The Great Leveller: Best Served Cold, The Heroes and Red Country (108 page)

Shivers shrugged. ‘To make sure you do it.’

‘Many thanks for the support.’

‘Thank Dow.’

‘I will.’

‘He’ll like that. Have you seen the Union?’

‘Not since Hardbread was up here, four nights ago.’

‘I know Hardbread. Stubborn old prick. He might come back.’

‘If he does there’s only three ways across the river, far as I know.’ Craw pointed ’em out. ‘The Old Bridge over west near the bogs, the new bridge in Osrung and the shallows at the bottom of the hill there. We got eyes on all of ’em, and the valley’s open. We could see a sheep cross the river from here.’

‘Don’t reckon we need to tell Black Dow about a sheep.’ Shivers brought the ruined side of his face close. ‘But we better if the Union come. Maybe we can sing some songs, while we wait?’

‘Can you carry a tune?’ asked Wonderful.

‘Shit, no. Don’t stop me trying, though.’ And he strolled off across the circle of grass, Athroc and Agrick backing away to give him room. Craw couldn’t blame ’em. Shivers was one of those men seemed to have a space around him where you’d better not be.

Craw turned slowly to Drofd. ‘Great.’

The lad held his hands up. ‘What was I supposed to do? Tell him I didn’t want the company? Least you didn’t have to spend two days riding with him, and two nights sleeping next to him at the fire. He never closes that eye, you know. It’s like he’s looking at you all night long. I swear I haven’t slept a wink since we set out.’

‘He can’t see out of it, fool,’ said Yon, ‘any more’n I can see out your belt buckle.’

‘I know that, but still.’ Drofd looked around at them all, voice dropping. ‘Do you really reckon the Union are coming this way?’

‘No,’ said Wonderful. ‘I don’t.’ She gave Drofd one of her looks, and his
shoulders slumped, and he walked away muttering to himself on the theme of what else he could’ve done. Then she came up beside Craw, and leaned close. ‘Do you really reckon the Union are coming this way?’

‘Doubt it. But I’ve got a bad feeling.’ He frowned across at Shivers’ black outline, leaning against one of the Heroes, the valley drenched in sunlight beyond, and he put one hand on his stomach. ‘And I’ve learned to listen to my gut.’

Wonderful snorted. ‘Hard to ignore something so bloody big, I guess.’

‘T
unny.’

‘Uh?’ He opened one eye and the sun stabbed him directly in the brains. ‘Uh!’ He snapped it shut again, wormed his tongue around his sore mouth. It tasted like slow death and old rot. ‘Uh.’ He tried his other eye, just a crack, trained it on the dark shape hovering above him. It loomed closer, sun making glittering daggers down its edges.

‘Tunny!’

‘I hear you, damn it!’ He tried to sit and the world tossed like a ship in a storm. ‘Gah!’ He became aware he was in a hammock. He tried to rip his feet clear, got them tangled in the netting, almost tipped himself over in his efforts to get free, somehow ended up somewhere near sitting, swallowing the overwhelming urge to vomit. ‘First Sergeant Forest. What a delight. What time is it?’

‘Past time you were working. Where did you get those boots?’

Tunny peered down, puzzled. He was wearing a pair of superbly polished black cavalry boots with gilded accoutrements. The reflection of the sun in the toes was so bright it was painful to look at. ‘Ah.’ He grinned through the agony, some of the details of last night starting to leak from the shadowy crannies of his mind. ‘Won ’em … from an officer … called …’ He squinted up into the branches of the tree his hammock was tied to. ‘No. It’s gone.’

Forest shook his head in amazement. ‘There’s still someone in the division stupid enough to play cards with you?’

‘Well, this is one of the many fine things about wartime, Sergeant. Lots of folks leaving the division.’ Their regiment had left two score in sick tents over the last couple of weeks alone. ‘That means lots of new card-players arriving, don’t it?’

‘Yes it does, Tunny, yes it does.’ Forest had that mocking little grin on his scarred face.

‘Oh no,’ said Tunny.

‘Oh yes.’

‘No, no, no!’

‘Yes. Up you come, lads!’

And up they came indeed. Four of them. New recruits, fresh off the boat from Midderland by their looks. Seen off at the docks with kisses from Mummy or sweetheart or both. New uniforms pressed, straps polished, buckles gleaming and ready for the noble soldiering life, indeed. Forest gestured towards Tunny like a showman towards his freak, and trotted out that same little address he always gave.

‘Boys, this here is the famous Corporal Tunny, one of the longest serving non-commissioned officers in General Jalenhorm’s division. A veteran of the Starikland Rebellion, the Gurkish War, the last Northern War, the Siege of Adua, this current unpleasantness and a quantity of peacetime soldiering that would have bored a keener mind to death. He has survived the runs, the rot, the grip, the autumn shudders, the caresses of Northern winds, the buffets of Southern women, thousands of miles of marching, many years of his Majesty’s rations and even a tiny bit of actual fighting to stand – or sit – before you now. He has four times been Sergeant Tunny, once even Colour Sergeant Tunny, but always, like a homing pigeon to its humble cage, returned to his current station. He now holds the exalted post of standard-bearer of his August Majesty’s indomitable First Regiment of cavalry. That gives him responsibility—’ Tunny groaned at the mere mention of the word ‘—for the regimental riders, tasked with carrying messages to and from our much admired commanding officer, Colonel Vallimir. Which is where you boys come in.’

‘Oh, bloody hell, Forest.’

‘Oh, bloody hell, Tunny. Why don’t you introduce yourselves to the corporal?’

‘Klige.’ Chubby-faced, with a big sty that had closed one eye and his strapping on the wrong way round.

‘Previous profession, Klige?’ asked Forest.

‘Was going to be a weaver, sir. But I hadn’t been ’prenticed more than a month before my master sold me out to the recruiter.’

Tunny gave a further grimace. The replacements they were getting lately were an insult to the bottom of the barrel.

‘Worth.’ The next was gaunt and bony with an ill-looking grey sheen to his skin. ‘I was in the militia and they disbanded the company, so we all got drafted.’

‘Lederlingen.’ A tall, rangy specimen with big hands and a worried look. ‘I was a cobbler.’ He offered no further detail on the mechanics of his entry into the King’s Own and Tunny’s head was hurting too much for him to pry. The man was here now, unfortunately for everyone involved.

‘Yolk.’ A short lad with a lot of freckles, dwarfed by his pack. He glanced guiltily about. ‘They called me a thief but I never done it. Judge said it was this or five year in prison.’

‘I rather think we may all come to regret that choice,’ grunted Tunny,
though probably as a thief he was the only one with transferrable skills. ‘Why’s your name Yolk?’

‘Er … don’t know. Was my father’s name … I guess.’

‘Think you’re the best part of the egg, do you, Yolk?’

‘Well …’ He looked doubtfully at his neighbours. ‘Not really.’

Tunny squinted up at him. ‘I’ll be watching you, boy.’ Yolk’s bottom lip almost trembled at the injustice.

‘You lads stick close to Corporal Tunny here. He’ll keep you out of danger.’ Forest had a smile that was tough to define. ‘If there was ever a soldier for staying clear of danger, it’s Corporal Tunny. Just don’t play cards with him!’ he shouted over his shoulder as he made off through the shambles of ill-kempt canvas that was their camp.

Tunny took a deep breath, and stood. The recruits snapped to ill-coordinated attention. Or three of them did. Yolk followed up a moment later. Tunny waved them down. ‘For pity’s sake don’t salute. I might be sick on you.’

‘Sorry, sir.’

‘I’m not sir, I’m Corporal Tunny.’

‘Sorry, Corporal Tunny.’

‘Now look. I don’t want you here and you don’t want to be here—’

‘I want to be here,’ said Lederlingen.

‘You do?’

‘Volunteered.’ A trace of pride in his voice.

‘Vol … un … teered?’ Tunny wrestled with the word as if it belonged to a foreign language. ‘So they do exist. Just make damn sure you don’t volunteer me for anything while you’re here. Anyway …’ He drew the lads into a conspiratorial huddle with a crooked finger. ‘You boys have landed right on your feet. I’ve done all kind of jobs in his Majesty’s army and this right here,’ and he pointed an affectionate finger at the standard of the First, rolled up safe under his hammock in its canvas cover, ‘this is a sweet detail. Now I may be in charge, that’s true. But I want you lads to think of me as, let’s say … your kindly uncle. Anything you need. Anything
extra.
Anything to make this army life of ours worth living.’ He leaned in closer and gave the suggestive eyebrows.
‘Anything.
You can come to me.’ Lederlingen held up a hesitant finger. ‘Yes?’

‘We’re cavalrymen, aren’t we?’

‘Yes, trooper, we are.’

‘Shouldn’t we have horses?’

‘That’s an excellent question and a keen grasp of tactics. Due to an administrative error, our horses are currently with the Fifth, attached to Mitterick’s division, which, as a regiment of infantry, is not in a position to make best use of them. I’m told they’ll be catching up with us any day, though they’ve been telling me that a while. For the time being we are a regiment of … horseless horse.’

‘Foot?’ offered Yolk.

‘You might say that, except we still …’ and Tunny tapped his skull, ‘think like cavalry. Other than horses, which is a deficiency common to every man in the unit, is there anything else you need?’

Klige was next to lift his arm. ‘Well, sir, Corporal Tunny, that is … I’d really like something to eat.’

Tunny grinned. ‘Well, that’s definitely extra.’

‘Don’t we get food?’ asked Yolk, horrified.

‘Of course his Majesty provides his loyal soldiers with rations, Yolk, of course he does. But nothing anyone would actually
want
to eat. You get sick of eating things you don’t want to eat, well, you come to me.’

‘At a price, I suppose.’ Lederlingen, sour of face.

‘A
reasonable
price. Union coin, Northern coin, Styrian coin, Gurkish coin. Any kind of coin, in fact. But if you’re short of currency I’m prepared to consider all manner of things in trade. Arms salvaged from dead Northmen, for example, are popular at present. Or perhaps we can work on the basis of favours. Everyone has something to trade, and we can always come to some—’

‘Corporal?’ An odd, high, strained voice, almost like a woman’s, but it wasn’t a woman who stood behind Tunny when he turned, to his great disappointment if not surprise. It was a very large man, black uniform mud-spotted from hard riding, colonel’s markings at the sleeves, long and short steels of a businesslike design at his belt. His hair was shaved to stubble, dusted with grey at the ears and close to bald on top. Heavy-browed, broad-nosed and slab-jawed like a prizefighter, dark eyes fixed on Tunny. Perhaps it was his notable lack of neck, or the way the big knuckles stuck white from his clenched fists, or that his uniform looked as if it was stretched tight over rock, but even standing still he gave the impression of fearsome strength.

Tunny could salute with the very best when it seemed a wise idea, and now he snapped to vibrating attention. ‘Sir! Corporal Tunny, sir, standard-bearer of his Majesty’s First Regiment!’

‘General Jalenhorm’s headquarters?’ The newcomer’s eyes flicked over the recruits, as if daring them to laugh at his piping voice.

Tunny knew when to laugh, and now was not the moment. He pointed across the rubbish and tent-strewn meadow towards the farmhouse, smudges of smoke rising from the chimney and staining the bright sky. ‘You’ll find the general just there, sir! In the house, sir! Probably still in bed, sir!’

The officer nodded once then strode off, head down, in a way that suggested he’d simply walk through anything and anyone in his way.

‘Who was that?’ muttered one of the lads.

‘I believe that …’ Tunny let it hang in the air for a moment, ‘was Bremer dan Gorst.’

‘The one who fenced with the king?’

‘That’s right, and was his bodyguard until that mess in Sipani. Still has the king’s ear, some say.’ Not a good thing, that such a notable personage should be here. Never stand near anyone notable.

‘What’s he doing here?’

‘Couldn’t say for sure. But I hear he’s a hell of a
fighter.’
And Tunny gave his front teeth a worried sucking.

‘Ain’t that a good thing in a soldier?’ asked Yolk.

‘Bloody hell, no! Take it from me, who’s lived through more than one melee, wars are hard enough work without people
fighting
in the middle of ’em.’ Gorst stalked into the front yard of the house, pulling something from his jacket. A folded paper. An order, by the look of it. He saluted the guards and went in. Tunny rubbed at his rebelling stomach. Something didn’t feel right, and not just last night’s wine.

‘Sir?’

‘Corporal Tunny.’