“None.”
“That’s what you say. It wouldn’t surprise me if you’ve destroyed the entire line of communication between Lisutaris and the Elvish command. It’s a scandal that brave warriors like myself should be brought to ruin by a bunch of women who can’t think about anything else except lovers and shoes. I’m going to see Gurd for some proper wartime discussion about killing Orcs.”
“And drinking beer?”
“Some beer may be drunk.”
“If you get drunk Lisutaris will hear about it and you’ll be in trouble.”
“Lisutaris will be too busy sobbing in her tent about Kublinos to notice.”
Makri returns to her position as bodyguard. I trudge off through the mud in search of Gurd, beer, and some manly conversation. I find him and a few other Turanian soldiers re-erecting their tents. They’ve almost accomplished this, working quickly and efficiently. The sun has emerged and steam rises from the sodden canvas, as it does on various items of clothing that are laid over tent ropes to dry.
I clap my old companion on the shoulder. “Reminds me of the time these Simnians attacked us in the marshlands. We showed them how to fight, wet or dry.”
I pause, waiting for Gurd to take up the story. It’s one of our favourites. We must have told and re-told it hundreds of times in the Avenging Axe. Gurd doesn’t oblige. He seems distracted. He walks over to the remnants of his cooking fire. I follow him, and try again.
“You remember we were holding them off and suddenly our centurion shouted 'There’s an alligator behind us?' That made everyone jump!”
I roar with laughter. Gurd doesn’t laugh.
“Is there something the matter?” I enquire. “And do you have any beer?”
Gurd drags a small bottle of beer from his bag of supplies and hands it over. “Nothing’s the matter.”
“Then why didn’t you laugh when I reminded you about the alligator?”
“I’ve heard that story hundreds of times. I’ve told it myself hundreds of times.”
“So what? The Simnians and the alligator is one of our best stories. we always laugh.”
Gurd starts poking around moodily in the remains of the fire, looking for sticks dry enough to light.
“Damn it Gurd, what’s the matter? I came here looking for some hearty conversation between old soldiers and you’re plodding round like a broody mare. You wouldn’t believe the nonsense I have to put up with Lisutaris and Makri. I’m getting desperate for some proper conversation. Anything will do as long as it doesn’t involve women.”
Gurd looks up at me. “Tanrose wants to have a baby.”
I’m so startled by this I almost let go of my beer, though not quite.
“A baby? Now? In the middle of the war?”
“She wants to start now. Hopefully the war will be over before it arrives.”
I struggle to repel the wave of depression that threatens to envelop me. I came looking for Gurd to get away from Makri and her girlish chatter, and now I’m having a conversation about babies with my oldest fighting companion. It wouldn’t have happened when I was a young man. Turai is finished. The West is doomed. My immediate inclination is to finish my beer and flee, but such is my regard for Gurd, I know I can’t. I’m trapped. With any luck, he won’t ask for my opinion.
“What do you think?” asks Gurd.
“Eh...”
“It doesn’t seem like the best time, I know. I thought we’d wait till after the war, when we were married. But what if I don’t survive? At least I’d have a child for Tanrose to remember me by. I have no children, Thraxas. A man should have offspring. Tanrose is keen. She’s not at an age where she can wait much longer.”
The story of our fight with the Simnians, carried out in difficult circumstances in marshland, with alligators threatening, is a fantastic story. I desperately wish I was telling it now. I struggle to think what to say to Gurd.
“Well, if you want a baby, I suppose you’d be as well starting now. The war isn’t going to drag on for nine months. We’ll be dead or victorious by then.”
Gurd nods. I’m hoping that might be all I’m required to say on the subject - it not being a subject I want to discuss in the first place - but Gurd isn’t finished.
“What if I’m not ready? What if I make a poor father? I think we might be rushing things. But if we don’t rush things I might get killed in battle and where will Tanrose be then? Do you think we should get married right away? There’s a priest in the next cohort, I expect he could do it.”
I cast a stern look at the grey-haired barbarian. “Gurd, you’ve known me long enough to realise I can’t manage a conversation like this on one small bottle of beer. If you want my advice, you’re going to have to bring out the rest of whatever supplies you have hidden away.”
Chapter Thirteen
Offering an opinion on whether someone should or should not have a child is something I’d rather not do. Were it anyone else but Gurd I’d have refused, but a man has certain obligations when he’s fought at another man’s side. Even so, it’s a stressful experience, and it takes me some time to extricate myself. I wouldn’t have made it through had Gurd not happened to have secreted away several bottles of ale. I can’t help feeling angered. If even a mighty warrior like Gurd is letting himself be distracted by this sort of thing, what chance do we have? You can be sure the Orcish army isn’t talking about babies. Nor shoes, I reflect, somewhat bitterly. I keep thinking about Tirini’s' shoes, and it’s annoying me. I’m annoyed at myself for wasting time. I should be concentrating of finding Deeziz. Tirini’s shoes are an unwelcome distraction.
I come to a halt. With the mud underfoot and a fair supply of beer inside me, I’m finding it hard going. I notice I’m not far from Tirini’s tent. What did she mean, They took my shoes? Who took them? Why? Neither Gurd nor Tanrose were able to cast any light on the matter. Tanrose remembered that Tirini was wearing a fancy pair when she whisked them all out of the city. Yellow with pink stitching, and an impractically high heel. The sort of thing Tirini would normally wear. Neither of them could recall what happened to these shoes. Tanrose thinks that when they finally arrived in Samsarina, Tirini was wearing a plain pair of slippers, but couldn’t remember where they’d appeared from.
Of course, Tirini might have been carrying any amount of shoes around with her, in a magic pocket, perhaps. It’s the sort of thing she’d do. It wouldn’t surprise me if she always had a few spare sets of fashionable clothing with her, hidden in the magic space, ready to put on as the occasion demanded. Save her from going home to get changed between fashionable parties. I wonder about her shoes. I wonder why she’s still sick. According to Lisutaris and Saabril, her sorcerous attendant, she should have recovered by now. I decide to call in and see how she is.
I find Saabril Clearwater sitting outside Tirini’s tent, reading a scroll. The storm doesn’t seem to have affected them too badly. Whatever damage was done by the elements has been quickly remedied. Given Saabril’s sorcerous power, that shouldn’t have been difficult. I wonder if she’s had any such success with her patient.
“How’s Tirini?”
The young Medical Sorcerer screws up her face, an expression I take to mean that Tirini is still unwell.
“I’m not making any progress. She won’t eat, and she sleeps badly. I’m very worried.” She indicates the scroll she’s holding. “I’ve been trying to find some alternative treatment from my Kamaran School of Sorcery, but I haven’t come up with anything.”