Breaking Ranks

Grant: The Usual Stink

I stared dubiously at the cut on my thigh and tried to half bend over to give it a sniff. All I could smell was an unwashed old sergeant with a whiff of aged sandals. Surely I would have smelled it if it was rotting. But then I couldn't really sniff my own thigh, now could I?

My eyes lit on the boy and I called him over.

"Hey there, boy. Good work in that fight there."

"Thank you, sir."

"Be a good lad, would you, and give my cut a sniff."

He stood motionless for some time. "Do what now?"

"My cut." I gestured down on it, at a weeping gash that was swaddled in the clothing of a dead man that I had cut up into rough bandages. "So I can tell if there's rot."

He stood still as a statue for a very long time. Finally, with the slowness of the seasons, he bent down and brought his nose close. He gave a sniff and wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"Is it rot?" I asked, trying to hide my panic. I would face death like a soldier.

He shook his head. "It's not rot, exactly."

I frowned. "What do you mean exactly? Speak up, boy."

"It's not rot."

I nodded slowly. "Well, it might be too soon to tell. I'll have you take a sniff tomorrow."

The boy's expression darkened.

I limped past him, along the section of wall I commanded. The Seraphim had gone through the nearby gate and the enemy had been routed, but the levy still held its position. Judging from the baron's typical indecisiveness we would be here another several days at least. The men were more eager to return than ever, and most of them cast their jealous eyes into the city, where the baron and the nobility were having a great feast.

"Enemy's that way," I grunted at one man as I passed, and he shifted his guilty expression around to stare out at the empty expanse outside the walls. Well, they were empty except for corpses and the shattered siege engines. But still, our job was to man to walls, so manning the walls is what we did. It took a while for me to make my circuit, but I finally returned to the same position. It was where I had faced down the enemy during their assault.

It wasn't long before the boy came back once again, interrupting me from my thoughts.

"Sweet potato?" the boy asked casually, handing me one.

I took it but stared at it for a moment. "Where did you get that?"

He shrugged. "There's a cart full of them just sitting in the plaza. It's like they're giving them away for free. It's the strangest thing."

I set it down in revulsion. "That's against Regulations, boy! What would your mother think?"

His mouth was already sticky and he was in the middle of chewing into one. "Prolly that it's a good sweet potato. She's dead though. So maybe she wouldn't think nothing."

"Ah." I found my thoughts drifting to Gaspar once again. "And your father?"

He shrugged. I watched him for a while and gave a faint smile at the boy's brazen lack of piety.

"My son was like that," I found myself saying, and instantly regretted it.

"Oh, you have a son?" the boy asked carelessly, in between bites. "Where is he?"

I gave a sort of cough. My chest felt tight, and the boy looked at me in some confusion.

"He," I started, but I could not finish. I tried to breathe but my chest still felt tight, so very tight. I raised my head to my face as if to somehow clear away the fog that clouded my vision, and I was surprised to find that it came away wet.

If the boy had any thoughts on this he chose to keep them to himself, and the rest of the evening was spent in silence.

The dawn found us again on duty along the walls, the throbbing pain in my thigh now turned to fire, and I talked to the boy now to keep the pain away, and the thoughts that came with it. I talked of old battles and old comrades, and from time to time, about my son.

"That was a good sweet potato, boy. How many did you take?"

"Just sitting out there in the Formian Plaza."

"Formian Plaza? There's a lot of crime around there. I would stay away if I were you."

"I know that, but it seems a lot quieter now. Maybe the criminals all turned patriot and enlisted." The boy shrugged. "There's a sawbones there, now, and a few other merchants. I guess they figure they don't have to pay the protection fee any more."

"Criminals in the guard, well, I'm not sure that I like that. A guardsman should have the firmest moral character, the baron always said so."

The boy frowned. "What's that smell?"

"You did well, boy. You'll make a soldier yet if that's the path you choose. War can be the making of you. It was for me." We were talking over each other, neither really listening to the other, and it reminded me of talking with my son. I suppose that meant I shouldn't encourage him in this but what other kind of life did I know?

He gave me a look of pity. "You said you fought for twenty-two years, was it? And this is what you got out of it?" He eyed me up and down and did not seem particularly impressed.

"Was this a war? Digging holes and walking around all day? I killed a man because I knifed him in the back. But that's not heroic. I'd be a hero if I had a sword." He nodded to himself. "Heroes need swords. Stab them in the back and it's okay if you have a sword. Then it's just tactics."

I grunted. "You have the right of it. We'll get you a sword." I tried to rise to my feet but stumbled. I looked at my leg in some confusion. The boy peered over and sniffed.

We shared a long, sad look.

"That's quite a bit more than the usual stink," he said.