Urging his horse into a fast canter, Galar Baras rode down the road. He saw Toras Redone. She walked alone across the parade compound, a jug swinging loosely from one hand. A scattering of Hust soldiers stood near, but none drew close to her, even as all eyes were fixed upon her.
As he rode in between the first line of tents, Galar saw that many were still occupied — where flaps had been left open and he could see, in quick glance, the bulks of figures beneath blankets, or sprawled on cots — but no one emerged at his approach, or lifted head to his passing. An illness has struck. Vapours from the latrine trench, a shifting of wind, or beneath the ground — a deadly flow into the wells. But then, where is the vile smell? Where are the thrashing shapes voicing dread moans?
When he rode hard into the parade compound, he saw Toras Redone once more. If she heard his approach, she made no sign of it. Her steps were slow, wooden. The ear of the jug seemed to be tangled in the fingers of her left hand. It swung as if full of wine, and he saw that it remained stoppered.
There was a soldier nearby. Galar Baras reined in sharply. ‘You there!’
The man turned, stared, and said nothing.
‘What has happened? What illness is this among you? Why aren’t the plague-flags flying?’
Abruptly the man laughed. ‘I was on picket, sir! On the lookout for enemies!’ He waved a hand. ‘Our relief never showed. I almost fell asleep — but I saw them, you know. They rode out, to the east. Gathered there, and then went on. The sun was not even up, sir. Not even up.’
‘Who? Who did you see riding away? Your relief? Why would they do that?’
‘Like ghosts, sir. In that gloom. Like ghosts.’ He laughed again, and now Galar Baras saw tears tracking down from the man’s eyes. ‘Corporal Ranyd came running in. He drew his sword. He should never have done that. Never, and never again.’
His mind is unhinged. Galar swung his mount round and rode for the commander.
br />
Urging his horse into a fast canter, Galar Baras rode down the road. He saw Toras Redone. She walked alone across the parade compound, a jug swinging loosely from one hand. A scattering of Hust soldiers stood near, but none drew close to her, even as all eyes were fixed upon her.
As he rode in between the first line of tents, Galar saw that many were still occupied — where flaps had been left open and he could see, in quick glance, the bulks of figures beneath blankets, or sprawled on cots — but no one emerged at his approach, or lifted head to his passing. An illness has struck. Vapours from the latrine trench, a shifting of wind, or beneath the ground — a deadly flow into the wells. But then, where is the vile smell? Where are the thrashing shapes voicing dread moans?
When he rode hard into the parade compound, he saw Toras Redone once more. If she heard his approach, she made no sign of it. Her steps were slow, wooden. The ear of the jug seemed to be tangled in the fingers of her left hand. It swung as if full of wine, and he saw that it remained stoppered.
There was a soldier nearby. Galar Baras reined in sharply. ‘You there!’
The man turned, stared, and said nothing.
‘What has happened? What illness is this among you? Why aren’t the plague-flags flying?’
Abruptly the man laughed. ‘I was on picket, sir! On the lookout for enemies!’ He waved a hand. ‘Our relief never showed. I almost fell asleep — but I saw them, you know. They rode out, to the east. Gathered there, and then went on. The sun was not even up, sir. Not even up.’
‘Who? Who did you see riding away? Your relief? Why would they do that?’
‘Like ghosts, sir. In that gloom. Like ghosts.’ He laughed again, and now Galar Baras saw tears tracking down from the man’s eyes. ‘Corporal Ranyd came running in. He drew his sword. He should never have done that. Never, and never again.’
His mind is unhinged. Galar swung his mount round and rode for the commander.
She had stopped now, and stood in the centre of the compound, a ring of her soldiers facing her but keeping their distance.
He rode through that ring and reined in before her. ‘Sir!’
When she looked up at him, it seemed that she struggled to recognize him.
‘It’s Galar,’ he said, dismounting. ‘Commander, I was bringing word from Lord Henarald-’
‘Too late,’ she said, and then lifted the jug. ‘He left it. A parting gift. I did not think he could be so… understanding. Galar, my husband isn’t here, but you are, black skin and all, and you’ll have to do.’ Abruptly she sat down, worked free the stopper and held the jug up. ‘Join me, dear lover. I’ve been sober since the dawn and so it’s been a long day.’
He drew nearer, and then paused and looked across to the soldiers. They watched, silent. One turned away suddenly and fell to her knees, bringing her hands up to cover her face.
‘Galar,’ said Toras Redone. ‘Join me in this drink, will you? Let’s celebrate peace.’
‘Peace, sir? I bring news of war.’
‘Ah, well, I fear it’s over. Can you not hear how peaceful we are? No clamour, no blathering voices from fools who can’t stop talking, even though they have nothing of worth to say. Have you not ever noticed that? The mouths that run too fast make dead seeds of every word, flung to barren ground in their wake, yet on they rush — and you see in their eyes a kind of desperation, I think, as they long for a gardener’s touch, but no talent finds them, and never will, and surely they know it.’
‘Commander, what has happened here?’
Her brows lifted. ‘Oh, a night of revelry. Ale and wine, but you know how the sleep that follows gives little rest. Why is it, I wonder, that the gods of the world made of every pleasurable habit a poison? These gods, I think, have no understanding of joy. They make feeling good a thing of evil. Don’t ask me to worship such miserable shits, Galar Baras. Their paradise is a desert. In such a place we must bless the sun, eschew the begging for water, and call friend the infernal heat. I see those sands, crowded with scorched remnants of souls, but at least they were pure, yes?’ The smile she offered then was terrible to behold. ‘Join me, sit down at my side, lover. Let us drink to peace.’
Uncomprehending, but feeling so bereft he was not even capable of shame or guilt each time she called him lover, he stepped close.
Toras Redone rocked back slightly, waving the jug. ‘Come all, my friends! One last drink for the Hust Legion! Then we will be done, and we can walk into that desert and greet those sour-faced gods! We’ll make of their puritanical misery a virtue, and set upon it the holiest of words! And what word might that be? Why, it is suffering.’