Even though the telephone was not visibly connected to anything, Leaf heard an old-fashioned, crackly dial tone, which was quickly replaced by a voice.
“This is the Operator. What number, please?”
“Dame Primus,” said Leaf urgently. “I don’t know the number.”
“Who is calling, please?” asked the Operator.
“Leaf,” said Leaf. “Arthur’s friend Leaf.”
“Hold, please.”
The voice went away and the crackling increased in volume. Leaf tapped her feet anxiously and gripped the main part of the phone even tighter.
“Dame Primus is not available,” said the Operator after at least a minute. “Can I take a message?”
T
he power-spear had hardly left Arthur’s hand when he was carried forward by the sheer press of bodies around him, as the Denizen ranks pushed ahead to replace the losses in the shield-wall of the front rank. It was incredibly loud, frightening, and confusing. At times Arthur wasn’t even sure which way was forward as the lines shifted and moved, and he had to move with the Denizens at either side or be trampled underfoot.
He’d automatically unsheathed his savage-sword, again without thinking, and he used it several times, moments of intense fear when he was either hacking at a Nithling that suddenly appeared in front of him or desperately blocking a lightning-tipped spear that came straight at him, apparently out of the blue.
Once he stood alone for several seconds, in a six-foot-wide circle of clear space in the middle of battle. Badly wounded recruits and Nithlings gasped and gurgled around his feet, small sounds that were drowned out again as Arthur was swept up once more by his companions. But he
would remember them always, for they were the sounds of terror, bewilderment, and finality.
There was always noise. Metal screeched on metal. Weapons thudded into armor and flesh and bone. The drums kept banging. Denizens and Nithlings shouted and screamed and howled. Lightning crackled and sparked and fizzed. Smoke and hideous burning smells drifted through the melee, wafting up from burning power-spears.
Arthur’s mind overloaded on fear and adrenaline. He became like a robot, his body moving according to training and orders, with no real intelligence directing it. He felt like his conscious self had retreated into a bunker, letting his eyes, ears, and nose record what was going on. He would look at it later and think about what his senses reported. He could not handle it now.
The battle lines surged backward and forward for a time that Arthur could not measure, for it was composed of seconds of total fright and sudden action, but those seconds also stretched on so long that he felt exhausted, as if he had been running and fighting for hours and hours.
Then, like a natural turning of the tide, the Nithlings were pushed back. The recruits began to surge after them but were restrained by yelled commands and directed to re-form ten yards ahead of the front rank’s previous position. They obeyed, trampling over dead enemies and their
own fallen comrades. Against this flow of forward movement, there was also a steady stream of badly wounded Denizens heading to the rear, many supporting one another, though no able recruit left the lines.
The sun had almost set when the Nithlings’ withdrawal became a full retreat. They fled back to the tile border, trying to get across it before the last thin segment of the sun dipped below the horizon and the desert tile moved somewhere else.
Arthur stood with Fred on one side and an unknown Denizen on the other, dumbly obeying the commands that were being shouted around them. It was still too much for him to take in. There were too many horrible details everywhere, from the awful feel of blue Denizen and oilblack Nithling blood underfoot to the croaking cries of the Nithlings that were too hurt to flee.
Refuge could be had in looking straight ahead and trying not to think about anything other than following the shouted commands. The first of these was to march, so they tramped forward, steadily pursuing the Nithling force back to the tile border.
Twice groups of Nithlings turned to fight, and then the order was given to charge, but it was not a wild, every-which way run. The recruits kept roughly in their ranks, double-timing, shouting the war cry as they charged.
These charges were exhilarating and exhausting and dangerous, and Arthur found that it took all his energy and attention to make sure he wasn’t knocked over and trampled by his own side. He wasn’t sure which rank he was in now, as there were many more behind him, the Denizen force shrinking its front line and turning more into a broad column, harangued into shape by shouting sergeants relaying and amplifying commands from Colonel Huwiti.
Finally it was too dark to continue, the green moonlight and pallid starshine insufficient to track down the small groups of Nithlings that were all that remained. Many of the attacking force were dead or wounded and captured, but a significant proportion had crossed the tile boundary just before sunset and had disappeared as that tile moved on, the desert instantaneously replaced by a square mile of lush, rolling grassland. Tall grass, helpful to the Nithlings who crossed a few minutes too late to be carried away with the tile change.
Several platoons of recruits with additional NCOs and some of the officers were posted as pickets, but the rest of the force marched back to Fort Transformation. There was some attempt to sing at first, but this faded away as they crossed the field of battle and its remains. There were dead Denizens and Nithlings sprawled amid still-sparking
weapons and blackened bits of ground, and there was blood everywhere, blue and black mixed together.
“I thought Nithlings dissolved when they died,” whispered Fred. Even at a whisper, his voice sounded strangely loud and dissonant, sharp above the sound of the marching and the occasional rattle of weapons or armor. “Went back into Nothing.”
“They do,” said the Denizen next to Arthur. Arthur looked at her properly for the first time and saw she was a corporal, the one in charge of one of the other recruit platoons. Urmink was her name.
“What about these ones, then, Corporal?” asked Fred.
“Near Creations,” said Urmink. “Originally made from Nothing, but close to being Denizens. They’re flesh and blood, of a kind. Very tough flesh and blood. Much closer to Denizens than mortals, and not at all like your normal Nithling.”
She spoke in a conversational tone, not the barking-order voice Arthur and Fred were used to. Her candor was unexpected, but they didn’t want to push it, choosing to remain silent. Both were surprised when the corporal spoke again, just as the column wheeled to avoid the worst remnants of battle, in the middle of the parade ground.
“There’s going to be a lot more fighting with that lot. This current campaign is not like any other. You all did
well, but this was an easy battle. We outnumbered them and they were already tired.”
We have to fight again?
Arthur thought
.
He felt a stab of fear rise up from his stomach, so strong that it almost made him throw up. He fought it down.
Of course, we’re soldiers, but that was so horrible…How can we do it again…how can I do it again…?
The recruits were not dismissed when the force was halted at the clear, rear part of the parade ground. Instead, each platoon was sent on particular duties. Most were to pick up the dead, salvage usable equipment, and clear up. Arthur and Fred stood at attention, waiting for their platoon to get its orders. After Corporal Urmink left, they also talked to each other quietly out of the sides of their mouths.
“We were lucky to be ordered out of the front line,” said Arthur.
“We were,” Fred agreed. “I wonder…I wonder if everyone else got through all right.”
They were silent for a while, thinking about that, as platoons turned and marched off around them. There were only sixty or seventy recruits left on the parade ground now, and none at all around Fred and Arthur, unless there were more behind where they couldn’t see.
Finally, they recognized the voice of Sergeant Helve,
ordering Two Platoon to form up in front of their barracks.
“What was that you shouted when the battle started?” asked Fred as they marched towards their barracks.
“My real name,” said Arthur. “It’s…well…I think I’m supposed to keep it secret for some reason. It came back to me, just as the enemy attacked. Only I can’t remember anything more. Just the name.”
“Is that
everyone
?” asked Fred as they approached the barracks. There was a very short line in front of the door. Half of the platoon was missing. It took Arthur several seconds to work out that this meant they were probably dead or at the least wounded badly enough to require treatment.
“That can’t be everyone,” whispered Fred as they got closer. “Denizens are too hard to kill…”
“Green and Gold, fall in!” ordered Helve, but he didn’t scream like he normally did.
Arthur and Fred quickly joined the end of the line. Rannifer wasn’t at the other end. Florimel was there instead, now the tallest.
“You fought well,” said Helve, again in an almost conversational tone. “As I expected you to. We’ve got the plum assignment now. Colonel Huwiti has ordered that as a reward, there will be a special mail call tonight. So you
won’t have to wait another three months. And since you’ve fought today as soldiers, there’s going to be a rum ration as well—though not for you Piper’s children, I’m sorry to say. Don’t know why not, but it’s expressly ordered so.
“We’ve been detailed to pick up the mail and take it to the mess hall. As there is still some danger of Nithling attack, we will stack shields here but keep savage-swords. That doesn’t mean you get out of cleaning them or your other weapons or yourselves. We’ll do a quick clean now and finish up properly later.”
The cleaning took fifteen minutes. Arthur was glad to remove at least some of the visible evidence of battle, though in his mind he could still picture Nithling blood on the blade of his savage-sword.
Helve did not leave them time to think after the immediate cleaning was done.
“Platoon, by the left, quick march! Left wheel! Keep in step, Lanven!”
“He didn’t mention what happened to the others,” whispered Fred to Arthur. They were fairly safe talking, as they were right at the back, with Helve marching at the front.
Helve directed the platoon to a building Arthur hadn’t been to before. There were a lot of buildings at Fort
Transformation he hadn’t been into. Like the Mess Hall. He hadn’t even known there was one. This building had the ubiquitous red-and-black sign on the door, which read
POST POST OFFICE
.
Like the barracks, the Post Post Office was larger inside than it was outside. It appeared to be completely empty, save for a long wooden counter that had a bell on it. Helve halted the platoon, then marched up and smacked the bell with his palm.
This had an immediate response. A Denizen in a dark green uniform Arthur recognized as Commissary field dress leaped up from behind the counter.
“We’re closed!” he said with a sniff. Arthur was amazed that a mere Commissary corporal would dare to speak to Sergeant Helve in such a manner. Particularly as the sergeant’s cuirass was dented in several places and smeared with Nithling blood. “Come back in three months!”
Helve’s hand shot across the counter and gripped the Commissary corporal by the top button of his tunic, preventing him from sliding back down again.
“The COs ordered a special mail call, Corporal. Don’t you read your orders?”
“That’s different, then,” said the corporal. “Mail for the entire recruit battalion?”
“That’s right,” said Helve. He let the corporal go with a twang that threatened to separate button from tunic. “The whole battalion.”
“Coming up,” said the corporal. He retrieved a piece of paper from under the counter, got out a quill pen and inkwell, and quickly wrote on it. He then marched out from behind the counter to the empty space beyond and threw the paper into the air.
An instant later, there was a deafening rumble. The corporal jumped back as a dozen six-foot-tall canvas mailbags thudded down out of nowhere.
“That’s it,” said the corporal. “Help yourself.”
With those words, he sank behind the counter again.
“Grab those bags,” said Helve. “One each. Green and Gold, you take one between you.”
The sergeant picked up two of the bags, one under each arm, without apparent difficulty. Arthur and Fred found it hard to even lift one off the ground, but once they got it balanced it wasn’t as immovable as they’d feared.
“Stay in line and look orderly,” said Helve. “We’ll stay off the parade ground. Round the back to the Mess Hall.”
Arthur was not all that surprised to discover that he’d never seen the Mess Hall, because it was not a building at Fort Transformation. It was like the washroom, reached by a weirdway in the outside wall of an armory.
Lugging their mailbags, the platoon lumbered along the weirdway, eventually emerging in a room so large that Arthur couldn’t see the walls, though there was a ceiling fifty or sixty feet up. Like the washroom, the Mess Hall was populated by ghostly images of thousands of other soldiers, most of them sitting on benches alongside trestle tables laden with food and drink.
Unlike the washroom, these tables were labeled, each one having a sign on it for a particular unit.
“Fort Transformation Recruit Battalion” was about fifty tables directly in from the weirdway entrance. As they marched through, Arthur noticed that a lot of the ghostly soldiers were visibly wounded. There were many bandages, crutches, eye patches, and very new scars. And most of the unit tables were considerably less than fully occupied.
It was not the picture painted by
The Recruit’s Companion,
Arthur thought with a sinking heart. In the book everything was clean and spotless, and the illustrated soldiers positively radiated health, fitness, and contentment.
Fred and Arthur were very weary by the time they got to their own spot, and they almost didn’t have the strength to haul their bag onto a table.