Authors: Tony Shillitoe
‘What never fails to amaze me in a
civilised world is the eagerness with which
young men go to war.’
FROM
Ancient Lore
BY WAERON ARDATH
A
s they crested a hill, the sun swallowed in the west, they saw a plain lit by thousands of campfires, like a tapestry of stars thrown across the landscape. Meg gaped in awe at the scope and size of the army she was pursuing. ‘Well, little bird, we’ve found your army,’ Wombat said, and whistled softly to show his equal amazement at the vision.
‘You need to get some help with those wounds,’ Meg said. ‘That’s our first priority.’
‘And you,’ he replied. ‘Although a little blood and a scar on that pretty face might add to your disguise.’ He studied the vast camp. ‘There’ll be perimeter guards everywhere. We need to approach along a main road so as not to attract trouble. We’ve had enough of that for one day, eh.’
They backtracked down the hill and along a gully, emerging on a road near a burned-out farmhouse. The night had settled and the half-moon lit the flat ground with a silvery haze. A mist rose. Within a hundred paces they were challenged. ‘Who goes there?’
‘A pair of minstrels looking for work,’ Wombat replied cheerily.
Torches erupted, temporarily blinding Meg. Men moved around her. ‘A poleaxe?’ a voice queried.
‘A man needs some protection,’ Wombat replied, blinking against the torchlight.
‘The kid’s got a sword,’ another man warned.
‘Doesn’t know how to use it yet,’ Wombat said. ‘Isn’t even sharp.’
‘Blade or the kid?’ someone asked wittily.
‘Both,’ Wombat dryly replied. The soldiers laughed. Meg felt the colour rise in her cheeks.
‘There are enough minstrels in the camp already to form their own March. You’d be better off going home to your villages,’ said a soldier. He looked at Meg, and said, ‘Although we’re always looking for volunteers.’
‘The lad’s barely thirteen, just tall for his age,’ Wombat interrupted. ‘We’ll take our chances, eh.’
‘Where’d you get those nasty cuts?’
‘Fell down a gully. Wasn’t watching our step,’ Wombat replied.
‘There’s a surgeon down along the fifth row in. He’s rough, but he’ll do you for nothing,’ said the soldier. ‘Don’t go expecting food or tents.’
Wombat ushered Meg out of the torchlight, and the torches were extinguished. ‘So we’re in, eh,’ he said.
‘You going to the surgeon?’ Meg asked.
‘Bugger that. I’m after hot food.’
She followed the big man along the rows of tents, glancing at the soldiers gathered at their campfires. Some were eating. Others were cooking meat, mainly kangaroo and birds. Metal flashed where men were cleaning and sharpening their weapons. No one spoke to them, although eyes followed their passing. She was grateful it was dark. The Seer had recognised her as a girl, despite her disguise, so it was likely her deceit would be quickly discovered in the camp during daylight.
Wombat halted at an intersection, announcing, ‘This will do nicely.’ He took hold of Meg’s arm and pulled her close. ‘Now you go sit over there. Don’t speak to anyone. Don’t step into the light. Whatever happens, you don’t get involved, eh?’
‘What if someone speaks to me?’ she asked.
‘You say nothing. Just nod or shake your head and sit down as if you’re not altogether in your head. A bit simple, eh? They’ll leave you alone. Trust me.’
Meg crossed the intersection to the edge of a tent site and squatted on the damp grass, watching Wombat. The big man put his poleaxe and his sack on the ground, and took a balanced pose—and sang:
‘Oh come listen, you travellers, come one and come all,
For far have I rambled from my distant home,
Cross blue distant oceans, cross mountains of ice,
And I’ve seen all the wonders and some I’ve seen twice,
For it’s far I have rambled and far more I will roam.’
He paused, looked around, and broke heartily into the next verse, his voice loud and strong, and, Meg admitted, very melodic. Men at the closest fires were staring at Wombat, and a couple were already walking towards him.
‘She was white-haired and fair-skinned, a beauty full grown,
With eyes like green gemstones and soft lips sweet red,
Her breast full and buxom, I swear this is right,
A nobleman’s daughter came to me last night,
And took me full willing with her to her bed.’
Soldiers gathered at the intersection, and torches were brought to light the entertainer. They broke into laughter as Wombat launched into the third verse, describing a raunchy liaison with the nobleman’s daughter. The ballad became progressively bawdier, verse by verse, raising outbursts of cheering from the swelling crowd, and Meg noticed that many of the men were singing along with Wombat. No one paid her any attention as she lingered in the darkness. When Wombat finished the song, the hero having satisfactorily ravaged the lusty heroine of the ballad before they ran off together, much to the outrage of the heroine’s pompous father, the soldiers clapped and cheered, and asked for another.
‘A warm fire, good chat and some food for a starving traveller would draw another song,’ Wombat informed his audience. Several voices responded with offerings. Another cheer rose as Wombat agreed to sing another ballad. He accepted a mug of mead, took a draught, cleared his throat, and launched into a new song.
‘As I was a-wandering down by the river, I saw me six girlies a-bathing down there
…’
Meg was shivering with cold by the time Wombat finished the second performance. The soldiers called for more, but Wombat told them that he was hungry and cold and in need of a rest, reassuring them when they complained that he’d sing again the following night. The crowd dissipated, leaving a small group to talk with Wombat in a single circle of torchlight. The big man looked in Meg’s direction and beckoned for her to approach. ‘My lad’s travelling with me,’ she heard him say, as she cautiously halted at the edge of the light under the gaze of the curious soldiers. ‘He’s more girl than boy, if you take my meaning. Can sing like a girl too. His balls haven’t dropped yet.’
The soldiers laughed and grinned at Meg, one saying, ‘Don’t let your old man give you too much shit, lad. My old man’s just as bad.’ They laughed again, and invited her to join them at their campfire.
Six soldiers shared a tent. They cleared a space for Wombat and Meg, and began introductions, but Wombat held up a hand to say, ‘First we need some stitching and cleaning. We’ll be seeing the surgeon and then we’ll be back.’
‘No need for that,’ said a soldier with a grinning face. ‘Stitch here can sew up anything better than any surgeon.’
A thin-framed man with a mop of brown hair smiled at Wombat and Meg. ‘My father was a surgeon—before he got himself killed. He wanted me to learn his trade, but I wanted to come soldiering.’
Wombat coughed and put an arm around Meg’s shoulders. ‘The lad here is a bit squeamish. I’ll have a quick word of encouragement and then we might take up your offer.’ He steered her into the road and whispered, ‘You’ll just have to make do with the wound on your face. If they clean it, they’ll see more than we want them to see.’
Meg lifted her hand to her cheek and scratched at the crusty blood. ‘It doesn’t hurt anymore anyway.’
Wombat turned her cheek with his hand to the light, and touched her skin gently, brushing away the dried blood. ‘Well, now that’s…’ he started, and paused as he wiped her cheek again. ‘It’s already healed,’ he finally said. ‘Wasn’t as bad as we thought, eh?’ She ran her fingers along the point where the jagged branch had slashed her cheek and confirmed that the wound had vanished. ‘Looks like it’s just me that needs stitching up, eh,’ Wombat said, releasing her. ‘You keep to the shadows and keep that face dirty, little bird.’
Returning to the fire, Wombat laughed, saying, ‘You only get to do your sewing on me, Stitch. The lad’s not as bad as we thought.’
‘I’ll boil some water,’ said Stitch, as he rose to fetch a pot.
‘What’s your lad’s name?’ someone asked.
Wombat looked briefly at Meg, who was sitting back from the circle. ‘He was named Emu, after my father. I just call him Red nowadays. The smart ones among you will work out why. He’s a good lad, eh, but shy. Nothing like his old man. But I’d kill any man who so much as looked at him the wrong way. Blood is thick in my family.’
Stitch returned with a pot of water, and a large leather pouch, which he opened. He produced a thin knife, assorted odd instruments, a big needle and a roll of catgut. ‘Was my father’s kit,’ he said as he put the pot on to boil. ‘Strip down to your undergarments.’
‘What are undergarments?’ Wombat asked, feigning bewilderment, and the soldiers laughed as he stripped.
Meg watched, curious despite Wombat’s nakedness, as Stitch methodically cleaned Wombat’s wounds and calculated the damage in each. ‘Only two need some stitching,’ he announced. ‘This one on your left shoulder, and the one on your thigh.’
‘Better sew up his arse,’ a soldier remarked. ‘That’s a terrible gash,’ and the crew, including Wombat, laughed uproariously before Stitch set to work.
Surgery done, the soldiers settled to talking, and Meg listened. Between discussions about jobs to do and families missed, they wandered through the situation facing them, voices with strangers’ faces. ‘My bet is that we’ll move tomorrow. Future’s army is running out of places to go and everyone knows they’re holing up in The Whispering Forest.’
‘Wouldn’t it be just as easy to wait and starve them out?’
‘Marchlord Winter thinks we’ll starve first if we do that.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Harry’s his servant. He tells me what he overhears.’
‘What about the Seers?’
‘They say the Seers can melt a man’s armour onto his body.’
‘I heard they make fire burn on water.’
‘Tricks. It’s not magic, just clever tricks.’
‘No, mate. I’ve seen it. It’s real magic.’
‘Where have you seen it?’
‘Outside Three Graves Creek. Last moon cycle, when we were chasing that small Rebel company. A Seer just appeared in the middle of the village and made everyone go stiff, like they were already dead. And then he set the wagons on fire.’
‘Bullshit. I heard the wagons were hit with fire arrows.’
‘No. The Seer cast a spell on them and they exploded. I swear it.’
The discussion fascinated Meg. She recalled how the Seer that morning had created the fireballs. She’d seen it. She’d seen Emma conjure fire. The magic
was
real. The young men argued about how Seers could create the illusion of magic through clever preparation, but in the undercurrent of their conversation was a lurking fear. ‘Give us another song,’ a soldier eventually asked of Wombat, who was relaxing with a warm bowl of broth Stitch had heated for him. The others echoed the request.
Wombat acquiesced. ‘One song, eh. And then the lad and I need some sleep. Don’t suppose there’s any spare blankets?’
‘Hard come by,’ a pointy-nosed individual replied, ‘but I’ll see what I can do,’ and he headed into the night.
‘Let’s hear the lad sing too,’ Stitch said.
Wombat looked at Meg who sat at the edge of the firelight. ‘What do you say, Red? Let’s give them a round of “The Miller’s Young Wife”, eh?’ To the soldiers, he added, ‘And you boys can sing along in the chorus.’
The ground was hard and cold, and even the warmth from Wombat’s ample girth couldn’t compensate for his snoring. Meg nudged him several times to break his rattling snore, but he quickly returned to his deep growl. In the end, she went for a slow walk.
The camp was alive with the erratic rhythms of snoring men, as she passed like a ghost through the misty night.
Why do men snore?
she wondered. Her father had snored. She remembered lying awake some nights in the farmhouse, listening. Sometimes his snoring irritated her. Other times she was glad to hear it, like a reassurance that her father was home and the world was secure. She recalled that, after he’d gone to war, she’d lain awake, waiting for his snoring to start, only to hear emptiness.
She stopped at the end of a tent row and stared into the darkness. What was she doing? Was it really possible to find Treasure? She ran her fingers along her cheek, feeling the smooth, unblemished skin where there should have been a deep scar, and wondered at the miracle. Since she’d begun her journey, even beforehand when she’d been hurt by Nightwind, she’d developed a mysterious resilience to injuries. She shifted her hand to touch the tiny pendant hidden under her tunic. The Rebels had nearly taken it from her. The vision of the Seer casting balls of fire at the Queen’s soldiers told her magic was not as much of a myth as she wanted to believe.
‘Red?’
The shadow of a man stood behind her. ‘Who are you?’ she gasped.
‘It’s just me. Blade Cutter. You’re staying at our tent,’ the man replied.
‘Why are you following me?’
Blade stepped forward, but the darkness hid his face. He was not much taller than her. ‘We’re just being cautious,’ he explained. ‘You’re strangers. Who knows if you’re Rebel spies or something? The others told me to follow you.’
‘I don’t understand. If you don’t trust me how come you’ve spoken to me?’ she asked.
‘I know who you are.’
Meg drew in her breath. ‘How? We’ve never met before.’
Blade’s shoulders moved as if he was laughing silently at something funny. ‘I don’t actually know
you,’
he said. ‘But I know you’re not who you’re pretending to be.’
‘I don’t understand,’ she said quietly, although she guessed his response before he made it.
‘You’re a woman,’ he announced, his voice low.
‘I beg your—’
‘Don’t argue about it,’ he interrupted. ‘It’s not hard to spot.’
‘Then how?’
‘Your walk. Your voice. Your face. Even under all that dirt and blood, you’re prettier than any boy I’ve ever known. Prettier than any girl I’ve ever known either. I caught glimpses back at the tent—in the firelight. Your hands.’
‘What’s wrong with my hands?’
‘Nothing. Just they’re too small, too slender to belong to a boy.’
‘But I’m a minstrel—’
‘My best friend back in my home village is a minstrel and he’s about as feminine as any boy I’ve ever known, but you’re nothing like him.’