The Heroes

lot of them, just starting to show against the dark sky.

‘No movement, right, Corporal?’

‘No, Yolk.’ Tunny lowered his eyeglass and gave his neck a scratch. ‘No movement.’

General Jalenhorm’s entire division, reinforced by two regiments from Mitterick’s, was drawn up in parade- ground order on the gentle slope of grass and shingle that led down to the shallows. They faced north. Towards the Heroes. Towards the enemy. So we got that much right, at least.

Gorst had never seen so many arrayed for battle in one place and at one time, dwindling into darkness and distance on either side. Above their massed ranks a thicket of spears and barbed pole-arms jutted, the pennants of companies fluttered, and in one spot nearby the gilded standard of the King’s Own Eighth Regiment snapped in the stiff breeze, proudly displaying several generations of battle honours. Lamps cast pools of light, picking out clutches of solemn faces, striking sparks from polished steel. Here and there mounted officers waited to hear orders and give them, swords shouldered. A ragged handful of the Dogman’s Northmen stood near the water’s edge, gawping up towards this military multitude.

For the occasion General Jalenhorm had donned a thing more work of art than piece of armour: a breastplate of mirror-bright steel engraved front and back with golden suns whose countless rays became swords, lances, arrows, entwined with wreaths of oak and laurel in the most exquisite craftsmanship.

‘Wish me luck,’ he murmured, then gave his horse his heels and nudged it up the shingle towards the front rank.

‘Good luck,’ whispered Gorst.

The men were quiet enough that one could hear the faint ringing as Jalenhorm drew his sword. ‘Men of the Union!’ he thundered, holding it high. ‘Two days ago many of you were among those who suffered a defeat at the hands of the Northmen! Who were driven from the hill you see ahead of us. The fault that day was entirely mine!’ Gorst could hear other voices echoing the general’s words. Officers repeating the speech to those too far away to hear the original. ‘I hope, and I trust, that you will help me gain redemption today. Certainly I feel a great pride to be given the honour of leading men such as you. Brave men of Midderland, of Starikland, of Angland. Brave men of the Union!’

Staunch discipline prevented anyone from shouting out but a kind of murmur still went up from the ranks. Even Gorst felt a patriotic lifting of his chin. A jingoistic misting of the eye. Even I, who should know so much better.

‘War is terrible!’ Jalenhorm’s horse pawed at the shingle and he brought it under control with a tug of the reins. ‘But war is wonderful! In war, a man can find out all he truly is. All he can be. War shows us the worst of men — their greed, their cowardice, their savagery! But it also shows us the best — our courage, our strength, our mercy! Show me your best today! And more than that, show it to the enemy!’

There was a brief pause as the distant voices relayed the last sentence, and as members of Jalenhorm’s staff let it be known that the address was at an end, then the men lifted their arms as one and gave a thunderous cheer. Gorst realised after a moment that he was making his own piping contribution, and stopped. The general sat with his sword raised in acknowledgement, then turned his back on the men and rode towards Gorst, his smile fading.

‘Good speech. Far as these things go.’ The Dogman was slouched in the battered saddle of a shaggy horse, blowing into his cupped palms.

‘Thank you,’ answered the general as he reined in. ‘I tried simply to tell the truth.’

‘The truth is like salt. Men want to taste a little, but too much makes everyone sick.’ The Dogman grinned at them both. Neither replied. ‘Quite some piece of armour, too.’

Jalenhorm looked down, somewhat uncomfortably, at his magnificent breastplate. ‘A gift from the king. It never seemed like quite the right occasion before …’ But if one shouldn’t make an effort when charging to one’s doom, then, really, when should one?

‘So what’s the plan?’ asked the Dogman.

Jalenhorm swept his arm towards his waiting division. ‘The Eighth and Thirteenth Foot and the Stariksa Regiment will lead off.’ He makes it sound like a wedding dance. I suspect the casualties will be higher. ‘The Twelfth and the Aduan Volunteers will form our second wave.’ Waves break on a beach, and melt away into the sand, and are forgotten. ‘The remnants of the Rostod Regiment and the Sixth will follow in reserve.’ Remnants, remnants. We all will be remnants, in due course.

The Dogman puffed his cheeks out as he looked at the massed ranks. ‘Well, you’ve no shortage of bodies, anyway.’ Oh no, and no shortage of mud to bury them in either.

‘First we cross the shallows.’ Jalenhorm pointed towards the twisting channels and sandbars with his sword. ‘I expect they will have skirmishers hidden about the far bank.’

‘No doubt,’ said the Dogman.

The sword drifted up towards the rows of fruit trees, just becoming visible on the sloping ground between the glimmering water and the base of the hill. ‘We expect some resistance as we pass through the orchards.’ More than some, I imagine.

‘We might be able to flush ’em out of the trees.’

‘But you have no more than a few score men over here.’

The Dogman winked. ‘There’s more to war than numbers. Few o’ my boys are already across the river, lying low. Once you’re over, just give us a chance. If we’re able to shift ’em, fine, if not, you’ve lost nothing.’

‘Very well,’ said Jalenhorm. ‘I am willing to take any course that might save lives.’ Ignoring the fact that the entire business is an exercise in slaughter. ‘Once the orchards are in our hands …’ His sword drifted implacably up the bare hillside, pointing out the smaller stones on the southern spur, then the larger ones on the summit, glowing faintly orange in the light of guttering fires. He shrugged, letting his sword drop. ‘We climb the hill.’

‘You climb that hill?’ asked the Dogman, eyebrows high.

‘Indeed.’

‘Fuck.’ Gorst could only silently concur. ‘They’ve been up there two days now. Black Dow’s all kinds of things but he’s no fool, he’ll be ready. Stakes planted, and ditches dug, and men at the drystone walls, and arrows showering down, and…’

‘Our purpose is not necessarily to drive them off,’ Jalenhorm interrupted, grimacing as though there were arrows showering on him already. ‘It is to fix them in place while General Mitterick on the left, and Colonel Brock on the right, force openings on the flanks.’

‘Aye,’ said the Dogman, somewhat uncertainly.

‘But we hope we may achieve much more than that.’

‘Aye, but, I mean …’ The Dogman took a deep breath as he frowned up towards the hill. ‘Fuck.’ I’m not sure I could have said it better. ‘You sure about this?’

‘My opinion does not enter into the case. The plan is Marshal Kroy’s, on the orders of the Closed Council and the wishes of the king. My responsibility is the timing.’

‘Well, if you’re going to go, I wouldn’t leave it too long.’ The Dogman nodded to them, then turned his shaggy horse away. ‘Reckon we’ll have rain later. And lots of it!’

Jalenhorm peered up at the sullen sky, bright enough now to see the clouds flowing quickly across it, and sighed. ‘The timing is in my hands. Across the river, through the orchards, and straight up the hill. Just go north, basically. That should be within my capabilities, I would have thought.’ They sat in silence for a moment. ‘I wanted very much to do the right thing, but I have proved myself to be … not the greatest tactical mind in his Majesty’s army.’ He sighed again. ‘At least I can still lead from the front.’

‘With the greatest respect, might I suggest you remain behind the lines?’

Jalenhorm’s head jerked around, astonished. At the words themselves or at hearing me speak more than three together? People talk to me as though they were talking to a wall, and they expect the same return. ‘Your concern for my safety is touching, Colonel Gorst, but…’

‘Bremer.’ I might as well die with one person in the world who knows me by my first name.

Jalenhorm’s eyes went even wider. Then he gave a faint smile. ‘Truly touching, Bremer, but I am afraid I could not consider it. His Majesty expects…’