to you, would we? Don’t go stepping on any scorpions.”

“Stepping on a scorpion” was the standard cover story for any intra-regimental violence. When some poor bastard was so bruised and bleeding he couldn’t make roll call, his fellows would report that he’d stepped on a scorpion.

Bobby gave a bright, guileless smile. “Don’t worry, Sergeant. We’ll take good care of him.”

“S’right,” Folsom said, from behind Davis. “Don’t worry.”

“Well, that certainly makes me feel better.” Davis clapped his hands, gruesomely cheerful. “Come on, lads. Let’s leave the Saint and his new company to their dinner.”

Buck seemed eager to go. Peg was more reluctant, glaring acidly at Folsom, but at a glance from Davis he turned away. The soldiers behind Graff parted to let the three Old Colonials through. After a moment, Winter heard Davis’ booming laughter.

“Sergeant?” Bobby said, closer at hand. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Winter said automatically. Her breath still came fast, and her heart pounded. Her gut felt twisted into knots.

“You look like you need to lie down for a bit.” Bobby stepped beside her. “Let me help you-”

At the brush of the boy’s fingers, Winter pushed him away, too violently. It was a conditioned reflex, and she regretted it immediately. The expression on Bobby’s face was like she’d kicked a puppy. She swallowed hard and straightened, fighting for self-control.

“It’s all right,” she said. “I’m fine. I just need to rest a bit.” She looked around. “Go back to dinner, the rest of you.”

The soldiers behind Graff stood aside as she passed by them to slip into her tent. She sat on the camp bed, not bothering to light the lamp, and hugged her stomach. The muscles there were taut in memory of the impact of Davis’ meaty fist.

Someone knocked at the tent pole. “It’s Graff.”

Winter didn’t want to see him, or anyone else, but that would be a poor way to show gratitude. “Come in.”

The corporal entered, looking a little embarrassed. Winter looked up at him curiously.

He coughed. “I wanted to say that I’m sorry,” he said. “For interfering. I thought it prudent, but it was a liberty, and you’d be well within your rights to be angry.”

Winter shook her head dumbly.