The Great Leveller: Best Served Cold, The Heroes and Red Country (115 page)

You could barely have called it dawn. That funeral-grey light before the sun crawls up that has no colour in it. Few faces abroad, and those that were made ghosts. The empty country turned into the land of the dead. Gorst’s favourite time of the day.
One could almost pretend no one will ever talk again.

He had already been running for the best part of an hour, feet battering the rutted mud. Long slits of cartwheel puddle reflected the black tree branches and the washed-out sky. Happy mirror-worlds in which he had all he deserved, smashed apart as his heavy boots came down, spraying his steel-cased calves with dirty water.

It would have been madness to run in full armour, so Gorst wore only the essentials. Breast and back-plates with fauld to the hip and greaves at the shin. On the right arm, vambrace and fencing glove only to allow free
movement of the sword. On the left, full-jointed steel of the thickest gauge, encasing the parrying arm from fingertips to weighty shoulder-plate. A padded jacket beneath, and thick leather trousers reinforced with metal strips, his wobbling window on the world the narrow slot in the visor of his sallet.

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.

‘F
in?’

‘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?’

‘Yes.’ ‘And?’

‘And … I’m glad he’s on our side.’

She brushed the tip of his nose with a finger. ‘Oh, my poor baby. Are you scared of him?’

He rolled away from her, onto his back. ‘A little. Everyone should be at least a little scared of Bremer dan Gorst.’ That surprised her. She hadn’t thought Hal was afraid of anything. They lay there, for a moment, the canvas above them flapping gently with the wind outside.

Now she felt guilty. She did love Hal. She had marked down all the points the day he proposed. Considered all the pros and cons and categorically proved it to herself. He was a good man. One of the best. Excellent teeth. Honest, brave, loyal to a fault. But those things are not always enough. That was why he needed someone more practical to steer him through the rapids. That was why he needed her.

‘Hal.’

‘Yes?’

She rolled towards him, pressing herself against his warm side, and whispered in his ear. ‘I love you.’

She had to admit to enjoying the power she had over him. That was all it took to make him beam with happiness. ‘Good girl,’ he whispered, and he kissed her, and she kissed him back, tangling her fingers in his hair. What is
love anyway, but finding someone who suits you? Someone who makes up for your shortcomings?

Someone you can work with. Work on.

Aliz dan Brint was pretty enough, clever enough and well-born enough not to constitute an embarrassment, but neither pretty enough, clever enough nor well-born enough to pose any threat. A comparatively narrow band in which Finree felt it was safe to cultivate a friend without danger of being overshadowed. She had never liked being overshadowed.

‘I find it something of a difficult adjustment,’ murmured Aliz, glancing at the column of marching soldiers beside them from beneath her blonde lashes. ‘Being surrounded by men takes some getting used to—’

‘I wouldn’t know. The army has always been my home. My mother died when I was very young, and my father raised me.’

‘I’m … I’m sorry.’

‘Why? My father misses her, I think, but how can I? I never knew her.’

An awkward silence, hardly surprising since, Finree realised, that had been the conversational equivalent of a mace to the head. ‘Your parents?’

‘Both dead.’

‘Oh.’ That made Finree feel worse. She seemed to spend most conversations see-sawing between impatience and guilt. She resolved to be more tolerant, though she did that often and it never worked. Perhaps she should have resolved simply to keep her mouth shut, but she did that often too, with even more negligible results. Hooves clapped at the track, tramping boots rumbled in unison, punctuated by the occasional calls of officers annoyed by some break in the rhythm.

‘We are heading … north?’ asked Aliz.

‘Yes, towards the town of Osrung to rendezvous with the other two divisions, under Generals Jalenhorm and Mitterick. They might be as little as ten miles from us now, on the other side of those hills,’ and she gestured towards the lowering fells on their left with her riding crop.

‘What sort of men are they?’

‘General Jalenhorm is …’ Tact, tact. ‘A brave and honest man, an old friend of the king.’ And promoted far beyond his limited ability as a result. ‘Mitterick is a competent and experienced soldier.’ As well as a disobedient blowhard with his eyes firmly on her father’s position.

‘And each commanding as many men as our own Lord Governor Meed?’

‘Seven regiments apiece, two of cavalry and five of foot.’ Finree could have reeled off their numbers, titles and senior officers, but Aliz looked as though she was reaching the limits of comprehension as it was. The limits of her comprehension never seemed to be far off, but Finree was determined to make a friend of her even so. Her husband, Colonel Brint, was said to be close to the king himself, which made him a very useful man to
know. That was why she always made a point of laughing at his tiresome jokes.

‘So many people,’ said Aliz. ‘Your father certainly carries a great responsibility.’

‘He does.’ The last time Finree had seen her father she had been shocked by how worn down he seemed. She had always thought of him as cast in iron, and the realisation that he might be soft in the middle was most disconcerting. Perhaps that was the moment you grew up, when you learned your parents were just as fallible as everyone else.

‘How many soldiers on the other side?’

‘The line between soldier and citizen is not sharply drawn in the North. They have a few thousand Carls, perhaps – professional fighters with their own mail and weapons, bred to a life of warfare, who form the spear-point of the charge and the front rank in the shield wall. But for each Carl there will be several Thralls – farmers or tradesmen pressed or paid to fight and labour, usually lightly armed with spear or bow but often hardened warriors even so. Then there are Named Men, veterans who have won a celebrated place through deeds on the battlefield and serve as officers, bodyguards or scouts in small groups called dozens. Like them.’ She pointed out a shabby set of the Dogman’s men, shadowing the column on the ridge-line to their right. ‘I’m not sure anyone knows how many Black Dow has, altogether. Probably not even Black Dow does.’