Monstrous Regiment

Jackrum was sitting by the fire, with the prisoner’s bow across his huge knees, slicing some sort of black sausage with a big clasp-knife. He was chewing.

“Where’s the rest of us, sir?” said Polly, scrabbling for a mug.

“I sent ’em to scout a wide perimeter, Perks. Can’t be too careful if matey-boy’s got pals out there.”

…which was perfectly sensible. It just happened to mean that half the squad had been sent away…

“Sarge, you know that captain back at the barracks? That was—”

“I’ve got good hearing, Perks. Kicked him in the Royal Prerogative, eh? Hah! Makes it all more interestin’, eh?”

“It’s going to go wrong, sarge, I just know it,” said Polly, dragging the kettle off the hob and spilling half the water as she topped up the teapot.

“D’you chew at all, Perks?” said Jackrum.

“What, sarge?” said Polly distractedly.

The sergeant held out a small piece of sticky, black… stuff. “Tobacco. Chewing tobacco,” said Jackrum. “I favour Blackheart over Jolly Sailor, ’cos it’s rum-dipped, but others say—”

“Sarge, that man’s going to escape, sarge! I know he is! The lieutenant isn’t in charge, he is. He’s all friendly and everything, but I can tell by his eyes, sarge!”

“I’m sure Lieutenant Blouse knows what he’s doing, Perks,” said Jackrum primly. “You’re not telling me a bound man can overcome four of you, are you?”

“Oh, sugar!” said Polly.

“Just down there, in the old black tin,” said Jackrum. Polly tipped some into the worst cup of tea ever made by a serving soldier and ran back to the clearing.

Amazingly, the man was still in a sitting position, and still bound hand and foot. Her fellow Cheesemongers were watching him dejectedly. Polly relaxed, but only a little.

“—nd there you have it, lieutenant,” he was saying. “No disgrace in calling it quits, eh? He’ll hunt you down soon enough, ’cos it’s personal now. But if you were to come along with me, I’d do my best to see it goes easy with you. You don’t want to get caught by the Heavy Dragoons right now. They ain’t got much of a sense of humour—”

“Tea up,” said Polly.

“Oh, thank you, Perks,” said Blouse. “I think we can at least cut Sergeant Towering’s hands free, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” said Polly, meaning “no, sir”. The man offered his bound wrists, and Polly reached out gingerly with her knife while holding the mug like a weapon.

“Artful lad you’ve got here, lieutenant,” said Towering. “He reckons I’m going to grab his knife off of him. Good lad.”

Polly sliced the rope, brought her knife hand back quickly, and then carefully proffered the mug.

“And he’s made the tea lukewarm so’s it won’t hurt when I splashes it in his face,” Towering went on. He gave Polly the steady, honest gaze of the born bastard.

Polly held it, lie for lie.

“Oh, yeah. The Ankh-Morpork people’ve got a little printing press on a cart, over on the other side of the river,” said Towering, still watching Polly. “For morale, they say. And they sent the picture back to the city, too, on the clacks. Don’t ask me how. Oh yeah, a good picture. ‘Plucky Rookies Trounce Zlobenia’s Finest’, they wrote. Fu

His voice became even more friendly. “Now look, mates, as a foot soldier like yourselves I’m all for seeing the bloody donkey-boys made to look fools, so you come along with me and I’ll see to it that at least you don’t sleep in chains tomorrow. That’s my best offer.” He took a sip of tea, and added, “It’s a better one than most of the Tenth got, I’ll tell you. I heard your regiment got wiped out.”

Polly’s expression didn’t change, but she felt herself curl up into a tiny ball behind it. Look at the eyes, look at the eyes. Liar. Liar.

“Wiped out?” said Blouse.

Towering dropped his mug of tea. He smacked the crossbow out of Wazzer’s hand with his left hand, grabbed the sabre from Igorina with his right hand, and brought the curved blade down on the rope between his legs. It happened fast, before any of them could quite focus on the change in the situation, and then the sergeant was on his feet, slapping Blouse across the face and grabbing him in an arm lock.

“And you were right, kiddo,” he said to Polly, over Blouse’s shoulder. “Cryin’ shame you ain’t an officer, eh?”

The last of the fallen tea dribbled into the soil. Polly reached slowly for her crossbow.

“Don’t. One step, one move from any of you, and I’ll cut him,” said the sergeant. “Won’t be the first officer I’ve killed, believe me—”

“The difference between them and me is, I don’t care.”

Five heads turned. There was Jackrum, outlined against the distant firelight. He had the man’s own bow, drawn taut, and aimed directly at the sergeant in complete disregard of the fact that the lieutenant’s head was in the way. Blouse closed his eyes.

“You’d shoot your own officer?” said Towering.

“Yep. Won’t be the first officer I’ve killed, neither,” said Jackrum. “You ain’t going anywhere, friend, except down. Easy or hard… I don’t care.” The bow creaked.

“You’re just bluffing, mister.”

“Upon my oath, I am not a bluffing man. I don’t think we was ever introduced, by the way. Jackrum’s the name.”

The change in the man was a whole body event. He seemed to get smaller, as if every cell had said “oh dear” very quietly to itself. He sagged, and Blouse slumped a little.

“Can I—”

“Too late,” said Jackrum.

Polly never forgot the sound the arrow made.

Jackrum laid the bow aside carefully. “Found out who he was messing with,” he said, as if nothing much had happened. “Shame, really. Seemed like a decent sort. Any saloop left, Perks?”

There was silence, and then a thump as Towering’s body finally overbalanced and hit the ground.

Very slowly, Lieutenant Blouse raised his hand to his ear, which the arrow had perforated en route to its target, and then looked with strange detachment at the blood on his fingers.

“Oh, sorry about that, sir,” said Jackrum jovially. “Just saw the one chance and I thought, well, it’s the fleshy part. Get yourself a gold earring, sir, and you’ll be the height of fashion! Quite a large gold earring, maybe.”

“Don’t you all believe that stuff about the Ins-and-Outs,” Jackrum went on. “That was just lies. I like it when something’s up. So what we do now is… can anyone tell me what we do now?”

“Er… bury the body?” hazarded Igorina.

“Yeah, but check his boots. He’s got small feet and the Zlobenians have much better boots than us.”

“Steal the boots off a dead man, sarge?” said Wazzer, still in shock.

“Easier than getting ’em off a live one!” Jackrum softened his voice a little when he saw their expressions. “Lads, this is war, understand? He was a soldier, they were soldiers, you are soldiers… more or less. No soldier will see grub or good boots go to waste. Bury ’em decent and say what prayers you can remember, and hope they’ve gone where there’s no fighting.” He raised his voice back to the normal bellow. “Perks, round up the others! Igor, cover the fire, try to make it look like we were never here! We are moving out in number ten minutes! Can make a few miles before full daylight! That’s right, eh, lieutenant?”

Blouse was still transfixed, but seemed to wake up now.

“What? Oh. Yes. Right. Yes, indeed. Er… yes. Carry on, sergeant.”

The fire gleamed off Jackrum’s triumphal face. In the red glow his little dark eyes were like holes in space, his gri

He let it happen, Polly knew. He obeyed orders. He didn’t do anything wrong. But he could have sent Maladict and Jade to help us, instead of Wazzer and Igorina, who aren’t quick with weapons. He sent the others away. He had the bow ready. He played a game with us as pieces, and won…