Col Buchanan - Stands a Shadow

Bull scowled and wandered off to one of the nearby wagons, his bundle of equipment under an arm and his backpack over his shoulder. Away from the warmth and light of the fire he dressed quickly, though he left his armour balanced against the wagon next to his sheathed shortsword. He pulled the cloak about him and sat with his back against one of the wheels, then searched around in his pack until he found the small vial of mother’s oil. He dabbed a little on his finger, and ran it around his gum where his back teeth were throbbing again, all the while eyeing the men huddled around the fire.

They’re frightened, thought Bull to himself. They know they march to their slaughter.

He thought of the battle that lay ahead at the end of their march, and felt the fear of it inside him too. The sensation thrilled him; made him feel that he was alive.

Bull drew his new sword from its sheath, and inspected the watermarks along the gleaming steel of the blade. It was Sharric steel, cast here in Khos, the finest in all the Mideres. He contented himself with sharpening the edge of it with the finer side of his whetstone.

In the light of a nearby campfire, he spotted General Creed walking past, conversing with the colonel of the Greyjackets. Bahn followed a few paces behind, looking as pensive as he had the first day Bull had ever met him, all those years ago on the cold marshalling grounds between the walls, with the first two walls of the Shield already fallen, the third likely to be next, the men shattered, their morale lower than any time before or since.

Bahn saw him now and gave a curt nod of his head, though Bull noted how he did not pause, did not share with him a few words.

Bull stared coldly back as the man walked beyond the light of the fire.

Behind the departing figures, young Wicks came stumbling towards him as the lad guzzled wine from a flaccid skin. Wicks tripped and rolled on the grass, then climbed to his feet again as though nothing had happened. He was alone too, though that seemed a matter of choice for Wicks more than anything else.

He noticed Bull in the shadows and flopped down next to him. ‘Hey, champ,’ Wicks panted as he offered Bull the wine. Bull shook his head. He no longer trusted himself with alcohol, not since the day he’d gone to the home of Adrianos and butchered him like a stag.

Wicks settled himself with exaggerated care by his side, resting his back against the wagon wheel. ‘All this bloody marching,’ he muttered as he massaged a foot. ‘My soles are killing me.’

‘This is nothing. You’re lucky we’re not pushing even harder.’ Even as Bull spoke he felt the ache of his own feet and back, and knew they would only worsen before they got better. He was in poor condition after a year in the cell, never mind that he’d tried to maintain his condition.

‘Nothing, he says. And me with my feet in tatters.’

In the distance Bull heard a roar of men, the second time now he’d heard them.

‘What is that? Is there a fight?’

‘Aye. They’re at it again, the Greys and the Volunteers. Two bareknuckle champions this time.’

Wicks looked about him with his large eyes sparkling in the firelight. He was bored, Bull could see. The lad wanted some mischief to occupy himself for a while. It reminded Bull of his own restless boredom.

He sighed, and took the skin of wine from the young man; allowed himself one long satisfying pull from it before tossing it back.

‘You know, I saw you fight once. The time you became champion of Bar-Khos.’

‘I hope you bet on me to win.’

‘I wish I had. But I thought you were just another contender like the rest of them. You lost me a full purse of stolen coins that night. Though I’ll say it was worth it, just to see you fight. I thought you were going to kill him in the end.’

‘I was. If they hadn’t stopped me.’

‘I can’t believe it’s really you. The real thing, right here in front of me. The greatest fighter in all of Khos. Unbelievable.’

Bull swept the whetstone along the edge of the blade, ignoring the lad now. It had been a long time since a stranger had offered their admiration to him. Once, he had relished such praise, had felt validated in every way by the respect of so many.

Now it was only a reminder of how fickle most people really were.

‘They’re talking about us again,’ said Wicks casually with a nod to the fire. The men around it were trading words in low voices. Old Russo, the veteran of Coros, cast a one-eyed glance in their direction.

His accusing stare caused Bull to grind his rotten teeth together. He felt the satisfying throbs of pain deep inside them.

‘Find yourself a whore yet?’

‘No,’ Bull admitted. ‘None of them will touch me.’

‘They probably think you’ll strangle them where they lie.’ Wicks laughed drunkenly at the thought of it.

‘Don’t laugh at me, boy. I’ll have your eyes out if you laugh at me.’

The lad seemed to sober up for a moment; his grin faltered. Wicks sprawled onto his back, surprising himself with a belch. ‘You can’t take a joke, champ. That’s your problem.’

Bull felt momentarily chastened by his words. He knew the young man was right.

He couldn’t help but like this lad. Wicks reminded him of his younger brother: feckless and afraid of no one. He’d been one of the few to approach Bull and converse with him during the march so far; a thief playing at being a soldier, he’d told Bull, as he showed him the branding scar on his wrist, told him how he’d been released from a military stockade on the day the army had marshalled outside Bar-Khos.

Bull looked at the wineskin in his hands and said, ‘I thought you were skint. Have you been thieving again?’

‘I went swimming,’ he told Bull. ‘Over by the temples. If you go when the sun’s still up you can see the coins lying along the riverbed.’

‘You fool,’ growled Bull. ‘It’s bad luck to steal people’s offerings. You want to bring a curse on your head?’

Wicks waved his hand. ‘What difference does it make? They throw the coins away and never see them again.’

There was no point trying to explain it to him. The lad simply had no concept of tradition or belief.

Again that roar of throats in the night. It sparked a decision within him.

Bull climbed slowly to his feet.

‘Where are you going?’ Wicks asked in sudden interest.

‘To pick a fight,’ he told him as he cast his cloak aside. ‘Want to come?’

‘Wait a minute,’ said Wicks, and tried unsuccessfully to get to his feet. Bull had to help him up in the end. ‘We should pool our coins. I’ll lay the bets for you.’

‘Wicks,’ Bull said with a grin that split his face from ear to ear; and then the smile vanished in a flash. ‘You really think that anyone’s going to bet against me?’

Bahn was walking a little easier tonight. The pains in his calves and back from riding all day were no longer excruciating, as they had been on the previous nights of the forced march, for he was finally getting used to the saddle again. They were covering almost twenty laqs a day at their present pace. It was as hard as General Creed dared to push the army, for they still had days of travel ahead of them. The Lord Protector wanted the men fighting fit once they engaged.

In front of Bahn the general and Halahan strolled side by side. They were in good spirits tonight, having reached Juno’s Ferry on schedule, where the army had joined the two thousand men of the Hoo. The mood of the men too seemed especially boisterous. They had crossed the Chilos, and now faced a march through the lands of the Reach, hard-bent on closing with the enemy. Tonight the reality of their situation was beginning to hit home. They were in need of some distractions.