‘Won’t be no fresh fighting till the spring now,’ Gallowglass had said.
Taybard hoped it was true.
Wrapping himself in his blankets he slept for a while, his rifle held close, like a sweetheart. He had hoped to dream of the mountains, and the cobbled roads of Old Hills. Instead he found himself once more running across the low ground after the Battle of Nollenby. Horsemen were chasing him, just as they had in reality, only this time Taybard was not fleet of foot. His legs felt heavy, his boots sinking into deep mud. He glanced back. Lancers were almost upon him, but they were not men. Their faces were skulls.
Then he realized they were no longer riding horses. The skulls were rammed upon target rails, just like those back in Baracum when he won the Golden Ball. The rails were greased, the targets pulled swiftly along the rails as the musketeers tried to hit them. Taybard had achieved a perfect score in the final, beating a rifleman from the Seventh Infantry. There were no other riflemen now. Taybard stood alone. The skulls on the target rails began to writhe, flesh forming over the bone. Taybard took aim at the first. It was the Covenant boy he had shot earlier. He was staring at Taybard. Then he began to weep and call out Taybard’s name.
He awoke with a start, his face drenched in sweat.
‘Taybard Jaekel!’
Taybard blinked. Someone was calling his name. Scrambling from his blankets he stumbled from the tent. The sun was going down, and cook fires had been lit. The burly duty sergeant, Lanfer Gosten, was standing alongside a young officer from the King’s Second Lancers. Taybard saluted clumsily.
The officer chuckled. ‘God’s teeth, man, I must say that up close you don’t look like a legend,’ he said. He was tall and slim, his blue and gold uniform immaculately tailored and – more wondrous still – clean. Taybard glanced down. Even the man’s boots were shining. The officer held out his hand. The gleam of gold caught Taybard’s eye. ‘Lord Person’s compliments to you, musketeer,’ said the officer, dropping the coin into Taybard’s hand.
‘What is this for, sir?’ asked Taybard.
‘For your rescue of the patrol. Lord Person was most impressed by your marksmanship. The second shot was a beauty.’
‘You saw it, sir?’
‘Yes. Lord Person had ridden out with a company of Lancers. We were on the far slope to you. So, well done.’
With that the officer strode away, picking his path carefully to avoid puddles.
‘Did well for yourself there, Jaekel,’ said Lanfer Gosten.
‘Why in hell’s name didn’t the Lancers rescue their own men?’ said Taybard, anger rising.
‘Probably didn’t want to get their uniforms dirty. Real question is, why did you?’
‘I don’t know what you mean, sergeant.’
‘Oh yes you do, son,’ said Lanfer, laying his hand on Taybard’s shoulder. ‘You were told to keep the patrol in sight and take out any snipers. You were also told to avoid risking yourself. From your own report the first Covenanter was shot from cover. All well and good. But then you walked out into the open. You know them bastards work in pairs. So what were you doing?’
Taybard shrugged. ‘I wanted to draw him out. To finish it. That’s all.’
Lanfer Gosten looked into Taybard’s blue eyes. To finish it, eh? We’re all tired of it, son. You’re not alone in that.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘You know what it means. You’ve seen it before. That time when a soldier stops caring about living or dying. You can see it in the eyes. Then, in some battle or skirmish, they walk into the open -and they’re gone.’
‘I’m not like that,’ said Taybard. ‘I want to live. I want to go home to the mountains.’
‘You hang on to that, Jaekel. I’m sick to death of burying Eldacre lads.’
The sergeant wandered away. Snow began swirling down from a brooding sky. Returning to his tent Taybard clipped a strap to his rifle and swung it over his shoulder. Then he walked out into the nearby trees to gather dry wood for the night fire. He could see other men engaged in the same enterprise. Some he knew, and these he nodded to, or exchanged greetings with. Others were strangers, newcomers from other companies. After several trips Taybard had gathered enough fuel to last the night. He piled it beside the tent, then relit the fire. Officers had iron braziers inside their double-leafed tents, and coal to keep their noble bones from freezing. Enlisted men like Taybard, Kammel and Banny had to make do with what they could find. Their tents were cheap canvas. Heavy rain would seep through them, dripping upon the sleeping men within.