Col Buchanan - Stands a Shadow

‘You thought he was not yours.’

Ash gripped harder. It came to him then that it hardly mattered whether he suppressed the memories of how he’d behaved towards the boy. He’d still be here, still living with the shame of it.

‘After I heard what my wife’s uncle had to say, I treated Lin unkindly.’

Unkindly, he reflected, as he listened to himself in disgust.

No, he’d been a bastard to the boy, plain and simple. For the few years they had spent together in the cause before he had died, Ash had treated his son with a cold and satisfying indifference.

‘I’m sorry, Nico,’ he said.

‘For what?’

‘If I was ever unkind to you also. If it seemed I did not care for you. I am not good with… these thing at times.’

The figure watched him in silence.

‘Please, now, I’m tired,’ he told it.

And he lay down again, and slowly pulled the blanket over his head, and waited until he knew that Nico was gone.

The ferries approached the mouth of the Chilos in single file, borne by the quickening current of the lake and the banks of oars that splashed through the dark waters. Drums sounded from within them, beating slow and steady beats for the benefit of the oarsmen labouring to increase their speed.

Halahan stood in the fortified wheelhouse at the stern of the boat next to General Creed, who peered through the gap at the top of the wooden screen that sheathed the gloomy space. Behind, other officers swayed to the gentle rocking of the boat, reeking of sweat, saying little. Koolas the war chattero was wedged in a corner at the back somewhere. The boat’s captain, a middle-aged woman with a pipe in her mouth like Halahan, manned the wheel herself, squinting too through the gap before her, a pair of borrowed Owls wrapped around her eyes. The mood was a sombre one. None of them knew if they were going to make it through.

The captain spun the wheel hard. The boat turned sluggishly, heavy in the water with so many men cramming its weatherdeck and the deck below.

‘Here we go,’ she murmured as they swung into the river mouth, and she rapped her boot-heel against the floor three times. Someone shouted a command beneath their feet. The rhythm of the drummer picked up pace. The oars splashed even faster. Halahan listened to the first smattering of shots hitting the wood all round them.

A flare went up, illuminating the scene like a noon sun.

More shots rained in. Arrows arced through the air towards the boat. Some were aflame. Riflemen on the deck opened up in reply, his own Greyjackets and regulars mixed in with archers.

Halahan turned to the screen fixed across the left side of the wheelhouse, and craned his neck to look behind them. He saw the other ferries bobbing over the wash of their wake, the churned waters of the Chilos aglow with blue fire. Each of the boats towed lines of improvised rafts, with men hunkered down behind what feeble protection they could find. They were falling already, picked off by the snipers along both banks.

‘ Fear is the Great Destroyer,’ someone was chanting over the riotous clatter of shots. It was Koolas, Halahan saw in the bright wash of flare light that speared through the slits in the screens. He was chanting the prayer of Fate’s Mercy.

They would need it, Halahan though, as he glimpsed the dark shapes of cannon on the eastern bank, and men struggling to aim them.

‘ Be without regrets, like straw in the gale.’

He realized he was holding his breath, and glanced to Creed to see how he was faring. The general’s attention was fixed on the river ahead of them. His face was still a grimace; he looked as though he wanted to tear something apart. His left hand was clenching in a fist.

They were passing the mouths of the cannon now.

‘ Be as the empty pail in the rain.’

Halahan waited for them to fire. He tried not to think of all the men crammed below deck; what would happen to them if the ferry’s hull was holed and the boat went down.

The riflemen on the weatherdeck were firing fast, replying to the gunfire from the shore. The shooting rose in pitch until it was all one deafening sound.

‘ Be as the stream that courses always to its source.’

They were past the cannon now. Halahan released his breath and swayed back on his aching feet. He looked behind again.

The second ferry was less fortunate. A spume of white water rose from its left side, falling as a shower of hissing droplets. The boat listed to its side, taking on water. Shouts rose from its decks.

Men were rolling clear of the rafts, and holding on as best they could as tried to stay low in the water.

The firing on the weatherdeck was dying down. Halahan saw that they were through the gauntlet, even as he heard the cannons fire again behind.

It was clear on either bank here, dark until another flare went screeching into the sky.

In the wake of their boat, corpses of men were floating after them.

‘I’ll make them pay for this,’ Creed muttered to no one. ‘Kincheko and the rest. They’ll pay for this.’ And the general gripped his left arm as though in sudden pain, and ground his teeth in silent fury.

Waking Up in Tume

Ash awoke feeling better than he had done in weeks. His chest seemed less constricted, and he was able to breathe a deep lungful of air without feeling the need to cough it back out again.

He touched his scalp and winced at the painful lump there.

Tume, he told himself. I’m in Tume.

His bladder felt as though it was about to burst. Up, he thought, and rose swiftly from the bed, his bare feet slapping down against the cool boards of the floor. He reached beneath the bed and dragged out the chamber pot, and sat there making water as he scratched his armpit and yawned.

There was tin of dried chee in the kitchen, he recalled. Ash stood and swayed for a moment, a little light-headed. He felt as weak as a kitten.

He trod across to the window with the chamber pot in his hand. He threw the curtains aside and squinted against the flood of daylight, then fumbled half blind with the window latch until he pushed it open. Fresh air tumbled into the room, cold and smelling of eggs. He inhaled it deeply, feeling his sinuses clearing instantly. Another yawn split his face wide open. His bones cracked as he stood there naked and stretching.

When he opened his eyes he caught a glimpse of movement in the street below. A Mannian soldier was ambling past the house, picking over the lakeweed of the island shore.

Ash pressed himself against the wall out of sight. He counted four heartbeats before he chanced another look outside. The man had passed beyond view.

Ash ran for the door.

‘Whuh!’ Che exclaimed as he cleared the young man’s bed with a single bound.

Ash peered through a gap in the curtains there. A squad of Imperials were marching along the street, crossbows over their shoulders. Further along, more soldiers were ransacking the houses of the neighbourhood, piling goods onto carts, breaking and wrecking everything else. All across the city, columns of smoke tilted into the sky.

‘You’re still alive, then,’ came Che’s thick voice from the bed.

Ash rounded on the young man. A girl was lying naked in the bed next to Che, and she sat up and rubbed her sleepy eyes. Che’s face held the pale tint of someone who was soon going to vomit.

‘Anything you would like to tell me, Che?’

‘Like what?’

‘Like why there are imperial troops walking past in the street outside?’

Che rolled to his feet and rushed to look out the window. His face grew even more pale.

‘You did not notice the fall of the city. You were too busy having sport.’

The Diplomat scratched his fingers through the stubble of his hair. ‘I was drunk,’ he said, defensively, and then he held a hand to his stomach, and belched. ‘I see you slept through it well enough yourself.’