The Mamelukes marched through the mud, even as it turned their shiny red boots a dull, awful brown.
"So, where we going again?" whispered one of the younger members to the Goblin in front of him.
"North," stated the other. "Now be quiet. Don't want the Serjeant seeing us."
The young Goblin nodded idly, and continued marching, and then coughed. "But why?"
"Because the King wants us to," said his fellow. "Now, hush, Suckling."
"Yes, but... I want some idea who he wants us to kill," whispered Suckling. "Is it the Ogres of the Ironfangs, or the Stonefangs, or is it the Cthoniques, same as usual?" He paused. "Well, not usual. Ain't been any fighting for a long time, really. Quite pleasant that, actually. Me mam tells me..."
"Hush, Suckling," hissed his fellow.
"Oh, you hush, Hearn," snapped Suckling.
"Don't you hush me..." snarled Hearn, only to be interrupted by a tap on the shoulder with a truncheon. He gulped and turned to see Serjeant Liveoak standing there.
"No talking, Lightfoot," said the Serjeant quietly.
Hearn gulped and nodded. "No... no, sir. Of course not."
The Serjeant smiled at him, and gestured at Suckling. "You might do to consider the example of Squaretoe there. Quiet as a mouse. A credit to his unit." He tipped his fez at the young Goblin. With that the Serjeant moved down the line.
Hearn glared at Suckling. "You...?"
"Hey, don't get cross with me," said Suckling. "I'm a credit to the unit." He sighed. "Do wish I knew who they wanted me to kill, mind you..." And with that he began to whistle as the Mamelukes moved through the mud.