The Winter That Follows

Chapter Three: A Quiet Life

Chapter Three: A Quiet Life“Attention,” bellowed the Sargent and as one the ranks brought their left foot down with a resonant thud. The General appeared in the doorway, hands behind his back and strolled across to the parade. His face remained in an attitude of dismissive disdain as he eyed the troops and then without a word, nodded to the drill officer and departed. Tollie kept his face straight, he didn't fancy a flogging for chuckling on parade. Unfortunately, he was trying to suppress a giggle because he had just thought to himself that the Frisian army hadn't really thought through their uniform for higher ranking officers. The basic uniform was the same for everyone – a smart black tunic shirt and black heavy-wear trousers. The enlisted soldiers wore the familiar scarlet red tabards with rank epaulettes. Those of commissioned rank wore a red sash with rank pins and honours displayed on the front of the shoulder. Rank on rank it looked striking and definitely intimidating but unfortunately, unless an individual officer had a stark military bearing, it did make them look a little like they had been gift-wrapped for midwinter. Whilst the General in charge of Tollie's section had unquestionable gravitas he had also had one too many important lunches and this only added to the problem.

The drill officer stalked down the ranks himself with an irritated leer on his thin face. He disliked the General's lack of comment, feeling somehow shunned that his parade had been judge merely adequate. There was going to be a lengthy chewing out on the way if Tollie was any judge. He sighed and made himself comfortable. It was one way to work up an appetite for breakfast.

It would be a difficult decision to explain in Aberddu Tollie knew but after the Summer of Fire he and Sylas had longed for a quieter life. After years of travel and trickery, conning their way across the continent joining guilds and accidentally being forced to take sides in the most significant conflict of living memory, they were desperate for anything that would give them a sensible bed and three meals a day for remarkably little effort. More importantly, they wanted somewhere to be where someone else made all the decisions, including what they should wear and think. The army life had seemed very appealing and Frisia paid better than Albion. The plan was to hang around for a year or so, work hard to avoid promotion and then when they were fed up they could suddenly become absent, with or without leave. For now though, Tollie was looking forward to a very large helping of something stodgy for breakfast and then another day standing on the same spot staring at the same patch in the hedge. It gave him plenty of time to think, and when his brain had finally untangled itself he might even concoct a new scam or two for the future.

Sylas had possibly lucked out even more than Tollie. The Frisian Army were not short-sighted enough to turn down recruits of unusual stature, they simply assigned him to the kind of duties that were not required to parade. There was no sense in wasting the soldiers of regulation height in the cook house, the medical bays or the demon cages. Sylas had been assigned to the cook-house, which was probably the jammiest of all the assignments. It was less dangerous than the demon cages and less sticky than the med-bays. Sure, he might have to get up before everyone else but he was excused morning drill and he got extra portions at mealtimes. Several of the other cook patrol thought the extra helpings were more like a punishment than a bonus and Sylas couldn't be bothered to argue. He did want to point out to them that army food whilst bland and homogeneous was at least better than some of the things he had eaten over the years – mainly because he hadn't had to shoot it, gut it, skin it or wipe s**t of it and it didn't come with a face. None of the food came with faces or feet or bones, which had led to troubling rumours that the Frisians were breeding demons specifically for the purposes of feeding the army. Again, Sylas wasn't bothered by this. The meat that came through was lean and protein-rich, easier to cook than hedgehog and tasted better than badger or water-vole.

He heard the parade dismiss and threw another log onto the fire. They'd be in for breakfast soon, he lifted the lid on the porridge pan and watched for a moment as it glopped happily away. He whistled and Parret looked over, nodded and started to amble over with a cloth. Sylas may have only been in the Cook Patrol for just over a month but already he had just about everybody, including the Corporal, dancing to his tune. This meant that he never had to lift anything hot or heavy, among other things. Dutifully Parret – who had been assigned to the cook patrol by virtue of being too large in all directions for the regular troops – unhooked the pan and took it over to the serving area. Sylas followed on with the ladle holding it out in front of him as though it were a royal sceptre. The cook patrol ate first and then in fifteen minutes the troops would appear. By that point, the honey tub would be safely back in the store cupboard where they wouldn't have to share it.

When Tollie reported for breakfast with the rest of his squad and found himself staring at a plate of slowly hardening porridge, he was not aware that this would be the last time he saw Sylas for a while. Their final exchange was an inauspicious one centred entirely around the contents of the ladle that Sylas had just poured into Tollie's mess tin and the fact that the honey rations still hadn't arrived. As he poked at the porridge to see if he could get some movement out of it, Tollie gave little thought to the fact that he had been preparing for deployment. As he discovered that some of his breakfast would have been better off eaten with a knife and fork rather than a spoon, it never occurred to him that this time they might not be going on a routine patrol.

One doesn't question orders in the Red Army, it's not worth the hassle of appearing to be disloyal to the Motherland and then the subsequent flogging. Idly, as he chewed on a particularly stubborn lump, Tollie wondered what they were being sent to guard this time. He didn't wonder too much on the grounds he would find out when he got there and wondering about it wasn't going to change anything anyway. This ability to mindlessly follow instructions, he reflected as he toyed with another spoonful, was why he had joined the army in the first place – it certainly didn't have anything to do with the food. As he gave up trying to make the porridge more palatable and just started to shovel it indiscriminately into his mouth, he was already wondering who was responsible for trail rations.