Breaking Ranks

Grant: Messenger

The banner of the 7th Foot hung limply, a fitting metaphor for our own ineptness. I hadn't been sluggish in following the orders, and though I had cursed and harangued the men, they moved with a certain alacrity as if they were truly eager to join in the fighting.

Another sign that they were not soldiers.

"Move it!" I shouted, and I knew that my voice would echo for quite a distance. It was a good voice and I was proud of it. In truth I had never been much for fighting and I was beginning to find I wasn't much for leading, but bellowing? None better. None better.

"Come on, you bastards!"

Well they were coming on, alright, that had to be said. They must have sent me the dumbest scum in Sandstone for there wasn't a shirker among them. I ignored my protesting muscles as I hurried across the dirt and yellowed grass, and found that the boy was up at the front, shovel resting on his shoulder like it was a halberd.

This part of Superintendent Salazar's domain was leached country, the ground given up to lie fallow, visited only by passing herds of grazing beasts and riders coming from down aft in the Abattoir to sell meat and leather in the markets. In my grandfather's day it had been green and dotted with gardens, or so he would say, but now the only remnants of those times were Ancient rusted metal dotting the landscape and patches of scrawny wild vegetables. Even the chemical rains couldn't keep the crops from dying off.

It was a blighted land; perfect for the fighting yet to come.

"When are we going to fight?" I heard the boy complaining to the standard bearer. "I've just been walking back and forth and digging all day. This soldiering is the strangest work I've ever seen."

"Huh," I said, scattering them as I approached. "Be grateful you weren't fighting today," I said, and then realized I shouldn't have said that. It was better for everyone if they stayed eager and ignorant. If they ended up as canny and jaded as an old-timer like me then most likely nobody would end up dying in the first place, and that wouldn't do Superintendent Salazar any good.

"Get some food," I said, and moved on. I saw the laborers sag in relief as I went by. By the Twelve, I must have been like them once but I couldn't remember it. Or chose not to.

Around me the men had gathered in loose clumps; shifting communal gatherings of strangers making cautious chatter about the unknown. They shared their cold food, bartering one piece for another, a few of the men even laying down already. I felt a sense of uncertainty as I moved through.

Should I have ordered this? Is that my job now?

In the baron's personal guard there had been a quartermaster who handled this sort of thing. Now I was under Chief Samander's supposed command, the little shit of course nowhere to be found, though I supposed he magicked across messages to our Rune Reader. The only food and gear this levy had was what they had brought with them. They had been marshaled up a day before I was given command and the banner itself had just been sown together by a few of the men's wives.

Well, one way or another I doubted this fight would last long. Within the week they would be back at their old jobs, or dead, or in bondage to the enemy. And I would be back in the baron's guard, back where it made sense, telling the same old jokes with the same old comrades, and then telling them to my son and he would laugh because they were new to him and he was a cheery sort to begin with. I grinned to think of it. He was like his mother in that way. My wife and I had shared a lot of jokes over the years.

I frowned again.

But when our daughters died the jokes died along with them.

"Foreman Grant!"

The men parted before the Rune Reader as she walked over to me. I grimaced to see it. If they can't hold their ground in the face of magic then how would they fare in battle? But a bit of that old unease around magic took me as well once I saw the white-wrapped tome resting on her chest and I looked away.

"I'm no Foreman," I grumbled, the Ancient title unfamiliar when applied to someone as common as me. It was said in pre-Mutiny days the title of foreman had been given irrespective of birth, a meritocratic title for leaders of work parties, a pre-Liftoff family name unnecessary for the rank. But of course during the Mutinies foremen had stood to gain the most and fought against their superintendents and the descended angel soldiers of the Bridge.

Foreman was an ambitious title for ambitious men.

And, as the wife had always told me, I was utterly lacking in ambition.

"Don't call me Foreman," I repeated.

"Chief Samander is riding over. The connection is spotty and he wants to go over some things with me. And there's a messenger coming for you."

I looked over at a small cloud of dust. There was Samander in the front, flanked by his guards, but one rider had detached itself to gallop over to me. I was puzzled to see that it was Laurent, one of the Superintendent's Personal Guard. He was a common sort, we'd served about seven years together, but the horse he rode looked to be from the Salazar stables, all sleek mane and muscled legs. It slowed to a canter and soon clopped up right next to me.

Laurent studied me for a long moment. "Torstun said I should ride over," he started, then stopped to lick his lips. I grew cold.

"Gaspar?" I asked, though I think from his hesitation I already knew.

"Ah... Sergeant..."

"Tell me," I demanded, my voice firm and hard as iron.

Laurent licked his lips once more and seemed to sway in his saddle for a moment. "Gaspar fell in the engagement."

"Fell," I said. That could mean a few things. It didn't necessarily...

"He was slain," the rider said, now all in a rush. "He fought at the front lines and I myself saw him brought down. He was finished, Sergeant, I saw the blood and the sword myself. It was a dirty business, Sergeant. He was far from the only man to die this day."

I stood still as a statue, my thoughts distant. The rider asked me something, but I was at my house. Gaspar was on my knee and I was telling him about my day. He was admiring my Forge-built dagger, telling me he would be a soldier like me one day, and I was smiling down at him. At the door I heard someone speaking.

No, it was the rider. And Gaspar wasn't with me at all.

"What?" I croaked.

"Is that all, Sergeant?" Laurent asked. He looked pained. I didn't see why. The man didn't know pain.

I nodded, numbly. He must have left, but I was at home again, sitting on the porch outside as Gaspar chopped wood for the fire. He had earned his certificate, I remembered, authorizing him to supply the firewood to one of the local registered forges. But he was off to join his regiment now, and I smiled to see him go. Had smiled. I wasn't smiling now.

I sniffed, blinked a few times as if to clear my head, and focused my gaze ahead. I walked forward as if in a daze. I noticed the boy was resting, but his eyes widened as he saw me approach.

"Keep digging, boy," I growled, rougher even than I had intended. I stalked past him up to the ridge, and tried to see where the engagement had taken place. As if I might make out his form somehow from among the pile of bodies that littered the plain. But dusk was approaching, the light drained everywhere, and I could not see him.