EPISODE 2: MORE THAN A MAN
This episode contains violent deaths, violent and verbal familial abuse, animal death, references to queerphobia.
DROWN, INT, NIGHT
We can hear raucous laughter and carousing; faint fiddle music.
The NAMELESS HISTORIAN strolls up to a table, takes a seat - and addresses us directly and cordially, as if we're picking up mid-conversation over drinks. Someone is drunkenly snoring beside us.
NAMELESS HISTORIAN:
So - the war. Yes, the War Against History leaves its stain on all of us.
And twenty years on, with the rubble swept away and our new government recognised by almost every ruler across the Big Man’s body, the stain has shown no evidence of dissipating.
We can no longer even agree on what the legacy of the war is supposed to be. What did it mean to have lost so publicly and shamefully to our own risen ancestors?
(More brightly, perhaps sarcastically so)
Should we consider it a loss at all, and not instead a triumph against our own decadent and failing present-day, a re-establishment of traditional Cyshanic values and ethics over modern excess and foreign influence?
Revanchists and atavists. Natalists and grave-worshippers. Monarchists and democrats. All of them snarling and snapping like dogs over the war, the war,
(Putting on whining voices)
"If we hadn’t lost the war...", "...because we lost the war and we have to face facts-"
He makes a noise of exasperation and disgust.
NAMELESS HISTORIAN:
The dead lords and ladies observe our deathless state of dinner-party hysteria with stoicism or amusement, depending on how you interpret their grins.
I hope you, too, can understand why the war has driven us all so mad.
When the Ancestors rose from soil and casket, most of us expected that the end of the world was at hand. What can the dead possibly desire from the living but to settle the argument, once and for all?
It is an uglier thing, I think, to survive, and to be left with the mystery and the injustice of that.
When Sore Morel ordered the forests of the Lug to be burnt - perhaps he did not know it, as he so rarely knew himself, but I think he was raging in his own way at the insult of his continued survival.
And when his daughter Dogged was the one who defied him, riding out to face a towering man of stone, and when she fell beneath its colossal hooves-
-well, how could a wounded man interpret that, but as one final injustice, and one final insult?
We can very faintly hear a horn sounding out over the noise of the hubbub-
GATES OF THE LICK, EXT, NIGHT
-and we hear a horn ringing out through the darkness. SORE MOREL has returned to the LICK.
We hear him from a distance, as if we're standing on the battlements. Rain courses down all around us and thunder faintly sounds.
MOREL:
(Bellowing)
Open the damned gates!
Does no-one keep watch at night?
Nobody answers. MOREL blows his horn again. Corrects his approach, tries something more like diplomacy. A note of pleading enters his voice.
MOREL:
(Yelling)
My name is Sore Morel! Today our company fought a great battle on behalf of your town!
I need your doctor!
Are you dead men or breathers? Can you not hear me?
(Howling)
Please! I need your doctor!
Nobody answers. But we hear approaching footsteps - and on the battlements, a door opens.
MOREL:
(Yelling)
Have none of you children? Have none of you children?
From up on the walls, the HIGH MISCHIEF calls down. He sounds cold and angry.
HIGH MISCHIEF:
(Calling down, as a warning)
It’s two breaths til dawn, catigern. We do not open our gates to the strangers who come late at night.
MOREL:
(Calling up)
I don’t need your damned hospitality, I just need your doctor.
(Yelling furiously, not getting a reaction)
Your doctor! Bring ‘em out! We’ve got a wounded man needs saving!
HIGH MISCHIEF:
(Calling back)
I thought you cared for your own.
MOREL ignores the question.
MOREL:
We won your chance, judge. Stone-man’s down and still. We’ll drag it here tomorrow and you can see it for yourself.
We’ve done everything you asked for.
HIGH MISCHIEF:
(Harshly snapping)
And you burnt the woods.
(Not receiving a response)
A denial would be unwarranted. We saw the smoke drifting napeward from the battlements.
MOREL hesitates only for a moment.
MOREL:
Yes. Yes, I burnt the woods. To save our lives, to win the chance.
(Trying to fling back some righteous anger)
And for that you’d break the cord? Hm? You’d dishonour yourselves?
HIGH MISCHIEF:
(Calling pointedly)
The dishonour is not ours, catigern Morel.
He retrieves a bagful of coins and tosses it down over the battlements.
HIGH MISCHIEF:
(Disdainfully)
Your payment in full. For a chance completed to the letter, and no more.
A moment of silence - and then MOREL lobs the payment back up. The HIGH MISCHIEF cries out in shock as it hits the stone beside him.
MOREL:
(Bellowing)
You think I’d take your coin and limp away from your walls, kicked and scorned?
We fought for you today! We fought like devils!
(Accusatory, a choke coming into his voice)
And now my daughter is dying! She’s dying!
HIGH MISCHIEF:
(Genuinely conflicted)
I’m sorry.
MOREL:
Your care means as little as your word.
(Snarling up)
Barrowdog! Coffinworm! All of you! You’re all foul, all rotten-
HIGH MISCHIEF
Go to your daughter, catigern. I hope you are mistaken, and she lives.
MOREL:
(Furiously)
Oh, she’ll live!
She’ll live, and we’ll come back to this place with cannonshot and rifle-fire!
The HIGH MISCHIEF sighs - and gives up. He turns and limps back inside. The door shuts behind him. MOREL doesn't even notice.
MOREL:
And she’ll tramp you underfoot like sour grapes, because she can fight like her fader in his wild and youthful years! She’s got no love in her heart for traitors and dead men’s pets!
Or else she’ll forgive you, with a smile, because my daughter’s smile could fix the world! And the sight of it, the sight of it will rot you where you stand!
(Screaming)
A pox on you all, and your damned Duchess!
His voice echoes, alone and hollow, in the night.
THE NETH
We're adrift in death. DOGGED's voice echoes strangely alongside us. She sounds dreamy and uncertain. All around us, we can hear howling voices - which slowly resolve themselves into eerie song.
DOGGED:
(V.O.)
What do I remember, from my time of dying?
Pain, of course, and terror.
But there’s a rising strangeness, too.
My legs are shattered and broken, but they’re no longer mine. My blood has fled from my veins, but my blood never belonged to me.
All is fled. All is lost. And I can be free at last.
Above us, slowed and distorted, we can hear TIMMER's voice. They're pleading with their sister.
TIMMER:
Please take it-
DOGGED:
(V.O.)
No. Not free.
TIMMER:
Please, Dogged-
DOGGED:
(V.O.)
I try to tell them, ‘Timmer. Timmer, it’s not your fault’.
The words don’t come. Dogged’s mouth is no longer mine to operate.
But Timmer will know, I tell myself. Timmer will know what I meant to say at the end.
MEDICAL TENT, INT, NIGHT
DOGGED is dying - and in horrible pain. We can hear her breathing ragged and slow. Outside, the storm rages.
TIMMER is trying, in vain, to feed DOGGED some medicine.
TIMMER:
(Desperately)
Please take it. Please, Dogged. It’ll help with the pain.
TIMMER sighs, and gives up.
TIMMER:
(Softly)
I’m sorry. I know you’re hurting more than you can stand. I can only imagine how it feels.
I expect right now…you just want it to be over.
And I can do that. I can end it right now. I’ve done it before, when I had to.
But the trouble is, Dogged, I can’t stand the thought of being left here alone and going on without you. You can’t…leave me alone with these people. Not with him.
So I’m going to be very selfish, and very cruel, and I’m going to try and keep you alive for a little longer. Is that all right?
TIMMER waits. And then DOGGED moans and slaps faintly at their wrist.
TIMMER:
(Interpreting the gesture as if it's an answer)
Thank you.
Fader will be back soon with the doctor. The real doctor. They’re going to make things right.
FIELDS, EXT, NIGHT
The DIMBOXES are still at work in the fields in the middle of the storm. We hear them muttering their mantra - "Pluck the grapes. Gather the harvest."
MOREL furiously rides on past.
WOODS, EXT, NIGHT
We hear, in the pouring rain, riding hooves - and then MOREL reins his horse in to make it come to a halt.
MOREL:
Whoa! Whoa.
The thunder claps and MOREL' s horse whinnies in fear.
-and then in the distance, another horse does the same.
MOREL draws his pistol.
MOREL:
(Calling out)
There’s never been a good night to try and rob me.
Even so, you’ve rolled damned low.
A long silence.
ARKHETARIAS:
(Calling back)
We’d rather pay you than rob you, catigern, if you’re willing to talk.
MOREL says nothing. ARKHETARIAS rides her horse forwards into view. She's calm, composed, and almost regal - an interpreter and a performer of grand courtly airs.
ARKHETARIAS:
My name is Fann Arkhetarias.
My lord and I watched your roust against the Patriot today with great curiosity.
MOREL:
Is that so?
ARKHETARIAS:
My lord has an abiding interest in the practice of modern warfare and an enthusiasm for creative thinking in the field. He was quite impressed by your efforts.
Razing the woods was the correct tactic, by any measure.
My lord seeks an audience with you. He wishes to make a proposal which will benefit you both.
MOREL already senses what's coming next. It's like he can smell it.
MOREL:
(Softly)
Who is your lord, Fann Arkhetarias?
We hear a barked order from behind ARKHETARIAS. A guttural, inhuman voice.
LONG KING:
Forbodere mei.
And beside ARKHETARIAS, we hear the heavy clunk of rain hitting metal armour as the LONG KING rides forward into the stream. An ancient dead man. A Kindly Ancestor.
ARKHETARIAS:
(Formally)
I am honoured to present Cadog Dag Borr, Long King of Old Temaine.
MOREL:
(Restraining his fury, just barely)
Is that what it calls itself.
ARKHETARIAS:
For forty years the Long King reigned over a unified and prosperous kingdom in these frontier hills. For forty years, he campaigned in war against the tribes of the Besci, the Arolines, and the Pactori - and he triumphed over every one.
He stands before you now, resumed and returned one thousand-and-change years later - a king again in an era of endless kings.
The LONG KING speaks.
THE LONG KING:
Grete ich haum, catigern orrei. Panshige ich cunefiorm ekken mernefade ridderna qui wildeberna fiergen. Heppre, awundre catigeric qui gaderung alehund.
(To ARKHETARIAS)
Sprecac chunci.
ARKHETARIAS calmly translates.
ARKHETARIAS:
(Overlapping)
The Long King greets you warmly as a fellow soldier. He extends his gratitude to you for the day’s entertainment. He adds that he mourns the loss of the brave rider who burnt the forests, but he greatly admires the leadership which must command such unwavering loyalty.
He wishes to employ you and your company for a diplomatic mission of particular importance. You are most welcome to name your price.
MOREL:
(Half under his own breath, marvelling at the absurdity of it)
Your deadman lord wants me for a pet.
(Almost sweetly)
What’s wrong with its back?
ARKHETARIAS:
In the Long King’s era, it was customary to take trophies from fallen rivals. Centuries on, he bears the spines and skulls of his defeated contemporaries upon his own back - to honour them in perpetuity, and to remind the world that he is more than a man.
MOREL takes this in for a moment.
MOREL:
(Eyeing the LONG KING’s horse)
Its horse, though. That’s a living horse.
LONG KING:
(Clearly asking 'What's he saying?')
Likkit ke?
ARKHETARIAS:
(Soothing the LONG KING)
Abidac, te ablisset.
(Agreeing with him)
A purebred stallion, yes, from the finest trainers in the Nickfolds. The Long King is very modern-
Before she can finish speaking, MOREL pulls out his pistol and shoots the LONG KING’s horse. It rears up violently, whinnying in distress, and then comes crashing down on top of its rider. Both fall into the stream.
MOREL cries out ‘Yah!’ to his own horse and rides on past, disappearing into the trees.
Silence in the rain.
The LONG KING, hissing in anger, stumbles out of the water.
ARKHETARIAS:
(Mildly)
Likkit ‘nae’.
(We probably don’t need an interpreter for this. “He says no.”)
CAMP, EXT, NIGHT
It’s still thundering and pouring outside.
INKBLOT, shelltered in one small tent alongside FOAL, is writing a letter. As he goes, he reads aloud to himself, carefully and conscientiously, at intervals.
FOAL is boiling a tea-kettle.
INKBLOT:
“To General Sunny Stern, long-formerly of the Cyshene National Guard. I murder this letter in the hopes of it reaching you safely below.
Yesterday the company completed its chance on behalf of the frontier town known as the Lick - but alas, at great cost. Dogged Morel, a well-liked senior officer of the company and daughter of catigern Sore Morel, was gravely injured during the fighting. It is unclear whether she will live through the night, and with neither coin nor miraculous art to resume her, such a death is likely to be her permanent ending.”
“Having read your treatises on military history, I am certain you would have greatly admired her courage. I hope therefore, that, if she is to join you tonight, you will welcome her with a warm embrace for a fellow soldier.
I will update you further tomorrow. Yours, Blotch Sordois, aka Inkblot.”
INKBLOT lights a match and sets the letter aflame.
FOAL:
(Listening in)
You write a lot of letters to dead men in the Neth, Blot?
INKBLOT:
(Mildly)
Oh, yes, when I have the time. Generals, historians, scientists, great thinkers. I try to keep them all informed about contemporary fields of interest, culture and science, that sort of thing. I like to think they enjoy hearing from me.
FOAL:
You wouldn’t rather spend all that time writing to family and that?
INKBLOT:
(Proud)
I rather think I am.
From somewhere outside in the darkness, we hear a sudden strange SNAIL-HOWL. INKBLOT does a little startled cry as FOAL snatches up their rifle.
FOAL:
(Gently)
Easy, Blot.
FOAL gets to their feet and opens the tent-flap. All is quiet outside.
INKBLOT:
(Nervously)
I don’t think I know that cry.
FOAL closes the tent-flap and settles back down.
FOAL:
Matter used to tell me, when the Big Man’s light begins to fade from the frontier, things forget what they are, and everything remembers it used to be darkness.
You might look down at your own shadow, and remember there was a time you were nothing but shadow. And so you step out of your skin, and you go dancing on into the darkness. Freed from flesh and shape.
(As if quoting a proverb)
“Everything wants to be what it was.”
INKBLOT:
(Unnerved)
That doesn’t seem very scientific.
FOAL is perhaps enjoying themselves winding up INKBLOT.
FOAL:
Nah, you’re right. Probably it’s the howling snails.
INKBLOT:
(Blanching)
Snails, Foal?
(Not getting an answer)
Snails?!
FOAL:
(Deadpan)
Taller than a man, gorgeous shimmerblack shells. They live down in the Pits where it’s nice and ripe and cool, and at night they come crawling in over the frontier.
They catch you in their slime-trail. Start digesting you, go crawling on as they feed, and your howling echoes out from the shells like you’re blowing through a bugle.
A faint horn and hoofbeats in the distance as MOREL comes riding in.
INKBLOT:
Well, that sounds a little more evidenced, if hardly more reassuring-
(Hearing MOREL come riding in)
Ah, the catigern’s back! With help from the Lick for poor Dogged, let’s hope.
MOREL rides on past at a clip.
In another tent, LIVELY watches him go - and then closes the flap.
LIVELY:
There goes Morel, riding back into camp. Do you see a fleet of surgeons and weeping well-wishers with him, Peeve? Did you glimpse a fat sack of belts and crowns?
What d’you suppose is going on?
PEEVE:
You want to ask him, Lively?
LIVELY:
Me? Oh, no.
(Savagely)
No, it’s not the right time, is it? Because the mad bastard has a daughter about to drop into the Neth, and tomorrow we’ll bury her, and then we’ll be marching on to someplace worse.
Enough is enough. I’m leaving this camp tonight, Peeve. And I’m taking what I’m owed before I go. There are endless better things to do, and better things to be, and everyone must have their limit.
Have you reached yours, or will you be marching on with old Morel?
PEEVE stares at her for a moment. Then sits up.
PEEVE:
All right. What’s the play?
MEDICAL TENT, INT, NIGHT
TIMMER is by DOGGED’s side,
As they do so, we can hear hoofbeats coming to a halt outside.
TIMMER:
Hear that? Fader’s come back with help. We’ll make this right.
The tent flap opens, and MOREL comes in. He takes off his gloves and strides to DOGGED’s side.
MOREL:
How’s she faring?
TIMMER:
(Uncomprehending)
Where’s the doctor?
MOREL:
(Ignoring the question)
You’re the doctor. How’s she faring?
TIMMER:
You said they’d help us-
MOREL:
(Snapping)
NOW, TIMMER!
TIMMER stares at him.
TIMMER:
She won’t last without the proper care. I’ve been trying my hardest, fader, but I -
MOREL:
(All business, overlapping)
She will last, and this is the proper care. What can you do for her?
TIMMER is growing irritated at MOREL's attitude. MOREL crosses to TIMMER's books and begins to leaf through them.
TIMMER:
Excuse me?
MOREL:
You have a thousand books. I know because I paid for ‘em. “The proper care,” indeed.
Where’s your cunning? Hm? Where are your coldcook tricks?
(Not getting an answer)
You can raise dead flesh to fill a wound, you can lift old bones onto severed limbs and make them click.
What was the purpose of defying me with wicked corpse-learning if it’s now-
(Tossing down the book)
-USELESS, at the only time it matters?
Her legs are broken. Give her Finick’s legs. Give her yours, for all I care.
(Snapping in exasperation)
Do something other than weeping and bleating of your impotence in the face of injury. You’re a doctor!
TIMMER’s own anger is rapidly rising.
TIMMER:
Give her your legs, maybe, since you did this to her.
MOREL turns and gets right up in TIMMER’s face.
MOREL:
(Soft and dangerous)
Tonight you think to provoke me, hm?
TIMMER:
Touch me and you’ll have no children left.
A hard, tense moment - and then MOREL turns away.
MOREL:
What do you expect me to say, Timmer?
That I made a mistake?
At the battle of Black Esper, the Ninth Rag Trundel had us march out to meet the Wainish cavalry in a column, banners waving and drums sounding, because he couldn’t stand the thought of an inglorious siege.
(With rising anger)
That was a mistake, and yet we obeyed!
At Catalfac, the gentry had us burn the burial grounds! That was a mistake, and yet we obeyed!
You don’t know anything, Timmer, because you’ve never fought and you haven’t lived except in books!
TIMMER:
(Overlapping)
You didn’t need to send her out-
MOREL:
(Wildly and clumsily self-justifying - and repeating ARKHETARIAS' words without realising)
A calculated risk to save the lives of the company! The correct tactic, by any measure!
And my daughter bore the risk on her own shoulders. Unhesitatingly! She put herself forward for the perilous task, because she has courage-
TIMMER:
(Overlapping)
She did it to spite you!
MOREL:
(Spitting)
Spite?
You, maybe, Timmer, but not Dogged.
Others revolted. She remained steadfast. Others left. She remained by my side.
TIMMER:
(Quietly and cruelly)
You mistook her patience for understanding.
And her patience was dying day by day, fader. You were choking it out of her.
That halts MOREL in his tracks. They stare at each other.
MOREL:
(Halfway between threatening and pleading)
I know there’s no love between you and I, Timmer. Never was. Never could be.
But I need you to save her.
TIMMER:
(Overlapping)
There’s nothing I can do-
MOREL:
(Overlapping)
Save her, and all’s forgiven. Save her, and I’ll never say a word against you-
TIMMER:
(Snapping back)
You’re not listening to me! There’s nothing I can do, because you’ve given me nothing!
I begged you for modern tools. I asked for a surgeon’s hands, compliant flesh!
If you didn’t refuse me and scorn me at every turn, if I wasn’t scrabbling in the dirt with bare hands and second-hand books, I could make her better! I can’t help because you shriek and snarl like a whipped dog any time we even consider adapting to the present instead of living twenty years in the past!
(Stumbling into a mistake in their passion)
With - with the right tools and with pliant flesh for the exchange, even if I couldn’t save her, I could still bring her back-
This is a mistake. MOREL's tone instantly becomes paranoid, and dangerous.
MOREL:
(Snapping)
“Bring her back”?
TIMMER:
It’s an example-
MOREL:
Bring her back as what? Your dead toy? She’d dance, would she, upon your command? Is that your outcome for her?
TIMMER:
(Spluttering)
What are you talking about?
MOREL:
You couldn’t save Finick, could you?
Before that, there was Taff. Wilder. Are you so bent on failure, Timmer?
You’re ambitious, I know you’re ambitious, you are forever mewling about how you should be learning to make dead men toil in the city colleges instead of wasting your time here with us.
Are we your comrades? Or your test subjects?
TIMMER:
Stop it-
MOREL:
And now your sister, too, hm? It’s her turn to fall on the surgeon’s table, her turn to be picked apart and remade with scalpel and tweezers?
Your own sister, she who loved you and protected you from your infancy, nothing but dead matter to be shaped and moulded through miraculous art? Hm?
Answer me!
TIMMER:
(With cold, quiet fury)
You’re not well, fader. You haven’t been well for a long time.
But there’s a limit to how much I can excuse from you.
MOREL:
(Overlapping)
Tell me the truth, Timmer. Tell me you didn’t kill Finick, you aren’t killing your sister now-
TIMMER:
(Boiling over in frustration)
You killed her, you man-damned brute. You killed her, and you can’t even admit it!
MOREL:
(Overlapping)
I gave her an order! She’s a soldier, not like you who traffic in the arts of our oppressors, our conquerors, the damned foul dead-
TIMMER snaps.
TIMMER:
(Shouting)
Stop whining about the dead! Stop it! I don’t care! Nobody cares except for you! It’s been twenty years and none of it matters any more!
You lost a war! You lost a war, and now everything is poison, the world is your enemy, and everyone is a shameful failure for continuing to exist in it!
Every time you fuck up, every time you fail, it must be because of the damned dead winning the damned war!
You send your daughter out to die and then you curse me for not saving her! You call anyone a traitor who dares to live and thrive without bitterness and you expect your company to drown in the mire alongside you!
Is this really all that’s left of you, fader? Is it?
(Shoving MOREL in the chest, shouting back)
Reckon with what you’ve done, you rotten old fuck! Reckon with it!
MOREL roars in fury - and grabs TIMMER by the hair.
MOREL:
(With cold, rising hatred)
You’re an error of mine, Timmer. I comprehend that, I see it clearly.
A filthy thing, dead-marked and corrupted. No loyalty and no courage, no child of mine and nothing to her besides-
(Striking TIMMER in the face for emphasis)
Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
He tosses TIMMER down. They hit the ground, gasping and choking.
MOREL:
I should have left you for the crows by the side of the road. Well, you’ll not claim her and you’ll not keep her-
TIMMER:
(Gasping)
Don’t - please don’t-
MOREL grabs hold of TIMMER and bodily drags them out of the tent.
CAMP, EXT, NIGHT
-and MOREL throws TIMMER forcibly out. They hit the ground with a cry of pain.
MOREL:
(Almost calmly)
Set foot in this tent again, Timmer, and I correct my error.
He sweeps back inside.
TIMMER:
You can’t do this! You can’t-
(Yelling out, pleading)
Please, fader! Please!
MOREL doesn’t answer.
In her tent, LIVELY watches.
LIVELY:
(With amusement)
Whoops, and now he’s thrown out the coldcook. Just mad old Morel in there now with his grief.
We’ll need to be quick about our business, Peeve. One of us goes to the quartermaster’s to fetch the horses and the bags. One of us goes into the catigern’s tent to claim the pay.
PEEVE:
I know which I’d prefer.
LIVELY:
And me.
(Fumbling for a coin)
We’ll flip for it. Fairest way. Soil or sky?
PEEVE:
Sky.
LIVELY flips the coin. It comes up on the ‘soil’ side.
LIVELY:
(Satisfied)
There it is.
PEEVE:
(Frustrated)
You cheated.
LIVELY:
So says every one of history’s losers. Should I flip again, and keep on flipping, until you’re satisfied? Hm?
(Reaching for her pistol)
Don’t sulk, Peeve. Here; you can have my pistol.
PEEVE doesn’t move to take it.
PEEVE:
I’ve got a pistol.
LIVELY:
You’ll want two.
PEEVE:
I’m not killing him.
LIVELY:
Well, who said anything about killing? We’re talking about contingencies here.
(Pressing him)
Just say, nice and calm-like,
(Putting on a commanding and winning voice)
“Catigern Morel, sir, I apologise for disturbing you at such a time and I wish your daughter a swift recovery. My mate and I are discharging ourselves at speed, having given our all and any to this company over the past year, and we should like the money we’re owed, please.”
Is that so bad?
He’s got more pressing concerns tonight than you or I. What if he claps you on the back, says, ‘I admire you for your initiative and I thank you for your well-wishes, Mister Peeve, now leave me to my thoughts and my sweet girl,” and signs over the coin then and there?
PEEVE:
Come on, Lively-
LIVELY:
I’m the one who’s stealing, you’re asking legit. You’ll be in no danger. You’re not a corpse-slave, Peeve. You’re a breathing man asking another breathing man to give what’s owed.
What have I said that’s untrue?
PEEVE:
(Half-persuaded)
In your mouth it all sounds so reasonable.
LIVELY:
Make it reasonable in yours and we’ll have no trouble.
PEEVE:
What if he refuses me?
LIVELY:
Then you point the first pistol at his sweet daughter’s head and say you’ll end her misery if he doesn’t end yours.
PEEVE:
(Blanching)
He’s a big man.
LIVELY:
And so the second pistol.
(Soothingly)
Again, a comfort that will go unused. He’ll do anything to keep his daughter safe, he’ll not risk her coming to harm. True again.
(Pause)
Should I go speak with him instead, Peeve? Fair’s fair and you lost the toss, but if you don’t have the stomach for it, I’m willing to step up and clean up your-
PEEVE:
(Taking the pistol; heavily)
No, no. I’ll go. Fair’s fair.
LIVELY:
There’s a brave soul. Want a spray of fog first, for courage?
PEEVE hesitates, and then gives in.
PEEVE:
Give it to me.
LIVELY shakes the bottle and then sprays fog-wine. PEEVE gasps in relief.
LIVELY:
Another?
PEEVE:
Mm-hm.
LIVELY sprays it again.
LIVELY:
Whole world looks better through a faceful of fog, doesn’t it?
She opens the tent flap and points out into the night.
LIVELY:
(Counselling)
When he gives you the backpay, walk out, don’t run. Duck out to the right, then circle around the side of the tents where it’s darkest. If he calls after you, if he raises the alarm, keep your head low and keep walking.
Most of the company’s already sleeping; by the time they’re roused, you’ll be long gone.
I’ll meet you on the steerward side of the camp with the horses. Be ready to ride hard. We’ll be breathing wine in Arman’s Catch the day after tomorrow.
We hear TIMMER unsteadily - an edge of sobbing in their voice - staggering on by.
LIVELY:
(Calling out obsequiously to TIMMER as they pass)
Oh, Everything all right, Doc Morel? Peeve and I, we’re praying to the Lopers for your sister’s health!
(Mockingly pushing her luck purely out of spite)
Did you not hear me? I’ve got a bunion needs looking at! Doc?
TIMMER staggers erratically on past, ignoring LIVELY, and we follow them through the camp.
They’re choking back tears, trying to contain their fury and their sorrow.
TIMMER:
(Muttering feverishly)
Dogged, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I-
I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I’m not brave, I’m not brave-
They reach the woods, and stop walking.
TIMMER breathes hard, and long.
TIMMER:
(A long, raging, animalistic scream)
FUUUUCK!
(Screaming as if at MOREL)
Fuck you! Fuck you! I wish you were dead! I wish you were dead!
TIMMER topples softly onto their knees in the bracken. They kneel there, sobbing and hyperventilating, as the grief overtakes them.
A long silence.
And then we hear a branch crack in the darkness of the woods.
TIMMER looks up, startled and frightened, with a gasp.
TIMMER:
Who’s - who’s there?
I said, who’s there?
Silence for another moment.
Then we hear a heavy, armoured pair of feet clunking through the undergrowth. They come to a halt right in front of TIMMER, who breathes hard and terrified as they stare up.
The growling, guttural voice of the LONG KING, who is standing above TIMMER.
LONG KING:
(Curiously)
Kemira beweppen?
And from beside the LONG KING, ARKHETARIAS purrs.
ARKHETARIAS:
The Long King says - why are you crying?
MEDICAL TENT, INT, NIGHT
MOREL sits over the body of his dying daughter.
We listen to DOGGED’s ragged, wheezing breath.
MOREL:
(Softly, slowly)
You saved my life on the day the war ended, Dogged.
You probably don’t remember that. You were six years old.
We were locked down in the Nape, the last remnants of three or four regiments with no catigerns left to lead us and our ammunition down to the strays.
The dead had been bombarding us for weeks. Great flaming cannonballs of amalgamated flesh, crashing down through the rooftops, and as soon as they landed they’d stand up in a mess of feet and hands, open a mouth that was dozens of mouths all mingled together, and come charging after you through the streets.
They came up through the sewers. They came flapping down on wings of skin, they towered over the city walls upon legs that were a town’s population of bodies.
There was no end to their invention, and we were all mad enough to feel uncertain about whether our own hands were due to turn on us.
We just had to hold out until dawn, we kept telling each other, as if dawn could possibly mean anything. As if the Drabsun’s light would send the dead scattering back to their graves.
You were barricaded in the birthing ward with the other children. We knew each other, by then. I’d given you scraps of my rations when I could stand the hunger. We’d played hopscotch on the steps during the quiet moments of the negotiations. I didn’t know you were my daughter yet.
Well, dawn came on that final day, and no miracle came to save us. And as the light of first glow emerged, there was a great clamour from somewhere behind us, and all at once there were living people filling the street. Hundreds of them, the shell-battered and the bloodied and the dispossessed, calling upon us to lay down our arms and surrender to the dead.
The war had all been a terrible mistake, they said. Our ancestors had come not to conquer us, but to set us free. We were to be liberated at last from the foreigners and the traitors and the queers, the soft folk and the saboteurs whose errors and excesses had brought us to such an unhappy ending.
And amongst them there were already soldiers who’d laid down their arms and been spared, and they were shouting and cheering as well, they were calling out to us by name.
(Trying to convince himself)
I wasn’t the first man to set my rifle down.
(With rough honesty, his voice cracking slightly)
But I did set it down, I did, and then I unbuttoned my jacket and tossed my shako out into the crowds, and others who saw me do it did the same.
I wanted the weight off me. I wanted an end to my tiredness.
Never came.
But then there were only a handful of loyal soldiers left with their rifles raised upon the steps, backing up against the battlements, and we were yelling up at them to surrender as they shouted back down that we were traitors, that we’d ruined everything.
They were too proud and too loyal, I could see that. They were going to gun us down, the men who’d fought alongside us for three long winter months, before the crowd of peacemakers tore them apart.
Then I heard a voice crying out my name.
And you, Dogged - you came running out from between the legs of the crowd, holding out your tiny arms to me.
I caught you up, like you were my child and I was coming home to you after war’s end, and I span you round until you smiled again.
You weren’t crooked, like so many of the children born then or since; you didn’t have a carrion-arm or rotting corpse-flesh. You were whole and perfect, and all of them could see it.
And as you span and laughed, the rifles clattered down on the cobbles, and all of us were embracing and clapping each other on the shoulder, as if we’d won a great victory and not just surrendered.
Someone said to me afterwards,
“A girl with a smile like that can mend the world.”
And it was true, I knew it then. There was no limit to what you could achieve. You’d go on to do so many wonderful things. No matter what they did to us, you’d-
(Breaking down in choking sobs)
I need you to smile again, Dogged.
Smile for me once, and mend the world.
(Breaking down)
Smile! Smile! Smile-
Without us quite realising it, DOGGED has stopped breathing at some point during the past monologue. MOREL doesn’t realise either, or he doesn’t allow himself to realise.
He shushes himself instead, as if recognising that he’s been too loud.
MOREL:
Sssh. Ssh. She’s resting. Get a hold of yourself. Always loud, always bellowing. Never could control yourself.
(Watching DOGGED)
Sleeping soundly now. That’ll help.
It’s a beautiful thing, to have a child.
We hear the tent flap open. MOREL doesn’t look around.
PEEVE is standing in the entrance. He clears his throat.
PEEVE:
(Awkwardly)
Catigern Morel. A...
MOREL:
(Distracted)
Timmer, your sister’s sleeping.
She’ll be right, once she’s rested.
PEEVE:
...A moment of your time, if you please.
MOREL’s eyes are on DOGGED’s corpse. He’s still not seeing it.
PEEVE:
(Wheedling)
I apologise for interrupting you at such a time, cat. But the cause is urgent, and - and I know you wouldn’t fault a man for bringing problems to be solved before your desk, even in a moment of crisis and…
…and sorrow.
MOREL:
(Softly, gently)
There’s that smile. You can always find something new in your child’s smile.
No response.
PEEVE:
(More forcefully)
Catigern Morel. If…if it’s acceptable to you, sir, we’re owed a month’s backpay and change.
Now that this last chance is done, my mate Lively and I should like to take what we’re owed and go. With respect.
We’ve worked hard and we’ve fought hard. We’ve been with you for a year. It’s time to part ways.
(Pushing his luck)
To be frank with you, cat, this has been brewing for a while. I’m sorry to resort to such demands, but we’ve been bled hard and marched hard without a thing to show for it.
We’re not deadmen, we’re not corpse-labour to be used as you please. We deserve to be treated with respect, and to be compensated for our work.
I know you’ll agree with that, cat, being fair-headed as you are. You’ve just had a lot on your mind.
…Cat?
MOREL gets to his feet. He's back to reality once again - and he's furious.
MOREL:
What compensation do you think you’re owed, Peevish Rizzling? What great labours have you accomplished? Hm?
Today you stood on a hill, missed every shot and soiled yourself.
Does a stone in my shoe demand payment for the miles it’s walked? Does a leech feasting upon my shin bill me for its swollen belly?
How could I ever be in the debt of a thing like you?
PEEVE:
You-
PEEVE, panicking, defaults to violence. He draws the pistol.
PEEVE:
(Snapping back)
Since we’re no longer being polite, I’ll tell you to go fuck yourself once, then ask you a second time: where’s the pay, Morel?
We’re taking it, and we’re leaving.
MOREL:
(Taunting and deadpan, almost calmly)
The pay’s gone.
PEEVE:
(Baffled and horrified)
What do you mean, ‘gone’?
MOREL:
I spent it all on your fader and matter. Your brothers, sisters, siblings, Peeve. Lined ‘em up like a pipe organ to fuck ‘em, made symphonies of their squealing. Your granmatter, she was particularly expensive.
(As PEEVE splutters)
I’m not joking, Peeve. There’s no money. There’s nothing you can steal from me.
They gave us nothing.
PEEVE:
(Horrified)
What have you done?
MOREL:
Less than what I’ll do to you.
MOREL is beginning to move towards him.
PEEVE:
(Snapping)
Stay where you are, Morel!
(Increasingly nervous and frustrated)
I’ll see your daughter down swift to the Neth, cat.-
MOREL:
(Advancing)
You can’t hurt her. She’s already passed beyond the reach of all you grasping things-
PEEVE:
I said, don’t-
MOREL lunges for PEEVE with a roar.
They hit the ground together. The pistol goes off as they fall back through the tent flap-
CAMP, EXT, NIGHT
-and then MOREL and PEEVE go rolling out of the tent together and into the camp, still flailing and punching at one another.
Whistles begin to blow. An alarm bell rings. We can hear voices - some calling for the fighters to break it up, others cheering PEEVE on.
CAPO CELIS comes running in.
CAPO CELIS:
Come on, split them up! Catigern, calm down!
(Hissing)
Cat! Everyone is watching!
MOREL, yelling, is dragged off PEEVE by several helping hands.
MOREL:
(Raging, barely coherent, howling)
Get the fuck off me!
-and PEEVE takes the opportunity to rise up with his second pistol cocked and pointed at MOREL.
Silence descends across the camp.
PEEVE:
(Frantically)
Listen to me! Everyone just…please listen to me!
Morel’s lost the pay. He just admitted it to me! Sent his own daughter out to die, and he lost the sodding pay! I went in there honestly - speaking for all of us - to ask him for what we’re owed, and he attacked me! Raging and spitting, more beast than man!
We’ve scraped and sweated! We’ve marched ourselves half to death and we’ve fought horrid things come lurching at us from out of the margins! We’ve followed where this mad old sod has led us!
We don’t have to listen to him any more!
I say we take the horses, take the guns, and we leave him here!
Who’s with me?
(Not getting a response)
Lively? Lively, where are you?
Damn your eyes, I said - who’s-
Thunder claps. And behind PEEVE, the LONG KING draws his billhook.
LONG KING:
(Bellowing)
Aleafac boganic!
PEEVE:
(Understandably baffled and terrified)
What?!?
And the LONG KING comes clanking forward to face PEEVE.
ARKHETARIAS:
(Calmly and coldly calling out)
The Long King has asked you to lower your pistol.
PEEVE continues to stammer and stare.
LONG KING:
Ealdordagas mec wuldor, allgeheden treowth qui deapscyld ec ferenscyld bekerran catigernsa.
Behefe ceorlac hyldscrefen ec carps aferesseten.
ARKHETARIAS:
(Calling out)
The Long King says: in the more enlightened time during which he lived and reigned, it was understood as the vilest and lowest of crimes to turn a blade against your commanding officer.
For such an atrocity he would personally consider no less a punishment than a thirty-day ritual of flensing and organ removal.
LONG KING:
Sprecac ceorle ec afferen deith-caf sif gesele.
Afandic eargscipe ec anunc sif miggelih.
ARKHETARIAS:
(Calling out)
But the Long King is a modern man, and so he offers you a modern mercy. You will lower your pistol and kneel before him in the hope of a swift death beneath his billhook.
(Pointedly)
Or you can attempt to fight him now, and when you are dead, your treacherous head will be affixed to your right leg, that you may hop and scamper behind your catigern’s horse begging his apology for your trespass until such time as he sees fit to return you to the soil.
A moment of silence - and then PEEVE falls to his knees.
PEEVE:
(Feebly)
I just wanted what’s owed to us. I...didn’t mean any harm.
The LONG KING strides up towards PEEVE - and then, jovially, pats him on the shoulder. PEEVE flinches.
LONG KING:
Afandiange allan catigerna.
ARKHETARIAS:
(Calling out to MOREL)
Catigern Morel. The Long King defers to you.
What should be done with this man?
MOREL stares back. He correctly views this as a test of his own ruthlessness.
MOREL:
He’s fought and he’s marched, and I do owe him, as I owe all of you.
Give him an ending.
The LONG KING growls in understanding.
PEEVE:
No! No, no, no, no, I - wait!
Whump. The LONG KING catches up to PEEVE in a few swift steps - and bisects him.
The head rolls in the grass.
A beat of pure shocked silence. Then ARKHETARIAS steps forward and calls out to the assembled company.
ARKHETARIAS:
(Calling out)
The Long King understands that you have not yet been paid for your last chance. He apologises for his tardiness - and for the deception.
She tosses a bagful of money down onto the ground beside PEEVE’s body.
ARKHETARIAS:
Your payment - with added interest.
(Smoothly lying)
When the Long King hired you through his intermediaries from the township of the Lick, he had already heard that your company were brave men; warriors who could stand alongside any regiment in your nation’s history.
He is pleased to see that your valour and ferocity exceed the tales about you. You deserve to celebrate your victory at the Lug, and we shall do so tomorrow, together.
If you then find yourselves eager for more work and more coin, the Long King wishes to extend a further invitation to you and your catigern.
As you may have already heard, the Hollowbrow Queen has announced that she will take a living royal consort.
The wedding will take place upon the last day of Midbyrn, upon the Brow of Catalfac.
The Long King would be honoured if the Company of Our Lady Far-and-a-wailing, the very finest of our living soldiers, would accompany him as his personal honour guard to the Queen’s wedding.
Your catigern has already negotiated a substantial additional payment upon your behalf.
You will be glad to know he fights as hard for your pursestrings as he does for your lives!
If there were any more here who doubted Catigern Morel’s command and his care for this company, let them now amend their thoughts.
A chorus of embarrassed ‘thank you’s, and then silence returns.
Everyone is watching MOREL, waiting for him to speak.
MOREL:
Two volunteers to bury Peeve Rizzling. Weigh him down heavy, so no-one brings him back up.
Everyone else needs to get to bed. We’ll talk more in the morning.
(Shortly, calling out)
Timmer. Your sister’s dead.
He turns, and goes back inside. Silence.
TIMMER:
(Softly, just a breath of exhausted reaction and a quiet chuckle of disbelief)
I-
She is.
The LONG KING growls something at TIMMER, lays a hand on their shoulder, and then turns on his heel.
ARKHETARIAS:
“From death, opportunity.”
(Calling out)
We take our leave at your catigern’s command. Good night to you all.
(To TIMMER)
My condolences.
A moment of silence - and then the company erupts in shocked, chattering gossip.
INKBLOT hurries over to TIMMER.
INKBLOT:
Doctor Morel! Doctor Morel, Timmer- I’m so sorry-
(Not getting a response out of TIMMER)
Timmer?
TIMMER:
(Weakly, to themselves)
It’s fine, Blot. Really.
It wasn’t going to go any other way for her.
INKBLOT waits for a moment, but no answer is forthcoming.
INKBLOT:
Can I help you back to your tent, at least?
TIMMER:
Yes, that’s fine.
They begin to walk, INKBLOT holding TIMMER’s arm.
INKBLOT:
(Unable to hold back some nervous babbling)
Quite the sight, that Ancestor. From the armour, and from the Old Shanic it was speaking - I mean, I’d have to guess the Century of the Brute.
Certainly I’ve never heard of it before, and I do pride myself, you know, on my understanding of royal lines. “The Long King.” I shall have to look that up.
They say there are all manner of monarchs from the Bad Patch who’ve been resumed quite unintentionally - although ‘monarch’ is probably overstating it, realistically what we’re talking about is a kind of tribal chieftain or warlord.
And now they’re back, well, what are these poor ancient creatures to do? They have no place in Catalfac, they cannot play any function in a landowner’s society. Many of them have resorted to raiding and pillaging, an endless war against the present - we should be thankful, I suppose, that this Long King is rather more reasonable.
Although was that a crown upon its head? A crown of fingers, it looked like. Quite remarkable. I wonder if there’s any significance to, ah-
And then we hear another alarm bell going off on the other side of camp. Raised voices and cries of distress.
INKBLOT:
(Peeved)
Oh, really, this is too much. Whatever can be happening now?
FOAL comes running up.
FOAL:
(Yelling urgently)
Cat! Catigern Morel!
(Running up to TIMMER)
Where’s the cat?
INKBLOT:
The catigern's gone to bed, Foal. What’s happened?
FOAL:
(Out of breath)
Store tent’s aflame. And someone’s let the horses loose.
INKBLOT:
Aflame?! What in the Nether-
TIMMER is almost too exhausted and in shock from the evening’s events to take this in.
And then they begin to laugh. Hysterically and weakly, then with rising vigour and power.
And as they laugh, we hear the rising sound of burning canvas and screaming horses galloping by.
END OF EPISODE