Chapter 14
Elessia changed. The gentle green hills around Ancellon melted into a broad valley, a patchwork of fields freshly browned from the first tilling of spring. Every so often a village rose out of the earth, though never very high. It was strange to witness how quaintly country folk lived. Their houses were little more than rectangles of mud bricks with thatched hay piled thick on top. There were square holes cut into the roofs as crude chimneys. With the winter finally gone, the animals sheltering in the lofts had been evicted. There were still hoof tracks around the front doors.
Comfortless as their homes were, the peasants seemed to spend most of their effort on their livelihood. To irrigate their fields, they had constructed an elaborate network of ditches, water wheels and windmills, which pumped a constant stream of water from the Anora and its tributaries. Leaving their irrigation system to do its work, the peasants took to the fields. No one family could tend its acreage on its own, so whole villages banded together to work each family’s field, one after the other, in a remarkable display of solidarity. Teams of ploughs broke up the land while dozens of peasants trailed behind, driving the soil into neat furrows with rakes and hoes. Within a week, planting would begin.
Despite the urgency, the peasants never failed to drop whatever they were doing and cheer the army on. People lined the road in every field and village, clapping and waving and stomping their feet. Girls gave the soldiers kisses as they went by. Women passed out eggs and new socks. Laughing children chased along beside the column, shrieking with laughter. Then there were the older men who had done it all before. “See you on your way back,” they’d murmur among with similar well wishes. “Ancel guard you. God keep you.”
The encouragement was good. It livened the men’s step, because it reminded them of home—wherever that was. Sword Company, much like any company in the Watch, had been drawn from all corners of Elessia. There was Aidan and Damon, the burly twins who had joined to escape lives as farmhands in Isenne. Reggy was a quiet sort, but his nimble fingers—once destined to pluck peaches from Atrine’s orchards—worked wonders on the mandolin. Phil provided vocals with his Cockney drawl, only for Gwin to drown him out with his screeching highland pipes. Rich, a city rat from the back alleys of Ancellon, had a snide twist to his mouth and a talent for dicing. His and Vernon’s dice battles quickly became legendary—as well as a source of revenue all on their own as men placed bets on the winner. There was Atwood, the whiskered veteran; Rauf, the rumormonger; Hamo, the youngest.
Maybe they were crude, vulgar. But they were the best men Marcus had ever known. When Avery rolled his ankle in a pothole, Don and Fulk made a seat out of their belts and carried him along between them, complaining good-naturedly as they staggered under the added weight. Aldwin, a recent conscript, had left a wife and two sick children back in Ancellon—but not before the company had pooled their spare coin for a chirurgeon to treat them.
They were a brotherhood, and they welcomed their two newest soldiers into it. Vernon quickly gained renown for his indefatigable sense of humor and the ribald stories that came with it. Men from throughout the regiment often trickled to Sword’s camp section to hear his wild tales of often-inebriated misfortune and glory—usually with a girl or several involved.
Marcus, for his part, sat and listened to the retellings with a quiet smile. He frequently arrived late, but they always made space for him by the fire and had his rations waiting. They saw how he always volunteered for the duties no one else wanted, like latrine digger or courier or sentry, and never asked anything in return. He did everything right. He never gambled, never whined. He was the first awake every morning. He got his ruck fastened before everyone else. He knew how to start a fire, saddle a horse, read and write. Sword Company knew Marcus for his perfection, but they admired him rather than despised him for it—because he was the one you could count on to help find that whetstone you’d lost in the night, the one who’d hold your ruck up while you got the straps on right, the one who’d stay up late and help you compose a letter for your family—not that many commoners could read, but the local priest might, as Marcus pointed out.
Privately, he did his best because he had never had a brother before. Now he had two hundred. He wanted to be worthy of them.
They liked him, even if they couldn’t, for the life of them, figure out who he was. That he was high-born, they had no doubt. Vernon, too. Their refined accents had given them away the moment they had opened their mouths. They were young, unscarred, and—from the way they spoke—accustomed to authority. Normally, any of that would have been cause to despise them both. Only they didn’t foist their status on anyone. They pulled their weight. And, for a pair of highborn lads to get stuck in the front line, they must have done something to piss the nobility off.
All of that sat just fine with the common men of Sword Company.
Together, they continued on through the countryside, passing beneath slow-turning windmills and the shadows of decaying castles. Day after day, the miles stretched farther behind them. The land changed ever more. Occasionally, the flat expanse of the valley gave way to copses of trees huddled around gurgling creeks. Those copses soon turned to woods so ancient and overgrown that even loggers couldn’t be bothered to touch them. Running through those woods was a river called the Sien.
The Sien was wide, with a slow but strong current that the melting snow had quickened. When they arrived at the bridge they were meant to cross, they found it had been swept away. Once again, Bloodied Regiment was put to work. They cut down a whole forest and dragged the logs to the river, where Fulcrum Regiment built a pontoon bridge beside the ruined first. By the end of the second day, the bridge was finished. There was no sleep that night; the army spent it crossing the bridge. Darkness made the footing treacherous; a wagon was lost and its oxen drowned. Fortunately, that was the only incident. The army crossed the Sien and moved on.
As if on cue, the jokes and hearty complaints that usually accompanied the march were suddenly absent. Ahead of them rose the foothills of the Utmar mountains. It was a strange landscape—bulging hillsides split in half by rocky crags, ravines cutting through the valleys where the Sien’s tributaries had once flowed free. Scraggly trees clung to the slopes, leaning precariously over cliffs where flash floods had washed away the soil beneath them.
The imposing terrain, though, was not what silenced the men. It was the graves.
“Grease me up and fuck me in the—”
“Shut up, Vernon,” Marcus snapped.
There were thousands of them, tens of thousands, marked by swords and spears stuck into the earth. A forest of rusted weapons protruded from the shattered hills like ill-kempt stubble. Once they had stood upright as headstones, planted on the very spots their wielders had fallen dead as testament to their sacrifice. It was a hallowed tradition passed down from Ancel himself. But the years cared nothing for that. Those weapons that remained were leaning sticks of crumbling red-brown metal. The rest of the graves were long gone, the soil eroded where they had once been.
The company didn’t break step as they marched through the ruined hills, but their eyes were pointed anywhere but forward. They glanced around with palpable unease. Marcus heard muttered prayers to Ancel, saw white knuckles gripping their spears. The road, once smooth-cobbled and straight, had turned to a winding jumble of upturned rocks. Stepping over one, Marcus glanced at a hill they passed beneath. Floods had worn the nearest side into a cliff. He could see hollow pits dug out of it with piles of moldering bones inside. Skulls grinned out at the passing soldiers with broken teeth. Vertebrae and finger bones sat wedged between the ruined cobblestones.
The whispered prayers rose in volume. “We should stop,” someone muttered. “We have to cover them! Why aren’t we stopping?”
But they could not. Captain Rowley moved up and down the line at a shuffling jog, jaw squared beneath his beard. “Keep going, lads, keep going. There’s nothing to be done for them now. Don’t look and keep going.
”
Shaken, his company marched on past the graves of their fellow chevaliers, who had been expelled from their resting places by cruel chance and nature. Each step they took was a denial of their own faith. Bones crunched beneath their boots and Marcus imagined every man thinking, This ground is cursed. He thought it, too.
It was an old battlefield, and vast, though no one seemed to recall its name. That unnerved them more than anything else. As each man walked, their eyes betrayed the same thought: How long will people remember me when I die?
Memory, this battlefield taught them, lasts only half as long as it takes steel to rust. By the time their own headstones had crumbled, they would be forgotten.
Around the fires that evening, there was little talk and no laughter. Even Vernon kept his eyes lowered, stirring his porridge with no apparent desire to eat it. The battlefield was miles behind them, but the gloom it had inspired was still very much present.
Marcus knew that someone needed to coax them from these doldrums. These were the men who would be guarding his left and his right. They needed heart if they were to survive. But no one else was going to rise to the occasion. The task was left to him.
When he rolled to his feet, every eye found him. He walked to the center-most fire with purpose, gesturing for men to follow. Bemused, they did so. “May I?” he asked Jocelin when he’d arrived. The company standard bearer hesitated a moment before he handed over the battle flag, rolled carefully around its pole and covered in canvas. Marcus untied the cover and threw it aside. With infinite care, he twisted the pole in his hands, revealing the standard inch by scarlet inch.
He held the unfurled standard for his brothers to see. The bloodied sword and fist glowed by the firelight. “Bloodied Regiment, 1st Battalion, Sword Company,” he said. “Take pride in it. This,” he fluttered the banner, “is cloth our brothers have carried into battle for four hundred years. Some of it is newer than the rest.” He pointed to a lopsided square, a more vibrant red than that surrounding. “When this company returned from campaign, the mothers, wives and daughters of the fallen would gather around this very standard. Together, they patched every hole and tear until this standard was the same one their men had fought and died beneath.
“This has happened fifty-four times. Fifty-four victories and defeats our company has endured. Three hundred and thirty-one years since the day we were founded.” Marcus cast his gaze around the silent circle. He spoke his next words firmly. “This cloth is our heritage. It is the men who came before us. The instant we allow ourselves to forget them, this cloth becomes meaningless, and we might as well cast it into the fire for all the good it does anyone.”
He let that sink in for a moment, let the challenging stares bore into him. Then he started anew. “Bloody Bank. Our first battle, the year 567. This is where the Bloodied Regiment got its name. In the shadow of the heretic Arius’s abbey, we fought the traitors who swore allegiance to him. They numbered in the many thousands, and we were but one regiment. We found ourselves cut off, our backs pressed to a mighty river, while the rest of our army tried to battle its way back across the lone bridge to our aid. We were alone. The heretic army threw all they had at us. Again and again they fell on us, and as they did, their blasphemous chants named Ancel as mere flesh rather than a divine being.” Angry murmurs arose. “Despite our fury, we found ourselves sorely pressed. It is said that at the height of battle, our first rank fought in knee deep water. The rearmost ranks were all but submerged, and the current carried many off to their deaths. The river flowed red with Elessian blood. But at the urging of our chaplains, we began to sing. Our holy hymns drowned out their blasphemy, our banners rose from the raging river and flew valiant,” he raised the standard high, provoking fierce grins, “and inch by inch, we prevailed. Together, we broke the back of Arius’s horde. Our regiment lost more than half its strength that day. But Bloody Bank entered the 24th Regiment into the annals of history. Since, we have always been the Bloodied Regiment.
“Do you take pride in that, brothers?”
The company raised their voices in acclamation, and Marcus smiled.
He talked for a long time. He told his company the tale of the Crooked Crossroads, where their regiment had turned the flank of a mighty Glat war host and brought it to annihilation. Withered Orchard, where they had fought stooped beneath sagging plum tree branches, sacrificing their ground only so they could burn it all down around the enemy’s ears. At the Heights of Alettium in the Glats’ northern homeland, the Bloodied had repulsed wave after wave of barbarians, though with terrible losses that had seen the regiment disbanded for nearly three decades.
He spoke until his voice began to hoarsen. Then he told his brothers’ glowing faces, “These are not just our regiment’s stories, but ours. We uphold a legacy forged in blood and sweat. Take pride in every stitch on this battle standard. Carry the names of these fields in your hearts. The names of our brothers who fought there have faded. One day, yours will too. But your deeds will resound in the hearts of those who come after us. We will stitch our own battles onto this flag, and you may rest assured in this: we will be remembered.”
Cheering surrounded Marcus as he gently passed the standard back to Jocelin. The bearer gripped it with renewed purpose alight in his eyes. Marcus looked around and saw the same fire burning in everyone else’s. Someone nudged him. “To the Bloodied Swords.” Towering over him, Jorel offered a waterskin with rum swishing inside.
Surprised, Marcus took it. Whenever Jorel had looked at him before, he had steeled himself for a fight. Now the big man was smiling—as close to a smile as he could come, anyway. “The Bloodied Swords,” toasted Marcus, and drank deep.
“Tell some more tomorrow,” Jorel suggested. “Gets the blood up.” He lumbered off before Marcus could reply.
The skin was still in his hand, too. Smirking, shaking his head, he returned to his spot. Soldiers on the way there expressed the same thirst for more. He was suddenly glad that his mother had insisted on the royal historian tutoring him privately—because Sword Company hadn’t been his only audience.
Sergeant Carpenter was beckoning to him from the edge of the fire. With hands still thumping his back, Marcus got up and made his way there. As he did, Carpenter clapped his hands and yelled, “Look up, chevaliers! It’s dark! You know what that means! Move!” The soldiers groaned and dispersed, chattering among themselves.
Carpenter gave Marcus a lively grin. “I was supposed to do that half an hour ago, you know.”
Marcus shook his hand. “I’m glad you didn’t.”
“So are they.”
A group of officers stood in a group, half-shrouded in darkness. Golden epaulets and braids twinkled in the orange firelight. Regimental officers.
“Good show, lad,” came one jovial greeting from a man wearing a commander’s rank.
Marcus saluted them all and stood at rigid attention. Without moving his eyes, he counted three commanders among the dozen lower officers. He also noticed that Carpenter had retreated to a safe distance.
The same commander added, “Perhaps you will recount Fulcrum Regiment’s battle honors tomorrow for my staff.”
“Of course, sir.” In the privacy of his mind, he resented the thought of lecturing a group of officers who ought to know their unit’s history already.
The second commander seemed to share his opinion, though for different reasons. “Nonsense, de Coutier,” he sniffed. “This boy glossed over a number of important details.”
“Which ones would those be, Desceulx?” Commander de Coutier was large enough that he likely had trouble gaining the saddle, and his mustaches gave him the appearance of a walrus, but Marcus found himself liking him all of a sudden.
Commander Desceulx was another matter. He was an easy man to dislike. He was known at court for marrying a girl of thirteen, who had died in childbirth the following year. Her family’s bitter protests had fallen silent after a week. A courtesan divulged the secret later; he had repaid the dow
ry in full, plus five hundred strikes. Evidently the deal had left him poor enough that he couldn’t compensate the scheming whore for her silence. He had since used his family name to gain command of Vigilant Regiment, which every other regiment now despised for its unearned sense of blue-blooded disdain.
“The dates, for one matter,” the pale-eyed old officer huffed. “Broken Ridge was fought in 727, not 729.”
Marcus’s bile rose, and he was certain that Desceulx was wrong, but he said nonetheless, “It must have slipped my mind, sir.”
De Coutier snorted. “What does that matter? This lad was speaking of his regiment and even I was stirred. I say you’ve some fine soldiers under your command, Commander Durand.”
Desceulx retorted, “An errant tutor, I say, and the wrong voice with which to school any group of fighting men. I wonder why you dragged me from my tent just to waste my time, Durand.” His junior officers tittered behind him.
Lyle Durand ignored the slight as he spoke for the first time. “I summoned you from your tent for a command meeting, as you well know. And there is no need to be impolite.”
“Just as there is no need for these firelancers you so cherish,” sneered the thin commander. “Or for this meeting to continue. I bid you good evening.” With that, he twirled on one heel and strolled away with his retinue in tow. Some were unable to resist throwing scornful looks Marcus’s way. That confirmed it for him; Desceulx knew precisely who he was, and relished the reversal of fortune.
Evidently, de Coutier was none the wiser. He lifted his meaty shoulders and sighed, mustache flying. “Arrogant bastard, that one. I just hope he’s up to snuff when we take the field.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll retire as well, Commander Durand. Lad.” He winked at Marcus, then took his leave, wheezing with effort as he waddled toward his command tent with his staff.
That left Marcus alone with Durand, who, unlike the others, hadn’t bothered to bring anyone else along. The commander began to walk. Marcus followed beside and slightly behind him, in deference to his rank.
“You’re doing quite well, it seems,” Durand said, grey eyes flicking over his shoulder.
“Sword Company is a fine unit.”
“I put them at the front for a reason.”
“So it was your decision to assign me to them.”
The commander made that odd half-smile of his, the one that didn’t reach his eyes. “Indeed.”
“Whose decision was it to assign them to you?”
“The decision was mine. I had to call in a favor. Fortunately, the lord marshal is an old friend of mine. He gave me the command. When I put in for the first order of march, he granted it.”
Marcus frowned. “You requested this after I…?”
“Yes,” was the prompt reply. “I know how noble spite works. When I heard of your… punishment… I knew where you would be assigned. So I took the liberty. Otherwise, Desceulx’s Vigilant would have been your parent regiment. I hope you will forgive me.”
“A hundred times over,” said Marcus, gratefully. The Desceulx family had long-standing ties with the de Martines. Under that command, he would have been quickly and quietly disposed of, and with few questions asked.
By that time the pair had arrived at the regimental command tent. It was an enormous canvas construction with eight sides, pegged to the ground with thick ropes lined with scarlet pennants. A chevalier in full battle armor stood watch by the entrance. He saluted as they passed the threshold.
Durand’s office back at Fort Arlimont had lacked both pomp and comfort. The command tent was no different. Now, as then, a large map table took up most of the space, leaving little room for a folding desk wedged into one corner. For the moment, it was piled with ink-stained paperwork, but the bedroll under the chair hinted at its double function as a cot. Except for the gloried regimental banner planted near the entrance, there was no decoration whatsoever.
A lone adjutant sat a tiny desk off to one side, scribbling furiously with his back turned. Pausing, he looked around. “Sir,” he nodded without standing. Marcus’s hackles rose at the slight. Then he realized Durand had probably told him to dispense with the courtesy.
“Why are you still awake, Morten?”
“Movement report, sir. I had to leave it ‘til late. Accountability was an awful mess today.”
Durand nodded sympathetically. “Go get some rest. I’ll finish the report.”
“Yes, sir.” The young adjutant got up with a yawn. He bid the commander good night and stepped past Marcus, eying him curiously. He shut the tent flap behind him, leaving the pair in relative privacy.
“God knows that young man does even more for this regiment than I do. Sit.” Durand indicated a collapsible chair at the map table. He busied himself behind his desk as Marcus sat, straightening after a moment with a pair of thick glasses and a decanter. He set them down on the table. He poured. The rum’s sweet, toxic scent filled the confined tent. Still standing, he raised his glass. “To the king,” he toasted.
“The king,” Marcus echoed. The sugary rum went down his throat bitter. Before Durand could put his glass down, the prince said, “To Bloodied Regiment.”
Durand smiled, tipped his rim and drank. He eased down into a chair, grey eyes considering his guest. “You did a fine thing tonight.”
“I remain a lowly lineman, sir. I saw a job that needed doing and I did it. That’s all.”
“That is not all.” Marcus had never heard vehemence from him before. “You are a leader. Born, raised, and now proven. You took beaten men and gave them pride. I wish I had ten more like you.” He paused musingly. “Ten officers, that is.”
There was little reply Marcus could give. Accepting the praise, he lifted his glass and drank shallowly. He found he liked the rum better now that he knew what to expect. It tasted like vanilla with a bite at the end. “Good rum, sir. Thank you.” It was easier to thank him for that than an offhand compliment—especially one that deprecated his superior officers.
Durand waved a hand. “You needn’t call me sir. Not here.”
“I’m a third of your age, and a lineman under your command. Sir.” Marcus smiled as his misfortune stared him in the face once again.
“I was your mother’s dearest friend, and the closest I ever came to an informal address with her was ‘Lady Geneva’. So, think of this as helping me break a bad habit.” Durand paid him a kind smile in turn, though as always, it failed to reach his eyes. “Do not call me sir.”
“As you say.” Marcus drank again. This rum was either too good or the conversation too uncomfortable.
Durand left the silence for a moment. When he spoke, it was quietly. “You are likely wondering the purpose of this meeting. And why so late.”
Marcus nodded.
“The answer to both questions is: you. I wished to give you time to acclimate to this new… state of affairs, I suppose. And I would rather meet you when I have a cause, instead of summoning you at random and risk raising suspicion. Very few know you are here. The rest are already guessing.”
Guessing, as matters stood, was all most of the army could do. The crown prince’s visage was not well known. Most people ever saw it at a distance. For those who hadn’t, there were no coins struck with his profile that they could recognize him by. But honestly, he regarded anonymity as blessing these days.
“As to the purpose…” Durand settled back in his chair, massaging his grey-streaked beard. “Captain Rowley has informed me that you are not sleeping.”
Marcus blinked. Maybe the wizened captain was more observant than he had credited. “I do sleep,” he said.
“Not nearly enough. You’ve been taking sentry duty from your fellow linemen. Regularly, I’m told. Is that true?”
Being found out was such a helpless feeling. There was no point denying what Durand already knew. “Yes.”
“You’re having nightmares.”
It took some nerve and a full minute, but Marcus finally admitted the fact with a pair of short nods. br />
“About that day on the hill,” ventured the older man.
Marcus hadn’t been looking at him, but he glanced up sharply at that. “How would you know what happened?” He hadn’t meant the angry tone, but it came on its own.
Durand’s face was patient. “I know enough to piece the story together. Truth be told, every man in this army knows. The prince and heir, punished for defending a young woman’s honor.” He leaned back in. “There is no shame in that, Marcus.”
If only he knew…
Durand saw that he hadn’t gotten through. He said, “I saw their faces too—those first few men that I killed. I saw them every night. For a very long time. I thought myself a murderer. That I slew them in battle did not matter. Neither did it matter that had I not killed them, I would have died instead. They visited me all the same.”
Marcus couldn’t look at the man who was trying to help him. His gaze remained anchored to a candle flickering in its stand on the table corner, the yellow flame rising thin and resolute from the dying wick. He saw without noticing.
That day played out in his mind again, only differently. Now he saw Jaspar raping Jacquelyn right in front of him. They held his eyes open, made him watch. Then, laughing cruelly and carelessly, Jaspar let his mates take her, one after the other. Her screams faded to quiet sobs before even those fled, the fight gone out of her. In his mind, Marcus watched, and he knew that when they were finished with her, they would murder them both.
“I’m not sorry,” he whispered.
“You shouldn’t be.”
“But I dream about them anyway. I don’t know why. I’m not sorry.” He heard liquid poured and looked down. Durand was refilling his glass. He hadn’t noticed that it was empty.
His mother’s friend set the tankard down with a thud. “Drink. It helps.” He watched Marcus down another dose. “You would not be human,” he said, “if you did not feel this way. Taking a life is a dreadful act. You cannot kill without losing a part of yourself in the process. That is what you feel. If not sorrow, if not guilt, then pain. You feel the wounds where your idealism and innocence once were.” He paused, then sighed, “There is little comfort in seeing the world in its true light.”
Marcus sweated. The rum was starting to affect him. It emboldened him enough to look Durand in the eyes. “When does it go away?”
“The pain? Soon. All wounds heal with time. This one is no different.”
But wounds become scars, Marcus thought.
“This will end. I promise you.” Durand pointed to Marcus’s glass. “Finish that. The night grows late.”
He obeyed. The man hadn’t lied; the rum did help. The steady pounding in his temples was drowning out any desire to think. Sleep, for the first time in weeks, was an appealing notion.
Durand helped him out of his chair. “I will summon you again soon enough.” He steered a sluggish Marcus toward the front flap. “Until then, I am giving you an order.” Turning him around, Durand stared intently into his eyes. “Get some sleep. No more sentry duty. You will be on your bedroll from evening roll to morning call. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Marcus said drowsily. The man must have slipped something into his rum. Either that, or he hadn’t slept for more than a handful of hours in three weeks. “Good night.”
“Good night, chevalier.”
A quarter of an hour later, he crawled into his tent. With his eyelids drooping and head pounding, he collapsed onto his bedroll and didn’t even remember to pull a blanket over himself.
Beside him, Vernon stirred. “Mate? That you?”
Marcus’s snores were so loud that the taut canvas trembled.