you know. It’s like he’s looking at you all night long. I swear I haven’t slept a wink since we set out.’
‘He can’t see out of it, fool,’ said Yon, ‘any more’n I can see out your belt buckle.’
‘I know that, but still.’ Drofd looked around at them all, voice dropping. ‘Do you really reckon the Union are coming this way?’
‘No,’ said Wonderful. ‘I don’t.’ She gave Drofd one of her looks, and his shoulders slumped, and he walked away muttering to himself on the theme of what else he could’ve done. Then she came up beside Craw, and leaned close. ‘Do you really reckon the Union are coming this way?’
‘Doubt it. But I’ve got a bad feeling.’ He frowned across at Shivers’ black outline, leaning against one of the Heroes, the valley drenched in sunlight beyond, and he put one hand on his stomach. ‘And I’ve learned to listen to my gut.’
Wonderful snorted. ‘Hard to ignore something so bloody big, I guess.’
Old Hands
‘Tunny.’
‘Uh?’ He opened one eye and the sun stabbed him directly in the brains. ‘Uh!’ He snapped it shut again, wormed his tongue around his sore mouth. It tasted like slow death and old rot. ‘Uh.’ He tried his other eye, just a crack, trained it on the dark shape hovering above him. It loomed closer, sun making glittering daggers down its edges.
‘Tunny!’
‘I hear you, damn it!’ He tried to sit and the world tossed like a ship in a storm. ‘Gah!’ He became aware he was in a hammock. He tried to rip his feet clear, got them tangled in the netting, almost tipped himself over in his efforts to get free, somehow ended up somewhere near sitting, swallowing the overwhelming urge to vomit. ‘First Sergeant Forest. What a delight. What time is it?’
‘Past time you were working. Where did you get those boots?’
Tunny peered down, puzzled. He was wearing a pair of superbly polished black cavalry boots with gilded accoutrements. The reflection of the sun in the toes was so bright it was painful to look at. ‘Ah.’ He grinned through the agony, some of the details of last night starting to leak from the shadowy crannies of his mind. ‘Won ’em … from an officer … called …’ He squinted up into the branches of the tree his hammock was tied to. ‘No. It’s gone.’
Forest shook his head in amazement. ‘There’s still someone in the division stupid enough to play cards with you?’
‘Well, this is one of the many fine things about wartime, Sergeant. Lots of folks leaving the division.’ Their regiment had left two score in sick tents over the last couple of weeks alone. ‘That means lots of new card-players arriving, don’t it?’
‘Yes it does, Tunny, yes it does.’ Forest had that mocking little grin on his scarred face.
‘Oh no,’ said Tunny.
‘Oh yes.’
‘No, no, no!’
‘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, straps polished, buckles gleaming and ready for the noble soldiering life, indeed. Forest gestured towards Tunny like a showman towards his freak, and trotted out that same little address he always gave.
‘Boys, this here is the famous Corporal Tunny, one of the longest serving non-commissioned officers in General Jalenhorm’s division. A veteran of the Starikland Rebellion, the Gurkish War, the last Northern War, the Siege of Adua, this current unpleasantness and a quantity of peacetime soldiering that would have bored a keener mind to death. 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. He has four times been Sergeant Tunny, once even Colour Sergeant Tunny, but always, like a homing pigeon to its humble cage, returned to his current station. He now holds the exalted post of standard-bearer of his August Majesty’s indomitable First Regiment of cavalry. That gives him responsibility…’ Tunny groaned at the mere mention of the word ‘…for the regimental riders, tasked with carrying messages to and from our much admired commanding officer, Colonel Vallimir. Which is where you boys come in.’
‘Oh, bloody hell, Forest.’
‘Oh, bloody hell, Tunny. Why don’t you introduce yourselves to the corporal?’
‘Klige.’ Chubby-faced, with a big sty that had closed one eye and his strapping on the wrong way round.
‘Previous profession, Klige?’ asked Forest.
‘Was going to be a weaver, sir. But I hadn’t been ’prenticed more than a month before my master sold me out to the recruiter.’
Tunny gave a further grimace. The replacements they were getting lately were an insult to the bottom of the barrel.
‘Worth.’ The next was gaunt and bony with an ill-looking grey sheen to his skin. ‘I was in the militia and they disbanded the company, so we all got drafted.’
‘Lederlingen.’ A tall, rangy specimen with big hands and a worried look. ‘I was a cobbler.’ He offered no further detail on the mechanics of his entry into the King’s Own and Tunny’s head was hurting too much for him to pry. The man was here now, unfortunately for everyone involved.
‘Yolk.’ A short lad with a lot of freckles, dwarfed by his pack. He glanced guiltily about. ‘They called me a thief but I never done it. Judge said it was this or five year in prison.’
‘I rather think we may all come to regret that choice,’ grunted Tunny, though probably as a thief he was the only one with transferrable skills. ‘Why’s your name Yolk?’
‘Er … don’t know. Was my father’s name … I guess.’
‘Think you’re the best part of the egg, do you, Yolk?’
‘Well …’ He looked doubtfully at his neighbours. ‘Not really.’
Tunny squinted up at him. ‘I’ll be watching you, boy.’ Yolk’s bottom lip almost trembled at the injustice.
‘You lads stick close to Corporal Tunny here. He’ll keep you out of danger.’ Forest had a smile that was tough to define. ‘If there was ever a soldier for staying clear of danger, it’s Corporal Tunny. Just don’t play cards with him!’ he shouted over his shoulder as he made off through the shambles of ill-kempt canvas that was their camp.
Tunny took a deep breath, and stood. The recruits snapped to ill-coordinated attention. Or three of them did. Yolk followed up a moment later. Tunny waved them down. ‘For pity’s sake don’t salute. I might be sick on you.’
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘I’m not sir, I’m Corporal Tunny.’
‘Sorry, Corporal Tunny.’
‘Now look. I don’t want you here and you don’t want to be here…’
‘I want to be here,’ said Lederlingen.
‘You do?’
‘Volunteered.’ A trace of pride in his voice.
‘Vol … un … teered?’ Tunny wrestled with the word as if it belonged to a foreign language. ‘So they do exist. Just make damn sure you don’t volunteer me for anything while you’re here. Anyway …’ He drew the lads into a conspiratorial huddle with a crooked finger. ‘You boys have landed right on your feet. I’ve done all kind of jobs in his Majesty’s army and this right here,’ and he pointed an affectionate finger at the standard of the First, rolled up safe under his hammock in its canvas cover, ‘this is a sweet detail. Now I may be in charge, that’s true. But I want you lads to think of me as, let’s say … your kindly uncle. Anything you need. Anything
