Lighting Is The Only Way

Ready arms

SERGEI OCCUPIED WEEDYIA

NEAR HERENA

Ethan stumbled over yet another tree root. “Shit,” he muttered, almost dropping his spear. “Fucking goat tracks. We should build proper roads out here.”

Beside him, Ostolaza snorted. “Nah. Waste of time.”

“How d’you reckon?”

“Because there’s nothing out here worth building a road to?”

“That’s not true.” Ethan wiped away a bead of sweat as it ran down his nose. “And it’d make our lives easier at times like this, wouldn’t it?”

“Times like this happen once a year, mate. Not worth the effort.”

“Oh I dunno,” said Ethan, peering into the forest. Northern trees were something else. Harder than iron, knitted tighter than a shield wall, and with twisty little pathways and hidden alcoves that harboured all manner of threats. He shivered. And it was cold in the woods, too. Far colder than seemed natural. “Reckon some decent roads would improve things no end.”

Ostolaza shrugged again. “Nah. Lot o’ work for no real gain.”

“Well it wouldn’t hurt to thin all this shit out a bit, surely?”

“Can’t say I don’t agree with you there, mate. Forest like this is an ambusher’s wet dream.” He gestured around them. “Them Weedy could be hiding anywhere out there, just waiting.”

Ethan looked at Ostolaza. “Them Weedy? What’s that supposed to mean, exactly?”

“Nothing,” said Ostolaza with a grimace. “I meant the forest folk, that’s all,” he added hastily. “Not you and yours. You’re all right.”

“We’re all right? Wow, thanks.”

“Look, I didn’t mean anything by it...”

“And this isn’t an ambusher’s wet dream, by the way,” said Ethan, wanting to get back to their original topic. “Our scouts would find ‘em first.”

“Scouts?” Ostolaza gestured around them. “In this? Nah. Forest is too thick, mate. They’d get lost.”

Never mind the tree roots, this time Ethan nearly tripped over his own feet. “What? You saying we don’t have scouts out?”

“Yep.”

“You’re fuckin’ with me, right?”

“Nope.” Ostolaza shook his head.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

Ethan’s face fell. “We got a van and a rear out, but. I know for a fact we do.”

“Yeah, but so what? Fat lot o’ good they’ll be, brother. Might give us a moment’s warning if they come up against something nasty, maybe, but no more than that.”

“That can’t be right...”

“Think I’m fuckin’ with ya?” asked Ostolaza, rubbing his chin. “I’m really not, mate. And it’s actually our sides I’d be more worried about. I mean, with no scouts we got no way to screen ‘em, eh? We’d never see a flank attack coming. And if the enemy attacked from both sides, which of course they would… You know what I’m saying? We couldn’t even form up properly ‘cause we just don’t have the room. We’re walking two or three abreast on this track here, all strung out an’ whatnot, so...”

“Shit,” said Ethan, seeing the ambush unfold in his mind’s eye. He could almost feel the enemy bursting from their hiding places, practically hear the din of combat and the cries of dying men. “It would be a slaughter.” This line of conversation had been a mistake; now he wouldn’t even be able to look at shadows without imagining them hiding some mortal danger. He shivered and tried to shrug deeper into his coat. Was it just him, or had the forest somehow grown even colder?

“Yep.”

“That’s not good.”

“Nope.”

“Soldier Ethan!” shouted Sergeant Maximo from somewhere down their column.

Ethan straightened, readying himself for what was coming. “Yes, sergeant?”

“Shut the fuck up!”

“Yes, sergeant!” Hmm, that wasn’t so bad. He’d been expecting a bit more than a mild dressing-down.

Maximo raised his voice so the entire company could hear. “This area is completely pacified. There will be no ambush today or any other day. And even if there was, we would fight and we would bloody well win. We are soldiers of the Sergei League! We fight, we win! Every. Fucking. Time. Say it, all of you! We fight, we win!”

“We fight, we win!” shouted the men.

“Bullshit!” bellowed Maximo. “Louder! We fight, we win!”

“We fight, we win!”

“Pathetic! Use your fucking balls! We fight, we win!”

“We fight, we win!”

“Again!”

“We fight, we win!”

“Better!” Maximo actually sounded pleased. A few moments went by. “Soldier Ethan!”

Ethan’s heart sank. “Yes, sergeant?”

“You have extra duties for two months.”

“Yes, sergeant!” And he swore as well, albeit internally.

“You stupid cock hole!”

“Yes, sergeant!”

“And you’ll wear a woman’s dress until further notice.”

“Yes, sergeant!” He swore internally again.

“Soldier Ostolaza?”

“Yes, sergeant?” shouted Ostolaza.

“The same goes for you.”

“Yes, sergeant!”

“Dickhead.”

“Yes, sergeant!”

“Balezentis!” roared Maximo. “Where are you?”

Balezentis raised his spear. “Here, sergeant!”

“Five lashes, corporal, and you’re demoted too, since you can’t seem to keep your men’s lips from flapping worse than a fucking sewing circle.”

“Yes, sergeant!”

“Flog bag.” Maximo looked around. “Abbadessa!” he barked, even though the man was no more than a few paces from him. “You’re the new unit leader. Congratulations, corporal. Don’t fuck up and you’ll keep your stripes.”

“Yes, Sergeant!” yelled Abbadessa. “I won’t!”

“Yeah,” said Maximo with a grunt. “We’ll see.”

Ethan glanced back over his shoulder. Lieutenant Clopius seemed preoccupied with scanning the forest, but he saw Captain Lamela reward Maximo’s efforts with a perfunctory nod. He looked away again before either of them noticed him–he was in enough trouble as it was.

The company marched in silence from then on, if the tramp tromp tramp of a hundred and six pairs of boots pummelling the earth could be called silence. Ethan was still wondering where he was going to find a dress when a flock of birds suddenly took to the air.

“Fuck!” muttered someone.

“Halt!” bellowed Lamela, drawing his sword. “Shield wall! Ready arms!”

Men dropped into fighting stances, shields overlapping and weapons poised to strike. The forest was still, however, and it stayed that way. Not a leaf rustled; there wasn’t even the slightest breeze. Ethan’s heart pounded against his ribcage so hard he was sure everyone could hear it.

“Shoulder arms, forward march!” cried Lamela, and the company set off again.

An hour or two later, the van came back to report having reached the end of the track. When the company finally swapped the gloomy forest for daylight, Ethan felt his spirits lift and gave silent thanks to Owic for the wide patch of wet, black earth that greeted them. Flies buzzed, and the stink of rotting vegetables made him want to pinch his nose. On the other side of the patch, Weedy villagers were loading turnips into a cart. It was a bit late in the season for harvesting, he’d have thought, but then again he’d never been much of a farmer. No doubt they knew their business better than he did.

“Rally!” bawled Lamela. “Shield wall!”

The company echoed his orders. A wall of shields sprang up, thirty men across, armour and spear points gleaming in the sun.

“Ready arms!”

The villagers ran for their weapons and gathered around their turnip cart. They outnumbered the company, but with nothing but rough spun clothes and shoddy spears, Ethan doubted they posed any real threat. He picked out a few vaguely familiar faces and prayed that no one would recognise him. Few folk from these parts joined Sergei units; he just wasn’t in the mood for being called a traitor or otherwise further insulted.

After conferring with Clopius, Lamela strode over to the villagers, his empty right palm raised to show he came in peace. Ethan noticed how he still kept a firm grip on his shield with his left, though. One should never be too trusting.

“Does anyone here speak Sergei?” asked the captain.

There was no reply.

“I asked,” said Lamela, louder, “if anyone here speaks Sergei? Anyone at all?”

Still no reply.

“No? No one? Fetch someone who does, then. Eh? Fetch someone for me to talk to before things get nasty!”

The villagers shrugged their shoulders and muttered amongst themselves. A young boy peeled away from the crowd, presumably given the task of bringing someone to translate for the captain. Ethan shook his head. He could have translated for him, the fool. Had the man forgotten or had he overlooked him on purpose?

“You really should learn to speak our language,” Lamela told the Weedy. “It would make things easier for us all, don’t you think?” But they just stood there, looking at him with barely concealed revulsion. He returned their glares for a while, then spat and rejoined his men.

They waited on a patch of grass near the villagers’ turnip cart. His comrades grumbled, but Ethan was content to bask in the light and warmth of early spring. Nine tenths of soldiering was waiting around for orders anyway, so you may as well make the most of it. He found a turnip on the ground. Someone had pared away the greens, and it tasted less like a vegetable and more like a stick. He threw it away.

Eventually a woman appeared. She was no ordinary villager, for she wore a white, flowing dress and a belt of golden discs cinched tightly about her waist. Young, slender and auburn-haired, and with an intricate mask of black leather that covered her nose and mouth, she strode across the clearing as straight-backed as a queen. The soldiers of Number Eighteen Garrison Company immediately perked up. They murmured their appreciation as she drew near, and someone even let out a raucous catcall that drew laughter.

Ethan blinked. In addition to her finery, the woman wore a mantle of smoky silver that emitted a low hum as it writhed and coiled about her shoulders. “Owic protect us,” he said, swallowing. A witch! He felt as if his bowels were about to open.

The witch ignored the farmers, making directly for the company. Lamela intercepted her, and Ethan was horrified when a thin tendril of not-smoke uncoiled lazily toward him. The captain obviously couldn’t see it, because otherwise he’d have run screaming in the opposite direction. He looked around him. Was everyone else blind to it as well?

“Do you speak Sergei?” Lamela asked her.

“I do,” said the witch, casting an eye over the company.

“Do you have a name?”

“Yes. What do you want, captain?”

“Straight to the point, eh?” The captain grinned. “Fair enough. As I’m sure you know, we’ve come for the tribute.”

“Tribute?”

“Ah,” said Lamela, craning his neck in an attempt to make eye contact with her. He failed. “Tribute?” He spoke slowly and deliberately, as if speaking to a stupid child. “You know? Tribute? The tax? Mon-ey?”

“I know what ‘tribute’ means, captain.” She sounded bored.

“Well, good!” said Lamela, slapping his shield with his free hand. “Good! That’ll make things a bit easier then, eh? So, whom do I talk to about it? Is there a chief or a headman around here, or what?”

“You can speak to me.”

Lamela grunted. “You? Really? You have authority here?”

“I do.”

Ethan saw the witch’s eyes flicker toward the tree line behind the company. Lamela must have too, since he paused to glance over his shoulder. He soon turned to face her again, so there can’t have been anything interesting going on back there. Just to be sure, though, he took a quick look himself. Nothing.

Lamela squinted. “I didn’t know you Weedy had woman chiefs.”

“I venture there’s much you don’t know about us, captain.”

She was a bold one, this witch. Ethan’s unease grew. He sensed that she was dangerous, but Lamela and his company weren’t exactly harmless either. If she were a match for a hundred spears he didn’t know, but if so, he hoped Lamela didn’t force a confrontation.

“All right,” said Lamela, shrugging. At least her words hadn’t provoked him to anger. “Well, we’re here for the annual tribute, so let’s get on with it, then.” He turned and waggled his fingers. Number Eighteen’s accountant, Camius, scurried over to hold open his ledger of dog-eared pages. The captain gave the thing a hasty glance. “It says here that last year… your, er, people... paid us a dozen milk cows.”

“Did they indeed?”

“Yes,” said Lamela, scrutinising the ledger. “It’s written here quite clearly–last year they paid a dozen milk cows.”

“And?”

“Well it’s a new tax year, isn’t it? Time to pay again. I wouldn’t be here otherwise, would I?”

The witch turned to address the villagers. Ethan struggled a little with her dialect, but understood enough to know she was asking about the previous tax year. He watched, entranced, as her magic twisted and crackled around her. “Can you not see that?” he asked Ostolaza.

“See what?” asked Ostolaza, looking at him sideways.

“Nothing.” So, he was the only one who could see it? Why? What did that mean, exactly? A thousand other questions sprang to mind, but with no way of finding answers, his options were limited. Better to just pretend he couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. One word about witches or magic would almost certainly cause panic amongst the men. To say nothing of how the witch might react.

“Your records are correct,” the witch told Lamela.

“Oh, and thank you so much for that.” The captain’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. “We’re expecting the same again this year, obviously.”

“You’re not the tax collectors they dealt with last year.”

“So?”

“So, they don’t see why they should have to give you anything.”

Lamela threw back his head and laughed. “It doesn’t matter! We’re Sergeis and you’re not. You’re our subjects, remember? It doesn’t matter if it’s my company out here or some other one. You pay what you owe. That’s how this whole tribute thing works.”

“These people don’t recognise your men, captain,” said the witch, shaking her head. “And they especially don’t like that purple shield of yours.”

The commander looked at his shield. “So? Did you not hear what I fucking said just now? I don’t care what they like or don’t like. Not my concern! They must pay.”

“Or?”

Lamela bristled. “Or?! Let me tell you something, lady–I am Captain Depietro Lamela, and no one refuses me anything. I’ll take my dozen cows and whatever else I want. Say no to me and I swear by the gods I’ll kill your men and take this fucking turnip cart for myself. Then I’ll find your village–it can’t be far–and burn it to the ground, and then I’ll take all the women and boys back to sell in the slave markets in Herena!”

No reply.

“Go on, tell that to your people!”

The witch did as she was told. The villagers reacted with anger. Lamela, no doubt very aware of how far he was from the safety of his company, seemed to be bracing for a fight. Ethan wondered if the people, emboldened by the presence of their witch, would give him one.

Luckily, nothing happened. Though clearly pissed off, no one seemed inclined to violence at least, and Lamela gave his company no orders. The witch seemed content to let her people vent. It was as if she were hearing them, but not actually listening.

“They don’t like it, eh?” said Lamela, not trying to disguise his delight.

“One moment, captain,” said the witch. She turned to address the crowd, which fell silent as soon as she opened her mouth. Lamela shamelessly ogled her arse while she spoke.

As before, Ethan didn’t catch every word, but he got the gist of her message: she was asking for their patience and continued trust. He wondered what that meant. From what he could make of her tone, it certainly sounded suspicious. He looked around, half expecting to see a warband creeping up behind them, but there was nothing except trees.

“So?” Lamela’s hand brushed the hilt of his sword. “What’s it to be?”

The witch turned back to him. “You can have your milk cows.”

Ethan’s unease grew. The witch was up to no good, he could feel it. Should he say something to Lamela? What, though? Not to trust her? He doubted the captain needed such advice. No, better to say nothing. And he was in enough trouble for talking out of turn already.

“Good,” said Lamela, nodding. “Sensible. I’ll take them. And something else.”

“Something else?”

“Absolutely!” he said with a boyish grin. “More words with you.” His tongue brushed the corner of his mouth as his eyes lingered on her narrow hips. “I fear I haven’t introduced myself properly, and you never told me your name.”

“Mm.”

“You do have a name, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Then what is it?” He reached for her hand but she evaded him. Ethan thought he saw one of the villagers wince at his failed effort. “Fair enough, but the least you could do is look at me. Or are you so shy?”

The witch shook her head. “No.”

“No? What do you mean?”

“Where I’m from, captain, it’s considered unseemly to stare too long at a member of the opposite sex unless you’re married to them.”

“Pfft. Can’t say as I see the harm in it myself.”

“No doubt.”

“But you do have a name?”

The witch nodded. “I already said I did.”

“Well then what is it? Or is it considered unseemly to tell me?”

“Not particularly.”

“So then, out with it.” The captain’s tone said he was growing tired of their verbal sparring.

“It’s considered unseemly of you to ask.”

Lamela made a braying sound. “Fuck me. You Weedy certainly have strange customs, don’t you?”

“Strange to you, perhaps.”

“Oh, they’re strange all right. And this little mask of yours, then?” asked Lamela, pointing. “Your muzzle? What’s that about, eh? I thought they were just for warriors.”

The witch shook her head. “Not always.”

“But only fighters wear them, yes? So, you’re a fighter, then?” He gestured at her in a way that suggested he found the idea of a warrior woman amusing. “Little slip of a thing like you? What weapon do you favour? No, don’t tell me... great axe? I bet it’s the great axe, isn’t it?” He chuckled at his own joke.

“I’m no fighter.”

“Then what are you?”

The witch finally lifted her chin and met the captain’s gaze. “Something else.”

Ethan’s mouth fell open as her magic flared.

* * *

“Unh,” said Lamela, blinking. He could feel the barbarian woman’s mind sliding around inside his skull. Instinct said to resist, to push her out, but the attempt hurt so badly it made him want to throw up. His vision swam.

His mother cooing softly in the darkness, urging him to sleep.

The older boys ambushing him, and how he’d pretended to hand over the knife. The look on the leader’s face as the blade disappeared into his guts.

The soft, salty lips of the first girl he ever kissed.

Becoming a soldier, and swinging a sword in anger.

His promotion to captain.

Laughing on his wedding day, even if the prospect of bedding his new bride made his knees shake harder than they ever had in the shield wall.

Overwhelming joy at the birth of his son.

Tears falling as he laid flowers on his wife’s grave. The plague had taken her a week before he got back from campaign. He’d wept like a baby, and didn’t care who saw.

Watching the whore take her last breath. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. It was almost as if someone else had been controlling his hands.

He looked up at the barbarian woman. Up? Not down, though she was shorter by a head? How was that even possible? But the thought died as quickly as it surfaced, gone back into his skull as if it had never existed. Her blue eyes reminded him of... something. He almost remembered what. He tried to reflect on that, but then abruptly lost his train of thought.

“Depietro!”

“Huh?” said Lamela, spinning around. Who amongst his men had the balls to call him by his first name? But there was no one there–the Eighteenth had apparently vanished! He turned back, expecting to see the woman and the barbarians, but they weren’t there either. He suppressed a rising wave of panic. Even the forest and the stinking turnip patch seemed to have disappeared, replaced by a grassy hill surrounded by meadowlands. What in the name of fuck was going on?

“Depietro!”

The voice was softer this time, as if coming from a long way away. From his vantage point on the hill, he could make out a city in the distance. A great city with a wide, paved road leading to it. A city not like any place he’d seen before. The buildings were foreign and definitely not Sergei. There was no one for miles around, either. Very strange, because no matter the country, a road like that should be thick with travellers at this time of day.

Come to think of it, the air was oddly stagnant. He felt no breeze on his cheek, nor could he hear birds chirruping or insects humming in the grass. “Am I dreaming?” he asked aloud. Yes. Yes, that must be it! He was dreaming. That made sense. And it made some of his worry leave him, too.

“Depietro!”

The voice again. It seemed to be coming from the other side of the hill. He clambered to the top and there, on the opposite slope about halfway down, he saw something jutting out of the ground. He hurried to the spot and started digging with his fingers. The work was slow, and the more dirt he scooped away the faster his heart beat. Finally he lifted an old helm out of the hill, half rusted, with a skull embedded between its hinged cheek pieces. He found a maker’s mark stamped into the iron, and it was one he knew well. He took off his own helm so he could compare the two side by side.

“Depietro!” screamed the skull. This time the voice was his!

“Waah!” he cried, flinching. He recoiled in horror, tripping over his boots and nearly rolling down the hill. “It’s just a dream. It’s just a dream!”

* * *

Ethan broke into a cold sweat. The witch obviously had Lamela under some sort of spell. He said as much to Ostolaza.

But Ostolaza didn’t reply. He just stood there, every bit glassy-eyed and unresponsive as the captain.

“Oh shit,” said Ethan, looking around. The witch had ensorcelled the entire company! He looked again for the warband that must surely be encircling them by now, and again he didn’t find it. And then it hit him–the witch hardly needed warriors. Even farmers with sticks could make short work of defenceless enemies. He thought about running for the forest and leaving his companions to their fate. But before he could do anything, Lamela and everyone else apparently snapped back to reality.

“Did you say something?” asked Ostolaza, tapping his arm.

“Uh,” said Ethan, not sure how to reply. He couldn’t remember. “Maybe? No? I dunno…”

“What the fu–?” said the captain, blinking.

“Your cows,” said the witch. She spoke calmly, nothing in her bearing suggesting anything unusual was afoot, nor had been. “They’re here.”

But like Ethan, Lamela seemed to know better. He looked about, bewildered. “What? Where did I–?”

“Breathe, captain.”

“But I was–? I saw–?”

“Forget it. Breathe.”

“Huh?”

“Relax,” she said. Her voice was gentle, entrancing. Perhaps infused with magic. “Forget, captain. Breathe.”

“Yes,” said Lamela, inhaling deeply. “Of course.”

“Just breathe, and then ask me about the tribute.”

“Ah, yes,” said Lamela, and he took another breath. “So, about the tribute, then? What–?”

“Over there.” The witch pointed.

The villagers parted to reveal nine of the saddest, skinniest looking cows Ethan had ever seen. Not twelve as requested. Just nine! And they were so old they looked more like oversized goats. He scanned the witch’s face. Her eyes twinkled–was she smiling Bethelath that mask?

“What’s the meaning of this?” asked Lamela, looking at the animals with distaste.

“Is there a problem, captain?”

“Yes. There is.” He showed her his teeth and put a hand on the hilt of his sword. “How old are these beasts? You don’t think you can palm these scrawny things off on me do you, whore? And there are only nine of them, not twelve as agreed! What do you have to say for yourself?”

The witch was unperturbed. “You wanted cows, Depietro, and this was the best these people could do. Take them and get gone.”

“How dare you?” Lamela was practically shaking with anger. “How dare you?”

“Oh no,” said Ethan as Lamela reached for his blade. But a mere gesture from the witch and everyone was seized again by her magic. Well, at least everyone except for him. “Shit!”

“How dare I?” purred the witch, pressing her palm against Lamela’s cheek. “If only you knew what I dared, Depietro.”

“Uhh,” said Lamela, his voice languid, eyes vacant.

The witch smiled, and Ethan’s heart nearly gave out when she looked past the captain and directly at him. He almost filled his pants when she winked out of existence only to reappear in front of him a moment later, her hand now cradling his jaw.

“My, my,” murmured the witch. “How very interesting.”

Ethan’s fear vanished, replaced by a firestorm of lust. The little soldier in his breeches stiffened, standing more firmly to attention than he had in recent memory. It was actually quite painful.

“Ethan of Herena.” She traced a finger down his chin, staring at him with fascination. “At first I thought you were a null. But you’re more than that, aren’t you? My word, look at you...”

He wasn’t sure what to say to that. Was it a bad thing that he had not succumbed to her power? It was hard to think when his blood was practically igniting under her touch.

“You were so well hidden I almost didn’t see you. But now we know each other. Is it not so?”

“Yes, lady.”

“Yes.” Her voice was like a summer breeze. “Go on, Ethan. Say my name.”

“Marylin ,” he whispered. He hadn’t heard the name before today, of that he was certain. And yet as soon as it left his lips it was as if he had always known her. Which was certainly something of a puzzle…

Marylin  took off her mask, leaving him awestruck by her beauty. “Yes,” she breathed as she moved in closer. “Such power. You’ll do nicely.”

Ethan smiled. He looked down at himself, surprised to see that he was already naked. He stepped into her embrace. Her lips parted as she stood on her toes and craned her neck to kiss him. He closed his eyes. All he knew was that if he died at this exact moment, he would die a happy man.

“Eh?” said Ethan, startled awake. He didn’t recall dozing off, yet he was lying on the ground with his cloak bundled under his head.

“Welcome back.” That from Ostolaza, a dopey grin stretching from one ear to the other.

He sat up. “What?”

Ostolaza pointed at his nose. “You’re bleeding.”

“Huh?” Ethan wiped at himself with the back of his hand. Sure enough, it came away red. “What happened?”

“You fuckin’ passed out on us there, mate.”

“Did I? I don’t remember…”

“Went down like a tree under the axe. Must have banged your nose or something.”

Ethan got to his feet. “Really? I don’t even…” He half-remembered having been recently afraid of something, then looked around for the captain.

Clopius hurried over to where Lamela was standing. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, “but are we still here for a reason?”

“Yeah. That girl that was here, lieutenant?” asked Lamela irritably. “The one with the mask and the white dress? Where did she go?”

Mention of a mask and white dress tugged at Ethan’s memory. There was something very important he appeared to have forgotten.

“What do you mean?” asked Clopius. “She... er, left a good while back with the farmers, sir. After we gave her a tax receipt for the cows…”

Lamela scowled. “She left? Fuck it! And all those farmers? Where did they get to?”

“Well, they left with her, sir. As I, uh, just told you.”

“I see.”

“Are you all right, sir?”

Lamela ignored the question. “Well, where are the cows, then?”

“The cows? Why, they’re here, sir,” said Clopius, pointing. Under his breath he added, “Right in front of you.”

Lamela looked at the cows. “That’s what they gave us?”

“Er, yes sir. Correct.”

“But they’re...”

“Sir?”

“Well, look at them! There are only nine of them. And they look like they’re at death’s door!”

“But, sir, you said they were fine?”

“Did I?” Lamela stared at Clopius as if the man had just sprouted a second head. “Did I? And why would I have done that?”

Clopius grasped the captain’s arm. “Uncle? Is everything all right?”

Lamela looked blankly at Clopius for a moment, and then suddenly his face lit up in recognition. “Occidio, it’s you!”

“Occidio?” Clopius took a half step backward. “No. Occidio’s dead, uncle. He died last year, remember? It’s me, Clopius.”

“Clopius?”

Clopius glanced at the company, and Ethan thought he did a poor job of concealing his embarrassment. “You seem confused, uncle, and it’s getting dark. We need to go back. Would, er... would you like me to take over for you?”

That seemed to bring Lamela to his senses. His eyes narrowed to slits. “What? Speak no more, lieutenant, lest you forget your place!”

Clopius stood to attention, staring beyond the captain’s shoulder. “Sir!”

A drop of blood leaked out of Lamela’s nose. He wiped it away. “The company will march back to camp! Now!”

An hour or two before dusk, the van reported finding a friendly company about a mile or so down the track. The men of the Eighteenth were soon to be deeply unimpressed by what they saw.

“Who are they?” hissed Ostolaza. “The fuck are they doing?”

Ethan looked around. “I know, right?” There were spearmen scattered all over the place. Most sat on their arses in the dust, chatting, while others poked around the forest. “They’re supposed to be formed up. Why aren’t they?”

“Yeah,” muttered Ostolaza. “Lounging around like they’re on a fucking picnic.”

Ethan shook his head. “Fuck me. And we’re the ones who get punished for a bit of idle talk?”

Ostolaza pointed. “Look at that dipshit over there. What’s he doing? Picking flowers?”

Lamela had almost certainly overheard them. He offered no comment, although Ethan could tell by the look on his face that he was every bit as appalled as they were. He shouldered his way through a cluster of soldiers to reveal their commander, a sweaty little Sergei everyone knew well–Giandelone, captain of Number Twenty-one Garrison Company.

“Giandelone?” asked Lamela.

“Lamela!” Giandelone looked up. A sergeant writhed at his feet, a pair of bloody hands clamped to his groin. The dirt and leaves around him were spattered red. “Thank fuck you’re here!”

“What are you doing?” asked Lamela. “What’s going on?”

The other captain grimaced and rolled his eyes. “What isn’t going on? Problems, man. I tell you, nothing but problems! I’m in a world of shit!” He pointed.

Ethan saw three little girls huddled together, sobbing. He could have put a name to each of them. A fourth lay nearby, her throat laid open, sightless eyes fixed on something far above the forest canopy. He knew her as well. “Oh no…”

Lamela made a face. “Locals?”

Giandelone smoothed his hair down with a hand. It came away glistening with sweat. “Yep, yep.”

“What happened?”

Giandelone sighed. For a moment, Ethan wasn’t sure he was even going to reply. Finally though, he sighed again and words began to tumble out of his mouth. “Well, we were out there today, you know, collecting tax. Same as you. Ended up at one of those miserable villages made out of sticks and mud or whatever the fuck.”

“Where was this?”

“North of here,” said Giandelone with a careless shrug. “The name escapes me. Place had a really big timber hall.”

“There are lots of places out here matching that description, man.” Lamela folded his arms. “You’ll have to be a bit more specific than that.”

“Huh? Oh, I dunno... it was on a hill with a lot of big grey boulders ‘round it. That help?”

Lamela rubbed his chin as he pondered. “Big grey boulders? It wasn’t the one that’s owned by those two brothers was it–Engund’s Tor?”

Ethan’s blood turned to ice at the mention of the name. He knew it was coming, of course, had known as soon as he’d recognised the girls. His home. His clan.

“Yes!” said Giandelone. “Yes! Engund’s Tor. I think that was it! Why? You know it?”

Lamela nodded. “Yeah, I know it. What happened?”

“Well! We marched up there, demanded payment of taxes and whatnot… you know, the usual. They didn’t like it, but what else is new, eh?” Giandelone laughed and flicked sweat off his brow. “Said they’d already paid. Yesterday or the day before, or something like that. Couldn’t get their story straight. Didn’t have a tax receipt, either.”

“And?”

“So they had to be lying, eh? Well, we went back and forth on the issue for a bit. Pushed ‘em around some to show we meant business. Eventually this big chief showed up. Said they couldn’t pay in coin but suggested maybe they could give us a few horses instead.”

“And?”

“Well, the ledger said last year they paid in silver. Not horses.”

Lamela scratched his head, impatient. “All right. And?”

“So I was expecting fucking silver, wasn’t I? The ledger said silver, not fucking horses.”

“So what did you do?”

Giandelone shrugged as if the answer were obvious. “I demanded silver, of course. They wouldn’t budge. Eventually the big chief lost his temper and everything went south.”

“Shitfight?”

“Hah! As if! Slaughter, more like.”

Ethan felt as if he’d been hit by an ox-cart. Slaughter? Of his people? He suppressed a cry.

“Casualties?” asked Lamela.

“Not on our side.” Giandelone puffed up his chest. “But plenty on theirs.”

Ethan wanted to scream, his grip tightening around his spear as he imagined shunting its point into the gap below the captain’s breastplate.

“Right,” said Lamela. “So, then what happened?”

“We killed the chief and his men. Tossed the dead and wounded into the big hall, along with a few families for good measure. Then we burned it.”

Ethan’s knees gave out, and he’d have met the ground if not for Ostolaza’s timely intervention. The man raised an eyebrow at him, but didn’t say anything. Ethan murmured his thanks and waved him away. Here in the midst of enemies, he’d keep a tight rein on his emotions. Showing his Weedy sympathies now would be a potentially fatal mistake, and he would not die at the hands of ghouls like Lamela and Giandelone.

“You burned down the hall?” Lamela’s mouth fell open. “With people inside?”

Giandelone gestured as if it wasn’t nearly as bad as it sounded. “Oh, I was a tad punitive I suppose, but there’s not much I can do about it now, eh? Anyway, we searched the place beforehand, of course. Had quite a bit of coin as it turned out, the fucking liars! Took all the horses we could find. A few pack animals, too.” He paused, gesturing at the girls. “And them.”

Lamela chewed his lip. “I see.”

“So, then we took off. Been on the march since then. We stopped here to take a little break. The men’s blood was still hot and it seemed to me like we all deserved a bit of light entertainment. Eh? So I made an executive decision, and...”

“He doesn’t look good,” said Lamela, nodding at the sergeant on the ground.

“No,” said Giandelone. “Dick’s practically hanging by a thread.”

Lamela pointed at the dead girl. “And would I be right in assuming she was responsible for that?”

“Yep, yep.”

“You fucked up,” said Lamela, shaking his head. “You do realise that, don’t you?”

Giandelone’s eyes went very wide. “Oh no, don’t say that! Don’t say that!”

“Well, what would you have me say? Good job?”

“Ah, shit. Shit!” moaned Giandelone, covering his face with his hands. “What should I do, then, eh? Fuck!”

Lamela rubbed his chin. “Well,” he said slowly, “for right now, how about you calm the fuck down?”

Giandelone glared. “That’s easy for you to say!”

“Look, there’s no point in getting worked up about it.”

“Again, easy for you to say! What if the Tor folk go to Herena to complain?”

“They probably will, but so what? We own the courts. All you have to do is spend a little money and whisper in the right ears.”

“I don’t have the sort of funds to buy a verdict, Lamela.”

“Well, even if the case went to trial, it’d be their word against yours. Still not bad.”

“Hmm.”

“Because you could argue… well, that subjects of the League refused to pay their lawfully levied taxes...”

“Yes,” said Giandelone, a hopeful look on his face as he peered over his fingers at Lamela. “Yes! I could say that!

“…and then attacked you. Attacked you, leaving you no choice but to defend yourself...”

“Yes! That’s true!”

“...and in doing so, one of your sergeants was wounded...”

“Yes, yes!” shouted Giandelone, his good humour fully restored. He took his hands away from his face and gestured at the sergeant in question. “He’s right here, wounded!”

Ethan raged silently, every fibre of him wanting to spill the man’s blood. What were his chances of taking down both commanders before anyone knew what was happening? Probably not good. He might be able to kill Giandelone, but not Lamela as well. And needless to say, he didn’t have the guts to make a move, and never would. So he just stood there, hating that fact.

“Ha! Yes. I love it!” said Giandelone. “My word against theirs, and there’s no real evidence against me!”

Lamela tossed his head in the direction of the Tor girls. “Except for them, maybe.”

Ethan almost missed the implication. His anger gave way to fear as he realised the girls would die. Even killing both commanders wouldn’t alter their fate, not unless he also managed to slaughter two whole companies along with them. But the gods aside, who possessed that kind of power? He felt useless. Worse than useless.

“Why?” asked Lamela. “Why in fuck’s name did you take them?”

Giandelone spat. “Spoils of war. My right, is it not?”

Lamela shook his head. “Taking goods is one thing, but people? No. You went too far.”

“Well, shit! I had no idea.”

“Think you’re still in Romelia or something, do you? No. We can’t just do whatever we want up here. These are Elrond’s people.”

“The League is the League...”

“No, man. It isn’t.”

Giandelone wrung his hands, a gesture Ethan thought entirely unworthy of a man. “Damn it! What should I do?”

“What I’d do, brother,” said Lamela, “is cut my losses.”

“Eh? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Lamela took out the knife on Giandelone’s belt, wrapped the man’s fingers around the handle and murmured something in his ear. A look of uncertainty passed over his features as he listened, but finally he nodded and knelt beside his injured sergeant. The man was shivering now, the front of his trousers glistening with new blood.

“Easy now,” said Giandelone, and then stuck the knife into the side of the sergeant’s neck. The man struggled as blood gushed out.

“Augh.” Ethan gasped in horror. He wasn’t the only one. But this was the Sergei way, and no one complained.

Giandelone sawed until the blade’s edge scraped against bone. “We’ll take him back with us,” he said so everyone could hear. “And when they ask what happened we’ll tell them some barbarian did it.” He stood up, grunting with satisfaction at a job well done. His knife hand was so thick with gore it was impossible to tell his individual fingers apart.

“Eighteen Garrison Company!” bellowed Lamela, turning away. “Rally! Prepare to move out!”

Ethan shuffled away with the rest of the men, catching a glimpse through shields and spears of Giandelone looming over the girls. He wanted nothing more than to help them, but how? He dressed the line, his spirit sinking, and as the order to march was given, he closed his eyes and begged Owic to forgive him. He put one foot in front of the other and hoped no one noticed his tears.

The girls’ screams echoed in his ears long after their lips fell silent.