General Sturm is playing games, of course, getting his own back, and doing it in such a way as to make it look like he is being magnanimous. As his last act before passing control of the Voltemand theatre to a successor, Sturm appointed Gaunt to lead the expedition to Kosdorf, a command of twenty thousand men including his own Tanith, a regiment of Litus Battlefield Regimental Units, and a decent support spread of Ketzok armour.
Everyone, including the Litus and the Ketzok, have seen it for what it is, so they’ve started making heavy going of it, dragging their heels. At this last encampment, supposedly the final staging point before a proper run into Kosdorf, the Ketzok have complained that their ammo trains have fallen behind, and demanded a delay of thirty-six hours until they can be sure of their supplies.
The Ketzok are a decent lot. Despite a bad incident during the Voltis attack, Gaunt has developed a good working relationship with the armoured brigade, but Sturm’s edict has taken the warmth out of it. The Ketzok aren’t being difficult with him, they’re being difficult with the situation.
‘The Ketzok can stay put,’ says Gaunt. ‘There’s no harm getting some exercise though, is there?’
‘I suppose not,’ Corbec agrees.
‘In this muck?’ someone in the ranks calls out from behind him.
‘That’s enough, Larks,’ Corbec says without turning. Corbec is a big fellow, tall and broad, and heavy. He raises a large hand, scoops the heavy crop of slightly greying hair out of his face, and flops it over his scalp before tying it back. Raindrops twinkle like diamonds in his beard. Despite the bullying wind, Gaunt can smell a faint odour of cigars on him.
Gaunt wonders how he’s going to begin to enforce uniform code when the company colonel looks like a matted and tangled old man of the woods.
‘This is just going to be a visit to size the place up,’ says Gaunt, looking at Mkoll. ‘I intend for us to be back before nightfall.’
Mkoll just nods.
‘So what you’re saying is you were getting a little bored sitting in your tent,’ says Corbec.
Gaunt looks at him.
‘That’s all right,’ Corbec smiles. ‘I was getting pretty bored sitting in mine. A walk is nice, isn’t it, lads?’
No one actually answers.
Gaunt walks the line with Corbec at his side, inspecting munition supplies. They’re going to be moving light, but every other man’s got an extra musette bag of clips, and two troopers are carrying boxes of RPGs for the launcher. Nobody makes eye contact with Gaunt as he passes.
Gaunt comes to Caffran in the line.
‘What are you doing here?’ Gaunt asks.
‘Step forward, trooper,’ says Corbec.
‘I thought I was supposed to stay with you all day,’ Caffran replies, stepping forward. ‘I thought those were my orders.’
‘Sir,’ says Corbec.
‘Sir,’ says Caffran.
‘I suppose they are,’ says Gaunt and nods Caffran back into the file. A march in the mud and rain is the least you deserve for talking out of turn, Gaunt thinks, especially to a civilian.
There’s a muttering somewhere. They’re amused by Caffran’s insolence. Gaunt gets the feeling that Corbec doesn’t like it, though Corbec does little to show it. The colonel’s position is difficult. If he reinforces Gaunt’s authority, he risks losing all the respect the men have for him. He risks being despised and resented too.
‘Let’s get moving,’ says Gaunt.
‘Advance company!’ Corbec shouts, holding one hand above his head and rotating it with the index finger upright. ‘Sergeant Blane, if you please!’
‘Yes, sir!’ Blane calls out from the front of the formation. He leads off.
The force begins to move down the track into the rain behind the sergeant. Mkoll and his scouts, moving at a more energetic pace, take point and begin to pull away.
Gaunt waits as the infantrymen file past, their boots glopping in the mire. Not one of them so much as glances at him. They have their heads down.
He jogs to catch up with Corbec. He had hoped that getting out and doing something active might chase away his unhappiness. It isn’t working so far.
He still has that letter in his pocket.
‘Back again?’ asks Dorden, the medicae.
The boy hovers in the doorway of the medical tent like a spectre that needs to be invited in out of the dark. The rain has picked up, and it’s pattering a loud tattoo off the overhead sheets.
‘I don’t feel right,’ says Milo.
Dorden tilts his chair back to upright and takes his feet down off the side of a cot. He folds over the corner of a page to mark his place, and sets his book aside.
‘Come in, Milo,’ he says.
In the back of the long tent behind Dorden, the medicae orderlies are at work checking supplies and cleaning instruments. The morning has brought the usual round of complaints generated by an army on the move: foot problems, gum problems, and gut problems, along with longer term conditions like venereal infections and wounds healing after the Voltis fight. The orderlies are chattering back and forth. Chayker and Foskin are play-fencing with forceps as they gather up instruments for cleaning. Lesp, the other orderly, is bantering with them as he prepares his needles. He’s got a sideline as the company inksman. His work is generally held as the best. The ink stains his fingertips permanent blue-black, the dirtiest-looking fingers Dorden’s ever seen on a medical orderly.
‘How don’t you feel right?’ Dorden asks as Milo comes in. The boy pulls the tent flap shut behind him and shrugs.
‘I just don’t,’ he says. ‘I feel light-headed.’
‘Light-headed? Faint, you mean?’
‘Things seem familiar. Do you know what I mean?’
Dorden shakes his head gently, frowning.
‘Like I’m seeing things again for the first time,’ says the boy.
Dorden points to a folding stool, which Milo sits down on obediently, and reaches for his pressure cuff.
‘You realise this is the third day you’ve come in here saying you don’t feel right?’ asks Dorden.
Milo nods.
‘You know what I think it is?’ asks Dorden.
‘What?’
‘I think you’re hungry,’ says Dorden. ‘I know you hate the ration stuff they cook up. I don’t blame you. It’s swill. But you’ve got to eat, Brin. That’s why you’re light-headed and weak.’
‘It’s not that,’ says Milo.
‘It might be. You don’t like the food.’
‘No, I don’t like the food. I admit it. But it’s not that.’
‘What then?’
Milo stares at him.
‘I’ve got this feeling. I think I had a bad dream. I’ve got this feeling that–’
‘What?’
Milo looks at the ground.
‘Listen to me,’ says Dorden. ‘I know you want to stay with us. This man Gaunt is letting you stay. You know he should have sent you away by now. If you get sick on him, if you get sick by refusing to eat properly, he’ll have the excuse he needs. He’ll be able to tell himself he’s sending you away for your own good. And that’ll be it.’
Milo nods.
‘So let’s do you a favour,’ says Dorden. ‘Let’s go to the mess tent and get you something to eat. Humour me. Eat it. If you still feel you’re not right, well, then we can have another conversation.’
The lightning leads them. The rain persists. They come up over the wet hills and see the city grave.