Free Speak Its Name: A Trilogy by Lee Rowan, Charlie Cochrane, Erastes

the sweet scent of sweat and exhilaration to better remember it once he was alone. “Kiss me once more, then common sense shall have to prevail.” A huge smile lit up his face, one that Edward mirrored.
    The lingering sense of that final embrace of the day stayed alive for them both well into the night.
The End
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Gentleman’s Gentleman
LEE ROWAN

Chapter One
    July, 1880
    Maiwand, Afghanistan
    The heat was the worst of it. Major Robert Scoville gazed over the cracked earth and stark mountain range with eyes that felt baked raw. The thin air didn’t help, either, clogged as it was with a fine powdery dust raised by thousands of feet and hooves.
    And the waiting was almost as bad as the heat. Instead of being ready for a fight, with the normal anticipation of victory in battle against a half-civilised enemy, the men were quiet, almost nervous, preparing to meet their ends. And Scoville could say nothing to contradict that expectation without insulting his men’s good sense and making himself look a fool. How was an officer supposed to put heart into his men when every scrap of intelligence numbered at least ten Afghan tribesmen to every British soldier? No amount of pride and patriotism could overcome those odds.
    It was madness to attack Maiwand. They couldn’t even keep Ayub Khan bottled up in the city, much less drive him from it. If a lowly major like himself could see that, what in God’s name was wrong with the generals?
    He nodded as his sergeant came up beside him. “Darling, are the men ready?”
    “Ready as they can be, my lord,” said Sgt. Jack Darling. “Waiting to get on with it and get it over.”
    “Ours is but to do and die,” Scoville said. Their eyes met for a moment, and Scoville knew that even if his sergeant had not read the poem, they were in agreement that someone had blundered.
    “I’d like to get my hands on the bastard who thinks this mess is glorious.” Darling wiped sweat from his forehead, leaving a dark streak of mud along his temple. “No offence meant, my lord, but I’d wager he never risked his poetic arse on a battlefield.”
    “No, I think Tennyson was a confirmed civilian. Ever consider a civilian life for yourself, Sergeant?”
    “On days like this, my lord—constantly.”
    That was just the reply Scoville had been hoping for, though the timing could not have been less opportune. “When I leave the service,” he said, “provided I live long enough, I shall need a man who possesses both nerve and discretion and is able to keep track of my effects—a gentleman’s personal gentleman. I’ve been spoiled by your competence, Darling, and I couldn’t dare hope for such luck a second time. Might you be interested in the position?”
    He could feel Darling’s gaze upon him, knew the thoughtful look that would be on his sergeant’s face. “Very much, my lord,” Darling said at last. “But would you give odds on our chance of seeing a peaceful life?”
    “No,” Scoville said. “Not really.” Nor any life at all, he added silently. He caught a small movement off in the direction of General Burrows’ headquarters; his spyglass revealed the General’s messenger leaving the command tent, and he knew what the message would be.
    “Won’t be long now.” Scoville put away the glass. Ten minutes of quiet remained, perhaps fifteen. Another few hours of life? It might not even be that long. “Sergeant?” He ducked into his tent with Darling on his heels.
    Everything inside had been packed up; his camp-desk stood ready to throw on a pack mule. “I think we deserve a last drink, don’t you?” He unscrewed the lid on his hip-flask and filled the shot-sized cap for Darling. “Here’s to dying in our beds in 1950.”
    “Yes, my lord. I’ll look forward to it.”
    The brandy went down elegantly. Napoleon brandy, it was; Scoville had won the bottle from a brother officer in a card game in Herat. “Have another, Sergeant. No point in wasting it. The enemy