“Oh,” he said, like a man in shock. “Good. A picture of the Duchess. That’s eighteen I have now. Oh, and, oo, a piece of paper saying it’s a medal, so it’s looks like we’ve even run out of pot metal now. Oh, and my discharge with a printing of the Duchess’s very own signature itself!” He turned the packet over and shook it. “Not my three months’ back pay, though.”

“Three loud hurrahs for Sergeant Jackrum!” said the lieutenant to the rain and wind. “Hip-hip—”

“But I thought we needed every man, sir!” said Jackrum.

“Judging by all the notes pinned on that packet, it has been following you around for years, sergeant,” said Blouse. “You know the military. That is your official discharge, I am afraid. I cannot rescind it. I am sorry.”

“But—” Jackrum began.

“It bears the Duchess’s signature, sergeant. Will you argue with that? I said I am sorry. In any case, what would you do? We will not be sending out any more recruiting parties.”

“What? But we always need men, sir!” Jackrum protested. “And I’m fit and well again, got the stamina of a horse—”

“You were the only man to return with recruits, sergeant. That is how the matter is.”

The sergeant hesitated for a moment, and then saluted. “Yessir! Very good, sir! Will see the new lads settled in, sir! Pleasure to have served, sir!”

“Can I ask something?” said Maladict.

“You do not address an officer directly, private,” snapped Jackrum.

“No, let the man speak, sergeant,” said the lieutenant. “These are… unusual times, after all. Yes, my man?”

“Did I hear you say we’re going into battle without training, sir?”

“Oh, well, most of you will almost certainly be pikemen, haha,” said the lieutenant nervously. “Not a lot of training there, eh? You just need to know which end is which, haha.” He looked as though he wanted to die.

“Pikemen?” said Maladict, looking puzzled.

“You heard the lieutenant, Private Maladict,” snapped the sergeant.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” said Maladict, stepping back into the ranks.

“Are there any more questions?” said Blouse, looking along the line. “Jolly good, then. We leave by the last boat, at midnight. Carry on, sergeant… for now. What was the other thing… oh, yes. And I shall need a batman.”

“Volunteers to be the lieutenant’s batman step forward! Not you, Private Maladict!” snapped the sergeant.

No one moved.

“Oh, come now,” said the lieutenant.

Polly slowly raised a hand. “What’s a batman, sir?”

The sergeant grinned mirthlessly. “Fair question,” he said. “A batman is, like, a personal servant who takes care of the officer. Fetches his meals to him, sees he’s smartly turned out, that style of thing. So’s he is free to perform his duties more adequatelier.”

Igor stepped forward. “Igorth are uthed to thervice, thargeant,” he said.

Using the amazing powers of deafness and restricted vision sometimes available even to the most nervous officers, the lieutenant appeared not to notice him. He looked fixedly at Polly.

“What about you, private?” he said.

“Private Perks used to work in a bar, sir,” the sergeant volunteered.

“Capital. Report to my quarters in the inn at six, Private Perks. Carry on, sergeant.”

As the skinny horse staggered away, Sergeant Jackrum directed his glare at the squad, but there was no real fire to it. He appeared to be operating on automatic, with his mind elsewhere. “Don’t just stand there trying to look pretty! There’s uniforms and weapons inside! Get kitted up! If you want grub, cook it yerself! At the double! Disssssssmiss!”

The squad dashed for the barracks, propelled by sheer volume. But Polly hesitated. Corporal Strappi hadn’t moved since the snigger had been cut short. He was staring blankly at the ground.

“You all right, corporal?” she said.

“You go away, Parts,” said the corporal, in a low voice that was much worse than his normal petulant shout. “Just go away, all right?”

She shrugged, and followed the others. But she had noticed the steaming dampness round the corporal’s feet.

There was chaos inside. The barracks was really just one large room which did duty as mess, assembly room and kitchen, with big bunk rooms beyond it. It was empty, and well on the way to decay. The roof leaked, the high windows were broken, dead leaves had blown in and lay around on the floor, among the rat droppings. There were no pickets, no sentries, no people. There was a big pot boiling on the sooty hearth, though, and its hiss and seethe were the only liveliness in the place. At some point part of the room had been set up as a kind of quartermaster’s store, but most of the shelves were empty. Polly had expected some sort of queue, some kind of order, possibly someone handing out little piles of clothes.

What there was, instead, was a rummage stall. Very much like a rummage stall, in fact, because nothing on it appeared to be new and little on it appeared to be worth having. The rest of the squad were already pawing through what might have been called merchandise if there were any possibility that anyone could be persuaded to buy it.

“What’s this? One Size, Doesn’t Fit Anyone?”

“This tunic’s got blood on it! Blood!”

“Well, it ith one of the thtubborn thtainth, it’s alwayth very hard to get it out without—”

“Where’s the proper armour?”

“Oh, no! There’s an arrow hole in this one!”

“What dis? Nuffin fits a troll!”

A small, leathery old man was at bay behind the table, cowering under the ferocity of Maladict’s glare. He wore a red uniform jacket, done up badly, with a corporal’s stripes, stained and faded, on the sleeve. The left breast was covered in medals.

One arm ended in a hook. One eye was covered by a patch.

“We’re going to be pikemen, the lieutenant said!” said the vampire. “That means a sword and pike per man, right? And a shield if there’s an arrow storm, right? And a heavy helmet, right?”

“Wrong! You can’t yell at me like that!” said the man. “See these medals? I’m a—”

A hand descended from above and lifted him over the table. Carborundum held the man close to his face and nodded.

“Yah, can see ’em, mister,” he rumbled. “And…?”

The recruits had fallen silent.

Tut him down, Carborundum,” said Poily. “Gently.”

“Why?”

“He’s got no legs.”

The troll focused. Then, with exaggerated care, he lowered the old soldier to the ground. There were a couple of little tapping sounds as the two wooden peg-legs touched the planking.

“Sorry about dat,” he said.

The little man steadied himself against the table and shuffled his arms round a couple of crutches.

“All right,” he said gruffly. “No harm done. But watch it, another time!”

“But this is ridiculous!” said Maladict, turning to Polly and waving a hand at the heap of rags and bent metal. “You couldn’t equip three men out of this mess. There’s not even any decent boots!”

Polly looked along the length of the table. “We’re supposed to be well equipped,” she said to the one-eyed man. “We’re supposed to be the finest army in the world. That’s what we’re told. And aren’t we winning?”

The man looked at her. Inside, she stared at herself. She hadn’t meant to speak out like that.

“So they say,” he said, in a blank kind of way.

“And w-what do you say?” said Wazzer. He’d picked up one of the few swords. It was stained and notched.

The corporal glanced up at Carborundum, and then at Maladict.

“I’m not s-stupid, you know!” Wazzer went on, red in the face and trembling. “All this stuff is off d-dead men!”

“Well, it’s a shame to waste good boots—” the man began.

“We’re the last o-ones, aren’t we?” said Wazzer. “The last r-recruits!”

The peg-legged corporal eyed the distant doorway, and saw no relief heading in his direction.