Sir Thursday

Fourteen

" I THINK I just remembered something," said Fred. "About my old job. I remember separating the flakes of gold!"

"That's good," said his friend Ray Green. "I still don't remember much. I dream about it, though, and it's on the edge of my mind as I wake up. Then I open my eyes and it's gone."

"It'll come back," said Fred. "It usually does eventually. Most of it."

Ray frowned. "The thing is, I have this feeling that I need to remember quickly. That there's something really important I have to do."

"It'll come back," said Fred. "It can't be that important anyway. Not when we're stuck here for the rest of the year. Not to mention the other ninety-nine years stuck in the Army."

"You wanted to be a general," said Ray suddenly. "I remember you telling me that sometime."

"Did I?" asked Fred. "Really? Hmmm. That's not such a bad idea."

It was six weeks since Ray and Fred had been washed between the ears. They'd each woken later that same day, on their beds, with pieces of paper pinned to their tunics. The pieces of paper had their names on them and nothing else. When they first woke they couldn't even read, but fortunately their reading and writing abilities had come quickly back to them, along with various skills and background knowledge.

But very few specifics about their previous lives had returned. They'd found their notebooks, but those hadn't helped much. Fred had relearned his favourite colour and how he took his tea, but Ray found his own notes very cryptic. After reading them, he did feel that Ray probably wasn't his real name, but he didn't know what his real name was. Or the significance of the Trustees" names.

Ray couldn't even remember anything about being an Ink Filler. Fred had remembered quite a lot about his civilian life in the Middle House. Ray's was a mystery. Try and try as he might, he could not summon up any memories. Sometimes he would feel as if there was an important memory on the very edge of his consciousness, but whenever he reached for it, it would be gone. It felt almost like a physical pain, a dull ache of lost life.

Fred told Ray at least some of his memories would come back in time, but that was small comfort. When the platoon got together in their rare time off, conversation would invariably come around to everyone's previous lives. Ray would sit there, silent and still, but listening intently, in the hope that a detail from someone else's life might spark some memory of his own.

The pain of listening to the others reminisce was lessened as their time off got scarcer and scarcer every day. For some reason, soon after they'd been washed between the ears, the normal training schedule had been accelerated, and it got accelerated again. In the beginning, the recruits were given six hours off a night, and two hours free during the day. That had been cut back to a mere five hours a night and then four, and even that was prone to interruption.

The training had been intense. Ray and Fred now knew how to march moderately well by themselves, with their platoon or with larger formations. They could march unarmed, or march and do basic drills with a variety of weapons, including clockwork-action poleaxes, Nothing-powder muskets, explosive pikes, muscle-fibre longbows, savage-sword and buckler, power-spears, and lightning-charged tulwars. They knew the seventeen forms of salute and the thirty-eight honorifics used in the Army.

They could also use the weapons they drilled with and look after them without injuring their companions. They could manage to present themselves in the basic uniforms of the Army's main units, though never completely to the satisfaction of Sergeant Helve. They had learned to follow orders first and think about them afterwards.

They were becoming soldiers.

"You should have remembered more straightaway," said Fred. "With that silver ring and all."

Ray dug the ring out of his pocket and looked at it again. He'd woken with it under his tongue and asked Fred about it. But Fred couldn't remember ever seeing it before, and it was a week before he recalled that a silver coin under the tongue was meant to prevent against washing between the ears.

"It's not all silver," said Ray. "Part of it has turned gold. I think that means something … but –" "I can't remember," finished Fred. He looked over at the scrubby desert to the west. "Almost sunset. Maybe Helve'll let us off when it gets dark."

"I doubt it," said Ray. He didn't want time off. Time off meant time trying to remember. He preferred to be busy, to have no time to think at all.

The section was on clean-up detail. The tiles to the southwest, west, and northwest had changed a lot in the last week, and the wind had been westerly, blowing bits of vegetation into the camp. Unsightly leaves had lodged themselves under the buildings and in various corners, upsetting the cadre staff. So the recruits had been unleashed and ordered to clean everything up, the penalty for the survival of a single leaf or whirly-thorn being a fourteen-mile-route march that night in Horde armour (good when riding Not-Horses, but terrible for marching) with Legion weapons and Borderer boots (as Horde boots would render the whole recruit battalion lame if they marched fourteen miles in them).

"What's that over in the desert?" asked Fred. "Is one of the other recruit companies doing an assault exercise?"

Ray looked where Fred was pointing. A line of figures was marching across the desert, less than a mile away. The late afternoon sun glistened on the points of their long spears and their helmets, and reflected very brightly from the metallic thread of the banner that flew above the knot of four or five Denizens on the left flank who were riding Not-Horses.

"They aren't recruits," said Ray. "Or any unit I've ever read about."

To try and make up for not remembering his earlier life, Ray had read all the way through The Recruit's Companion and had memorised large sections of it.

"Maybe we should tell Sergeant Helve," said Ray thoughtfully. He turned around to march to the orderly office but jerked to attention instead. Sergeant Helve was right there, staring at the desert. He was panting very slightly, which surprised Ray and Fred. They'd never seen Helve out of breath.

"Stand to!" shouted Helve, at a volume they'd also never heard before, despite some truly stupendous vocal performances when they'd inadequately polished their brass or whitened their belts. "All recruits, Legion dress, savage-swords, and power-spears, on the double! This is not a drill! We are under attack!"

"Who are they?" asked Fred as he and Ray sprinted to the barracks, without any NCOs telling them off. There was a torrent of corporals and sergeants going the other way, but they were not concerned with petty infringements like sprinting instead of marching today. "Can't be Nithlings."

"Why not?" asked Ray as they burst inside and rushed to their lockers.

"That lot out there are organised. Disciplined. Uniforms and banners and the same kind of weapon and everything," said Fred a minute later. "Here, help tie this up, will you?"

Ray tied the leather laces on Fred's segmented armour and stood still while Fred returned the favour. They strapped on their savage-swords, with the blades that twirled when you twisted the hilt, swung on their rectangular shields, and picked up their power-spears. The long metal points of these spears started to glow as they were lifted up, and wisps of black smoke coiled towards the ceiling. Many a roof or a companion's uniform had been set alight by recruits with power-spears.

"What do we do, Ray?" asked Florimel. She and the rest of the section were just finishing their preparations. Though no formal recruit corporal had ever been appointed, and both Sergeant Helve and Corporal Axeforth said none ever would be because none of the recruits was good enough, the rest of the section all looked to Ray to explain orders or to tell them what to do. If Ray was unavailable for some reason, they looked to Fred as his deputy.

Ray wondered if it was something to do with his past. He had a vague inkling that he had been someone in authority, which, though unusual for a Piper's child in the House, was not unheard of.

"We're under attack," explained Ray. "So we'll fall in here and march out and just follow orders and everything will be fine. Everyone got everything? Theodoric! Where's your savage-sword? Grab it and catch up with us. Everyone else, fall in! By the left, quick march! Left … left … left, right, left!"

They were just marching out of the barracks when a panting Corporal Axeforth met them. He wasn't in full Legionary rig-out, having just swapped his hat for a helmet and thrown a cuirass over his scarlet tunic, and he had a clockwork poleaxe instead of a savage-sword. But he was calm enough as he quickly fell in step next to the line of recruits.

"Good work, Recruit Green. We're assembling on the parade ground. Recruit Rannifer, march towards that gap to the left of Two Platoon. We'll be forming up on them."

Rannifer was the tallest of the Denizens, by a hair over Florimel, so he was always the right marker, the one who the others formed up on and who consequently was first in line when the rest marched in twos as they were doing now. This was not a very good thing, as Rannifer was more easily confused than most of the other Denizens.

This time, Axeforth marched very close to Rannifer, to make sure there was no error. The corporal also marched faster than normal, Ray noticed, though it was not double time. Making sure they got in place quickly, he guessed, while not appearing to be panicked or hurried.

The other recruit platoons were all marching onto the parade ground as well. Some were already formed up, with their sergeants bellowing and shouting. There were even officers present, conferring together nearby. Ray automatically assessed the plumes on their helmets, for all were in Legionary uniform. Four lieutenants, a major, and even a colonel. Ray was impressed. He'd seen the lieutenants but never anyone of higher rank.

"I've just remembered something," whispered Fred as they halted in the centre of the front line. "About Piper's children."

"What?" Ray whispered back. The enemy were only five hundred yards distant now, advancing at a steady march. They had a whole lot of big, bass drums for keeping the time, their low pounding rhythm punctuated every ten steps or so by all the enemy making a sound that was more like an animal snarl than a shout.

There were also a lot more of them than he'd first thought. Many hundreds at least. Not that Ray was counting. It was just the impression he got, that there were an awful lot of them, approaching very quickly.

"We aren't so good with getting hurt as Denizens," said Fred. "I mean, if our heads get cut off, that's it. And our arms and legs probably won't grow back either."

"Silence in the ranks!" shouted Sergeant Helve. He walked slowly along the front line, not even looking at the onrushing enemy. "This will be just like a drill! The enemy are Nithlings. They are inferior! We are the Army of the Architect! The Architect! Let me hear you say it! The Architect!"

"The Architect!" boomed out six hundred Denizen mouths. It sounded incredibly loud and solid and confident, and Ray started to feel a bit better, despite what Fred had just said.

"We will not give ground!" shouted Sergeant Helve. "The Architect!"

"The Architect!" boomed out the massed recruits. Ray noticed that Sergeant Helve was timing it so they shouted at the same time the enemy made their creepy snarling noise, the shout almost completely drowning out that and the enemy's drums.

"Colonel Huwiti is going to tell you the plan!" shouted Sergeant Helve. "Just remember to stand by your comrades! Remember your drill!"

Colonel Huwiti strolled out in front of what was now four ranks of recruits spread in lines right across the parade ground. He casually saluted Sergeant Helve, who returned the salute with absolute precision. Neither Denizen seemed to even notice that there was a solid dark mass of humanoid Nithlings in dark lacquered armour with short, spark-tipped spears tramping straight towards them, and now only three hundred yards away.

"This will be very simple," said the colonel in a quiet but carrying voice. "First rank, if you would be so good as to lock your shields, set your power-spears, and draw swords. Second rank, ready your power-spears to throw. On the command 'throw”, you will throw and retire to the rear. As the second rank retires, third rank will march forward, and on the command 'throw," and then retire as fourth rank marches forward and throws on command. As each rank reaches the rear, it will turn to face front again and draw swords. Listen for your sergeants" and corporals" commands and all will be well."

"Yes, sir!" bellowed Helve, the kind of "yes, sir" that drew everybody else to empty their lungs yelling, "Yes, sir!" as well.

"I feel a bit small," muttered Fred as he locked his shield with Ray's and the Denizen to his right, and set the butt of his power-spear in the ground.

"So do I," said Ray. They were both at least a foot shorter than the Denizens to either side of them, and even when they held their shields high, the line suddenly dipped when it came to them.

They could hear the beat of the enemy's footsteps vibrating up through the ground now, and their snarls and even the crackle of their weapons, all too like the sound of lightning-charged tulwars, the favoured weapon of the Horde.

"You two Piper's children, retire at once to the fourth rank!" snapped someone in front of them.

Ray automatically obeyed the voice of command, unlocking his shield and turning on the spot to march back, Fred at his side. Behind him the line shuffled together and in front of him, Denizens stood aside.

They were just about to go through the third rank when the enemy all screamed at once, and the pounding of their feet got much louder and faster, with the drums suddenly booming twice as fast and horns blaring as well. At the same time, Helve and some other sergeants were shouting, "Second rank! Throw!" though even their legendary voices were almost lost in the din.

Ray knew the enemy had charged, and two seconds later, he almost felt the shock wave of sound and movement as the Nithlings" front rank crashed into the locked shields of his comrades and the air was filled with screams and cries and curses, the hiss of superheated spears and the ratcheting screech of savage-swords meeting Nithling armour.

"Third rank, throw! Fourth rank, advance!"

Ray had only just reached the fourth rank. He swivelled around as the whole line advanced, and he and Fred wedged themselves in, raising their power-spears as they did so.

As he saw as well as heard the indescribable pandemonium, with the Nithling and the Denizen front ranks intermixed in violent battle, Ray Green was totally in the present. There was no part of his mind trying to remember anything of his past, but as his body obeyed without thought, the power-spear soaring out of his hand and into the rear ranks of the enemy, he had a sudden flash of memory. He was throwing something – a white ball – and someone else was shouting at him, "Way to go, Arthur Penhaligon!"

The name resonated in Ray's mind so powerfully that for an instant he wasn't even aware of the incredible tumult of the battle.

"I'm not Ray Green!" he shouted. "I'm Arthur Penhaligon!"