Monstrous Regiment - Terry Pratchett [28]
“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 armor?”
“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, cowing 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 in a patch.
“We’re going to be pikemen, the lieutenant said!” said the vampire. “That means a sword and a 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.
“Put him down, Carborundum,” said Polly. “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 around 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’re 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-at 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 coporal eyed the distant doorway, and saw no relief heading in his direction.
“We’ve got to stay here all night,” said Maladict. “Night!” he went on, causing the old corporal to wobble on his crutches, “where who know what evil flits through the shadows, dealing death on silent wings, seeking a hapless victim who—”
“Yeah, all right, all right, I did see your ribbon,” said the corporal. “Look, I’m closing up after you’ve gone. I just run the stores, that’s all. That’s all I do, honest! I’m on one-tenth pay, me, on account of the leg situation, and I don’t want trouble!”
“And this is all you’ve got?” said Maladict. “Don’t you have a little something…put by…”
“Are you saying I’m dishonest?” said the corporal hotly.
“Let’s say I’m open to the idea that you might not be,” said the vampire. “C’mon, Corporal, you said we’re the last to go. What are you saving up? What’ve you got?”
The corporal sighed and swung with surprising speed over to a door, which he unlocked.
“You’re better come and look,” he said. “But it’s not good…”
It was worse. They found a few more breastplates, but one was sliced in half and the other was one big dent. A shield was in two pieces, too. There were bent swords and crushed helmets, battered hats and torn shirts.
“I done