Abercrombie, Joe - The Heroes

A piebald dog yapped wheezily at his heels for a while, its belly grotesquely bloated, but abandoned him to root through a great heap of refuse beside the track. Is our rubbish the only lasting mark we will leave upon this country? Our rubbish and our graves? He pounded through the camp of Jalenhorm’s division, a sprawling maze of canvas all in blissful, sleeping silence. Fog clung to the flattened grass, wreathed the closest tents, turned distant ones to phantoms. A row of horses watched him glumly over their nosebags. A lone sentry stood with pale hands stretched out to a brazier, a bloom of crimson colour in the gloom, orange sparks drifting about him. He stared open-mouthed at Gorst as he laboured past, and away.

His servants were waiting for him in the clearing outside his tent. Rurgen brought a bucket and he drank deep, cold water running down his burning neck. Younger brought the case, straining under the weight, and Gorst slid his practice blades from inside. Great, blunt lengths of battered metal, their pommels big as half-bricks to lend some semblance of balance, three times the weight of his battle steels which were already of a particularly heavy design.

In wonderful silence they came for him, Rurgen with shield and stick, Younger jabbing away with the pole, Gorst struggling to parry with his unwieldy iron. They gave him no time and no chances, no mercy and no respect. He wanted none. He had been given chances before Sipani, and allowed himself to grow soft. To grow blunt. When the moment came he was found wanting. Never again. If another moment came, it would find him forged from steel, sharpened to a merciless, murderous razor’s edge. And so, every morning for the last four years, every morning since Sipani, every morning without fail, in rain or heat or snow – this.

The clonk and scrape of wood on metal. The occasional thud and grunt as sticks bounced off armour or found their marks between. The rhythm of his ripping breath, his pounding heart, his savage effort. The sweat soaking his jacket, tickling his scalp, flying in drops from his visor. The burning in every muscle, worse and worse, better and better, as if he could burn away his disgrace and live again.

He stood there, mouth gaping, eyes closed, while they unbuckled his armour. When they lifted the breastplate off it felt as if he was floating away. Off into the sky never to come down. What is that up there, above the army? Why, none other than famous scapegoat Bremer dan Gorst, freed from the clutching earth at last!

He peeled off his clothes, soaked through and reeking, arms so swollen he could hardly bend them. He stood naked in the chill morning, blotched all over with chafe-marks, steaming like a pudding from the oven. He gasped with shock when they doused him with icy water, fresh from the stream. Younger tossed him a cloth and he rubbed himself dry, Rurgen brought fresh clothes and he dressed while they scrubbed his armour to its usual workmanlike dull sheen.

The sun was creeping over the ragged horizon, and through the gap in the trees Gorst could see the troopers of the King’s Own First Regiment wriggling from their tents, breath smoking in the chilly dawn. Buckling on their own armour, poking hopefully at the embers of dead fires, preparing for the morning’s march. One group had been drawn yawning up to see one of their fellows whipped for some infringement, the lash leaving faint red lines across his stripped back, its sharp crack reaching Gorst’s ear a moment later followed by the soldier’s whimper. He does not realise his luck. If only my punishment had been so short, so sharp, and so deserved.

Gorst’s battle steels had been made by Calvez, greatest swordsmith of Styria. Gifts from the king, for saving his life at the Battle of Adua. Rurgen drew the long steel from the scabbard and displayed both sides, immaculately polished metal flashing with the dawn. Gorst nodded. His servant showed him the short steel next, edges coldly glittering. Gorst nodded, took the harness and buckled it on. Then he rested one hand on Younger’s shoulder, one on Rurgen’s, gave them a gentle squeeze and smiled.

Rurgen spoke softly, respecting the silence. ‘General Jalenhorm asked that you join him at the head of the column, sir, as soon as the division begins to march.’

Younger squinted up into the brightening sky. ‘Only six miles from Osrung, sir. Do you think there’ll be a battle today?’

‘I hope not.’ But by the Fates, I hope there is. Oh please, oh please, oh please, I beg you only for this one thing. Send me a battle.

Ambition

‘Fin?’

‘Mmmm?’

He propped himself up on his elbow, grinning down at her. ‘I love you.’

‘Mmmm.’

A pause. She had long ago stopped expecting love to fall upon her like a bolt of lightning. Some people are prone to love of that kind. Others are harder-headed.

‘Fin?’

‘Mmmm?’

‘Really. I love you.’

She did love him, even if she somehow found it hard to say the words. Something very close to love. He looked magnificent in a uniform and even better without one, sometimes surprised her by making her laugh, and there was definite fire when they kissed. He was honourable, generous, diligent, respectful, good-smelling … no towering intellect, true, but probably that was just as well. There is rarely room for two of those in one marriage.

‘Good boy,’ she murmured, patting him on his cheek. She had great affection for him, and only occasionally a little contempt, which was better than she could say for most men. They were well matched. Optimist and pessimist, idealist and pragmatist, dreamer and cynic. Not to mention his noble blood and her burning ambition.

He gave a disappointed sigh. ‘I swear every man in the whole damn army loves you.’

‘Your commanding officer, Lord Governor Meed?’

‘Well … no, probably not him, but I expect even he’d warm to you if you stopped making such a bloody fool of him.’

‘If I stopped he’d only do it to himself.’

‘Probably, but men have a higher tolerance for that.’

‘There’s only one officer whose opinion I give a damn about, anyway.’

He smiled as he traced her ribs with a fingertip. ‘Really?’

‘Captain Hardrick.’ She clicked her tongue. ‘I think it’s those very, very tight cavalry trousers of his. I like to drop things so he’ll pick them up for me. Ooops.’ She touched her finger to her lip, fluttering her lashes. ‘Curse my clumsiness, I’ve let fall my fan again! You couldn’t just reach for it, could you, Captain? You’ve almost got it. Only bend a little lower, Captain. Only bend … a little … lower.

‘Shameless. I don’t think Hardrick would suit you at all, though. The man’s dull as a plank. You’d be bored in minutes.’

Finree puffed out her cheeks. ‘You’re probably right. A good arse only goes so far. Something most men never realise. Maybe …’ She thought through her acquaintance for the most ridiculous lover, smiled as she lighted on the perfect candidate. ‘Bremer dan Gorst, then? Can’t really say he’s got the looks … or the wit … or the standing, but I’ve a feeling there’s a deep well of emotion beneath that lumpen exterior. The voice would take some getting used to, of course, if one could coax out more than two words together, but if you like the strong and silent type, I’d say he scores stupendously high on both counts— What?’ Hal wasn’t smiling any more. ‘I’m joking. I’ve known him for years. He’s harmless.’

‘Harmless? Have you ever seen him fight?’

‘I’ve seen him fence.’

‘Not quite the same.’

There was something in the way he was holding back that made her want to know more. ‘Have you seen him fight?’