We now return to your regularly scheduled series
I should give these an overarching name or something.
Title: Marching Orders
Author: lilith_queen
Genre: Gen
Rating: T
Warning(s): None, although I'm sure it could use some expanding--I'm just not sure how to make it better.
Characters: Blouse/Polly, Lord Rust, OCs
Summary: Takes place after "The Ghosts of Borogravia." Lord Rust is a jerk, and his army isn't much better. Polly is hurt. Blouse is Not Pleased.
Sam Ibbles hated marching. True, he had signed up for the military, but his specialty was numbers. His desk job in the Communications Department had offered very little time for exercise, and he stumbled several times on the uneven ground. But as he walked, he couldn’t help but feel proud. He had been picked, out of the entire army, to accompany Major Blouse and Sergeant Perks as part of their strike team.
The officer and his sergeant were travelling in front of him. Blouse slouched in the saddle, allowing Sergeant Perks to guide his skinny gray mare while he consulted a map. The dim sun glinted off his helmet and her blond curls. As he watched, she turned to look up at him. Sam turned faintly pink; to watch them interact was to feel like an intruder. His gaze skipped to the short girl marching near them, Private von Pravda.
As though she could sense him staring, she turned and grinned at him. Face now bright red, he stopped marching and smiled back.
The man behind him-an Ankh-Morporkian lieutenant-smacked him across the back of the head, making his helmet ring. “Hey, keep moving!”
He winced, hunched his skinny shoulders, and continued the march.
&
At the border of Zlobenia, the army made camp. Lisabeta von Pravda made her way through the campground, a crossbow and a pair of rabbits slung over her shoulder. As one of the only women in the army, she was sharing a tent with the sergeant and Corporal Maladict. It was a vaguely terrifying thought. Sergeant Perks, although very fair, was tough as nails, and Maladict was…well, a vampire, reformed or not. She knew vampires.
Although they weren’t the only Borogravian troops attached to Lord Rust’s regiment-she knew for a fact that the Twelfth Foot and the First Heavy Cavalry were around somewhere-the army was still overwhelmingly Ankh-Morporkian. As she stepped around a group of officers, a scarred captain rose and stopped her. “Hey, girlie. What’ve you got there?”
She held up the rabbits.
He made a grab for them. “Well, give ‘em here, then! We could use some grub.”
She pulled away with a glare. “Sorry, sir. This is for my sergeant.”
The man growled. “Don’t give me that cheek!”
Lisabeta gulped as she heard footsteps behind her, followed by a familiar voice snapping, “I’ll thank you not to terrorize my troops, sir! She’s carrying my dinner, sir!”
He looked past Lisabeta to Polly. The woman glared at him, resting one hand on the hilt of her cutlass in a manner that was almost but not quite a threat. For a moment, he appeared to seriously weigh his chances; as he opened his mouth to speak, one of the other Ankh-Morporkian officers laid a hand on his arm. “It’s not worth it, Bill.”
He sat down.
Polly smiled at the older girl. “Let’s get those rabbits cooked. I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry.”
They continued to their tent, finding their way by the smell of Maladict’s coffee.
&
“You, private! Unload this!”
Josef Deary flinched. He was tired of being shouted at and made to carry heavy things, just because of his height and strength. Sergeant Perks shouted too, but at least she used his name. Still, he didn’t have a choice but to trudge up to where an Ankh-Morporkian officer was waiting impatiently by a loaded cart.
He had just manhandled the first barrel to the ground when Corporal Maladict strode up. He tried not to blush; truthfully, he had always been rather in awe of the vampire woman. Even after they had been on the road for several weeks, she was unruffled. Her eyes flickered from him to the officer, who was lounging against the side of the cart with a cigarette. “You’ll have to find someone else to unload that cart, sir. Major Blouse needs to confer with his men.”
The man gave her a lazy look. “He’s busy.”
Maladict glared. “The major wants him. If you need his services, you’ll have to ask him. And I’m sure a Borogravian major outranks an Ankh-Morpork lieutenant, sir.”
He glared back. Josef decided he must be either very brave or suicidal. “I’ll tell Lord Rust about this.”
“Go right ahead, sir.” She made a beckoning motion. “Come along, Joe.”
He went.
&
“Sir, I really must protest.” Blouse tried to keep his voice level, but his frustration bled through. He had been in the middle of debriefing his troops when Rust had rode up, all pride and sneers on a jet-black horse, and attempted to commandeer them. “My men are not your scouts.”
Rust’s moustache bristled. “Your men are skirmishers! What are they for, if not scouts?”
He paused. Truthfully, the group everyone was calling the “Ghosts” would make fairly good scouts, but that wasn’t their intended purpose. “In short, sir, they keep the Zlobenians ‘off your back.’ They must be left free to do that; their skills are wasted if they are shackled to guard posts.”
“You want to be free?” Rust glared at Blouse and waved a hand at the Borogravian privates, who were eyeing him warily. “Then go! Take your-your men into the mountains, skulk around like cowards, and try to deceive the Zlobenians.”
Blouse watched him mount and ride off. What am I going to do? I went into this mission with the expectation of his regiment’s support. Without it… He shook his head. I managed before, and I will do it again. My troops need me. “Men, from now on we travel alone. We will meet up with the army again at Rigour.”
Polly raised her voice. “You heard the major! Ghosts, move out!”
&
The Ghosts traveled through Zlobenia as Spune turned into Sektober, keeping well away from the roads. Blouse had left his horse with the army, and now continued on foot with the rest of them. All of them were clad nearly identically; plain helmets, plain breastplates, and heavy cloaks and scarves covered their uniforms. Even so, Polly shivered as the wind picked up.
As they approached a small stand of spruces, Maladict held up a hand for them to stop. Polly and Blouse drew level with her, and she muttered out of the side of her mouth, “Just beyond those trees. Four, maybe five men.”
Polly turned to look back at the privates. Igor was struggling with his pack; as she watched, Josef helped him steady it. Sam brought up the rear, wheezing slightly and leaning on every available surface as he went. Lisabeta seemed unwinded, and saluted smartly as Polly approached them. “What are your orders, Sarge?”
“Joe, Liz, with me.”
They crept forwards. Through the trees, Polly saw five Zlobenian soldiers huddled together. One was rummaging through his bag, while another held a crossbow cocked in his hand almost casually. She realized she was shaking not from cold, but from anticipation and fear. She had killed before, at Bad Faschnsensse, but that had been different. There had been adrenaline there; she had been fighting in self-defense.
Before she could think any further, one of the men took out a clacks tube. Blouse’s voice, though it was only a whisper, sounded unnaturally loud in her ear.
“Now, sergeant!”
She swept out of the trees, cutlasses in hand. Behind her, Lisabeta shouldered her crossbow. As she moved to slash at the man with the tube, something slammed into and through her shoulder, stunning her with pain. She had enough time to register herself falling before her vision went dark.
&
No.
As she fell, the world seemed to slow to a crawl; Blouse heard nothing but his blood roaring in his ears. He was vaguely conscious of moving forward, of drawing his sword. The man who had shot his sergeant was even now dropping his crossbow and trying to unsheathe his blade.
He barely noticed the man fall, or the blood that stained his breastplate, as he turned around to see her. She was crumpled on her side, a crossbow bolt sticking out of her shoulder. As he took a step towards her, one of the other men drew an axe; Maladict slammed into him. Blouse ignored it and continued to Polly’s side. Her blood was horribly red as he knelt by her, heedless of the battle ending around him. God, Polly…
Igor joined him. Blouse did not look at him. “Let me look at her, thur.”
Even to himself, his voice seemed to come from very far away. “Fine.”
Polly was breathing slowly and erratically. Her skin was white. Almost without realizing it, he reached to brush a curl off her forehead.
“Um, sir? What should we, um…do?”
He looked up to meet Deary’s confused face as the boy pointed to a distant mountaintop, where a light was flashing. “…Get out the clacks tube. Private Ibbles, get the code book. You are to tell them we are nine miles further south than we are, and that there is a large regiment heading towards the Velt Keep. Corporal Maladict, Private von Pravda, you will bury these men.” His head swiveled towards Igor. “And you…help her.”
To give Igor room to work, he stood up and looked at the battlefield. One man lay on his back, an arrow in his throat. Another had been stabbed repeatedly, while two others…had been taken care of by Maladict. He winced and looked away.
“Thur, thith arrow needth to come out. Can you hold her thtill?”
Against his better judgment, Blouse turned back to where Igor knelt by Polly’s side. He had pulled her breastplate and jacket off and wadded the latter under her head as a pillow. The arrow had sunk deep into her left shoulder; as he sat down next to her, he was struck by how small she seemed. Hesitantly, he gripped her shoulders. “This will hurt her.”
“I have taken the liberty of induthing unconsciouthneth. She won’t feel a thing.”
Blouse shut his eyes as Igor pulled Polly’s shirt open and tried to ignore the squelching of the arrow being pulled out.
“The arrow wath in deep. She will recover, but I can’t thay how the uthe of her arm will be affected.”
Oh, no…oh, Polly… He held her tighter, feeling her pulse pound.
Behind him, Maladict coughed. “Permission to scout out a suitable base for the sarge to recover in, sir?”
“Permission granted, corporal.”
&
They found a log cabin, long since abandoned. The windows were gone, but it had a roof, a few rickety chairs, and a bed with a straw mattress that didn’t appear to have anything living in it. On this bed, Polly slept. Her shoulder had been stitched up and bandaged tightly, and a request from Igor that she be kept warm had resulted in half the squad donating their blankets to the cause.
The Ghosts were scouting, on Blouse’s request. He sat in a chair by her side, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. Polly…oh, why did this have to happen? This is my fault. I led you to this. If it hadn’t been for my overconfidence, you would be safe. And now, you… He shut his eyes as a vivid image seared itself into his mind; Polly fighting with a cutlass in either hand, a vision of elegant ferocity. You might be consigned to a desk for the rest of your career. I don’t know if you could stand that. I don’t know if I could stand that.
He took his glasses off and wiped at his eyes. “Polly…” His voice was barely above a whisper. “I…care about you. Very much. I could not stand to lose you.”
As he covered her hand with his own, he thought he felt her fingers twitch.
&
She swam up from the seas of oblivion slowly at first, until the pain hit. It was dull, but her shoulder throbbed. This was soon offset by the fact that she was warm, deliciously warm, and there was a hand covering her own. She twitched, once, and sighed. The hand withdrew.
A series of footsteps heralded the arrival of more people into…wherever she was. Blouse’s voice sounded, quietly, nearby. “I believe she’s ‘coming around,’ as they say.”
Polly opened her eyes. Maladict hovered nearby, and she smiled to see her. “How are you feeling?”
She tried to heave herself up on her elbows, only for Igor to gently force her back down. “Thorry, thargeant. That thhoulder needth to retht.”
And so, for the next two weeks, she rested and recuperated, even as they began to travel again. Josef took her pack in addition to his own, and Blouse offered her a hand whenever he thought she might need it. She always declined, trying not to blush.
In her sleep, she had thought she heard his voice.
Title: Marching Orders
Author: lilith_queen
Genre: Gen
Rating: T
Warning(s): None, although I'm sure it could use some expanding--I'm just not sure how to make it better.
Characters: Blouse/Polly, Lord Rust, OCs
Summary: Takes place after "The Ghosts of Borogravia." Lord Rust is a jerk, and his army isn't much better. Polly is hurt. Blouse is Not Pleased.
Sam Ibbles hated marching. True, he had signed up for the military, but his specialty was numbers. His desk job in the Communications Department had offered very little time for exercise, and he stumbled several times on the uneven ground. But as he walked, he couldn’t help but feel proud. He had been picked, out of the entire army, to accompany Major Blouse and Sergeant Perks as part of their strike team.
The officer and his sergeant were travelling in front of him. Blouse slouched in the saddle, allowing Sergeant Perks to guide his skinny gray mare while he consulted a map. The dim sun glinted off his helmet and her blond curls. As he watched, she turned to look up at him. Sam turned faintly pink; to watch them interact was to feel like an intruder. His gaze skipped to the short girl marching near them, Private von Pravda.
As though she could sense him staring, she turned and grinned at him. Face now bright red, he stopped marching and smiled back.
The man behind him-an Ankh-Morporkian lieutenant-smacked him across the back of the head, making his helmet ring. “Hey, keep moving!”
He winced, hunched his skinny shoulders, and continued the march.
&
At the border of Zlobenia, the army made camp. Lisabeta von Pravda made her way through the campground, a crossbow and a pair of rabbits slung over her shoulder. As one of the only women in the army, she was sharing a tent with the sergeant and Corporal Maladict. It was a vaguely terrifying thought. Sergeant Perks, although very fair, was tough as nails, and Maladict was…well, a vampire, reformed or not. She knew vampires.
Although they weren’t the only Borogravian troops attached to Lord Rust’s regiment-she knew for a fact that the Twelfth Foot and the First Heavy Cavalry were around somewhere-the army was still overwhelmingly Ankh-Morporkian. As she stepped around a group of officers, a scarred captain rose and stopped her. “Hey, girlie. What’ve you got there?”
She held up the rabbits.
He made a grab for them. “Well, give ‘em here, then! We could use some grub.”
She pulled away with a glare. “Sorry, sir. This is for my sergeant.”
The man growled. “Don’t give me that cheek!”
Lisabeta gulped as she heard footsteps behind her, followed by a familiar voice snapping, “I’ll thank you not to terrorize my troops, sir! She’s carrying my dinner, sir!”
He looked past Lisabeta to Polly. The woman glared at him, resting one hand on the hilt of her cutlass in a manner that was almost but not quite a threat. For a moment, he appeared to seriously weigh his chances; as he opened his mouth to speak, one of the other Ankh-Morporkian officers laid a hand on his arm. “It’s not worth it, Bill.”
He sat down.
Polly smiled at the older girl. “Let’s get those rabbits cooked. I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry.”
They continued to their tent, finding their way by the smell of Maladict’s coffee.
&
“You, private! Unload this!”
Josef Deary flinched. He was tired of being shouted at and made to carry heavy things, just because of his height and strength. Sergeant Perks shouted too, but at least she used his name. Still, he didn’t have a choice but to trudge up to where an Ankh-Morporkian officer was waiting impatiently by a loaded cart.
He had just manhandled the first barrel to the ground when Corporal Maladict strode up. He tried not to blush; truthfully, he had always been rather in awe of the vampire woman. Even after they had been on the road for several weeks, she was unruffled. Her eyes flickered from him to the officer, who was lounging against the side of the cart with a cigarette. “You’ll have to find someone else to unload that cart, sir. Major Blouse needs to confer with his men.”
The man gave her a lazy look. “He’s busy.”
Maladict glared. “The major wants him. If you need his services, you’ll have to ask him. And I’m sure a Borogravian major outranks an Ankh-Morpork lieutenant, sir.”
He glared back. Josef decided he must be either very brave or suicidal. “I’ll tell Lord Rust about this.”
“Go right ahead, sir.” She made a beckoning motion. “Come along, Joe.”
He went.
&
“Sir, I really must protest.” Blouse tried to keep his voice level, but his frustration bled through. He had been in the middle of debriefing his troops when Rust had rode up, all pride and sneers on a jet-black horse, and attempted to commandeer them. “My men are not your scouts.”
Rust’s moustache bristled. “Your men are skirmishers! What are they for, if not scouts?”
He paused. Truthfully, the group everyone was calling the “Ghosts” would make fairly good scouts, but that wasn’t their intended purpose. “In short, sir, they keep the Zlobenians ‘off your back.’ They must be left free to do that; their skills are wasted if they are shackled to guard posts.”
“You want to be free?” Rust glared at Blouse and waved a hand at the Borogravian privates, who were eyeing him warily. “Then go! Take your-your men into the mountains, skulk around like cowards, and try to deceive the Zlobenians.”
Blouse watched him mount and ride off. What am I going to do? I went into this mission with the expectation of his regiment’s support. Without it… He shook his head. I managed before, and I will do it again. My troops need me. “Men, from now on we travel alone. We will meet up with the army again at Rigour.”
Polly raised her voice. “You heard the major! Ghosts, move out!”
&
The Ghosts traveled through Zlobenia as Spune turned into Sektober, keeping well away from the roads. Blouse had left his horse with the army, and now continued on foot with the rest of them. All of them were clad nearly identically; plain helmets, plain breastplates, and heavy cloaks and scarves covered their uniforms. Even so, Polly shivered as the wind picked up.
As they approached a small stand of spruces, Maladict held up a hand for them to stop. Polly and Blouse drew level with her, and she muttered out of the side of her mouth, “Just beyond those trees. Four, maybe five men.”
Polly turned to look back at the privates. Igor was struggling with his pack; as she watched, Josef helped him steady it. Sam brought up the rear, wheezing slightly and leaning on every available surface as he went. Lisabeta seemed unwinded, and saluted smartly as Polly approached them. “What are your orders, Sarge?”
“Joe, Liz, with me.”
They crept forwards. Through the trees, Polly saw five Zlobenian soldiers huddled together. One was rummaging through his bag, while another held a crossbow cocked in his hand almost casually. She realized she was shaking not from cold, but from anticipation and fear. She had killed before, at Bad Faschnsensse, but that had been different. There had been adrenaline there; she had been fighting in self-defense.
Before she could think any further, one of the men took out a clacks tube. Blouse’s voice, though it was only a whisper, sounded unnaturally loud in her ear.
“Now, sergeant!”
She swept out of the trees, cutlasses in hand. Behind her, Lisabeta shouldered her crossbow. As she moved to slash at the man with the tube, something slammed into and through her shoulder, stunning her with pain. She had enough time to register herself falling before her vision went dark.
&
No.
As she fell, the world seemed to slow to a crawl; Blouse heard nothing but his blood roaring in his ears. He was vaguely conscious of moving forward, of drawing his sword. The man who had shot his sergeant was even now dropping his crossbow and trying to unsheathe his blade.
He barely noticed the man fall, or the blood that stained his breastplate, as he turned around to see her. She was crumpled on her side, a crossbow bolt sticking out of her shoulder. As he took a step towards her, one of the other men drew an axe; Maladict slammed into him. Blouse ignored it and continued to Polly’s side. Her blood was horribly red as he knelt by her, heedless of the battle ending around him. God, Polly…
Igor joined him. Blouse did not look at him. “Let me look at her, thur.”
Even to himself, his voice seemed to come from very far away. “Fine.”
Polly was breathing slowly and erratically. Her skin was white. Almost without realizing it, he reached to brush a curl off her forehead.
“Um, sir? What should we, um…do?”
He looked up to meet Deary’s confused face as the boy pointed to a distant mountaintop, where a light was flashing. “…Get out the clacks tube. Private Ibbles, get the code book. You are to tell them we are nine miles further south than we are, and that there is a large regiment heading towards the Velt Keep. Corporal Maladict, Private von Pravda, you will bury these men.” His head swiveled towards Igor. “And you…help her.”
To give Igor room to work, he stood up and looked at the battlefield. One man lay on his back, an arrow in his throat. Another had been stabbed repeatedly, while two others…had been taken care of by Maladict. He winced and looked away.
“Thur, thith arrow needth to come out. Can you hold her thtill?”
Against his better judgment, Blouse turned back to where Igor knelt by Polly’s side. He had pulled her breastplate and jacket off and wadded the latter under her head as a pillow. The arrow had sunk deep into her left shoulder; as he sat down next to her, he was struck by how small she seemed. Hesitantly, he gripped her shoulders. “This will hurt her.”
“I have taken the liberty of induthing unconsciouthneth. She won’t feel a thing.”
Blouse shut his eyes as Igor pulled Polly’s shirt open and tried to ignore the squelching of the arrow being pulled out.
“The arrow wath in deep. She will recover, but I can’t thay how the uthe of her arm will be affected.”
Oh, no…oh, Polly… He held her tighter, feeling her pulse pound.
Behind him, Maladict coughed. “Permission to scout out a suitable base for the sarge to recover in, sir?”
“Permission granted, corporal.”
&
They found a log cabin, long since abandoned. The windows were gone, but it had a roof, a few rickety chairs, and a bed with a straw mattress that didn’t appear to have anything living in it. On this bed, Polly slept. Her shoulder had been stitched up and bandaged tightly, and a request from Igor that she be kept warm had resulted in half the squad donating their blankets to the cause.
The Ghosts were scouting, on Blouse’s request. He sat in a chair by her side, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. Polly…oh, why did this have to happen? This is my fault. I led you to this. If it hadn’t been for my overconfidence, you would be safe. And now, you… He shut his eyes as a vivid image seared itself into his mind; Polly fighting with a cutlass in either hand, a vision of elegant ferocity. You might be consigned to a desk for the rest of your career. I don’t know if you could stand that. I don’t know if I could stand that.
He took his glasses off and wiped at his eyes. “Polly…” His voice was barely above a whisper. “I…care about you. Very much. I could not stand to lose you.”
As he covered her hand with his own, he thought he felt her fingers twitch.
&
She swam up from the seas of oblivion slowly at first, until the pain hit. It was dull, but her shoulder throbbed. This was soon offset by the fact that she was warm, deliciously warm, and there was a hand covering her own. She twitched, once, and sighed. The hand withdrew.
A series of footsteps heralded the arrival of more people into…wherever she was. Blouse’s voice sounded, quietly, nearby. “I believe she’s ‘coming around,’ as they say.”
Polly opened her eyes. Maladict hovered nearby, and she smiled to see her. “How are you feeling?”
She tried to heave herself up on her elbows, only for Igor to gently force her back down. “Thorry, thargeant. That thhoulder needth to retht.”
And so, for the next two weeks, she rested and recuperated, even as they began to travel again. Josef took her pack in addition to his own, and Blouse offered her a hand whenever he thought she might need it. She always declined, trying not to blush.
In her sleep, she had thought she heard his voice.