‘Krepsky.’
‘Krepsky. Then the other Frengen.’
‘The other Frengen,’ snorted Forest.
‘A notable fool even for a commander-in-chief. Then there was Varuz, then Burr, then West…’
‘He was a good man, West.’
‘Gone too early, like most good men. Then we had Kroy …’
‘Lord marshals are temporary in nature,’ explained Forest, gesturing at Tunny, ‘but corporals? Corporals are eternal.’
‘Sipani, you say?’ Tunny slid slowly back in his hammock, putting one boot up and rocking himself gently back and forth with the other. ‘Never been there myself.’ Now that he was thinking about it, he was starting to see the advantages. A good soldier always keeps an eye on the advantages. ‘Fine weather, I expect?’
‘Excellent weather,’ said Forest.
‘And I hear they have the best bloody whores in the world.’
‘The ladies of the city have been mentioned once or twice since the orders came down.’
‘Two things to look forward to.’
‘Which is two more than you get in the North.’ Forest was smiling bigger than ever. Bigger than seemed necessary. ‘And in the meantime, since your detail stands so sadly reduced, here’s another.’
‘Oh, no,’ groaned Tunny, all hopes of whores and sunshine quickly wilting.
‘Oh, 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, buckles gleaming, and ready for the noble soldiering life, indeed. They stared open-mouthed at Yolk, who could hardly have presented a greater contrast, his face pinched and rat-like, his jacket frayed and mud-smeared from grave-digging, one strap on his pack broken and repaired with string. Forest gestured towards Tunny like a showman towards his freak, and trotted out that same little speech he always gave.
‘Boys, this here is the famous Corporal Tunny, one of the longest serving non-commissioned officers in General Felnigg’s division.’ Tunny gave a long, hard sigh, right from his stomach. ‘A veteran of the Starikland Rebellion, the Gurkish War, the last Northern War, the Siege of Adua, the recent climactic Battle of Osrung and a quantity of peacetime soldiering that would have bored a keener mind to death.’ Tunny unscrewed the cap of Yolk’s flask, took a pull, then handed it over to its original owner, who shrugged and had a swig of his own. ‘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 …’
Tunny crossed one ruined boot over the other, sank slowly back into his hammock and closed his eyes, the sun glowing pink through his lids.
Old Hands
It was near sunset when he made it back. Midges swirling in clouds over the marshy little brook, yellowing leaves casting dappled shadows onto the path, boughs stirring in the breeze, low enough he had to duck.
The house looked smaller’n he remembered. It looked small, but it looked beautiful. Looked so beautiful it made him want to cry. The door creaked as he pushed it wide, almost as scared for some reason as he had been in Osrung. There was no one inside. Just the same old smoke-smelling dimness. His cot was packed away to make more space, slashes of pale sunlight across the boards where it had been.
No one here, and his mouth went sour. What if they were packed up and left? Or what if men had come when he was away, deserters turned bandit…
He heard the soft
His mother was just over the rise, leaning on the axe by the old chopping block, arching her back while Festen gathered up the split halves and tossed ’em onto the pile. Beck stood there for a moment, watching ’em. Watching his mother’s hair stirring in the breeze. Watching the boy struggling with the chunks of wood.
‘Ma,’ he croaked.
She looked around, blinked at him for a moment. ‘You’re back.’
‘I’m back.’
He walked over to her, and she stuck one corner of the axe in the block for safe keeping and met him half way. Even though she was so much smaller than him she still held his head against her shoulder. Held it with one hand and pressed it to her, wrapped her other arm tight around him, strong enough to make it hard to breathe.
‘My son,’ she whispered.
He broke away from her, sniffing back his tears, looking down. Saw his cloak, or her cloak, and how muddied, and bloodied, and torn it was. ‘I’m sorry. Reckon I got your cloak ruined.’
She touched his face. ‘It’s a bit of cloth.’
‘Guess it is at that.’ He squatted down, and ruffled Festen’s hair. ‘You all right?’ He could hardly keep his voice from cracking.
‘I’m fine!’ Slapping Beck’s hand away from his head. ‘Did you get yourself a name?’
Beck paused. ‘I did.’
‘What is it?’
Beck shook his head. ‘Don’t matter. How’s Wenden?’
‘Same,’ said Beck’s mother. ‘You weren’t gone more’n a few days.’
He hadn’t expected that. Felt like years since he was last here. ‘I guess I was gone long enough.’
‘What happened?’
‘Can we … not talk about it?’
‘Your father talked about nothing else.’
He looked up at her. ‘If there’s one thing I learned it’s that I’m not my father.’
‘Good. That’s good.’ She patted him gently on the side of the face, wet glimmering in her eyes. ‘I’m glad you’re here. Don’t have the words to tell you how glad I am. You hungry?’
He stood, straightening his legs feeling like quite the effort, and wiped away more tears on the back of his wrist. Realised he hadn’t eaten since he left the Heroes, yesterday morning. ‘I could eat.’
‘I’ll get the fire lit!’ And Festen trotted off towards the house.
‘You coming in?’ asked Beck’s mother.
Beck blinked out towards the valley. ‘Reckon I might stay out here a minute. Split a log or two.’
‘All right.’
‘Oh.’ And he slid his father’s sword from his belt, held it for a moment, then offered it out to her. ‘Can you put this away?’
‘Where?’
‘Anywhere I don’t have to look at it.’
She took it from him, and it felt like a weight he didn’t have to carry no more. ‘Seems like good things can come back from the wars,’ she said.
‘Coming back’s the only good thing I could see.’ He leaned down and set a log on the block, spat on one palm and took up the wood axe. The haft felt good in his hands. Familiar. It fitted ’em better than the sword ever had, that was sure. He swung it down and two neat halves went tumbling. He was no hero, and never would be.
He was made to chop logs, not to fight.
And that made him lucky. Luckier’n Reft, or Stodder, or Brait. Luckier’n Drofd or Whirrun of Bligh. Luckier’n Black Dow, even. He worked the axe clear of the block and stood back. They don’t sing many songs about log-
