“Finish what you’re doing, then shut it down. There’s something more pressing. Croaker. You said this Cannon Shear is going to come at us from the north.”
“Yes, sir. He’s late.”
“Goblin. Which one of you manages wildlife?”
“We all do, sir.”
“Who does it best? I want a bird to find Croaker’s fabulous Rebel army. I want to know where it is and is it late because it was smashed by the storm, too.”
“You’ll want Silent.”
“Get him.”
“Right.” Goblin ducked inside.
The Captain said, “It occurs to me that your witness, though telling you what he thought was true, may have fed you disinformation.”
Goblin let out a howl. The Captain and I charged inside.
One-Eye had gotten a hand free. He had smacked Goblin. Now he was trying to work some kind of sorcery.
The Old Man punched him in the temple, stepped round so the little wizard could see who was taming him. He pressed a hand down on One-Eye’s face so he could not breathe.
One-Eye faded. The Captain said, “Stuff him in a pickle barrel with some brine still in it. Croaker, help Goblin take care of that, then get some sleep. Silent, come with me.” And he was gone.
I wondered, “What got into him? He don’t usually get involved.”
Goblin opined that a pickle barrel might be good therapy.
We outfitted One-Eye with said barrel, hammered its top into place, then went off in search of our cots.
* * *
It was midmorning before I wakened with what felt like a hangover. I had thirty-some clients waiting at the infirmary. Fourteen brought early purple. Word about One-Eye’s legs was out. Rumor said we had stuffed him into a pickle barrel to preserve him until we found a cure for his advanced form of the purple.
There were malingerers, men with bruises and scrapes, and two who had bad colds. There was trench foot because of all the wet.
Orders came to assemble, to inspect weapons and commence combat drills. Scuttlebutt said the Old Man would seek a straight-up, force-to-force engagement once he located Cannon Shear.
Not good. We had not seen one of those since the Battle at Charm. Fewer than half of today’s Company had seen that epic bloodletting.
Elmo was my last patient. He had a broken pinkie on his left hand. Something to do with a miscreant hammer. I asked what the Old Man was up to. “You got questions, Croaker, take them to him. All I know is, we got today to get our shit together, then we’re headed for a badass brawl with a million crazed Rebels.”
Master of understatement, the good sergeant. That should motivate the men to hone their blades extra sharp. They would need to cut down thirty or forty Rebels apiece.
There was a more subtle message for me. Need to know.
Sick call concluded, I went out to see what I could contribute. I should have stuck to the infirmary. I needed to get my show ready to hit the road. I had to have everything aboard the hospital wagons and secured before the order to make movement came.
Lots of things were happening at once, all in the open where any keen-eyed spy could see. Men drilled. Archers practiced, testing bows and strings. Wagons loaded. Farriers checked horseshoes. Teamsters checked harnesses, trees, brakes, and traces. Wheelwrights and wainwrights made sure the wagons were fit to roll. And a hundred men went on repairing the compound. They demolished wrecked buildings and used the salvage to strengthen the outer wall.
There were a lot of extra wagons. The Old Man had hired forty from town, with two teamsters to handle each, and he counted on some of them to be spies.
He materialized behind me. “You ready to go, Croaker?”
“Just about, sir.”
“Good. First thing, roll that pickle barrel into Admin. Park it beside your worktable.”
That would be the table where I was supposed to record these chronicles. I used it maybe a quarter of the time, preferring the privacy of the infirmary. “Shit! I forgot the Annals over there! The storm…”
“They’re fine. All sealed up, waterproof. Thank the clerks when you take the barrel in. You want to fuss, worry about what you got here.”
* * *
We had not gagged One-Eye before we kegged him. He had unkind things to say as I rolled him over to Admin, stood the barrel up to walk it through the doorway, then tipped it and rolled it on into my corner. The little ingrate kept forgetting that it was me who saved him from having to slosh around in another ten gallons of pickle juice. He might have drowned when I was rolling him.
One of the clerks asked, “How about you shove that under the table, out of the way, sir?”
“It won’t fit.”
“Leave it laying down. Here. I’ll help you.”
He did. I stepped back. I hoped the Old Man knew what he was doing. Predecessors had tried everything to tame One-Eye, with no success.
I did not feel bad for the little shit. He brought these things on himself.
“About my papers…”
“Taken care of.”
“But…” My worktable was the usual mess.
“Sir, you need to prepare your wagons. The mounted vedettes are leaving now.”
True. I did not have forever to get ready. “But…”
They practically gave me the bum’s rush, moving me out of there.
* * *
A soldier shoved inside the infirmary. He held the door. Two more followed with a litter. “Damn!” If I had to saw a leg off, or anything major, I would have to unpack again. “What’s this?”
Silent and Goblin followed the stretcher bearers. The human toad explained, “The Third. We need him awake so we can ask questions.”
The soldiers made themselves scarce. They wanted nothing to do with what happened next. Wizardry would be involved. The stretcher was on the floor. I needed the patient on my examining table. “All right, boys. Time for heavy lifting. What’s his problem?”
Goblin said, “Bad case of attempted suicide complicated by advanced stupidity and a wanton disregard for personal hygiene.”
I saw the slash marks on his wrists. They ran crosswise and were not deep. The blade had not been sharp. He had not been committed.
“Let’s get him restrained.”
While they handled that and I prepared smelling salts the Captain invited himself to the show. “Why didn’t you strip him?”
I frowned.
“You stripped One-Eye and Goblin.”
I had had help in one case and cooperation in the other. “You’re the boss. Untie him, guys.” I pulled clothing off, had the Third tied down again.
I checked his outside. Other than a bad case of purple and complementary fungi, plus prime herds of livestock, I found nothing unusual. He smelled as bad as One-Eye had but lacked a similar wound.
The Captain asked, “Why did he cut himself?”
I handed over the smelling salts. “Ask him yourself.” I cleaned and treated.
“Make sure he gets a bath.”
The Third responded to the salts. Sluggishly. The Old Man slapped his cheeks. “How many fingers, kid?”
“Free?”
“Close enough. Ask questions, gentlemen. Let me know what you get. I need to make sure the Lieutenant has the vanguard moving.”
I muttered, “They’re really doing it.”
Goblin told me, “There’s a rumor that Cannon Shear is a hoax. That this is all just an exercise.”
“Yeah? I heard one about the Lady being on her way to help.”
Goblin grinned at Silent. “Our little boy is maybe gonna get him some nooky.”
“You’re here to question the kid, runt.”
“He’s all touchy about it, too.”
They make me so mad sometimes. I missed half the questions. The thrust, though, had to do with what One-Eye was up to out in the country.
I was not surprised to hear that he kept ditching the Third and skating out on the livestock census. The man was bone lazy. He just d
id what he had to do to get by.
The Third thought he was up to something but had no idea what. He did say that One-Eye never stopped bitching about having to be away from the compound.
“And that wasn’t the usual stuff,” the Third said, still groggy. “He didn’t whine about missing out on women or beer or tonk. He just thought he should be at the compound and always looked puzzled if I asked why.”
“What about spin devils?” I asked. And harvested baffled looks all round. “You know, wind witches. Little baby whirlwinds.”
“They wasn’t any that I saw. Been too wet.”
Silent shook his head, signed something. Goblin told me, “You don’t get those in pasture country.”
Maybe Silent was right about them being harmless. I do get distracted by side issues.
“Do your worst.”
Those rascals worried the boy from nine different angles—and came up with nothing useful. In the end he gave us only what everybody always knows about One-Eye. He was up to something. Probably.
I got the Third cleaned, treated, and bandaged. He would get to skate out of the coming campaign. A racket outside told me the main body was moving out. I had only minutes left. “So why did you try to kill yourself?”
The Third’s face went blank, then pruned into a frown. “I didn’t.”
I lifted a wrist to show the ugly cut.
Goblin told him, “The pig farmer said you did that. He didn’t actually see you do it, though.”
A grim speculation impregnated the ensuing silence.
One-Eye?
The muleteers on my wagons yelled at me to get my lard ass moving or I was going to walk.
* * *
We made a scant nine miles. Evening sick call produced a dozen customers, most with blisters. The Captain strolled through the camp, looking smug as he took reports. Once he visited my station everyone feared new physical-training requirements would be coming.
The men were less worried about the coming fight than about possible harsh training later.
I blame the Old Man. He had them convinced that they were invincible. Of course, what was gospel to them did leak into the broader environment. The locals believed it, too.
All the blisters treated and my body fed I figured I would go see if Goblin had gotten anything else from the Third. I could not find him. The Old Man had him and Silent looking for Cannon Shear, using owls. Then I had to get back to work.
A pioneer squad needed help. Five were injured. Two came in on litters. “What happened?”
“We got into it with some wasps.” The squad leader had a thick Hanfelder brogue.
I knelt beside a litter. The man there groaned. His face and hands were covered with sting welts. He could not open his eyes. I worried that he might have been blinded.
The man on the other litter was just as bad.
“Did you beat the nest with sticks?”
The squad leader grumbled, “That idiot Marker dropped it.” He said no more. He had received a warning look. They had been up to something.
I asked, “Paper wasps or bald-face hornets? Do you know?” Both made nests that hung from branches. Both were common. Both had nasty stings and a hair-trigger temper. Bald-face hornets, sometimes mistaken for bumblebees, were the worst. They were vindictive. They would hunt you down.
Unlike bees, both nasty bugs could sting over and over and over.
“Paper wasps.”
“You were lucky. Bald-faces probably would have killed you.”
The Captain stood a few yards away, considering the casualties, glowering. He disapproved of people getting hurt in the field. Not only would a sword drop out of the line, another man might have to stand down to care for him.
I treated the fools. The poultice was a cousin of that used on the purple.
One decision left. Keep these men here or send them back to the compound. I looked up, meaning to ask the Captain. He was gone. And still no sign of Goblin or Silent. Elmo was hard at it being an infantry platoon sergeant. There was no recreation going on. Men not on duty or asleep were fixing gear or sharpening weapons.
I returned to my wagons. The genius waspnappers had disappeared.
I finished my chores, wrapped up in my blanket, fell asleep to the joyful singing of feasting mosquitoes. I needed to recruit some apprentices. I needed somebody to bark at when I was in a foul mood.
* * *
Morning comes early in the field. Everyone was afoot, fed, packed, hitched, harnessed, and ready to roll by the time there was light enough to travel. I dealt with bruises and scrapes during the day. Nobody complained about dizziness or itching. Nobody fumbled a wasps’ nest. We climbed a long hill covered by scruffy hardwoods. We descended the far slope, piled up at a rickety bridge while the engineers reinforced it. No point looking for a ford. The water was still high and in a hurry. The countryside, normally mostly brown this time of year, had turned exuberant green.
We climbed a longer, less steep hill populated by small, scraggly groves and singleton oaks. This was grazing country. Several flocks were visible, with other livestock. At first I supposed their herders were taking advantage of the new grass, then realized that they were all headed toward the thicker woods, taking their wealth into hiding. And they were headed our direction, away from their supposed liberators.
So. Cannon Shear was real, and was ten days late for his appointment with destiny.
I had not been convinced before.
We make things up all the time so our enemies will worry.
The long far slope dropped down to a stream wider and deeper than the one we had crossed before. The countryside boasted numerous limestone outcrops, brush-choked gullies and ravines, and small stands of scrub oak not connected with the denser woods off to left and right. Someone had tried to establish vineyards downslope but had given up. The view across the river was of a green plain featuring villages, satellite farming communes, and a lot more undulating pasture. In the extreme distance a dust cloud partially masked remote hills. It would take a big gang to cause that.
Our officers knew what was expected. Men began digging in before I was done gawking. Clearly, need to know did not include the medical staff.
Candy came by with a map. He showed me where he wanted me to set up, behind a screen of trees to our left, just behind the ridgeline, near the road we would use if we had to run for it.
That map was finely detailed. It was not new. More proof that the medical staff was out of the loop.
Once my hospital was good to go I went snooping.
The Captain had been ready for this. His chosen ground, with the trenches, pitfalls, tanglefoot, sharpened stakes, and whatnot added, could not have been more favorable. The Rebel would have to start by coming at us across two bridges, one stone, the other rickety wood a half mile upstream.
The Old Man did not expect Cannon Shear to come straight at us, whatever his numerical advantage, did he?
* * *
I think well of my brain. I am smarter than most. It is embarrassing to have to admit that I charged into the wrong story at the beginning. While I obsessed about common summer phenomena like spin devils, and the purple, so easily treated, and about One-Eye, that clumsy bear the Captain lumbered along his own path, outthinking everybody.
The Company prides itself on using deception, distraction, trickery, and occasional assassination, to avoid combat or make an enemy think wrong when we do have to fight. Mostly the wizards handle that, making people see things that are not there. They conjure specters that make the Company look bigger and badder.
Specters do not contribute much once the action begins.
Though given hints and told outright I never realized that similar tools might be used against me. Nudges delivered at the outset fixed my thinking. I saw what was not there and what was there in a wrong light.
I was still in that wrong space, trying to separate the imaginary from the real, as Cannon Shear’s force moved toward the two bridges. I saw few obvious
specters and fewer living, breathing men than ought to be there on our side.
I refused to believe that the Rebels, less numerous than predicted, intended to force those bridges under concentrated missile fires. Something was messed up on both sides.
The oddness irked me. I am the Annalist. I ought to know.
* * *
We splattered Cannon Shear, nearly damming that river with Rebel flesh, but he kept us fixed, twenty-one miles out, while a second column hooked in on Aloe from farther east.
The key events happened elsewhere. I witnessed nothing myself. There was a reason. Somebody smarter than me worked it out.
If you were the Limper, the most badass of the Taken, had a hard-on for the Company, and wanted to keep tabs from afar, what individual would you target? What fool always has his nose in everywhere because he thinks he has to know so he can record it in his precious Annals? You are correct, sir! Right in one. Croaker. Involuntary traitor gifted with induced paranoia and ensorcelled pens that let our little persecutor know every character he scribbled, wherever he happened to be.
The Old Man distracted, misled, and mislaid me all the way.
From now on I go into every encounter with him mumbling: “Don’t judge this guy by what he lets you see.”
For events at the compound I have to trust the questionable testimony of a few frightened operators who observed by the light of a sliver of moon, complemented by my own matchless imagination.
* * *
A black rectangle drifted in over the compound’s west wall, settled noiselessly into the deep shadow beside the Admin building. A short blob of darkness entered the wan moonlight and scuttled to the building door. It dragged one leg. It paused, listened, but only briefly. It knew it was not expected and it had sent a sleep spell to neutralize any stay-behinds.
Inside, a word and gesture created a ball of ivory glow. It floated a foot above the Limper’s head, shedding just enough light to let him avoid furniture moved since his previous visit.
He felt something. A pool of the power of sorcery, quiescent. One of the Company sorcerers, asleep, tempting him to murder. Why not? The Annalist would discover the loss of the critical evidence anyway, unless the Rebels killed him.
He did not count on those idiots to do their part, on any front. The current clatch were less than amateur.