EPISODE 1: wON'T BE LONG
PART TWO
THE ROAD, EXT, DAY
We hear marching feet and the blowing of pipes. The COMPANY is singing a bawdy marching song. One MALE VOCALIST and one FEMALE VOCALIST call out the refrain while the chorus joins in with the final word of each line.
MALE VOCALIST (CAPO CELIS):
Citizens, keep (KEEP!)
An eye on your wives (WIVES)!
The sons of war are marching (MARCHING!)
We’re on our way to find (FIND)
The Big Man’s bride (BRIDE!)
And we’ll climb into her parting (PARTING)!
FEMALE VOCALIST:
Citizens, keep (KEEP!)
An eye on your sons (SONS)!
The daughters of war are loose (LOOSE)!
We’ll climb the Big Man’s arse (ARSE)
And claim his shaft (SHAFT)
For our pleasure and use (USE)!
Behind the column, we hear the rattling of a cart. Sitting on board are TIMMER and DOGGED. TIMMER, reading, is tired and drained; DOGGED has noticed and is watching them carefully and with care.
They love one another deeply, but it’s the kind of sibling love that goes mostly unsaid.
TIMMER:
I can’t help but feel a little left out.
DOGGED:
We can ask Inkblot to write you another verse.
TIMMER audibly smirks but says nothing. DOGGED watches them closely.
DOGGED:
How are you feeling today, Timmer?
TIMMER:
(Honestly)
Like I killed him.
(Before DOGGED can reassure them)
Nothing needs to be said. I’m just tired.
DOGGED:
Fader didn’t say anything to upset you?
TIMMER:
Nothing worse than usual.
They ride on for a moment in silence.
DOGGED:
(Quietly confessing it)
He nearly turned down the chance yesterday. Threw a fit because he’d seen a dead-man’s-leg.
(Shaking her head)
Since Poorcock, he’s been…
TIMMER:
(Deadpan)
Erratic and spiteful.
DOGGED:
(A chiding note in her voice)
I’d have said low. Low and tired.
TIMMER:
He could be running naked in the fields shoving the dimboxes down one at a time and you’d still be too decent to call him mad.
DOGGED laughs, in spite of herself.
DOGGED:
When he’s calm, when he’s untroubled, giving orders, making plans - he’s still as good as he’s ever been. He’s a man you’d follow into the Neth.
You don’t see that side of him.
TIMMER:
He despises me too much to pretend.
DOGGED doesn’t know how to reply to that. They ride on in silence.
TIMMER:
A week before Poorcock, I saw him cursing at a water-mill because it had animate flesh turning the wheel. Raving and spitting. Like he thought it could hear him.
He’s who he’s always been. We’re the ones getting low and tired, after too long spent excusing him.
(Sourly)
Every town, every chance, it’s the same story:
(Putting on a voice)
“Forgive my fader’s hostility and lack of manners. You have to remember, he lost a war once.”
DOGGED:
Do you expect him to forget it?
TIMMER:
He’s a man who’s spent twenty years kicking the sea to death for getting his shoes wet.
(With a little bitter humour)
At least when he dies we know he won’t come back.
DOGGED:
Don’t.
TIMMER:
Oh, so he’ll quit before he dies?
DOGGED:
He needs money to quit.
TIMMER:
(Shrugging)
You’re running the company for him as it is. You’d be doing a damn sight better if he wasn’t around to trip you up.
(Sincerely)
We could buy him out-
DOGGED:
(Firmly but gently shutting down the topic)
He’s not ready. I’m not ready.
They keep riding in silence. Outside, the labouring DIMBOXES are in the vines, still repeating their mantra: "Pluck the grapes, gather the harvest."
DOGGED:
(Lightly changing the subject)
Why give them back their mouths? That’s something that’s never made sense to me. Why make them talk?
TIMMER:
It reassures us that the dimbox still serves their purpose. Who can tell what a silent slave is plotting?
Listen.
They ride in silence. And then we hear, somewhere out in the fields-
DIMBOX:
(Low and muttered)
-and then I told her, I told her, there’s no future for them that can’t dream, there’s no hope for them unwilling to take a leap, and she said, they’ll catch you and they’ll kill you, I said they’ll kill us all, why pretend otherwise? And she said, a little more life’s no small thing-
TIMMER:
One of them’s faltering. Remembering too much from when he was still breathing.
He’ll go into the thresher on the next rotation. Then he’ll be corpse-soil they can work however they please.
We hear approaching footsteps - and then FOAL clambers up into the wagon beside them. FOAL is cheerful and relaxed, even a little lackadaisacal. We might be inclined to underestimate them.
FOAL:
(Conversationally, regarding the DIMBOXES)
You know, they’ve got my fa out working the fields like that back home.
He died in a milling accident is the thing - he’s just got the one arm, and even that’s half-rotted. So they slung a harness over him, make him drag the plough.
Hurts to see him so undignified, but he’s got a workhorse spirit, I’ll tell you that.
Keeps at it through the rain and the blaze alike. And he never breaks for a douse of fog, as he did when he lived.
TIMMER:
He doesn’t have a choice in the matter, Foal. There’s not enough of him left in there to be idle.
FOAL:
Ma didn’t see it like that. Each morning for a fortnight she’d drag me out in front of him.
Try to catch his attention as he staggered on with his plough.
(Imitating his mother)
“You’re needed at home, Loose. You have responsibilities. I know you’re in there, so you can stop giving me that foolish look and just come on back to where you belong-”
DOGGED:
Did it work?
FOAL:
Well, Fa never said too much when he was living, so I didn’t have particularly lofty expectations from him myself.
One day the plough ran over her foot while she was talking, and after that we stopped going.
(Coming to the point)
Left, the catigern sends word; outriders have come back from the woods. We’ll be there by crown-noon.
DOGGED:
All right. Anything else?
FOAL:
(Nodding up to the sky)
Nothing from the cat, but - there’s a balloon been following us ever since the Lick. Might be worth keeping an eye on.
DOGGED glances up into the sky. She can’t see anything.
DOGGED:
A balloon? Where?
FOAL pushes the wagon cover to one side.
FOAL:
Watch between the clouds, on the pateward side of the hills. Awful small, but it’s there.
DOGGED stares - and then she sees it.
DOGGED:
(Impressed)
Your eyes, Foal. I don’t know how you saw it.
(Staring at the balloon)
It’s moving against the wind. How is that possible?
TIMMER:
Sewn from corpseflesh. The dimboxes are emptied out, stitched into the canvas of the balloon. The gas inside the bodies heats up, keeps it airborne. Can be directed as you please via mouth and, uh, arse.
FOAL:
Clever.
TIMMER:
(Simply)
It is. Just don’t let our fader see it or we’ll be in for another raging fit.
DOGGED:
Keep an eye on it, Foal. Come to me before the catigern if you see it getting close.
FOAL:
All right.
(Chattily)
Left, it’s a stone-man we’re facing on this chance, I hear.
FOAL is casual as ever, but they're trying to deliver a warning. DOGGED picks up on this immediately.
DOGGED:
How’s the company been taking that?
FOAL:
Lot of chatter. Little more than usual, maybe.
DOGGED:
Anyone we should be worried about?
FOAL:
I’d keep half an eye on Lively Jerns and her mates. You didn’t hear that from me, of course.
DOGGED:
Thanks, Foal.
FOAL hops back off the wagon and strolls away, whistling.
TIMMER:
(Eyebrow raised)
Should we expect a mutiny?
DOGGED:
I’ll handle it.
(Almost laughing as TIMMER looks sceptically back at her)
I will, I’ll handle it. You don’t need to worry so much, Timmer.
TIMMER:
Doctors don’t worry. We watch very carefully for signs of spreading infection.
Silence.
DOGGED:
Did you write that letter to the surgeon’s college in the end?
TIMMER:
Left it too late.
This time last summer I could have been a bright young talent who’d fallen in with the wrong crowd, a prospect worth saving. Now I’m an ageing coldcook who saws off soldiers’ legs. I’ve become the wrong crowd.
DOGGED:
You’re still very young.
TIMMER:
And more disreputable by the day.
DOGGED:
I just thought it’d be a way of getting you away from Fader, perhaps.
TIMMER:
(Softly rejecting the idea)
But then I’d have to get away from you. Wouldn’t I?
This is ‘No. I love you’.
DOGGED:
(Gently amused, saying ‘I love you’ right back)
Yes, I suppose you would.
The wagon rattles on, bearing them away.
DOGGED:
(Narrating)
And then, I recall, we come to a high stone ridge overlooking the trade-road. Blooms of bright yellow gorse and heather that springs beneath your feet like a mattress.
Beyond that, a dried-out river, and further yet - is a tide of darkness behind prison bars of pine.
The trees of the Lug stand impossibly tall and without room for deviation; straight upwards into the smog-packed sky, spaced apart at perfectly even intervals.
The stragglers and misfit pines died in shadow centuries ago, I suppose. Perfection is all that’s left.
The Patriot does not come out to meet us. Lucky, the men tell each other.
And so we begin our work. Erecting our ragged tents, unloading the cannon and powder.
A small and frightened circle of red canvas, and at the camp’s height the twisted wooden figurehead of Our Lady Far-And-A-Wailing keeps watch over us all.
ENCAMPMENT, EXT, NOON
A handcart is lowered with a thump - and a heavy grunt of exertion from LIVELY and PEEVE. They breathe hard. In the background we can hear the faint sounds of the camp being set up - horses, cries, barked orders.
LIVELY:
All right, let’s get it down.
(Straining)
Lower it onto its side. Three, two, one.
They lower a heavy barrel off the handcart, wheezing as it hits the ground. LIVELY pats PEEVE on the back.
LIVELY:
We’ll take it slow.
CAPO CELIS, a senior officer, comes marching past.
CAPO CELIS:
(Stopping)
Get that powder up the hill, gentlemen!
(Not getting an answer)
Come on, put your backs into it!
LIVELY:
(Quietly)
Now there’s another one who could use a knife in the gut.
(Calling out loud)
Gladly, capo! There in a trice, don’t you fret!
CAPO CELIS interprets LIVELY's cheeriness correctly as insubordination.
CAPO CELIS:
What’s that ugly smirk on your face for, Lively?
LIVELY:
(Calling out like they’re having a friendly chat)
Nothing but a part and parcel of my cheerful nature, capo! Had it since I was born, can’t be shaken off! It’s what the old earl named me for!
CAPO CELIS:
(More annoyed and unwilling to engage)
Get it moving!
LIVELY:
(Calling)
Right away, capo, thank you again!
(Softly)
Didn’t join this company to be howled at like a slave, Peeve, nor to be worked like a dimbox. It’s not what it ought to be.
Not to besmirch the dead, of course. I hear there’s old General Copestake out walking the frontier again, hero of the Little Winter War from two centuries back, and he’s taking in breathers to join his regiment.
That’d be a man you can stand behind.
PEEVE:
(Softly)
Once this chance is done, we should make off.
MOREL is approaching across the ridge. LIVELY nods towards him.
LIVELY:
Not without our pay, and who’s to say that mad old dog will give it to us?
(Calling out)
A fine afternoons for a roust, catigern! Good day to you!
MOREL ignores LIVELY. He walks on to the edge of the ridge to join CAPO CELIS. He unfurls a telescope.
He’s sharp, forthright, and authoritative; it’s like he’s snapped into a familiar routine, or like he’s privately savouring the fight to come.
MOREL:
There’s the wood. Capo, I want watchers on the ridge, eyes on the treeline. Sound out as soon as you see movement.
CAPO CELIS:
Aye, cat.
MOREL:
Hold on a moment.
(Calling out)
Dogged!
Examine the field of play for me. Eyes aren’t what they were.
MOREL hands the telescope to DOGGED. This is a test and nothing else - his eyes are fine.
DOGGED observes the plain through the telescope.
DOGGED:
How far to the treeline?
MOREL:
(He’s already been briefed on this)
Little over half a mile. Cannon’ll make the distance so long as the weather stays clear.
DOGGED:
Lot of open ground. That’s good. We can lay the charges between the river and the road, avoid getting too close to the woods.
How’s the soil down there?
MOREL:
Dried-out and rock-hard. Take an hour or more to lay the charges.
(Shrugging; taking it on the chin)
It couldn’t all go our way.
(Drawing her to a conclusion)
How will the company stand, do you think? Skirmish positions along the ridge?
DOGGED:
(Thinking)
I wouldn’t. We need the stone-man running into our charges; spread ourselves too thin and it’s got more lines of attack against us. I’d keep a tight formation, two ranks, beginning at that old pine.
But, ah-
But she sounds uncertain, and MOREL picks up on it.
MOREL:
(Knowing full well what the answer is)
What’s worrying you, Dogged?
DOGGED:
If it reaches our lines, and we’re tightly packed - that’s a good way to lose ten men in one giant footfall.
MOREL looks at her. He is quietly pleased.
MOREL:
(Meant reassuringly, with a pat on her shoulder)
We gamble lives or we expend them. That’s all this work can be. A tight formation is the right choice.
(Quietly, as if it’s not meant to be heard by others)
Well done.
(Calling out)
Blot! Where are you, damn your eyes and fingers?
We hear INKBLOT, the linguist, hurrying up. A studious, peevish scholar.
MOREL doesn’t like him at all.
INKBLOT:
Here, Catigern. Ready to serve.
MOREL:
I need a song that can shatter stone.
INKBLOT:
(Taking a breath)
So. Hyrenian statuary from that period is likely to be marmaron. That presents difficulties. Marmaron is obstinate in the face of persuasion, it resists the urge to collapse; it remembers when it was dolomite, not when it was sand.
MOREL:
(Without patience)
However-
INKBLOT:
However, we might direct our yearningsong towards the hardened striations within the rock, urging them to return to their sedimentary repose. Everything yearns to be what it was. Sand once, sand again.
It takes MOREL and DOGGED a moment to catch up to this.
DOGGED:
(Realising what’s meant)
We collapse the veins in the marble. Break it down that way.
INKBLOT:
So long as there are sufficient striations to cause a collapse, yes.
If that should fail - well, I have a pair of alternative hypotheses.
MOREL just glares at him until he gets to the point.
INKBLOT:
There’s an old and very popular Hyrenian lullaby. You might have heard it. Blue Flowers. It’s sort of tragic, really, one of those songs that’s far too cruel for the children who love to hear it-
(Faltering under MOREL's stare)
The Patriot was once a memorial to the unknown soldier. Bodies would have been buried beneath it, perhaps inside it. Over the centuries it will have ingested a great many of their memories.
MOREL:
(Incredulously, to DOGGED)
He wants to sing it to sleep.
INKBLOT:
(A little hurt)
Every Hyrenian child hears that song. It’s a powerful collective memory.
DOGGED:
(More gently)
What’s the other idea?
INKBLOT:
If we were to imitate the birdsong-
MOREL:
(Cutting INKBLOT off)
Dedicate yourself entirely to thoughts of explosions going forward. The plain between the ridge and the road - I want it rigged to blast the damned thing to rubble.
INKBLOT salutes and scurries off.
MOREL:
(A touch of love buried in the snapped orders.)
Dogged, see to your troops, if you please. Tight ranks. Arse to elbow.
DOGGED:
(Touched in turn by the appreciation)
Aye, cat.
She turns and strides out across the ridge. She calls to TIMMER as she passes-
DOGGED:
(Cheerfully calling out)
Timmer! I need your tent on the pateward side of the ridge!
TIMMER:
(Calling out in acknowledgement)
Your will and would!
(Sensing DOGGED’s good mood)
You’re smiling, Dogged!
DOGGED:
(Calling back, with a spring in her step)
Yes! He’s feeling better today, I think!
He’s doing better!
WOODS, EXT, DAY
We hear the rising noises of the camp in the distance - and then soft birdsong.
Colossally heavy stone footsteps amongst the leaves. The trees sway and creak, branches break, as the GRAVEN PATRIOT comes striding forward.
It watches the intruders - and growls, softly, to itself.
MOREL’S TENT, INT, DAY
MOREL is not doing better. In fact, he’s in the depths of what we might understand as a panic attack.
He pours himself a glass of water. Drains it. Stares into the darkness of his tent.
MOREL:
(Under his breath, savagely)
She wears living girls’ bodies as her own, but she pays for ‘em, she pays for ‘em.
She’s one of the good ones, she’s fair to us, and what’s to be done with the heads?
Threshed into corpse-soil or sold to the brothels, one must be pragmatic, one must find a use for every part of the animal, that’s not monstrous, that’s merely efficient industry.
Why did they come back? That’s the question that vexes us, that’s what nobody ever wants to ask. Why did they come back?
To sit on their squalid thrones and play-act at being breathers? And the old man does their bidding and offers us their stale grave-coin and says it’s for his grandchildren!
He tosses the empty cup across the tent.
MOREL:
Your grandchildren will be dancing carrion, they’ll be living soil to feed the harvest for unreal things to pretend to eat-
(Growing ever more outraged, bellowing and snarling)
Man damn them all! Man fuck them all! Blood in the fields and blood in the sea, nothing left but corpse-lovers and corpse-pets, not a living breath or a beating heart amongst ‘em. They’re gone and lost, they’re already rotten!
CAPO CELIS:
(Diplomatically, from the tent flap)
Catigern Morel?
MOREL looks up. He recovers himself almost immediately - or pretends to.
MOREL:
Mm?
(Recovering himself)
Ah. Capo. Are the charges laid?
CAPO CELIS:
Ready and waiting, cat.
(A slightly shaken note in his voice)
We think we’ve spotted it.
RIDGE, EXT, AFTERNOON
The company is standing upon the ridge in a frightened silence as they stare at the treeline. Something vast is staring back at them. There are a few low mutters; the sound of a banner flapping in the breeze. Otherwise all is unhappy and quiet.
MOREL comes tramping up past , unfolding his telescope. FOAL, DOGGED, and TIMMER are standing nearby on the ridge.
FOAL:
(As cheerful and unflustered as ever)
Portward side of the forest, cat. Keep your eye just above the treeline and you’ll see the sparrows hovering over its shoulders. Ever so still.
It’s watching us.
MOREL looks through the telescope. He is, in his own way, quietly unnerved, but tries not to let it show.
TIMMER:
(Nervously, to FOAL)
What’s in the stone, to make it stare like that?
FOAL:
(Shrugging)
Suppose you have to wonder how many unknown soldiers die royally pissed off.
DOGGED:
We were laying down the last charges when Foal sounded the alarum.
(A little nervous)
The mischief said it’d attack as soon as it saw us. But it’s…just been standing there.
MOREL:
Issue a challenge.
DOGGED:
(Yelling)
Piper! Ring it out!
The horns blow. It’s an impressive, sinister martial sound.
Silence.
MOREL:
Louder.
DOGGED:
Ring out!
The horns blow again.
MOREL:
(Impatiently snapping out an order)
Ring out!
The horns blow again - and then they’re interrupted by a sudden, horrible, defiant roar from deep in the forest.
A long silence.
DOGGED:
(Half under her breath)
Why’s it not coming out to fight? The mischief said-
MOREL:
(Snapping)
The mischief lied. Of course he lied.
MOREL:
(Insistent)
Not a feral, mad thing, Dogged, not a wild beast. Thinking stone.
So - it knows losing odds when it’s looking at them. That’s the last thing any dead soldier sees, losing odds.
(Snapping out an order)
Fire up the Mouth.
DOGGED:
(Yelling out)
Cannon!
A moment’s silence.
DOGGED:
(Yelling)
Fire!
COMPANY SOLDIER:
(Distant)
Fire the cannon!
A booming cannon-shot; and a cannonball goes whizzing by overhead. A distant boom and the cracking of wood as it impacts into the treeline. A horrid ROAR from the PATRIOT.
Everyone watches in silence.
TIMMER:
(Anxiously)
Did we hit it?
FOAL:
(Watching)
Nah. Moved back just as they fired. Sodding fast, our stony pal. Catigern’s right. It knew what was coming for it.
(Calling out to MOREL)
No sign of it, cat! It’s vanished!
MOREL:
Reload the cannon.
(Calmly, as if offering up another test)
Dogged.
What are our prospects?
We thought it was a mad dog looking for a fight. Now we know better.
Well? What do we do?
He seems exhilarated, ready for the challenge - but there’s an edge of furious hysteria growing in his voice. DOGGED notices it.
DOGGED:
We can’t go in after it.
MOREL:
(Agreeing with her)
We’ll lose the damn company in those woods.
DOGGED:
(As if she’s solved it)
Better to wait it out. Move the company back behind the ridge, lay some kind of ambush-
MOREL:
(Snapping)
Wrong. Wrong.
At night we’ll lose our advantage. Could be that’s exactly what it’s waiting for, a chance to come at us in the dark when we can’t see it to shoot it.
Do better, Dogged.
DOGGED:
(Growing a little infuriated)
Well, I don’t know that I can do better, fader. What’s left to us?
(A little provocative and sarcastic)
Give up the chance and go home?
MOREL already knows. His solution is horrible, but it grimly delights him.
MOREL:
We’ll not give up, Dogged. And we’ll not wait for it to come and find us, either.
(Like he’s delivering a lesson)
If it can think, it can be driven mad.
We’ll provoke its outrage and we’ll shatter its caution.
Pick our fastest outrider, Dogged. Give ‘em a bagful of arson. They’ll proceed to the treeline at haste and set the woods alight, then come riding back at a tilt. The ground’s hard and dry out there, and so’s the bracken.
We’ll make a fearsome blaze. Give it no choice but to come for us in a fury.
DOGGED is shocked and unnerved by this train of logic. She steps close to him and tries to speak privately.
DOGGED:
We…we can’t do that, fader. The mischief said the woods were to be-
MOREL:
(With a warning in his voice - and just a hint of spiteful delight)
I didn’t hear him say a word about how we should proceed, Dogged. He left that to our discretion.
DOGGED:
(Protesting)
He said he wanted his grandchildren to walk there some day!
MOREL:
(Coldly)
Ash makes for the most fertile soil.
DOGGED:
We won’t get paid, fader-
MOREL:
Oh, and why not, Dogged, hm? What do they expect from us that they left unsaid?
Should we send our men in, living, breathing men, to get slaughtered amongst spotless pines?
(His voice rising, beginning to rave)
Should we fight with sticks, hm, Dogged, or with bare hands slapping at stone?
(Distinctly erratic)
And their Man-fucked Duchess wears us for clothes and her carrion-men tramp our bodies down amongst the grapes-
TIMMER comes running up.
TIMMER:
Fader! Fader! Calm yourself, please.
(Calling back)
Someone fetch a stool-
MOREL:
(Shaking them off)
Get this corpselover to the back line, I’m still breathing, not fit for the ice-box yet, not like poor Finick-
DOGGED gets between MOREL and TIMMER. She’s still trying to calm him down, still trying to prevent a scene.
DOGGED:
(More firmly and calmly, hissing)
It’s faster than a rider at full tilt. That’s what he said.
MOREL:
(Hissing back)
So pick the fastest rider.
DOGGED:
You’ll be sending that man to die.
MOREL:
(Hissing with venom, softly and cruelly)
I told you, Dogged. This is all we have. Lives to gamble, lives to expend.
DOGGED:
You’re acting out of spite-
MOREL:
(Growing angry, his voice rising)
Spite? Spite? Stupid girl. What do you think leadership is? What do you think responsibility is?
TIMMER tries to get between them.
TIMMER:
(Overlapping)
Fader, will you please calm down!
MOREL:
(Roaring, as if disgusted by TIMMER’s touch)
Ach! Get that dead hand off me! Get it off!
MOREL shoves TIMMER to the ground. They cry out in pain.
MOREL:
(Snarling cruelly)
I’m doing your work, gravelover. Didn’t you hear her? I’m fetching you another carcass to work on, more ripe meat for you to fiddle with in the dark-
DOGGED grabs hold of MOREL, tries to yank him back.
DOGGED:
(Furious)
Leave Timmer be, Fader! Leave them be!
MOREL:
(Wheeling on her)
Choose your damned rider, Dogged! Give me a name!
DOGGED:
Dogged Morel.
That stops MOREL in his tracks. He stares at her in silence.
MOREL:
(Dismissively scoffing)
No.
DOGGED:
Dogged Morel, cat. She’s your man.
She salutes, spitefully. MOREL stares at her in silence for a moment - and then turns and tries to stride away.
MOREL:
Capo Celis, I want the name of our fastest rider-
DOGGED:
(Shouting back, pushing him)
Dogged Morel! That’s the name. That’s all you’re getting.
MOREL stops. He's starting to realise that he's pushed her too far, and his anger is ebbing.
MOREL:
(Softly, offering her an out)
You’ve made your point. No need to go further.
DOGGED stares back. Her gaze is hard and certain.
DOGGED:
(Calling to CAPO CELIS)
Capo, I want a satchel. Give me three bottles of arson, two loaded pistols. I’m going to ride down to the woods, set the trees aflame. Lure it out to us.
CELIS hesitates. But MOREL doesn’t countermand the order.
DOGGED:
(Warning)
That’s an order, capo.
CAPO CELIS:
At once, left.
DOGGED turns to go.
MOREL:
Dogged.
(Almost pleading now)
Take my horse-
DOGGED:
(Shrugging him off; simply)
I have a horse.
She strides away.
CAMP, EXT, DAY
DOGGED is breathing hard and angry - but there’s a relief in her now, a lifted weight in having stood up to her father. As she reaches her horse, patting its flank, she exhales.
DOGGED:
(Softly to her horse)
Ready for a ride, Caroc?
TIMMER:
(Yelling out)
Dogged! Dogged, wait!
TIMMER catches up to her.
DOGGED:
(Lightly)
Balloon’s overhead again. We’ll have an audience for this.
TIMMER:
Please don’t go.
DOGGED:
(Keeping up that lightness)
Best get back to your tent, Timmer. That's where we need you most.
TIMMER:
It’s who he is, Dogged. It’s not a low moment, it’s not a low mood, it’s him. It’s always been him, and he’s never once been worth it-
DOGGED:
(Without turning)
I know. Won’t be long.
She vaults up onto her horse.
She trots on out, past MOREL and CAPO CELIS. MOREL tries to speak to her.
MOREL:
(Calling out to her)
Dogged, be careful-
DOGGED turns around and rides back. She leans down to him.
DOGGED:
(Simply)
Put hands on Timmer again and I’ll kill you.
MOREL stares at her unhappily as she turns and rides away.
CAPO CELIS:
(Politely, as if he’s seen nothing)
Your orders, catigern?
MOREL:
(Pulling himself together)
Get them ready. She’ll lead it right to us.
CAPO CELIS:
Aye, cat.
MOREL strides to the front of the line. He draws his sabre.
MOREL:
(Bellowing)
Our Lady Far-and-a-wailing!
Where shall we march?
The company yell back at him. It's a ragged chorus.
COMPANY:
(Chorus)
Into the jaws of the Nether!
MOREL:
When do we stop?
COMPANY:
(Chorus)
For nothing and never!
MOREL:
How shall we die?
COMPANY:
(Chorus)
With blades drawn together!
PLAINS, EXT, DAY
DOGGED rides onwards.
As she reaches the woods, she comes to a halt. She offers up a whispered prayer as she lights her arson-bottle-
DOGGED:
(As if under her breath, ritually)
Dead trees of the Nether.
I’m murdering your children.
Bear them home with love.
-and tosses it with a grunt.
It hits the treeline. We hear the birds erupt into flight, squawking in protest. The flames spread.
DOGGED rides on. She lights another bottle and tosses it. Whoosh. The fire goes up.
And then we hear the horn blowing out on the ridge. It's a warning.
DOGGED:
(Softly and urgently, to her horse)
Fast as the Big Man’s wind, Arod-
And very quickly, the GRAVEN Patriot comes crashing through the forest towards her, galloping on four massive stone hooves.
DOGGED’s own horse whinnies in panic - she turns it, racing back across the plains. The PATRIOT roars as it pursues her.
RIDGE, EXT, DAY
FOAL:
(Drily)
That got its attention. You want to get somewhere safe, Inkblot?
INKBLOT:
(Bravely, but quavering)
My place is on the line.
COMPANY SOLDIER:
Man-fuck-a-star, it's coming!
MOREL:
Front rank, present!
The front rank cock their rifles. Less than disciplined.
COMPANY SOLDIER 2:
(Calling)
It's gaining on her!
COMPANY SOLDIER 3:
(Muttering under their breath, like a prayer)
Cavalier see my hand steady. Professor see my mind clear. Smiling Child give me a grin in the face of death. Victim see me safely below.
INKBLOT stares out over the plain.
INKBLOT:
(Softly singing)
I gave you blue flowers, to hang upon your bed,
Will you bring me blue flowers when I’m buried and dead?
If there’s no way for my life to be saved,
Then bring me blue flowers to lay upon my grave.
Blue flowers, blue flowers, those long wasted hours,
Bring me blue flowers to lay upon my grave-
MOREL:
First rank - fire!
A volley of gunshots.
PLAIN, EXT, DAY
DOGGED gasps as one bullet whizzes a little too close.
DOGGED:
(Urging her horse)
Come on! Come on!
The Patriot is gaining on her. We hear its massive hooves swipe at her. She keeps on riding.
She gallops on, faster and faster - the PATRIOT begins to fall behind. We can distantly hear the COMPANY cheering, their voices carrying:
And then she rides over a SONG-BOMB.
The explosion is loud, and shocking, and it emits a loud chord. DOGGED cries out in shock and in pain as she and her horse go flying through the air and hit the ground together.
Silence descends. DOGGED is horribly wounded on the ground. Her breathing is a choking, sobbing wheeze.
DOGGED:
Caroc...Caroc...
We can hear the PATRIOT’s footsteps, slowing ominously as it catches up to her.
DOGGED breathes raggedly, hard and frightened. She’s still trying to speak, but it’s a guttural and choking sound.
She reaches for her pistol - and then drops it and falls.
We can hear the PATRIOT snorting, horse-like, as it stares down at her from above.
Another volley from the ridge. The bullets bounce off.
Then - BANG. WHOOSH. A cannonball hits the PATRIOT in the side.
It screams in pain, staggers, loose stone tumbling down from it - and then turns and begins to charge towards the ridge.
RIDGE, EXT, DAY
-and we cut back. FOAL is calmly whistling as they reload their rifle.
MOREL:
Reload! Second rank - fire!
TIMMER dashes forward to FOAL's side.
TIMMER:
(Terrified and urgent)
I can’t see her. Is she moving?
FOAL:
She’s under the horse. I can’t be sure.
TIMMER starts forward to MOREL.
TIMMER:
(Desperately)
Fader, please, I need a horse, I can help her-
MOREL ignores them. He’s shaken, and trying not to show it.
MOREL:
(Bellowing, shaken)
Nobody move!
Once the stoneman’s down, we’ll fetch her. Keep the line steady.
Front rank, fire!
TIMMER:
(Pleading)
Fader, I can go-
MOREL:
Stay where you are! Second rank, fire!
The shots ring out.
FOAL:
Aim for the ground! Set off the charges!
MOREL:
Company, stand-
A BOOM - and another discordant song - as a charge goes up. The PATRIOT screams, totters, and staggers forwards.
Chaos. A second BOOM of BOMB-SONG. And then, distinctly, we hear the PATRIOT ROAR and topple as one of its legs gives way beneath it. A cheer goes up as it collapses.
And as the sound fades, we pan back across the field.
NAMELESS HISTORIAN:
(Narrating)
The Battle of the Lug will not be recorded in any formal work of military history.
A pity, in a way, because if you pan out far enough that you can no longer see the ragged jackets, the mismatched rifles, and the looks of terror on the faces of the company men...
...it looks like something very precise.
An outrider leaves her company upon the ridge overlooking the forest. She burns the forest to lure out the quarry.
The statue catches up to the rider, then advances on the ridge.
Shaken by cannonfire and riflefire, it strides furiously on towards its foe, until it steps upon one bombsong charge laid in the dust of the dried-up river-
-and then another-
-and then it falls.
(With a little quiet sorrow)
A miracle, this kind of victory. Something to be remembered.
We listen to DOGGED’s ragged, dying breath for a long time. She's alone, but we're here with her.
END OF EPISODE