Wherein Captain is morose (Ch 10)

 “We’re not surviving till winter. Without a major effort, we’re not surviving to see the next Orphic caravan.”

Illdo was none too happy to hear the captain of the guard in so melancholy a mood. In line with most of the shield, Illdo found the captain’s tone all the more concerning than the accuracy of the foretelling. After all, impending destruction was impending. But one could always keep a sense of humor.

“You’ve been down ever since those two troublemakers got here, captain. Just let them go or execute them, either way we stand a chance. What you’re doing is just setting the Pontiac and the keepers against us and bringing none of the warlords towards us. Did you ever send that message to Worstone? Just a squad of riflemen would more than offset all you’re worried about.”

The Captain didn’t bother staring at Illdo. He didn’t bother arguing. He didn’t bother responding. Instead, he glanced about at the despondent and atrophying mess hall that a few senior officers were now occupying. The cook, playing now the role of bartender, put a mug full of something foamy and foul smelling firmly in the Captain’s hand. He hadn’t realized he was standing at the bar, but now the mug was in his hand, he wasn’t going to let it go to waste. He drank the foul concoction, just as he drank in the decrepit state of the shield, or the guard, or whatever the two organizations had become over the years of intermingling and crossover. The officers were in uniforms rumpled and slept in, the wood planks that constituted the bar were damp and eaten through by mold. The windows were cracked and covered over in a film of cobwebs and various dead insectoids. Early summer light fell through skylight, though Captain still suspected it was secretly just a hole in the ceiling and no one could ever be bothered to fix the thing. With a deep, heavy sigh, he sank into the stool next to Illdo. It creaked, just as he’d expected it to. Illdo looked on, gray eyes sympathetic if just a tinge scornful.

“Should we just give it all up? Run away and save what we can? Get my name back, get my soul back?”

Illdo’s eyebrows raised, but only enough to note interest, not dismay.

“Come now captain, of all the people who deserve to lose their name, their history, you’re… alright, you’re middle of the pack. You’ve done no great sin that I can name. But It’d feel silly to just be a person again, after looking down from on high for so long, wouldn’t it? Anyways, you’re the one saying we’re doomed, so run away if you like. The shield will stand strong.”

Captain took heart at the attitude and at the spirit, if not at the exact words. Softly but surely, hesitance barely shining through, he asked:

“And what will the shield do when the corps reaches Tellyphill? We all know they’re coming here. Who’s going to save little old Tellyphill?”

The bitterness was impossible to keep out of his voice. The pain at seeing the end of an era, like seeing a color die and fade to dull gray. Being a student of history, Captain knew only too well how scorned the men of his generation would be for letting a state hundreds of years old die. Illdo, a better student if slightly less diligent, knew how little this future esteem mattered. Moreover, he knew that if Tellyphill was truly gone, its failors wouldn’t be scorned, but forgotten.

“Like I said, let’s try. We either grovel to the Pontiac and let her preachers and rangers back in…”

The deathly stare that earned from Captain was enough to stop Illdo from continuing that line of thought, even in the jovial sarcastic tone he’d been using.

“We could reach out to the keepers once more, see if their armies want to have an inland adventure to save the Pontiac’s staunchest ally?”

Captain looked back into his drink, mumbling something about what a mess they’d all ended up in. Illdo was tempted to agree, but wisely held his tongue.

“We could follow my advice and reach out to Worstone for help. Mighty as the Dallot Corps may be, a hundred riflemen will give them a pasting to remember. And there’s still time! We can gain the trust of the northern warlords, if only for a few months. Then have them die at the Corps’ hand, two birds with one stone.”

“That won’t be enough Illdo, and you know it. Even if every warlord and statelet from the Silver sea to Pontiac’s point gathered, Tellyphill will burn.”

Illdo glanced about to make sure none was overhearing. Were the times any less desperate, the Captain of the Shield discussing delicate and controversial foreign policy matters with a senior officer would be cause for great gossip and spying. As things were, most were preoccupied with some other matter. Oh, eyes and ears and man and beast were overlooking, but none would note anything said as overly important or worthy of remembrance. Satisfied, Illdo returned to the Captain with a low, mischievously confident whisper.

“So, Tellyphill will burn. Do you plan to burn along with it?”

“It only seems right. Maybe I can be remembered a brave failure, a romantic and a warrior if I at least die bravely.”

Illdo looked on in disappointment.

“I need to go, Captain. If you really want to go through with burning, then we’ll burn. But we don’t have to. We can lose Tellyphill, but maybe we can rebuild. Let the Corps ravage, but save what we can, save what strength we can, save what wealth we can. So what, the empire will be gone? It’s been gone in truth for most of a century. Who cares that it won’t be Tellyphill anymore? Nations change everywhere else, don’t they? The Danubic league usurped some dozen smaller statelets, who in turn usurped some previous northern conqueror who in turn conquered most of what we now call Jepchy. So, time turns. Who cares?”

As the Captain rose in disgust, Illdo realized he’d gone too far. Convincing the Captain of the shield to abandon Tellyphill would be a truly monumental task, one that he couldn’t achieve alone, or with the time left.

“Come on Captain! At least beg Worstone for help! Please!”

Captain glanced back at Illdo.

“Fine. You know what, Illdo? Fine. Beg. Grovel. Present yourself as the head of some faction vying for control of the shield. Say you’ll do anything for their support.”

“What? No! We’re not doing this. Do you want Tellyphill to survive?”

“You’ve just admitted you don’t care what happens to the city. What do you care if we end up a dependency? Better than dying and burning, no?”

Illdo blanched and looked back at his mug. He drained the concoction, let the bubbles and the alcohol go straight to his head. This brought an unexpected clarity to his thought; and so, he let Captain go. The bartender refilled his mug, noted the time, and shooed the officers out of the mess hall: lunch was soon to come, and it was time to be head cook.

As Captain headed out to another day of aimless supervision, he considered the men he saw for what seemed the first time. Who was diligent? Who was energetic? Who was lazy, underutilized, unwilling, uninformed, ambitious, creative, obedient? Was anyone in the right place? Baking sun hazed his thoughts and dulled his wits, and yet the day felt so darkly gray. Muffled footsteps on the cobbled ground only just turned his head the fraction needed to glean Felton’s tall form approach. The man spoke softly through a thick naturally multicolored moustache, one any army but Worstone’s would admit deserved seniority in the mess hall at the very least. The shield was in no shape to observe such proper protocol; Felton remained as rank and file as the shield allowed.

“Captain? Are we even an army anymore?”

Captain’s eyes lifted at the momentary shade a passing bird provided. Where did the birds go during the spring rains? He supposed they find somewhere to hide.

“You’d hope not, else you wouldn’t approach the general in so hasty and casual a manner, soldier.”

Felton drooped just a little at the reprimand. Falling in step to match Captains dreary, determined plod, Felton pondered whether Captain was more the shield’s general or Tellyphill’s despot.

“People are scared, Captain. They’re running south. South! Maybe the Khazar will give them a warm welcome?”

The sky was clear of clouds. Were the flowers and shrubs that had sprung into every crack of the stone city already wilting? How could it be so hot?

“It’s only all that must be passing in due time, soldier. It must be, no? All things fade away.”

Silence reigned for a moment. A child had somehow found his way into the courtyard where soldiers should’ve been training. A stack of liquid filled balloons barely contained in his arms. As he passed by the two silent men, Captain grabbed one and squeezed. Colorful liquid sprayed in every direction, wetting the two men, the child, and a particularly lucky specimen of thorn that had made its forever home at just the height needed to seriously injure a passing pack animal. The child babbled something or other in great excitement.

“Do you think stories fade, Captain? Do you think, when Tellyphill is nothing, but the place fairytales are set, that the famed Captain of the guard, point of the shield, will be remembered? Think he’ll have a place?”

Neither a man of the shield of the guards should’ve been talking in quite that way about legacy, but Felton couldn’t be bothered to remember why. Perhaps another antiquated tradition silently flouted?

“My legacy will be dung if that’s what you’re hinting at. Perhaps the legacy of everything Tellyphill ever was will be dung. Just another flash in the pan between warlords and savages.”

“Centuries of dominion unmatched across the plains can hardly be remembered so poorly, can it? Just because in the end all those venerable institutions melded together, and a trumped-up soldier usurped the government?”

This was truly a strange thing to say, not just for a member of the shield, but for a resident of Tellyphill. Captain disliked such sardonic sarcasm at the best of times, as any true patriot did.

Felton gathered himself to continue, steeling his heart towards the pinpoint issue eating his heart.

“I think we should let them go.”

Flatly addressing the acting head of state and demanding he turn heel on his entire ideological bent should’ve been a terrifying and strange thing to do and hear, yet Captain found himself more shocked by Felton’s earlier glib cadence than by his demand.

“What should a soldier do when he believes his orders are wrong? What should a man do when obedience and morality intersect?”

“I don’t know Captain. I know that you chose to fight when the ‘emperor’ ordered surrender. I know you thought freedom more vital than obedience.”

Captain could no longer remember why he’d fought so hard. For what? For a few years of peace, years enough to shift history’s burden to his shoulders? A foolish move to be sure.

“You can’t speak to me like this anymore Felton.”

“What does it matter? The dignity of the office that great?”

The heat blazed. The insects roared and chirped. Those houses still inhabited were closed, in vain hope of catching what cold the city’s ancient systems could still produce. Felton couldn’t get another word out of Captain. Captain couldn’t get another thought out his head. The earthworks remained incomplete. And despite it all, the Dallot corps marched ever southwards.

“In war, preparation is everything. In life, preparation is everything. In war, luck can decide the day. In life, luck can decide the day. In war, men kill and endure so as not to die. In life, men live and endure for little more reason than routine.” - Memories of a warring Khazar, postscript.