‘It finds me with cruel vigour,’ Prazek said in a growl. ‘Chased by chills and stiffened leather, chafed of thigh and carbuncled of joint.’ He then pulled off his worn glove and reached into his mouth. A moment’s effort and he pulled free a shred of old meat. ‘This, too.’
‘Simple maladies,’ Dathenar easily replied. ‘The complaints of peasants.’
Prazek pulled the glove back on. ‘Well, peasantry defines itself in that miserable self-regard, and now I find myself a purveyor of mud and unheralding skies, no different from said peasant in my squinty eye and cheeky tic, and were my feet upon the ground, why, I’d shuffle one or both, to nudge along my slow thoughts.’
‘Simpler times,’ Dathenar agreed. ‘Musings on the weather can fill a skull with clouds, enough to reduce every horizon. It’s well you shuffle a foot or two, if only to lay claim to the ground upon which you stand.’
‘The threadbare fool knows well that stony soil beneath him,’ Prazek retorted. ‘And so too observes the passing of armies in column, the tidings of smoke above the trees and flotsam in the stream. He raises a damp finger to gauge every new wayward sigh of the wind, too. Then bends once again to shoulder the wrapped bundle of firewood, and sniffs at the smell of plain cooking adrift on the breeze. His wife has paced her cage all day, wearing ruts in the cabin’s floor.’
‘No certainty that pacing,’ Dathenar said. ‘Why, she might be sharpening stakes or, deadlier still, whittling. She might be tending a babe in a crib and humming country hymns to pastoral idyll.’
‘Ha! In tending that babe, Dathenar, she notes the wooden bars of the tiny cage, and then perchance glances up to see the same writ large about her. Yes, she might indeed be sharpening stakes.’
‘But her husband’s an honest man. See his battered hands and blunted finger nubs, the old scars of youthful zeal and the limp from when he miscalculatedly addressed one knee with a hatchet. Oh, those were wild times back then, hi ho! And in such demeanour, why, his idle thoughts hum a somnolent buzz, kept in beat by his plodding boots on the muddy track.’
‘You paint a generous picture, Dathenar. But come the summer a company rides up to gather in the wretched fool. They shove a spear into his hands and wave flags, be they dark or light, crowned or crown-hungry. They take the wife, too, if no crib proffers necessity.’
‘Out marching in column, Prazek.’
‘Reduced to simple thoughts pertaining to weather, aches, and the season’s gentle turn. At least until arrives the moment of terror-strewn mayhem, spears all a-clatter.’
Dathenar grunted, frowning. ‘But wait! Where are the glittering heroes waving their swords in the air? What of the stirring speeches such as to awaken the zeal of mind-wandering farmers and herders? See them stand in that ragged row-’
‘Feet shuffling.’
‘One or two, as befits the moment. Forget not the squint and tic.’
‘And the limp, too,’ Prazek added. ‘They tilt heads as the windbag rides back and forth on a confused horse-’
‘This way? Yes! No! That way! What madness afflicts my gouty master so eager to straddle me?’
‘Dathenar! Enough of the horse thoughts, all right?’
‘They were brought to mind by our chargers, with their ears flickering to catch every word we utter. My humblest pardon, brother, I beg you. The horse, back and forth. You were saying?’
‘The king’s speech!’
‘What king? Whereof comes this king of yours?’
Prazek cleared his throat. ‘Well, let me amend that, by saying this. A king in his own mind, or indeed a queen in her own mind. It’s a crowded skull, to be sure, lofty with minarets and teetering with towers, sparkling with spires, all so grandiose as to beggar any … beggar. And see the selfsame monarch, marching this way and that up and down the echoing halls with their rustling tapestries. Why, a scion of self-importance! He wears the headdress of a high priest this moment, and a jewelled crown the next. The robes of the judge, the clasped hands of the humble penitent. The bared head of the husband and the godly penumbra of the father. Is it any wonder that he casts coy glances at his reflection in every mirror, so inviting to worship and adoration this man-’
‘Or woman,’ Dathenar interjected.
‘No, he is not a woman. She would be a woman, but not him.’
‘Pray get him and us out of his skull, Prazek, and attend to his stirring speech to the peasant soldiers.’
‘Easier said than done,’ Prazek replied. ‘Very well. Since we two are so busy, so thoroughly distracted by all the noble thoughts implicit in our noble bearing and whatnot, taking little note of peasants by the wayside-’
‘We’ve seen none.’
‘No matter. They exist in principle, I’m sure.’
‘Let’s hear this call to war!’
‘Yes, why not, Dathenar? A moment, while I compose myself.’
‘I see a week at least.’
‘My dearest soldiers! My beloved citizens! My wretched minions!’
Dathenar tilted his head back and yelled, ‘We’re here, sire! Summoned-’
‘Press-ganged.’
‘Your pardon, press-ganged into your service, as if tithes weren’t enough-’
‘You, peasant, what was that you mumbled?’
‘Nothing, sire, I but await your speech!’
‘Dearest instruments of my will, howsoever I will it – and I will-’
‘Now there’s a chilling promise.’
‘We are gathered here upon the eve of battle-’
‘Best make it dawn, Prazek, we’re nearing the hills.’
‘Upon the dawn of a day promising glorious battle! Permit me to elaborate. The battle is yours and the glory is mine. There will be no confusion regarding this matter, I trust. Excellent! You are here, and you will fight in my name, for one perfectly reasonable reason – to wit, because you are not over there, upon the valley’s other side, fighting in the name of him, or her. In other words, you are here and not there. Is that clear, then?’
‘Sire! Sire!’
‘What is it?’
‘I have a brother who fights for him or her, over there!’
‘That man is no brother of yours, fool.’
‘But our mother-’
‘Your mother was a whore and a liar! Now, where was I?’
Dathenar sighed. ‘We were being stirred unto inspiration.’
Prazek waved a hand. ‘I hold high this sword, my kin, my comrades, and with it do point that way, towards the enemy. And where my sword points, you follow. You will march, yes, and when close enough, why, you will charge, and if you prevail, I will be pleased, and further pleased to send those of you left alive back to your shacks and barns, if you please. But if you fail, I’ll not be pleased. No, not at all. In fact, your failure will mean that I’m likely to get my skull cracked open-’
‘Spilling into the ditch minarets and towers and spires all tumbling every which way. Crowns askew, robes besmudged, bared head laid bare through and through, and, alas, godliness snuffed out like a guttered candle.’
‘Just so. Was that succinct enough, then? Now, we march to war!’
With this strident challenge ringing in the air, the two men fell silent, both slumping a bit further into their saddles. Until Dathenar sighed and said, ‘Never mind the peasants, Prazek, and let’s speak instead of prisoners.’
‘A touchy subject,’ Prazek replied. ‘Of crime or duty?’
‘Your distinction reeks of the disingenuous.’
‘In this mud, no distinction is possible.’
‘And we not yet upon battle’s field.’
Prazek stood on his stirrups and looked about, eyes narrowed.
‘What now, brother?’
‘Somewhere, lying in the grasses about us, is a pillager of prose, a looter of language.’
Dathenar snorted. ‘Nonsense, we but ape the noble cause, my friend. With hairy discourse.’
Settling back down in the saddle, Prazek scowled. ‘Let us defy the ghost, then, and ride on in silence. I must prepare, in my mind, my stirring speech to my prisoners.’
‘You’ll win their hearts, I am sure.’