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The Patrol - Part 1




"Never been as wet as this!" grumbled Private Cheston, pulling his oilskin coat tighter against the driving rain. "Wetter than a mermaid's pussy."

"Do mermaids have pussies?" asked Private Grey, the man marching beside him. "I thought their bottom halves were fishes. All scales and flippers."

"Of course they have pussies! Where do you think little mermaids come from?"

"Real fishes don't have pussies, and they somehow find a way to make little fishes."

"What do you mean, real fishes?"

"Well, mermaids aren't real, are they? They're just made up."

"Says who?"

"Says everyone! Everyone knows they're not real!"

"Course they're real! I saw one once."

"You never did!"

"Yeah I did! So did you. Sitting on that rock in Seaton bay."

"That was a seal, you idiot! I told you at the time it were a seal."

"It were a mermaid! You just couldn't see 'cos of yer eyes."

"What's wrong with me eyes?"

"Look sharp, you apes," muttered Sergeant Gallit from the head of the column. "Eyes open, mouths shut."

Cheston fell silent, and his companion grinned across at him in amusement. Every man in the column, even Gallit himself, was feeling the same discomfort and misery, though, as they marched through the sopping wet, knee high grass. They held thick oilskins around their shoulders to keep out the freezing wind, and their heads were bowed against the stinging rain. On the horizon, the trees of the Overgreen Forest were barely visible through the early afternoon gloom, surrounding them like a vast enemy army about to charge in and cut them down.

Robert Drake, marching beside the Sergeant at the head of the column, cursed the foul weather that had beset them for three days now and immediately prayed for forgiveness for the minor sin. Priests of Samnos did not grumble and curse when they were unhappy or uncomfortable. They endured the discomfort and drew strength from it. He tried to do that now, tried to forget the wind that cut through his uniform like a knife and the freezing rain that ran down his neck in an icy trickle. He tried to imagine the adverse conditions hardening his soul, armouring him against the trials to come, giving him the valuable field experience his superiors in the priesthood felt he needed. It helped, but not much.

Cold water somehow managed to seep through his oilskins in several places, making the soft, woolen padding under his chain mail stick uncomfortably to his skin. He wanted to draw his oiled coat closer around himself, as some of the other soldiers in the column were doing, but that would have been bad for his image, and image was everything. His tutors had drilled into him again and again that, as a priest of Samnos, he was expected to set an example, to be an image of durability and imperviousness. No hardship affected a priest of Samnos. Nothing irritated them, nothing annoyed them. Their calm, implacable demeanor only left them in the rage of battle, when they delivered justice and absolution with the mechanical perfection of a robot. They were towers of strength that gave the common soldiers the courage they needed to stand against impossible odds. It was true that they were battling nothing but the weather at the moment, but he knew the men were watching him, watching this stranger who'd been added to their squad at the last moment, and the opinion they formed of him now would determine how effective his influence was if they found themselves in combat. As his mentor and chief tutor Captain Resalintas was fond of saying, he was fighting his next battle now.

As it happened, though, the only person paying him any attention at that moment was the man in charge of the twenty strong squad. Sergeant Gallit had been in the army too long and seen too much to be impressed by a false façade of bravado. Young Drake could have wrapped himself up like a trog for all he cared. This wasn't the first neophyte he'd taken out to pop his cherry in the real world. He'd form his opinion of the priest when he saw how he conducted himself when the swords started waving and the blood started flowing.

Most of the other men of the patrol had no thoughts for anything but their own misery and grumbled under their breaths, being careful to keep their voices too low for the Sergeant to hear. The rain was bad, but his temper was worse and he had no patience for anyone who damaged the morale of the rest of the squad. Morale sabotage was a serious crime in the Imperial Beltharan army, being treated as harshly as the deliberate damaging of physical equipment, and once the damage was done it was hard to repair. That was why the Sergeant was secretly glad for his small core of veterans, the handful who'd been under his command for several years and whose irreverent good humour, infuriating though it could be at times, could be relied on to cheer up the newer men. After all, no matter what kind of fix they might be in, no matter how bad things might seem, how bad could it be if Cheston and Grey were 'at it' again?

At the moment, though, even the spirits of this legendary pair were dampened by the rain, although they were the only ones, apart from Drake and the Sergeant, who were keeping a wary eye on the trees on the horizon, as if expecting enemies to come charging out at them at any moment. This was the Overgreen Forest, after all. The true wilderness that bordered Ilandia to the east and which was inhabited only by the toughest and hardiest homesteaders. People who fought a never ending battle for survival against wild animals and scavenging humanoid tribes. Humans had to be tough to survive here, making it an ideal recruiting ground, which was one of the reasons for the patrols. Teenage boys, seeing the tough looking soldiers marching through, would compare the imagined excitement of army life with the tedium and drudgery of life on a farm and flock to join up, and at least half a dozen of the men in Gallit's patrol had started their careers in that way.

Gallit, at the head of the patrol, cursed suddenly, staggered a couple of steps and bent down to examine the ground while the column halted behind him. Drake tensed up and rested a hand on the hilt of his short sword, noting that some of the men were doing the same; the older, more experienced men. Drake looked down at his feet, barely visible in the long grass. Traps and snares were a common trick used by local humanoid tribes, especially goblins, and the wicked creatures were small enough that there could be a whole army of them hidden in the grass around them. It wasn't common for them to summon the courage to attack an army patrol, but he didn't want those words engraved on his tombstone.

After a moment, though, the Sergeant rose and gave the hand signal for a small detour to the north, and everyone relaxed. The column didn't detour as widely as they were technically supposed to, though, everyone being curious to see what the Sergeant had seen, and as Drake passed the spot he saw earth humped around burrows in the ground. There were animal prints in the soft earth. Three toed and clawed. Squam badgers. Harmless to soldiers, a nuisance to farmers. He put them out of his mind and scanned the horizon, checking to see that nothing had taken advantage of their momentary distraction.

The minor incident was enough to put some life back into the men, though. "My aunt Emmy served us one o' them for harvest day supper once," said Private Grey. "Tasted like chicken."

"You think everything tastes like chicken," replied Cheston. Drake noted that, despite the Sergeant's earlier warning, they didn't seem to care if he heard them. Was that a deliberate snub, telling him that they had little respect for him? Or perhaps it was a challenge, a test to see how he would react. "That time you got a liverworm in the steak you were eating. You said that tasted of chicken too."

"It did taste of chicken!"

"How do you know? Have you ever eaten chicken? Every meal you've ever had was something weird like grilled maggots or putrid sheeps bladders..."

"It wasn't putrid. Just a little game"

"I reckon you only joined the army so's you could get some proper food."

"You call this proper food? Have you any idea what they make trail rations out of?"

"You mean there's something in the world you don't like to stuff in your mouth? And the thing you turn your nose up at is good old bully beef. I reckon that liverworm went to your brain."

"They only call it beef so's you don't catch on to what it really is."

"So what is it really?"

"Trust me, you don't want to know."

Drake decided to say something, just to remind them that their superiors could hear them. Even though his rank of Corporal was honorary, his by virtue of being a priest, and had never been earned in action. "Stay alert," he said harshly. "Out here, survival means not forgetting that we are under threat at all times."

"Hear that, Chest?" said Grey, just loud enough for the priest to overhear. "We have to stay alert."

"I was born alert," replied Cheston. "Twenty years marching, I can smell snouts a mile off. There was this time once, three days out of Fort Dirk..."

"You should remain silent while marching!" hissed Drake a little louder. "Gossip is bad for morale and discipline. Stop talking."

"If he ever stopped talking I'd get a spade and bury him," said Grey with a chuckle. "Even then I'd stuff a sock in his mouth first, just to make sure..."

"Be silent!" said Drake loudly, his patience worn thin by the ceaseless rain and his sodden clothing. He froze in mid step as Gallit looked across at him. "Shut your face, priest!" he snapped. "I don't care who you are or what you are, you break marching silence again and I'll put a fist in your prayer hole!"

Drake opened his mouth to protest, but stopped at the chuckles from Cheston and Grey. He'd been had, and a rueful grin spread across his face. Teach him to lord it over experienced veterans.

The entire column perked up at the joke played on the priest, and Drake didn't begrudge the slight erosion of his dignity, even though he knew that Resalintas would never have allowed himself to be used in that way. But then, what kind of man would have dared to try? The thought made Drake realise just how far he still had to go to achieve the kind of legendary status that all priests of Samnos were expected to achieve, and his good humour evaporated. He forced a hard frown on his face and when he looked around, as if to scan the patch of woodland they were passing, the grin on Grey's face disappeared in a most satisfactory way.

It continued to rain, though. His good mood was soon washed away, and he decided to give way to the impulse to pull his rain cloak closer around himself, something that wasn't easy with a spear in one hand and a shield in the other. At least we don't have to spend another night out in this, he thought. We should be reaching Eastglade today. They'll probably just give us some old barn to sleep in, but it still beats trying to put up tents in this weather. And a few blankets to dry ourselves on and wear while our clothes dry out. And some hot broth to drive the chill out of our bones. He realised that a priest of a war god was supposed to be tougher than that, was supposed to be indifferent to such mundane trivialities as personal comfort, but there was no harm in such thoughts so long as he kept them in the privacy of his own head. Right? He remembered that Samnos was aware of everything he was thinking, was judging him continuously every second of his life, and muttered a prayer of apology under his breath before mentally reciting some verses from the Samnia.

His head began to itch and he moved his spear to the crook of his arm, freeing his hand to remove his helmet of real steel and scratch his head, running his fingernails through his short cropped blonde hair and finding a nit that he dug away and dropped with a grimace of distaste. He tilted his head up to let the rain fall on his face, then inspected the helmet for a moment before putting it back on his head. The layer of grease that was supposed to protect the valuable metal had long since gone and there were a few specks of rust at the base of the spikes that crested the crown and around the golden griffin badge above the forehead. There would be some work with a pumice pen and his tin of grease before his evening devotions. His chain mail armour would need some attention as well. At least he didn't wear a breastplate, though, as the others did. If the rest of the squad was as punctilious as he was with their clothing and personal equipment, and he intended to see that they were, he would finish first.

The trees were growing close ahead of them, and the entire column tensed up as they prepared to enter the forest. Following the long, narrow clearing lengthwise had taken them a few miles out of their way but was worth it as the grasslands were safer than the closely packed woodlands with its dense, tangled undergrowth and blanketing canopy that could hide entire legions of ambushing enemies. Of course only a large force of humanoids would dare to attack a well armed patrol of professional soldiers, and such incidents were rare. The main threat came from trolls, which weren't at all common, and the occasional wandering tribe of shologs and goblins looking for glory.

It was dark in the forest. It would have been dark anyway, on even the brightest, sunniest day, as the dense overhead canopy allowed only a thin trickle of light to filter through, but today, with the sky heavily overcast, it was so dark that the great moss covered treetrunks, wider than a man was tall, were nothing but vague shapes almost lost among the grasping, tangling snarebells and noose vines that loomed menacingly out of the gloom ahead of them and disappeared from sight behind them before they'd gone a dozen yards. Drake could imagine the impenetrable darkness filled with hundreds of evil yellow eyes, peering at them, whispering to each other and preparing to leap out and attack. It didn't help to realise that evil creatures had almost certainly seen them pass several times already over the past few days, and that, had he been travelling alone, he would almost certainly have been attacked by now.

It wasn't just vision that was almost useless. Hearing was as well. The roaring hiss of the rain hitting the top of the canopy high above them and the splashing trickle as it worked its way down through the network of leaves and branches drowned out all other noises, making it necessary to shout if a man wanted to be heard by his neighbour. There could have been a brass band playing fifty yards away, or an army marching in full plate armour just out of sight, and they wouldn't have known a thing about it. For a moment Drake almost wished that they were still out in the clearing, but then he remembered the freezing wind and changed his mind. He almost wouldn't have minded being ambushed and killed if it meant an end to the eternal noise and discomfort. "My Lord, forgive me my weaknesses," he whispered. "I am but human." He clutched his golden griffin pendant and felt a little better.

It may have been just a couple of hours until they reached the tiny outpost of humanity known as Eastglade, but it seemed more like an eternity. They saw a faint light in the gloom ahead of them and realised with relief that they were nearing another clearing. The effect on the men was dramatic. Their mood lightened considerably, their grumblings changed to exclamations of gratitude and relief, and their progress quickened as the prospect of dry blankets and a roof over their heads loomed closer.

They emerged from the shelter of the forest into the full fury of the elements, but this time they didn't mind as they could see the fortress town ahead of them, little more than a grey silhouette in the gathering gloom as evening approached. Most of the ten mile wide area of open land was cornfields, the corn having been beaten down by the heavy rain and storm force winds, but a few hundred acres between three neighbouring farms had been left as grass, common grazing land for the town's cattle.

Each farm had pens for pigs, goats and hens, surrounded by coils of razor vine to protect them from the goblins and buglins who crept up to the town walls at night in search of an easy meal. They couldn't see any animals at present, though, and assumed they were in their shelters, out of the rain. The farm buildings, scattered throughout the fields in small clusters where neighbouring farming families huddled together for mutual protection, looked like small fortresses, and they were given the added protection at night of armed soldiers from the town, keen to guard the town's food supply.

They saw no guards, though, as they approached along one of the dirt tracks leading out from the town, now turned into a river of mud by the rain, and they puzzled over this as they splashed and squelched their way along it, moving carefully to avoid losing their footing. As they grew closer, they saw that large areas of farmland near the walls had been trampled and torn up by some kind of very large creature, and that the walls themselves, made of entire ceenar treetrunks squared and sunk deep into the hard ground, solid masses of wood four feet thick, were gashed and furrowed, as though they had been attacked with picks and axes.

One of the men, Drake thought his name was Lofton, gave a cry of surprise and nervous fear, pointing with his spear into the cornfield to their left and Drake, looking in the indicated direction, saw footprints in the soft earth, rather like those of a human except that they were each almost four feet long and had three clawed toes. "Trolls," he said, making his neighbours look round nervously. "Probably a small family. Male, female, one or two young. Fortunately, the townspeople seem to have been able to drive them away."

"Man, I wouldn't live out here for anything!" said the man marching beside him. "It's bad enough having to come out here every so often as part of a large, well armed patrol. What kind of people would want to live out here all the time, with their wives and children, with all this danger about? I mean, it's bad enough in the towns, with those walls around you! Imagine being a farmer out here! Imagine goblins and buglins prowling around in your garden, and your nearest neighbour half a mile away, only you and your grandfather's wooden sword to protect your family. What kind of people could live like that?"

"Tough people," said Lofton. "I was born in a town like this. We used to have trolls pay us a visit every couple of years. They can't get through the walls, but they trample the crops down and you have to go out to drive them away with fire and swords. Takes some doing, they're tough and stupid which makes a bad combination, but with grit and perseverance and a willingness to take a few casualties you can get rid of 'em. At least until they forget why they ran away the last time."

"Some are tougher than others, though," replied his partner, Private Jonas. "I was chatting with the folks in the last town we passed through. They didn't have much good to say about Eastglade.

"What did they say?" asked Cheston.

The soldiers looked around nervously upon realising they'd been overheard, and Jonas continued in a lower tone of voice. "About their discipline, their professionalism. Some of their best men died a couple of years ago, and since then they've apparently gone to the dogs. Seems there's no-one left to show them how to do things properly any more. The stories have probably been exaggerated in the telling. I find it hard to believe that good fighting men could forget all they've been taught in just a couple of years and just turn into a rabble, no matter what kind of disaster overtakes them."

"Wouldn't be the first time," said another man, Baldric. One of the oldest, being almost fifty. "Once a town loses its spirit, it can go downhill fast. Remember Stonedrop?" Jonas merely grunted, however, and grimaced as if at a bad smell.

They reached one of the town gates at last, at the top of a ramp of wooden logs, and Gallit pulled a brass horn from his belt to blow a loud note on it. Nothing happened and he blew again, and then a third time until a face appeared above the wall peering down at them. "Imperial Beltharan Army!" the Sergeant shouted. "Open up!" The face disappeared, and a moment later there was the sound of a crossbar being withdrawn and the gate swung open.

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