Someone else approached. Glancing over Nait recognized him and stood up wincing, favouring his leg. Tinsmith. The captain looked him up and down. ‘You look like Hood's own shit.’
Thank you, sir.’
‘But you're alive.’
‘Yes, sir.’ His eyes tightened on the captain. ‘Sorry, sir?’
Facing the west, the captain smoothed his moustache. ‘You and Least. And Heuk.’
Him and Least. And Heuk. That was all? So Hands and Honey Boy bought it. Big sensuous Hands dead and cold. Hood be damned — what a waste! He thought of all the awful things he'd said and done to her and his face grew hot, his breath shortening. She'd taken all those things to Hood with her; no chance for him now to take them back, or apologize, or tell her she was probably damned right. ‘I'm sorry, sir.’
‘Yes. Me too. But…’ and he cuffed Nait's arm, ‘congratulations. You are now officially a sergeant.’ He held out a grey cloth armband. ‘From what I hear you earned it.’
Nait took it loosely in his fingers. Him a sergeant! Now what would they think back home! It was what he'd wanted all this time but now that he had it he realized he was just a damned fraud. It would be an insult to Hands and Honey Boy for him to wear this. He suddenly remembered the captain still standing there with him. ‘Ah, yes. Thank you, sir.’
‘You're welcome, Sergeant.’ Tinsmith inclined his head aside, ‘These your boys?’
‘Yeah. Squad of ten, sir.’
‘Very good. Your first detail is to help with the fortifications around the encampment. They've been going up all day. High Fist Anand wants a ditch and a palisade, or a wall of spikes. Whatever you ‘n’ the other sappers can manage.’
Eyes still on the cloth, he said, ‘Yes, sir.’ Puzzled, he looked up. ‘Why, sir?’
‘Why?’ Tinsmith's pale watery eyes watched him with something like compassion, or gentleness. ‘A sea of blood's been spilt here, Nait. Night's coming. He'll be coming. We have to get ready for him.’
Him. Him! Oh, Burn save them! Him! He faced the squad. ‘Up, you louts! We have shovel detail! C'mon! At the camp. They got hot food up there, I hear! Now, c'mon.’
He turned back to Captain Tinsmith, called after him, ‘Sir! What happened to that old duffer, what's his name, the master sergeant?’
The captain was still for a time. ‘You haven't heard?’
‘No, sir.’
‘He faced down the Gold the whole time, Nait. Stopped them cold. He's the reason we didn't break, him ‘n’ Braven Tooth. They finally got him though. Blew him up with their munitions there at the end.’
‘Too bad.’
‘Aye. Too bad. See you at camp.’
Damn. Another one. He waved his men on. Seemed the old fart knew his business after all.
It was a grim crossing to the east. The stink of spilled entrails and loosened bowels drove Nait to cover his face. In places it was difficult to find a clear spot to walk. From the sprawled bodies it was plain the lightly armoured skirmishers had taken a savaging while at the same time inflicting mass murder on the Talian and Falaran regulars. Wounded called, or just moaned, gesturing helplessly to them as they passed. His boys and girls promised to send help to each — what more could they do? Gulls, crows and vultures hovered overhead and hopped among the bodies, glistening with fluids and quarrelling. Nait threw rocks at them.
‘Sergeant,’ a man called in accented Talian. Nait turned. It was that Falaran cavalry commander. He lay pinned on his side under his dead horse. Crossbow bolts stood from the two like feathers. Nait squatted next to him, pulled off the fellow's helmet. ‘My thanks,’ he said, smiling behind his big orange-red beard.
‘What can I do for you?’
‘Nothing. I cannot complain. I've a good horse with me.’
‘Maybe some water?’
The man grimaced his revulsion. ‘Water? Gods, man, whatever for? No — but there is a flask of good Falaran brandy in my waistbag there…’ he gestured with his chin. Nait fished through the bag and as he did so he saw that one of the man's arms was pinned beneath him while the other was stitched to his side by three crossbow bolts. He found a beaten and dented silver flask, uncorked its neck. He tipped a taste into the man's mouth. Pure bliss lit the commander's face as he swallowed. ‘My thanks.’
Nait waved his squad on. ‘We have to go.’
‘Yes, I know. But I've a favour to ask of you, soldier.’
Oh Gods no. Not that. ‘No… I'm sorry.’
‘Ah, well, I understand. It's just the birds, you see. Evil beasties flapping closer all the time. And I… well…’ he glanced down to his useless arms.
Soliel's mercy! How could he leave the man to… that? But he was no killer. What could he- ‘Brill!’
‘Sir?’
Nait shoved the flask to the man. ‘Stay here with this wounded officer — wave down a healer.’
Brill saluted, his long gangly limbs jerking, thrust out his chin. ‘Aye, sir.’
‘OK. Let's go.’
As they turned away, Nait heard the cavalry commander asking Brill, ‘So, have you ever been to Falar then?’
By the time they reached the Eastern border of the battlefield their trousers and cloth leggings were painted red to the knees from pushing through the soaked grasses. Flies tormented them, and the setting orange-red sun cast its light almost parallel with the plain, limning the field of slaughter in rich honey tones. Nait glimpsed dun-hued shapes loping across the hills in the distance and he shivered. Jackals or wolves. They were already here — and he was coming. He waved to his boys — that is, his men and women, all gone quiet now over the harrowing course of their trek — to pick up their pace.
The rain that had been threatening all day fell with the cooling night. After labouring in the downpour beside his men finishing the defences of the Imperial compound, deepening the pooling outer trench, helping to shore up the logs of the palisade, Ullen, along with a handful of other officers, was separated out. They were marched to the main gate. Entering, he strained to look back to the set, grim faces of the Talian soldiers watching him go within while they remained without. Many saluted their farewell. He was escorted to a brig of sharpened stakes. Here he found Urko, V'thell and other surviving League officers, including Choss, who lay in the lap of a Captain Roggen, near unconscious from loss of blood. Urko was hunched nearby, wearing only a torn padded linen jerkin, apparently unhurt despite everyone attesting that he'd been trampled by horsemen three times. V'thell sat nearby as well, his battered and cracked armour reflecting deep red-gold from the torches. Ullen knew that Urko could walk right out if he wished, but he — and Laseen no doubt — also knew that he wouldn't because of reprisals against his men.
He knelt on his haunches before his commander. The chill rain slapped against his back. ‘General — the men are being kept outside the compound.’
Urko slowly raised his head. ‘What?’
‘All the Talian regulars. They're being kept out.’
‘What?’ Urko lurched up, peered into the slanting mist of rain. He crossed to the wall of stakes, grasped hold and shouted to a guard, ‘Get me your commander! Right now!’
‘No need for that,’ a voice answered from the thin rain. A dark shape approached flanked by guards. Squinting, Ullen made out the bulky armoured figure of Korbolo Dom. ‘Urko and Cartharon Crust,’ the man called, stopping at the wall of stakes. ‘Amaron, Grinner, Nok, Surly… Do you have any idea what it was like to grow up on Nap in the wake of such names?’