The Heroes

‘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—’

Fuck his Majesty. ‘You are a good man.’ A floundering incompetent, but still. ‘War is no place for good men.’

‘I respectfully disagree, on both counts. War is a wonderful thing for redemption.’ Jalenhorm narrowed his eyes at the Heroes, seeming so close now, just across the water. ‘If you smile in the face of danger, acquit yourself well, stand your ground, then, live or die, you are made new. Battle can make a man … clean, can’t it?’ No. Wash yourself in blood and you come out bloody. ‘Only look at you. I may or may not be a good man, but you are without doubt a hero.’

‘Me?’

‘Who else? Two days ago, here at these very shallows, you charged the enemy alone and saved my division. An established fact, I witnessed part of the action myself. And yesterday you were at the Old Bridge?’ Gorst frowned at nothing. ‘You forced a crossing when Mitterick’s men were mired in the filth, a crossing that may very well win this battle for us today. You are an inspiration, Bremer. You prove that one man still can be worth something in the midst of … all this. You do not need to fight here today, and yet you stand ready to give your life for king and country.’ To toss it away for a king who does not care and a country which cannot. ‘Heroes are a great deal rarer than good men.’

‘Heroes are quickly fashioned from the basest materials. Quickly fashioned, and quickly replaced. If I qualify, they are worthless.’

‘I beg to differ.’

‘Differ, by all means, but please … remain behind the lines.’

Jalenhorm gave a sad little smile, and he reached out, and tapped at Gorst’s dented shoulder-plate with his fist. ‘Your concern for my safety really is touching, Bremer. But I’m afraid I cannot do it. I cannot do it any more than you can.’

‘No.’ Gorst frowned up towards the hill, a black mass against the stained sky. ‘A shame.’

Calder squinted through his father’s eyeglass. Beyond the circle of light cast by all the lamps, the fields faded into shifting blackness. Down towards the Old Bridge he could pick out spots of brightness, perhaps the odd glint of metal, but not much more. ‘Do you think they’re ready?’

‘I can see horses,’ said Pale-as-Snow. ‘A lot of horses.’

‘You can? I can’t see a bloody thing.’

‘They’re there.’

‘You think they’re watching?’

‘I reckon they are.’

‘Mitterick watching?’

‘I would be.’

Calder squinted up at the sky, starting to show grey between the fast-moving clouds. Only the most committed optimist could’ve called it dawn, and he wasn’t one. ‘Guess it’s time, then.’

He took one more swig from the flask, rubbed at his aching bladder, then passed it over to Pale-as-Snow and clambered up the stack of crates, blinking into the lamplight, conspicuous as a shooting star. He took a look over his shoulder at the ranks of men ranged behind him, dark shapes in front of the long wall. He didn’t really understand them, or like them, and they felt the same about him, but they had one powerful thing in common. They’d all basked in his father’s glory. They’d been great men because of who they served. Because they’d sat at the big table in Skarling’s Hall, in the places of honour. They’d all fallen a long way when Calder’s father died. It looked like none of them could stand to fall any further, which was a relief, since a Chief without soldiers is just a very lonely man in a big bloody field.

He was very much aware of all those eyes on him as he unlaced. The eyes of a couple of thousand of his boys behind, and a fair few of Tenways’ too, and the eyes of a few thousand Union cavalry ahead, he hoped, General Mitterick among them, ready to pop his skull with anger.

Nothing. Try to relax or try to push? Bloody typical, that would be, all this effort and he found he couldn’t go. To make matters worse the wind was keen and it was freezing the end of his prick. The man holding up the flag on his left, a grizzled old Carl with a great scar right across one cheek, was watching his efforts with a slightly puzzled expression.

‘Can you not look?’ snapped Calder.

‘Sorry, Chief.’ And he cleared his throat and almost daintily averted his eyes.