The Battle of Harmingsdown: Chapter 13

A week passed.

There is no doubt that a great amount of important things occurred during this week, but little regarding Edmund’s plans for how to stop the Wickes. His major obstacle was that he didn’t know what they were trying to do.

Lacking this most basic mooring, Edmund’s nights were filled with discord. Every morning, his nocturnal notes brought a new cluster of diagrams, dissertations, and plans that covered each facet of Harmingsdown, Brackenburg, and the entirety of the Great War. He was ready for anything. Once he knew their plans, with the right application of force he could set in motion a series of events that would foil the Wickes for good.

But no matter how hard he looked, he couldn’t see their greater goal. They continued to invent new machines, improved weapons, and deadlier tools that were steadily countered by the Spanish Inventor…whomever they were.

Where was Pinsnip? Why hadn’t he returned yet?

These questions still sifted through Edmund’s mind as the first winter wind started to blow across the trenches of Harmingsdown. Thick coats and warm gloves replaced the standard military uniform, and the omnipresent dust in the air was slowly replaced with fogged breath.

The first light salting of snow came at the end of the week, as Edmund joined Colonel Muggeridge and his cadre in studying the latest Wickes’ invention.

“These,” Mr. Wickes brandished his massive cane like a sword, “will prevent a repeat of the unpleasant misfortune that befell our soldiers last week.”

The assembled officers stared at the large wheeled guns. “They look like artillery,” one of them offered.

“They fire these,” Mrs. Wickes pointed with a furred glove. “Clockwork shells that will explode in the air.”

“Shards of metal flying through the sky,” Mr. Wickes continued, “cutting through our enemy aircraft’s wings. Puncturing their fuselages and forcing them to ground or be destroyed!”

“What if the planes we shoot down crash in the trenches again?” Edmund had thought it an obvious question, but the looks from the officers suggested Edmund might have been the only person who had thought of it.

“A simple problem,” Mr. Wickes cleared his throat. “We have designed improved and frankly ingenious shelters for our soldiers to hide in when —”

“And if they begin carrying bombs, like we do, won’t they explode when they hit the ground? Won’t the scrapnel hurt us as much as the enemy? Wouldn’t it be better to create a large net, or perhaps a giant fan that could prevent the enemy planes from reaching —”

“Colonel Muggeridge,” Mrs. Wickes snapped, “control your officers!”

“I’m afraid I must agree with the Lieutenant.” The Colonel said.

If Edmund was surprised, it was nothing to the reaction of the Wickes and the other officers. “I beg your pardon?” Mrs. Wickes hissed.

“This…I suppose you could call it an anti-aircraft gun, is all very well and good — I say, it’ll play marry havoc with the blighters, what? — but enough is enough! We’ve been going back and forth for months now, and you promised an invention that would provide lasting victory!”

“We thought you’d say that,” Mrs. Wicke’s smile was anything but reassuring.

“We provided you one,” Mr. Wickes held up his hands in mock surrender, “and you told us it was unacceptable.”

“You provided a shopping list,” the Colonel grumbled. “I don’t think it’s bally well unacceptable for a military Colonel to know what’s for dinner before buying the ingrediants, what?”

“Colonel, sah!”

The officer corps turned to see Old Tom Cottonwood standing at attention, saluting more officers at once than he ever had.

“Yes…Corporal?” Muggeridge glanced at the man’s insignia. “What is it?”

“Message for you sah, just came over the Telegraph. Straight from HQ, sah. Priority.”

Edmund didn’t watch Colonel Muggeridge as he approached Old Tom, his hand outstretched for the message; he watched the Wickes and studied the look of triumph and vague relief on their faces. The assembled officers waited patiently while Muggeridge finished reading, and turned with a sharp clearing of his throat.

“I’m afraid that I have been summoned back to Brackenburg.”

“Have you?” Mrs. Wickes voice was full of insincere surprise. “Whatever for?”

You did this. Somehow, you made this happen…

“It appears,” The Colonel’s face slowly split into a bemused grin, “the Generals are quite impressed with my abilities at managing the front at Harmingsdown. They say that,” he paused to open the letter again, “‘in the course of five months, the situation has improved so drastically that we can do no more than reward you with a commendation and subsequent promotion to Brigadier.’”

In occasions of celebration among a certain class of people, there are certain behaviors that are so common as they need not go remarked upon. These include planed and sustained applause, a call for three cheers, and sometimes a rousing rendition of “for they’re a jolly good fellow.” When the last echo of “hip hip hurrah” had faded, the Wickes stepped forward.

“Congratulations!” Mr. Wickes’ gripped Muggeridge’s hand in his. “Jolly well done, sir. I cannot think of anyone more deserving. May I ask who will be in charge while you are absent?”

“Well…I don’t…” the Colonel opened the letter again. “Ah yes! ‘all military operations are to remain active, under the direct command of whomever I leave in my place.’”

“Why that’s us!” Mr. Wickes beamed with deathly pallor. “We’re both Colonels, after all, and I’ve yet to meet another Colonel at Harmingsdown. Doesn’t that mean that we’re next in the chain of command?”

“No, sir,” Major Schtillhart stepped forward, eyes flashing. “It does not. Under section five of the field manual, Harmingsdown has been declared a field of operations under Enemy Assault, and is therefore considered the jurisdiction of the Regiments of Foot, not the Military Research and Development division.”

“Ah. I say, that’s true,” Muggeridge sniffed. “Wouldn’t be proper to have inventors and scientists in charge of military soldiers, what?”

“But there aren’t any other Colonels around, are there?” Mr. Wickes’ face was filled with concern, “And you are ordered to return to Brackenburg Immediately!”

“Perhaps,” Mrs. Wickes’s voice slid through the air, “there is another possibility? You are able to give field promotions, are you not…Brigadier?”

Yes he is. And you have a perfect solution, don’t you?

“Major Schtillhart,” Mrs. Wickes continued, “has proven quite intelligent. He would be a fine candidate for your replacement while you are in Brackenburg.”

“You think so?” Muggeridge thought for a moment. “Yes, I agree. A fine young man. Major Schtillhart,” he drew himself up to his full declarative height. “I am giving you an immediate field promotion to Colonel, my lad, and all duties and responsibilities relating thereto. Harmingsdown is now officially your responsibility until I or another ranking officer returns.” He relaxed, leaning forward with a whisper that everyone could hear; “Who knows? Do a good job, and it might become permanent, what?”

If Edmund hadn’t, on six separate occasions¹ during his education at Grimm’s, studied the aeronautical potential of the human body, he would have believed Schtillhart could have floated away, so fully did he draw himself up with pride. “I will not let you nor the King down.” He saluted with a sharpshooter’s precision.

“Good. Carry on, Schtillhart,” Muggeridge nodded once before turning to his other officers. “I will be leaving at once. See to it, will you?”

Turning sharply on his heel, the soon-to-be-Brigadier strode off to pack, his boots flinging mud into the air. A thousand nightmares flooded into Edmund’s mind; The Wickes had been given free reign of Harmingsdown with the Colonel, how much worse would things get now that their commanding officer was under their thumb?

“Well now…” Edmund turned to see the Wickes looking at Schtillhart with eyes that would have fit better on jackals. It was clear they were having the same thoughts as Edmund, though they were far happier about it. “Major…forgive me, Colonel Schtillhart…I believe congratulations are in order?”

Schtillhart turned to face the Wickes, his steely gaze sharp and clear.

Mr. Wickes gave a delighted smirk. “I’m sure your sudden and quite unexpected promotion has perhaps caused some unsettlement? We can continue our discussion some other time. We may have more —”

“I’m perfectly willing and capable of discussing the matter now,” Schtillhart said, his voice firm.

Edmund stared. Something had changed in Schtillhart’s posture.

“Excellent!” Mr. Wickes clapped his hands. “Then we will begin at once. Now, we will handle the invention themselves. If you would handle the following…” he pulled a thick wad of folded paper out of his pocket. “In addition to the requisite chemicals and materials, we also require three new trenches to be dug closer to the Spanish side. If you would kindly see to it, we will —”

“Why?”

The Wickes looked up. A glimmer of hope fluttered in Edmund’s chest.

“Why dig the trenches?” Mr. Wickes rallied. “Well, we have a detailed combat strategy that may be a bit too technical to go into right now. No need to worry your head about it.”

“As technical as the trench-crawlers?” Schtillhart’s eyes flickered to Mrs. Wickes. “And the planes?”

The older woman opened her mouth in surprise, and then closed it with a scowl. “I don’t think you’d appreciate a detailed explanation, nor should you require one.”

Schtillhart leaned forward. “Now you listen to me; I am a Colonel in his Majesty’s Army. I do not appreciate being told what I want, and I would like an explanation as to what this mystery invention of yours is, and why you think I should risk the health and safety of my men when your every invention has so far done little more than land them in the hospital?”

Why is it that whenever I think I know exactly how someone will behave, they seem to go out of their way to prove me wrong? He couldn’t feel too upset in this case, but he never liked to be wrong, even if the surprise was a pleasant one.

“There is one thing we know you want, sir,” Mr. Wickes hissed back. “I suggest you adjust your tone.”

Schtillhart swallowed, casting a glance at the assemblage before lowering his voice. “You can threaten me all you want, but you will not risk the lives of the soldiers under my command. That is my responsibility, and I will not let anyone…/anyone/…rob me of that duty. I have watched you play strategist for five months, now. The Colonel may have appreciated your input, but until I am relieved of duty, I will decide where and when my men will strike, and with what weapons.” He took a deep breath. “Do what you will, but I will protect my men.”

For a goodly length of time, Edmund watched as the Wickes and Schtillhart stared at each other, surrounded by bemused officers who had no more clue what was being actually discussed than a fish understood astronomy; but they recognized the word responsibility, and protecting ones subordinates was a virtue for officers, so their appreciative mutterings eventually drew the Wickes’ eyes.

Slowly, the skeletal fingers of Mrs. Wickes closed on Mr. Wickes’ shoulder.

“Of course, Colonel,” Mr. Wickes smiled grandly. “We understand perfectly.” Edmund could almost hear the snap of the Wickes changing tactics. Where with the Colonel they could afford to be brusque and aggressive, now they adopted a supportive and consiliatory air. “I am sure you will appreciate our desire for secrecy when you hear how resolute of a victory our invention will bring. We have invented, my dear Colonel Schtillhart, tactical gas.”

“Gas?” Major — no, Colonel — Schtillhart frowned. “You mean…air?”

“Ah,” Mr. Wickes spread his arms, “but such air! Air that will bring tears to a soldier’s eyes, forcing them to sit down and sob while their foes take their weapons out of their hands. We have gas that will make them itch, dancing along and unable to fire a shot. We will give you gas that make them cough, make them sleep, and even gas that will make them die!”

“Deadly air?” Schtillhart blinked, and leaned forwards slightly, turning as if to hear better. “Did you say gas that will made them dead?”

“Just think of it,” Mrs. Wickes stared off into the future. “Entire trenches filled with dead bodies, their lives snuffed out by the very air, gasping for life-giving breath only to hasten their own demise! Corpses stacked like cordwood! And then…” she fell silent.

Colonel Schtillhart opened his mouth and then closed it again. Edmund watched as the color drained from his face. “Weponized air,” he muttered.

“Forgive her,” Mr. Wickes waved his hand dismissively. “Her glee is not for the death, exactly, but for the victory that these tactical gasses will bring. Victory for King and country. Quite appropriate, don’t you agree?”

“Oh yes, of course,” Schtillhart nodded. “She did say ‘and then.’ And then what?”

“It depends,” Mr Wickes smiled. “We are geniuses, after all. What would you like to happen?”

“I…” Schtillhart looked around at the assembled Captains and Lieutenants, who in turn looked at each other. “I don’t know if I like the idea of weaponizing the very air. That’s like…poisoning a water supply, isn’t it?”

“A time honored strategy,” Mr. Wickes nodded, sagely.

“It’s not cricket,” Schtillhart shook his head. “No, I don’t like it.”

“If you wish victory, I’m afraid you may have to make some sacrifices.”

“So you say, but you are supposed to be geniuses, aren’t you? Do you mean to say you can’t think of another way of ending this war?”

“We certainly could,” Mr. Wickes frowned. “But why, when we already have the perfect solution?”

Schtillhart glanced again at the assembled officers. They were all nodding cautiously. It was generally accepted in the military that once a problem had one solution, you didn’t go looking for more.² Such behavior was generally considered greedy.

Schtillhart pulled up his chin. “I want a complete report on these gasses of yours; their proposed effects, parameters, ingredients, formulas, everything. Once I know exactly what these gasses are, and have decided to use them, then I will construct an appropriate strategy for their implementation. Understood?”

“We know our inventions,” Mrs. Wickes’ eyes narrowed.

“Quite,” Mr. Wickes continued. “So I do hope you don’t think it an insult if we offer our own…suggestions? The final word will be yours, of course, but we have exhaustively studied our gasses properties, and any mishandling could be…quite dangerous for your men.”

Schtillhart’s mouth worked silently for a moment before he nodded. “I will gladly listen to any suggestions you have.”

“Excellent! We will have the information delivered to the Colonel’s office by nightfall. Oh! You are of course taking the Colonel’s office while he is gone? You are an Acting Colonel now, after all.”

Schtillhart’s mouth opened and shut in surprise. “I…hadn’t considered —”

“You must,” Mrs. Wickes’ eyes were like coal. “After all, you earned it.”

“Yes,” Schtillhart’s chest expanded. “Yes, I suppose I have.” He turned to a nearby Captain. “See to it, will you?” he said before spinning around and striding away, his feet swinging like clock-pendulums.

He’s a natural, Edmund thought, morosely.

---

That night, long after taps had ordered the trenches to asleep, Edmund stole out of his bed and made his way to the Colonel’s office.

As he stole from shadow to shadow — more out of reflex than necessity, given the hour and attention of the patrols — his unquiet mind continued to ruminate on the Wickes’ genius invention.

Weaponized air.

It was an incredible idea, one that Edmund had trouble not being impressed with. Poisoning water-supplies or fouling crops had all been part of warcraft’s lexicon for centuries. It was the next logical step, really, ruining the very air the enemy soldier’s breathed. Edmund was eager to see how they were going to manage it.

He could have waited until the morning and spoken in confidence with Acting Colonel Schtillhart. He felt confident enough in their burgeoning friendship to have broached complex topics as required. Or he could have waited for Schtillhart to go to the mess hall, or inspect the trenches, or do any number of tasks that required Schtillhart to leave his office unattended.

But for all his patience, Edmund was unwilling to spend his evening filing reports or dispatches, when he could be studying the Wickes formulas.

Was this their ultimate goal all along? A superweapon to end the war once and for all, with their names heralded in newsprint across the Empire? Was this how they planned to attain respect and prestige among the gentried classes, and finally be accepted as peers? It seemed an overly complicated scheme, but Edmund couldn’t be too dismissive; it was very similar to his original plan for the war.

After slipping into the Colonel’s office, Edmund headed straight for the small desk where, until recently, Colonel Muggeridge had kept his paperwork. Sure enough, a stack of papers from the Wickes still lay where Acting Colonel Schtillhart must have left it. Lighting the nearby gas-lamp and pulling up the Colonel’s chair, Edmund began to read.

The first page was simply the list of chemicals the Wickes required, specific quantities and proportions detailed in clear and orderly fashion. Even this simple list was informative for Edmund.

Let’s see…Copplin’s Copperous Solution is an inflammatory…could be for their coughing gas. They mentioned crying, and this nitrious vitae could be effective for that…or perhaps they’re using it to stimulate the hair follicles and cause itching? Perhaps both. Haggar’s Emulsifyer could bond to lithium to turn a gelatin into an aerosol solution…but then they’d need a heavier element to keep it on the ground or else it would just float up like smoke…is that what they’re using Krockfeld’s Elektrified Boron for?

Edmund turned the page.

After a few minutes, he turned the next page.

He could feel his stomach dropping lower as he turned the page again.

No. Please, no.

There were four different formulas, each with a different goal in mind. The first was clearly designed to aggravate the sensitive membranes in the breather’s nose and throat while activating the secretionous glands and suppressing lubrication. Anyone who inhaled the gas would be incapacitated with coughing until they received a glass of water as antidote.

The second gas was lighter, and encouraged the organs of the sinuses to fill with melancholic vitaes. Fooled by this strange intrusion, the brain would follow suit and become infused with despair. Tears would soon follow, as the soldier would collapse into sobs and wails until the humors were re-balanced.

The third was a viscous slime created with equal parts lithium and sulfuric chloride, that would burn on contact with air. It would eat away at skin, clothing, glass, metal, anything that was acceptable to acidic decay. Water, fiendishly enough, would only accelerate the process, turning the hopeful balm into a horrific nightmare. Only a calcium powder would stop the chemical process, and calcium was a rare commodity on the battlefield.

The fourth gas was terrible. Horrible. Edmund couldn’t accept that the Wickes would be willing to use such a vile substance, but there it was in black and white.³

These were nothing compared to the fifth formula.

To be clear, there were only four pieces of paper with four formulas that detailed four separate gasses, but Edmund had seen the list of ingredients. He knew now what chemicals were used to make these four gasses, and that meant he knew which chemicals on the list remained unused.

And he knew what those ingredients could do. Yes, he was a genius, and concocting chemical formulas in his head was not beyond his capabilities, but he had an advantage; he had once made a very similar concoction himself.

Edmund slowly replaced the papers as his thoughts struggled to organize themselves. He could feel the terror building in his chest.

They wouldn’t, he thought. They couldn’t. How could they have learned the formula? Had they been spying on me? But of course they hadn’t — or if they had, it wouldn’t have made a difference, since Edmund’s formula had never been committed to paper.⁴ Edmund’s gaze drifted to the gas-lamp, the flickering light that filled the small room with its unsteady glow, as his mind kept working.

They want trenches dug closer to the Spanish army. Why? They aren’t planning on using artillery shells, they need to be thrown, perhaps in grenades. These gasses are light, his brain protested, and purposefully so. A strong wind will likely blow these gasses back into our trenches…into our soldiers faces if they’re within grenade range. They couldn’t be planning something so…horrible, could they?

But of course they could. He didn’t doubt it for a moment.

As Edmund thought, a small portion of his mind finally managed to grab his attention, wrest his thoughts away from the terrors of the Wickes’ gasses, and inform him that, while the hiss of the gas-lamp was steady, the light was not.

Odd, that there should be a draft.

One can learn a lot from a flickering lamp; how it fades and flutters, where the shadows fall…each a carefully constructed clue that, especially for a Moulde, could end up saving ones life.

Edmund ducked.

The thick thwack of a thrown metal blade striking the back of Edmund’s chair echoed in the room as he rolled his body under and through the desk. Crawling like a dog across the floor, he listened to the soft sound of padded shoes as they ran towards him from the shadows. Timing each step, Edmund rolled to the side just as the shoes leapt, striking the ground where Edmund had been seconds before.

Edmund looked up at his attacker. Covered in black, lithe and fit, a thin coat full, no doubt, of blades, blowpipes, poisons, and wires; the tools of any self-respecting assassin. The figures face was wrapped in cloth, two dark eyes the only visible features.

Edmund twisted again as a flash of metal descended to the floor, piercing the wood next to Edmund’s ear.

In a calculated panic, Edmund kicked out with his feet, pushing the assassin back and into his desk, sending Acting Colonel Schtillhart’s papers scattering to the floor. With that moment to breathe, Edmund picked himself up.

No weapons nearby. No immediate help. Noise has already been made, so don’t bother shouting. Save your breath for avoiding the assassin’s blade. They are tall, so stay low. Use the furniture to your advantage.

Edmund’s lurched to the side and grabbed a small chair, flinging it over his head. The soft wood caught the assassin’s knife, pulling it out of his grasp and to the floor with a crash. Edmund leapt up and ran for the door…

Something gripped the tails of his coatee, yanking him back into the room and to the floor. The wind was knocked from his chest as he landed, gasping. The tall assassin drew another blade from its thin coat. Raising it high in the air, the assassin leapt towards Edmund with a snarl.

Time slows during moments of great emotion. Edmund knew this, though he knew it mostly from love poems. He knew that when staring into a lovers eyes, time could extend beyond its natural limits, making a moment seem like forever. He didn’t love the assassin — he didn’t even know their name — but time slowed all the same. Perhaps, Edmund noted as he saw the glint of metal flash towards his throat, he was in love with something else.

Perhaps his own death was mysterious and alluring enough that he had found romance in it. Did he love the idea of his own death? How long had he awaited the moment when he could stop worrying about Matron, about the army, about his family, and finally rest?

Memento mori.

Edmund did not close his eyes, and waited for death to come.

It did not. Instead, a black shape flashed in front of Edmund and embraced the assassin. The snarl turned to a gasp, a gurgle, and finally a thud as the limp body fell to the ground.

Pinsnip turned around to face Edmund, his eyes glinting in the gas-light, his own knife dull with red blood.

For a moment they stared at each other, breathing quietly in the darkened room. Edmund wanted to thank Pinsnip for his timely rescue, but after looking in Pinsnip’s eyes, he knew now was not the time to speak.

“I saved your life,” Pinsnip said, looking down at his dripping blade.

“You did.” Edmund couldn’t deny it.

“It feels…strange.” He looked down, the glint of light dimming from the knife-blade as the blood stained the steel. “I might…get a medal, mightn’t I?”

Edmund looked through the gloom into the glowing reflection of the lamp in Pinsnip’s eyes. “If you wanted one. The Brass Shield, it’s called. For acting in a manner to save the life of a fellow soldier. Generally awarded posthumously.”

“Ha!” Pinsnip barked a strained laugh. “War is such a…a strange thing, isn’t it? I wonder if…it will ever be the same for me? Hiding in shadows, and stalking the…” He shook his head.

“What took you so long?” It was the only question Edmund could think to ask.

“I had to learn Spanish,” Pinsnip muttered. “And then…I finished your little…assignment. The Spanish Inventor. I…saw him. He is…an ex-pat who returned to Spain to…to fight in the war. He even took his…original name again: Mr. Florethmorales.”

Edmund closed his eyes. Of course.

“By all accounts, he is an…eccentric who has supplied the Spanish army with…well, with several inventions, including the Rojoja. Including the scrapnel, the planes, and the rifle-scopes.”

A bitter rival, angry that the Wickes left him with a burned factory? Edmund wondered, or worse? He crawled to the body, and pulled aside the wrappings on the assassin’s face. “Do you recognize him?” Edmund asked.

“Spaniard,” Pinsnip shrugged. “A soldier. What’s the difference?”

There was more to this than he had thought. He couldn’t afford to simply sit and wait anymore. If the Wickes were willing to send Spanish assassins to kill him…

But had they? Had the assassin followed him from his room to the office, or had they thought Acting Colonel Schtillhart might still be hard at work? Who had the target actually been?

But that was a question for another time. “I have another assignment for you,” Edmund said. “I need you to sneak into the Wickes Laboratory, and —”

“No.”

Edmund paused only for a moment before looking up into Pinsnip’s face. “No?”

“This war, Master Edmund…this war…” Pinsnip stared at his knife as he wiped it carefully clean. “When you were eight I…stalked you, hunted you, locked you in a tomb, and…and threatened to gut you with my knife. Now, I save your life. I’m a hero for being a villain. Were I…a lord, I would be a general and useless to my family…save for the ribbons and medals that only lords and generals care about.”

“You are not a lord,” Edmund agreed. “You are a Corporal, and I need you to —”

“And I will not help you,” Pinsnip’s eyes flashed. “Not…not anymore. Somehow, and I don’t know how, this war is…no, not the war…/you/ are making everything what it is not, and I will no longer…subject myself to it.”

“I still need your help. I think the Spanish inventor is working with the Wickes to sell weapons to both sides of the war. If I write a letter to the Spanish and explain —”

“I could have killed him,” Pinsnip muttered. “I could have…stalked him in the night, slipping behind him like a second shadow until he walked down a trench alone…I could have slit his throat without making a sound. You…all you have to do is write a letter. You write a letter and a man is arrested and executed. A man dies…because of your letter. A hundred men.”

“I couldn’t kill a hundred men,” Edmund said, before he bothered to wonder if he was right. “We had an agreement.”

“An agreement!” Pinsnip exploded, hurtling his knife with such force that it stuck in the ground, quivering. “Agreements and understandings! Letters! Cliques! Nods and smiles and firm handshakes! I’m sick of it! I’m sick of it all! I’m through with it!”

Pinsnip’s red-rimmed eyes locked onto Edmund’s. For an instant, Edmund found himself back in the Tomb of Orpha Moulde, his bloodthirsty cousin leering at him and demanding he reveal the family fortune. At the time he had thought it the gaze of a madman, but now he wondered if his cousin was in fact horrifically sane.

Pinsnip drew closer with a hiss. “We did have an agreement,” Pinsnip nodded, “and I see now it was a bad one. You are dangerous, Young Master Moulde. The entire Moulde Family is dangerous. I am…done with the lot of you. The Sadwicks are through with you.”

“But why?”

“I will not dance to your strings anymore.” Pinsnip pulled his blade from the ground and it vanished into the shadows of his uniform. “I…saved your life, Edmund. I will not risk that happening again. You may consider this my official resignation from the army. Or do not…it makes near as no difference to me. I doubt we shall…see each other again.”