The March North (2 page)

It’s been a long time since there was even a territorial battalion stationed in West Wetcreek; the opinion that nothing happens in the Creeks is not restricted to the folk who live there.

The armoury was built in the days when there was a full battalion, and the main drill and mess hall and two of the barracks are still there, now East and West instead of One and Two. Barracks Three through
Six were taken down nearly two hundred years ago; the plan was to move the Captain’s House, Gate House, and Infirmary north to close off a smaller drill square and free up the space for civil uses. Then it turned out the Captain’s House and the Gate House had foundation bindings no one knew how to move. So now the west edge of the square has the township hospital, in place of the old Infirmary
building and barracks Four and Six, and the asymmetry of it all makes Twitch complain.

Where barracks Three and Five were is grass, and gives a place to put the artillery; sometimes it gives a place to put extra sheep, building materials, or lost cattle.

The Captain’s House is about what you’d expect: a bit older than usual, sawn granite instead of fieldstone, one of less than a dozen standard-shrines
that date from the time of the Foremost, but still the common-to-the-Line Captain’s House. One big main floor for meetings out of the rain, standard-shrine and a map room upstairs, quarters out the back for supernumaries.

Supernumeraries such as Staff Thaumaturgists.

There’s no kitchen — no point — but Creeks don’t do social well without this vile stuff they make from wood lettuce roots. The same
stove-and-kettle setup will do for actual coffee, and since Creeks in general have the same view of coffee as I do of the lettuce roots, what would be scant supply for a company can stand to have a couple of Independents added to the Captain and Quartermaster.

Halt takes coffee black. Halt is also apparently incapable of sitting down for any length of time without knitting.

Rust has a small silver
jug of chill table cream from somewhere, not going to ask, and is willing to share. Sheep’s milk in coffee can be argued either way for worth it, and sheep’s milk is what’s to be had in Westcreek Town.

“You’re not here to straighten nails.” Half a smile, and a raised eyebrow.

“Can either of you explain to me how Part-Captain Blossom can be both an Independent and in the Line? I had understood
this to be impossible.” No one troubles to forbid the impossible.

The needles keep clicking away. Rust’s coffee gets set down, an oddly formal motion. “The Binding of the Standards works by creating a mind out of unformed talent for the Power. Fewer than eight modest talents and there is not enough mind to do anything; greater than a brigade, call it eight thousand, and the mind cannot focus
on a task even when it can form.”

I nod; this part isn’t news.

“The talent of Independents is not in any respect unformed; the customary analogy is the utility of a substantial and ornate bronze gargolye used as a cobblestone. Blossom is very young and was trained differently.”

Halt snorts. The rapidly-growing knitting is at the end of a row, and the blunt end of a needle points. “You were ‘trained’
by not dying.”

Rust shouldn’t smile like that. “How heavy is a sword, Captain?”

I am halfway through saying “it depends on the sword” when I realize my forearm has lifted, without a coffee mug.

“Your arm knows.”

Spine, and there are Independents who would know that.

“What has been done with Blossom and another youngster was to keep their arms from knowing, much as when you direct the standard,
you direct a thing outside yourself, for all that your strength participates in the standard.”

You can’t ask if an Independent is crazy. The same Independent won’t give you the same answer twice. And I’d be asking Halt and the guy who defeated the Archonate of Reems with alpine wildflowers.

But I can ask — “The Part-Captain can attach to the standard?”

“Yes.” Halt’s voice sounds about to be reedy
with age, but it is not a frail age. “Blossom and one other.” The needles click on.

I finish my coffee. I can get away with a cup a day, usually, and this makes three for today. None tomorrow.

“That provides some understanding; thank you.” Because Foremost know the permissions and validation in that scroll didn’t include any explanations.

All of the Twelve are terrible. They were, in their time
and their kingdoms of wrath, very nearly gods. So far as anyone knows, each of them faced the Foremost and preferred life, and for five hundred and seventy-one years they have abided by the laws of the Commonweal. So far as anyone can tell, and we hope at least one would betray the others if it were not so.

Nothing about those laws requires them to take a job for which an uneducated stripling
of moderate strong talent can be overqualified.

“Does Eustace have an official reason for a sojourn in the Creeks?” There’s a voice for inquiring after much-loved lapdogs. Not quite the right thing for five tonnes of opinionated mutton, but perhaps close enough.

Halt might almost be favouring me with an approving expression. “Eustace’s breed is meant to eat weeds. Displaying a relish for whatever
the Creeks want eaten shall prove Eustace’s breeding successful.”

It’s a secret. Halt is here, and Rust is here, and from what I can tell from the foundry-master, the best sorcerer who has ever worked on artillery is here. And no-one necessarily knows they are here, because a Part-Captain and two Staff Thaumaturgists with a side job for the Food-Gesith aren’t of much notice in the City of Peace,
the orders didn’t involve names. Now they are here, while they are here, however considerable their notice, all the citizens are Creeks. Passing for a Creek just to look at is tough, and if you look like a Creek, being anywhere near here without being able to explain where the previous six generations of your ancestors lived and what they did is impossible.

Magical spies have to worry about Halt.

“Will you have other duties beyond those to the Wapentake?” A regular Staff Thaumaturgist wouldn’t, and even whatever the Food-Gesith might actually want would fit in around the company.

Not even a look between them.

“Not at all.” Rust must practice holding the coffee mug to make the steam rise sinister and face-wreathing like that.

“Two days to settle in” — we’ll call it settle in, and not fuss
unless they ask for live creatures or dead people — “and then on day seven, the company will require your presence to referee a game of catch.”

The needles stop clicking.

“Four tubes, four platoons. It should be instructive.”

Halt lets the needles say “Oh, that kind of catch”.

Split Creek is running blood. Not the burning kind; this just spreads a thick smell of fresh blood down five kilometres of river-flats.

Everybody looks at me in this disappointed way when I say “river”; the Creeks are certain that all
their
major watercourses are creeks. Split Creek’s sixty metres across and has an old stone bridge spanning it on five thick piers; calling it a creek sticks
in my head. The running blood isn’t supposed to be anything you’d remark upon, but I can see the smell of it getting to everybody.

Good.

Halt’s got the artillery, and Rust has the company.

Me, Twitch, the standard, Part-Captain Blossom, the Master Gunner, four files of colour-party, and a couple of quartermaster’s clerks stay up on the bluff; it’s not much, maybe ten metres, but it helps. Back
of us are medics, waggons, and the Quartermaster’s party with lunch. Down on the flat, it’s five hundred metres between platoon columns and artillery tubes. Blossom’s having to work at not visibly twitching, which, for an Independent, says a lot. Blossom don’t like this.

“Do your gunners know what they’re doing?” Quiet, pleasant, isn’t-this-lovely-weather officer voice; the Line makes you practice
discussing hangings in these tones to its satisfaction before it’ll provide the warrant of commission. Not the only requirement, but not optional.

That metal-bending smile sprints across Blossom’s face. “I hate answering that with ‘yes’; it’s not like they have the least idea how to
make
a tube.” Does the voice well; there’s this little cheerful lift on “hate” to go with the happy face.

The Master
Gunner, in keeping with the requirements for the type, has a face which looks certain to wear slower than boot leather. There’s some humour in the eyes, though. “Sir will recall the commissioning exercise.”

“Ten rounds per tube, black-black-black, all in a fifty-metre target at twenty kilometres range.” No forced cheer at all. “The target wasn’t eighty guys in a block.”

“If I could get a Regular
company out here for a shoving match, it would be three hundred guys in a block trying to shove a different block of three hundred guys into a river of blood.”

“You’re here, Halt’s here, Rust is here. I’ve got a company of dutiful, honest Creeks with no belief in fighting. That needs fixing before
why
you’re here shows up.”
Because it won’t necessarily bother to kill people before it eats them
can go unspoken; I want the colour party to spread an idea of readiness, not assert that I’m crazy as well as undead.

I can feel the sergeants firming up their grip on the standard, and the platoons, as platoons, going solid. Halt is standing behind tube one; Eustace has wandered down into the creek and is slurping away at the blood. Belly wool’s going to stain something dire. The artillery’s
upstream and upwind of the company, and the scorched blood smell as Eustace slurps and snorfles away is all to the good for the exercise.

Blossom’s first grip on the standard is, understandably, tentative; each standard is different, and it matters. Once Blossom gets latched, tentative isn’t remotely the right word. I can keep track of the second viewpoint as Blossom swoops it out behind tube
one, just like I can feel the colour party closing its eyes to not puke as half the viewpoint flings itself off the bluff and the other appears behind First Platoon without the sensation of motion.

Tube one’s gunner doesn’t look happy, but, well, tough. Young Toby doesn’t look happy, either, being a bit new to the rank, but One Platoon has set up nicely. I slide my half of the view way up and
back, so I’m looking down on the whole thing, but keep listening, so I hear, with the odd over-there effect one gets from the standard stuffing things in your ears, Toby’s long “Ready!” and the “short! short! black-black-black! black! black! black! slide! slide! four, four, toss at four! target in front, zero, zero, one left, one left, TOSS!” from the gunner. “Toss” is as gentle as it gets with artillery;
you can see the streak headed pretty much straight for Toby’s nose. Which is just right; try to take out the commanders first if you have time and can tell who that is.

The streak is an iron — could be anything; black just means it’s nothing magical, but it’s usually iron — bar half a metre long and ten centimetres across. The other two “blacks” in the shot code mean it has nothing directing its
flight nor any magical effects when it hits. Which makes it the lightest, least dangerous thing the tubes can throw.

Toby misses it, waiting to see it before reacting, which was just plain dumb.

Less than a metre from Toby’s nose the whole projectile turns into a cone of thick orange sparks like it hit the grindstone of the gods. Toby’s face is fine, eyes are fine; the edge of the grindstone was
about the level of Toby’s chin, and the sparks spray down. Still ass-flat in the middle of a grass fire with a ripply cuirass dent that spells “optimist”, which is a nice touch from Rust. There’s half of two files in the grass fire with Toby, and there’s a moment when I think I’ll have to deal with it before Toby gets collected, finds some wits, grabs the platoon focus, stomps the fire, and stands
up. Bruised ribs and scorched ears and folks are going to snicker at the state of Toby’s hair for awhile, but no real harm.

“Point to the artillery.” The clerk writes this down, dutifully blank of face. The colour party are a lot less blank-faced, but they’re getting it.

Before we marched out this morning, I pointed out that the right thing to do at this range is to pick the tubes up and beat
their crews to death with them. Blossom radiated horrified just long enough for my next sentence, utterly forbidding any such thing, to sink in. This is a game of catch, not an actual fight, and when it comes to an actual fight we’re going to want that artillery. From the set of Toby’s face, having a few minutes to remember that fact will do no harm.

Halt walks with a cane, and seems content to
let Eustace wander today — wandering out of the river and ambling back toward Halt just now — but Halt’s back of tube two before anyone thinks to look. Two Platoon could hardly have missed the fire and the shouting, and Radish is a small guy, for a Creek, a small guy named Radish, which is not your usual Creek name. So a good bit meaner than Toby. Radish does the simple thing and rams the platoon
focus into the ground on the angle of a door wedge over twice the width of the platoon front. Tube two’s gunner gives the whole thing a nice long pause and then calls the shot with hand signals while saying “black-black-black” out loud, hoping that the focus, with no resistance, will have wavered.

Wavering isn’t much like Radish; the shot howls off the focus, nearly straight up, and tumbling end
over end.

“Point to the company.” The clerk blots this one; the shot comes down long, over us, but hot enough you can see the glow with bare eyes. Blossom mutters something about fires and makes a swatting motion; there’s a vast
crack
sound overhead and the shot, even hotter, hits flowing blood and splashes up taller than the bluff. I nod, and slide over some approval through the standard. We
can burn down the flats if we want but there are fields back of us up here.

I can feel Three getting settled in a bit tighter. This is going well; no lasting damage but lots of bad smells and a real sense of risk.

Dove takes “catch” literally: the focus reaches out, hard, and the shot gets about twice the force it had arriving smacking it back less than fifty metres from the muzzle. Halt doesn’t
move or speak, but the spear of burning iron coming back at tube three vanishes a hands-breadth from the berm. The crew were diving for cover or grabbing for the tube-shield, trying to put enough focus in it to do some good. Neither would have worked in time. Shaky swearing from the gunner comes back faint through the standard.

I get the small notion of a question from Blossom, and pass permission.
Blossom does the dispassionate voice well. “Two points to the company.” The clerk’s still working on composure, but gets that written down neatly.

Not many living people have been in a war. You get to expecting things to happen in an orderly way, even with the Line, and it gets you killed.

Don’t think orderly expectations will do for Part-Captain Blossom.

Hector gets clever with four; it feels
like going for Dove’s trick, only the neat, quiet version with the shot caught hanging in the air. Which misses, three or four times, with increasing force; five or six pieces of shot spray out in a witch’s broom of flaming iron off the original shot track. Dove gets both chunks that would have sliced into Three, straight up, and Blossom does the slapping trick again, close sullen thunder. Hector’s
cuirass gets “Braver than you” hammered into it, something Hector may not notice in the midst of a larger grass fire than Toby got.

There are a couple of snickers from the colour party behind me; no one is inclined to argue with Rust’s judgment of Hector.

“Two for the artillery.” The Master Gunner and Twitch are both nodding, so Blossom subsides. Probably worried I don’t want anybody to win this,
when in truth I’d be delighted if the company got its collective ass kicked. It will make them think. Hector didn’t think about a brave try that would have distributed company casualties out of Four Platoon.

The Master Gunner and Twitch step closer to the edge of the bluff, into full view. The coin flip is ornate, and then Twitch points at the Company, and pushes a bit through the standard. Where
we had the platoons One-Two-Three-Four out from the bluff, we get Four-Two-Three-One by some prompt and pretty marching. It’s an order arrived at with little slips of card and a hat last night, and Twitch has lots more.

Eustace stops well back of the artillery line, lies down, and starts chewing away on an eel-tree. Halt’s back up in the howdah, knitting away with apparent total unconcern for
either the game of catch or the shrieking as Eustace toasts the fangy parts of the tree, which are trying to eat back. Various bits of notice of this slide through the standard while the platoons switch places, and there’s a thread of general approval coming back. Eustace’s kind will be welcome in the Creeks forever if they eat eel-tree.

Four hours later, the score is one hundred twenty-three,
artillery, seventy-eight, company, Dove’s cuirass is the only sergeant’s undented, and the flats are looking worse for wear. Three twisted ankles, a case of the shakes, and one fainting town-dweller who wouldn’t drink in case of having to piss. Can’t blame anyone for the shakes — tough to make your spine believe the wall of fire didn’t get you when it goes away close enough to feel the heat on your
eyelids — but I’ll have Twitch give the Word about drinking water.

The artillery crews are intact, but sagging. It’s been two files per tube doing the throwing, against nine files per platoon. The gunners were rotating the spares through as whole files, which left the other three files on each tube doing tube-shield work or filling and re-digging the berms when the tubes moved. Neither Part-Captain
nor Master Gunner felt making the crews move stacked short shot appropriate to a first game of catch. The crews are not so good at digging or the tube-shields, which is no surprise; doctrine says you have a whole heavy battalion covering your battery, hopefully your artillery battalion, if you’re taking return fire.

Lots of pen-scratching as the company clerk completes a fair copy. Neater columns,
full notes, and no blots.

“Those are strong platoons”, Blossom says, nearly silent. Whispers carry, speaking without force does not.

I nod. It’s one of the frustrations. Nothing the company regularly does taxes the individual platoons, motivation to more fully cohere the company is lacking in regular work.

“Three’s sergeant is unusually talented.” Blossom’s more quiet saying this.

“So is One’s.”
A reason to promote Toby, despite youth. Talent for the Power matters to ease of acquiring skill with any focus, it’s not merely a substantial individual contribution.

“Three’s moreso than One’s”, Blossom says, voice strangely sorcerous while the Part-Captain’s face stays entirely the battery-commander’s, watching the caissons rumble up to the waiting artillery tubes.

The artillery hitches up;
they get back up the road to the bluff-top and lunch first, having won. The company doesn’t feel over-grumbly, coming after, and the marching is still smart. I’ll make something of them yet.