Monstrous Regiment

“I thould, tharge,” said Igorina, from behind Jackrum. “We Igorth often therve vampireth. In timeth of strethth their perthonal thpace can extend ath much ath ten mileth from their body.”

There was the usual pause that follows an extended lisp. People need time to think.

“Streth-th?” said Blouse.

“You know how you can feel that someone’s looking at you?” mumbled Maladict. “Well, it’s like that, times a thousand. And it’s not a… a feeling, it’s something I know.”

“Lots of people are looking for us, corporal,” said Blouse, patting him kindly on the shoulder. “It doesn’t mean that they’ll find us.”

Polly, looking down on the gold-lit woodland, opened her mouth to speak. It was dry. Nothing came out.

Maladict shook the lieutenant’s hand away. “This… person isn’t looking for us! They know where we are!”

Polly forced saliva into her mouth, and tried again. “Movement!”

And then it wasn’t there any more. She’d have sworn there had been something on the path, something that merged with the light, revealing itself only by the changing, wavering pattern of shadows as it moved.

“Er… perhaps not,” she muttered.

“Look, we’ve all lost sleep and we’re all a little ‘strung out’,” said Blouse. “Let’s just keep things down, shall we?”

“I need coffee!” moaned Maladict, rocking back and forth.

Polly squinted at the distant pathway. The breeze was shaking the trees, and red-gold leaves were drifting down. For a moment there was just a suggestion… She got to her feet. Stare at shadows and waving branches for long enough and you could see anything. It was like looking at pictures in the flames.

“O-kay,” said Shufti, who’d been working over the fire. “This might do it. It smells like coffee, anyway. Well… quite like coffee. Well… quite like coffee if coffee was made from acorns, anyway.”

She’d roasted some acorns. At least the woods had plenty of them at this time of year, and everybody knew that roasted, ground acorns could be substituted for coffee, didn’t they? Polly had agreed that it was a worth a try, but as far as she could recall no one had ever, given the choice, said “No, I will not touch horrible coffee any more! It’s a Long Black ground-acorn substitute for me, with extra floating gritty bits!”

She took the mug from Shufti and carried it over to the vampire. As she bent down… the world changed.

…whopwhopwhop…

The sky was a haze of dust, turning the sun into a blood-red disc. For a moment Polly saw them in the sky, giant fat screws spi

“He’s having flashsides,” whispered Igorina, at her elbow.

“Flashsides?”

“Like… someone else’s flashbackth. We don’t know anything about them. They could come from anywhere. A vampire at this stage is open to all sorts of influences! Give him the coffee, please!”

Maladict grabbed the mug and tried to down the contents so quickly that they spilled over his chin. They watched him swallow.

“Tastes like mud,” he said, putting down the mug.

“Yes, but is it working?”

Maladict looked up and blinked his eyes. “Ye gods, that stuff is gruesome.”

“Are we in a forest or a jungle? Any flying screws?” Igorina demanded. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“You know, that’s something an Igor should never say,” said Maladict, grimacing. “But… the… feelings aren’t so strong. I can suck it down! I can gut it out.”

Polly looked at Igorina, who shrugged and said, “That’s nice,” and motioned to Polly to join her a little way off.

“He, or possibly she, is right on the edge,” she said.

“Well, we all are,” said Polly. “We’re hardly getting any sleep.”

“You know what I mean. I’ve, er… taken the liberty of, er… being prepared.” Wordlessly, Igorina let her jacket fall open, just for a moment. Polly saw a knife, a wooden stake and a hammer, in neatly stitched little pockets.

“It’s not going to come to that, is it?”

“I hope not,” said Igorina. “But if it does, I’m the only one who can reliably find the heart. People always think it’s more to the left than—”

“It’s not going to come to that,” said Polly firmly.

The sky was red. The war was a day away.

Polly crept along just below the ridge with the tea can. It was tea that kept the army on its feet. Remember what’s real… well, that took some doing. Tonker and Lofty, for example. It didn’t matter which of them was on guard, the other one would be there as well. And there they were, sitting side by side on a fallen tree, staring down the slope. They were holding hands. They always held hands, when they thought they were alone. But it seemed to Polly that they didn’t hold hands like people who were, well, friends. They held hands tightly, as someone who has slipped over a cliff would hold hands with a rescuer, fearing that to let go would be to fall away.

“Tea up!” she quavered.

The girls turned, and she dipped a couple of mugs into the scalding tea.

“You know,” she said quietly, “no one would hate you if you ran away tonight.”

“What do you mean, Ozz?” said Lofty.

“Well, what’s there in Kneck for you? You got away from the School. You could go anywhere. I bet the two of you could sneak—”

“We’re staying,” said Tonker severely. “We talked about it. Where else would we go? Anyway, supposing something is following us?”

“Probably just an animal,” said Polly, who didn’t believe it herself.

“Animals don’t do that,” said Tonker. “And I don’t think Maladict would get so excited. It’s probably more spies. Well, we’ll get them.”

“Nobody is going to take us back,” said Lofty.

“Oh. Er… good,” said Polly, backing away. “Well, must get on, no one likes cold tea, eh?”

She hurried round the hill. Whenever Lofty and Tonker were together, she felt like a trespasser.

Wazzer was on guard in a small dell, watching the land below with her usual expression of slightly worrying intensity. She turned as Polly approached.

“Oh, Polly,” said Wazzer. “Good news!”

“Oh, good,” said Polly weakly. “I like good news.”

“She says it will be all right for us not to wear our dimity scarves,” said Wazzer.

“What? Oh. Good,” said Polly.

“But only because we are serving a Higher Purpose,” said Wazzer. And, just as Blouse could invert commas, Wazzer could drop capital letters into a spoken sentence.

“That’s good, then,” said Polly.

“You know, Polly,” said Wazzer, “I think the world would be a lot better if it was run by women. There wouldn’t be any wars. Of course, the Book would consider such an idea a Dire Abomination Unto Nuggan. It may be in error. I shall consult the Duchess. Bless this cup that I may drink of it,” she added.

“Er, yes,” said Polly, and wondered what she should dread more: Maladict suddenly turning into a ravening monster, or Wazzer reaching the end of whatever mental journey she was taking. She’d been a kitchen maid and now she was subjecting the Book to critical analysis and talking to a religious icon. That sort of thing led to friction. The presence of those seeking the truth is infinitely to be preferred to those who think they’ve found it.

Besides, she thought as she watched Wazzer drink, you only thought the world would be better if it was run by women if you didn’t actually know many women. Or old women, at least. Take the whole thing about the dimity scarves. Women had to cover their hair on Fridays, but there was nothing about this in the Book, which was pretty dar—pretty damn rigorous about most things. It was just a custom. It was done because it was always done. And if you forgot, or didn’t want to, the old women got you. They had eyes like hawks. They could practically see through walls. And the men took notice, because no man wanted to cross the crones in case they started watching him, so half-hearted punishment would be dealt out. Whenever there was an execution, and especially when there was a whipping, you always found the gra