soldier on stable duty, of Nebakov fortress
“I am a soldier of the Nebakov garrison who does no fighting. I sit in the damp waiting to kill a man or be killed by boredom.”
Things Maresh had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of the Ascension, at Compline
I sat by the wooden cross near the inner wall tonight. I am trying to keep the exact shape of Matthew's face in my head. I fear the damp is washing it away, just like it washed away his life.
Nota scribaeDictated in a flat, quiet voice. He spat on the floor when he finished.
the feast of St Pancras, at None
Roger broke a tooth on the rock-hard bread they serve us. Captain Anthony rots in his upper chambers while we eat stones. At least Roger can still make a joke of it.
the Friday after Easter, at Vespers
Hynek sits across the guardhouse, drinking in silence. He will not look at me. He knows what he did at the Vidlak ponds. I swear if I catch him alone, he will answer for it.
the Monday of Holy Week, at Prime
Matthew is dead. The damp settled deep in his chest after he lay in the freezing rain with a broken leg. We dragged him back from the ravine, but the fever took him. He was a brother to me.
God rest his soul. I am glad I am not in your mess, the gloom would kill me too.
Nota scribaeThe man stared at the wall the entire time he spoke.
the second Wednesday of Lent, at Terce
I joined the levy to fight the Cumans, but all I do is shovel horse dung and carry water across this muddy bailey. We get thin turnip stew at midday and then more shoveling. I am freezing my arse off for nothing.
Stop your whining and fetch the water. Some of us have real worries in this damp prison.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Keep your head down, lad. The dead are dead and we must look to the living.