Vol.5, Ch.5, P.5
Me name’s Tomas. A soldier I am.
Well, t’start with, I ’adn’t th’foggiest ’bout wot I felt at first on that battlefield. Summat reight queer, I tells ye. Aye, with swords an’ spears dingin’ ev’ry which way, ye can say I ought’ve been afear’d. Reightly so; I were afear’d, thass certain. Quiv’rin’ in me boots, even. But thass jus’ fine with me. “A soldier too-brave b’longs in th’grave,” th’greybeards used t’say. Aye. That I can drink to.
But fear weren’t all I felt. Reight ’nough, there were burnin’ in me bosom summat else. Summat like a flame. The kind ye feels in a bloomin’ spot o’ bother, that sears ’way th’fear inside fer yer own good, if ye gets me meanin’. A sort o’ “defensive instinct”, I think’s th’term. Well, I’ll not baulk that. I were afear’d, like I says—an’ at th’same time: ready t’fight, blood an’ sweat.
Still, that weren’t the ’ole story. Th’queerness, ye see. It were still there. Aye, a-sat at th’bottom o’ me soul. A nameless thing. Diff’rent from fear. Diff’rent from champin’ at th’bit fer battle.
An’ thass wot ’ung in me mind all durin’ th’fray. Aye, there I were, sword in ’and, fightin’ fer me life. An’ there we were, roarin’ up th’slopes o’ Déu Tsellin, all ’gether ’gainst the en’my: th’Champions Salvator. Us aim were t’capture th’top o’ th’mountain: th’Dēlūbrum namely, temple an’ base o’ the Salvators. ’Course, t’get there, we ’ad th’Salvators ’emselves t’deal with. Thousands o’ swords an’ spells t’charge through. Thousands o’ men t’reckon with. But no other way were left us. It ’ad t’be done.
…“‘Ad t’be done.”
Aye. It were ’em words I kept pond’rin’, an’ thass when it dawn’d on me. A sense o’ duty. Thass wot it were. Th’queer feelin’ I’d been feelin’ all that time. An’ I tells ye, when the answer came, it stuck t’me like ’oney t’the fingers. Reight an’ true: a sense o’ duty—ain’t no other word fer it.
But then I thought: reight an’ true? Well, blimey… really, now? Duty t’wot, then? Wot…? Aye, maybe “duty” be too grand a term. After all, wot’s “duty” gots t’do with a wee soldier like meself? Jus’ ’earkenin’ orders. Jus’ livin’ day t’day, through mud, tent, an’ blood. Thass been all me life. Ain’t nowt “dut’ful” ’bout it.
But no matter ’ow I shook it, th’feelin’ ne’er went ’way. I ’ad t’be ’ere. I ’ad t’fight. It were me duty, beyond doubt.
Duty…
Blimey. Wot a strange thing, “duty”.
An’ by that, I means: well, all fine an’ good t’put a finger on this feelin’ finally, but… wot ’bout th’bloody duty itself? ’Cos I were t’do battle ’gainst me brethren Men, ye see, an’ thass no featherweight ’pon th’conscience, if ye gets me. Aye. Were it even reight o’ me t’do this “duty”…?
This mountain. A grand ol’ pax it were to all o’ Man. A portrait o’ faith. An ’earth ’way from ’ome, ye could say. Fer Crown, fer Church. Fer smallfolk. I can’t s’pose ’nymind can doubt that. Aye, even I’d thought th’same fer th’longest time. An’ now, there I were, drawin’ steel ’gainst the ’ole bloody thing.
Blasph’my, Tomas. Bloomin’ blasph’my. An’ barb’rism besides. Unforgiv’ble fool’ry.
Sure, reight ’nough, that. Still… still, I ’ad faith. Faith that I were doin’ th’reight thing. That I were livin’ like I ought: as a person I can be proud o’. As a decent, well-meanin’ man in these dark times.
Aye. Thass me faith. An’ thass why I fought so ’ard, maybe. Thass wot I felt I ’ad t’do. T’show me faith t’the world. In duty t’meself. In duty t’me faith. An’ that, I reckons, is summat a soldier can live fer.
“’Ey, Tomas! Look ’live! We’re sammin’ up fer th’push!”
“Aye! I’m reight with ye!”
Ah, an’ there ’e were, always b’side me: Dan, me fine ol’ friend since us days at Balasthea.
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Tall, but all skin’ an’ bones. Short, but all thick an’ thewy. Thass me an’ Dan. Chalk an’ cheese, in a way. Thass wot they’ve always said o’ us. “They” bein’ th’lads back at Balasthea. Bawcocks, th’lot o’ ’em. Bawcocks an’ cockbags both. But I’ll miss ’em, I will.
Aye. They’re most gone now, ye see. Lost to all th’fightin’ an’ defendin’. Thass th’sort o’ place th’fort were. A “killin’ field” ev’ryone call’d it. An’ nowt’s truer, I’ll ’ttest. Battle after battle, day after day. It really were ’ell on earth.
But me an’ Dan, we stuck it out some’ow. Well, we always did ’ave a bit o’ a knack fer swords an’ swashbucklin’. Maybe thass ’ow we lived long as we did. But I tells ye: in ’em days, regardless, there weren’t no tellin’ wot th’morrow would’ve brought.
Like with th’commandant. Keel’d o’er one day. Slip’d an’ splat, reight out o’ th’blue. Must’ve been from all th’battlin’ an’ brain-rackin’, th’poor gaffer. An’ takin’ ill, ’e were put out t’pasture an’ replaced with one giant o’ a lad. Aye, a tall an’ brawny sort, like me an’ Dan stuck ’gether into th’same body. But it weren’t th’lad’s size that ’ad us flabbergasted. Ye see, this new actin’ commandant: ’e were an exile. Guff’d straight out o’ the Order. But thass jus’ th’tip o’ th’toe. Aye, th’lad—’e fail’d the ’oly rites, I’d ’eard th’gossips goin’. Meanin’ no grace. No odyl. Not one pittance from th’Deiva.
An’ reight ’nough, all th’barracks were soon afire. “Bloomin’ ’ell—’e’s a ’eretic!” some said. “Church-traitor’s in charge. We’re reight lost now, friends,” said some others. An’ I’ll be frank: me an’ Dan, we both thought all th’same, we did. Reight ’ated th’lad, even. Blimey, wot’s with th’world, thinkin’ t’beget a sheep as black as that? Aye, “bloomin’ ’ell”, indeed, “bloomin’ ’ell”.
But let me tells ye: that “black sheep” ’ad got some brains to ’im. Brains an’ ballocks. Aye, ’e did. Work’d ’is arse off. Pour’d o’er th’maps an’ reports. Stuck with us when we done nowt but stick up to ’im. An’ reight ’nough, things started t’turn ’round. Lads stop’d dyin’. The en’my raids eased up. Like night an’ day it were, th’diff’rence. Still, we cockbags loath’d ’is guts jus’ th’same. All o’ us. Me ’longside.
An’ I reckon thass reight ’round th’time I began t’feel a queer thing crawlin’ in me. Summat cold. An’ burnin’. Like shame. Aye, thass it: shame. ’Cos thing is, it were th’new commandant’s ’ard work wot’s kept us ’live. An’ wot were we doin’ but spendin’ that life mockin’ th’lad in turn. Doesn’t add up, does it? Aye, thass wot I thought. Thass wot I felt. A li’l candle in th’corner o’ me mind, burnin’ ’way.
But that neither adds up, innit? I ’ad ev’ry new day t’thank ’im fer. An’ this “li’l candle” o’ shame were all I ’ad t’show fer it. If it were one o’ the other lads savin’ us skins ev’ryday, why, I’d be kissin’ ’is reekin’ boots ev’ry morrow, I would. But that weren’t th’way o’ it. No. Nowt was addin’ up.
Some more gossip came ’round one afternoon. Summat ’bout a squabble some days past. A tiff ’tween th’margrave an’ th’new commandant. If mem’ry serves, th’lad didn’t like much th’idea o’ “dealin’” with inn’cents. Even if they be Nafílses. Aye, ye can imagine th’laugh we ’ad from that. A laugh, an’ a grand shake o’ th’pate. None ’mongst us thought owt ’bout lampin’ dead some “inn’cent” Nafílses. Even if fer sport. Thass jus’ th’way o’ th’world, ye understand.
Or it ought be. Aye. Things still weren’t addin’ up. Not fer me. Not fer me ’eart. I thought then that maybe me pate were losin’ it, marbles an’ all. That maybe th’commandant ’as got th’reight o’ things, after all.
“So,” I said one day, “wot, er… wot reckons ye, Dan? ’Bout that new leader-lad?”
“Eh?” said Dan. ’E gave me a look. “Wot ’bout ’im? Aye, ’is brain, ye means? Well… it’s a bit bird-like, if I’m ’onest…”
It took both me ballocks to ask Dan that, it did. But from th’look o’ the ol’ chap, ’e weren’t ready t’return th’favour. No. ’E got all quiet-like, ’stead. An’ thoughtful, in a way. Like there were more to ’is answer, only it’d got stuck ’tween ’is teeth, as th’sayin’ goes. Then I thought: aye, maybe ol’ Dan’s now gormless an’ bother’d jus’ like me. Bother’d ’bout th’commandant. ’Bout th’Nafílses. ’Bout th’way o’ th’world, really.
An’ to add t’that, there’s th’commandant’s sword-arm. Aye by gum, now there’s a bawcock o’ a swashbuckler. Ain’t ev’ryday ye gets t’see swings an’ thrusts like that. Then ’gain, I reckon’d all that skill t’be o’ small use, if owt. Well, I did so at first, leastways, seein’ as ’ow th’lad ’isself were sat at th’desk from sun-up till sun-down. An’ not t’mention that ’e ain’t got a lick o’ odyl in ’im. Wot’s the use o’ swordcraft if ye ain’t ne’er goin’ t’fight with it, ye ’gree? Still, fer goodness knows why, I couldn’t get it out o’ me mind. Th’sword-knack o’ ’is, that ’e only shows a peep o’ durin’ us drills: it be th’sort o’ sight that gets burnt into yer eyes, if ye gets me. Th’stuff that keeps ye up at night.
The other fort-lads, they cared li’l. A binge at the ol’ tav, an’ all’s forgotten th’next day. Meself: no. I couldn’t forget. No matter all th’swig I swill’d. I tells ye, that swordcraft o’ th’commandant’s: it’ll take ’im places someday. Aye, it will. Thass wot I came t’reckon next. Maybe a bit o’ a bias there, meself bein’ a swordsman more than middlin’. Some things ye can only see after delvin’ so deep, ye understand.
Aye. ’E’ll go places. Me an’ Dan, us swords’ve taken us this far, after all. Where might th’commandant’s take ’im? I wonder’d. Well, we found out soon ’nough, we did.
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