Somewhere in the camp, out on the fringes but not that far from the most outward structures of Company tents, what looked very much like nothing more than a pile of rags and furs began to move; it shivered for a moment, a wheezing noise heard from within it, the outermost coverings moving before the entire thing began to heave upward. Slowly but surely the wheezing grew louder, the weight of the nights rainfall only making progress harder, before those rags most exposed to the elements started to slide this way and that away from the centre of the mound – with one final, heavy, thrust the makeshift shelter collapsed to reveal an arm and the figure beneath it.
There was much blustering and swearing as the top of a head appeared, the musical and lilting language of the clans of the Skerry Isles veiling there more gratuitous meanings from those that did not understand, the seemingly cotton-capped flesh giving way to a furrowed and haggard face – though the beard lining the jaw was clearly kept in fine condition! - a full head neatly appearing, to be followed by a lean body swaddled in saffron linen and a mat-like cloak about the shoulders.
Keen eyes took in the obvious commotion about the place, the head shaking itself, while measured movements bought clicks and pops from old bones, something was happening...or had already happened.
“Ey,” came a raspy summons, the exclamation directed at a dour looking fellow returning to his fireside, “ey...Jankin!” The bidding was louder yet just as raspy, Jankin – a middle aged infantryman from Kingsbury – turning to peer at the elderly fighter with black-rimmed eyes. There was something else though, a sadness only recently entered,
something had indeed happened while the arguably eldest member of the Band slept beneath his sodden pile.
“Ah.” Croaked the veteran, giving a small smack of his lips as he bent backward in an effort to ease some of the pain in his spine, “so the captain has finally gone to meet his ancestors.” It was not a question but a statement, for though he walked with the other foot-sloggers of the Band, Brádach has seen the captain both before and after they had encamped themselves at Tradeforth...a time that seemed like an age ago now, though it was but a week. He had seen the state of the man, and he had lived long enough to know that there would be no saving him, nor did it help when he had seen many other die in a similar way already.
“Aye Piper, the Caps gone,” acknowledged the broad Westar man, taking a seat by his fire and offering the man of Skerry a mug of barely warmed something-or-other, a mug that was accepted and soon revealed to be mulled wine. Brádach had never really liked wine, but on a day like this – both in the flesh and in the soul – there was much comfort in a warm sup of anything that would lift the heart.
While Brádach had not known the captain that well, he had known him well enough, always a reassurance to his soldiers and a decent human being – much better than many he had known – it was a shame to lose him, especially now, what with the freshly sealed contract and all.
“Any else?”
“Aye, seems they'll be electing a new captain soon...” Jankin paused for a moment before going on, “my monies on Lem, though how Sir Bradford will take it I do not know.”
All Brádach could do, all he did do, was give a crooked smile and a small shake of his head before handing back the clay mug and reaching an arm into his sleeping hole. He had dug it specifically lower at one end so the water had had somewhere to go, not that it helped much, everything was still soaked. Nevertheless upon pulling back his arm he lifted with it a jumble of wooden tubes and an airless bladder.
“Oh, please, do not start playing that thing here.”
“And why not, Jankin Alsermann?! It is only fitting that I compose something for the dearly departed captain, is it not?”
“I keep telling you, you're not the bard of this Band, your not even really a musician, so please stop making my ears bleed with your damnable wailing sack of moans!”
Letting an affronted expression cross his face, the elderly soldier belted up his tunic, tucked his arming sword into it, put the steel cap upon his head and tucked the pipes under his arm.
“If I find anything missing from my hole when I return, I will gut you.”
Jankin would easily have laughed that off as a joke...except that he knew it was not, instead he gave a small nod of his head and went back to prodding his fire as others began to filter back to their tents and shelters all around the pair.
“Right then.”
Tucking the bladder under his armpit, his wetted lips meeting the mouthpiece of the blowpipe, he curled his fingers about the chanter and gave it an experimental puff of air. After a few moments of nothing but water expulsion, much to his annoyance, there came a low drone and a smile to the islanders face.
Mere moments later and the barefooted piper was marching off for 'a walk' so he said, having forgotten his sandals and not too concerned with occupations best left to younger men. Foraging? His eyesight, while honestly not too poor, was something he even so claimed to be terrible. Repairing walls? He could barely lift a fecking slab of stone anymore, how was he supposed to repair walls?!
While he had no idea what Lem had
actually said, he did have a vague idea of what their orders may be, and he for one was happier where he was...wandering around the fringe of the camp, around what was left of the spare ground beyond the barbican, attempting to come up with a tune fit for a funeral; maybe he'd call it 'the captain's dirge' or 'amazing waste' or some such, he hadn't decided yet.
What did take hold was a piece of sorts, slow and steady,
a tune that men could walk slowly to – up a hill perhaps, or to a grave - it was not exactly pleasant to listen to, but the pipes were not really made for leisure anyway.
