by James Hunt
Chapter 8
Hundreds continued to pour into the city day and night. Homes and rooms were bursting at the seams, and those that couldn’t find or afford a roof pitched tents and blankets on the outskirts of town. Farmers, fishermen, hunters, blacksmiths, merchants—anyone and everyone that was affected by the Russians marching south fled to the protection behind the front lines. And with an influx of people came an influx of sick, wounded, and the dying. The hospital was already bursting at the seams, and the fighting hadn’t even started yet.
Kemena rushed from room to room, table to table, to every man, woman, and child that stepped inside. She stitched wounds from the journey and wounds from scuffles between men in the streets over food or bedding, she cooled fevers, cleaned mange and lice, and fed and watered more malnourished peasants than she’d seen in her lifetime.
Moans, cries, and pleas were the only noises she heard anymore. And the fighting hasn’t even started. It was a thought that plagued the few moments of peace she received sporadically throughout the day in a closet next to her office. She sat, leaned against the shelf, the noise of the hospital muffled by the thick wood. Even when she was alone, in the quiet, her pulse raced like she had just sprinted.
The long hours had left Kemena dirty, tired, and with a light tremor in her left hand that she found trouble keeping steady. She held out her palm and watched it twitch with an agitated mind all its own.
Kemena shut her eyes, curling her fingers back and forth from a fist to open palm, forcing her mind to regain control of the deft hands that had served her so well all her life. Those hands that had healed and saved so many. While her mind was slowly draining, she could not lose her hands.
“Dr. Mars?” The knock startled her along with the timid voice on the other side. “Are you in there?”
The nurses and assistants had done what they could, but not all of them possessed the mind and knowledge of healing like she did. And the volunteers that she managed to round up could do no more than carry the sick, bury the dead, and bring whatever supplies she could scrounge up from other towns and villages. Everyone tried to help, but the brunt of the burden was hers.
Kemena opened the door, and one of the volunteers stood before her, blood stained on her shirt, but from which patient there was no way to tell. “Yes?”
The girl had mouse-like features and scurried about the hospital floor in the same manner. She’d arrived with her family of farmers who lived north of the city, right in Rodion’s war path. She’d come on their first day and offered whatever help was needed. “Your nephew is here to see you.” Before Kemena had a chance to respond, the girl was already down the hallway and gone.
Kemena pushed her way through the main hospital floor, groping hands reaching up to her by the dozens, bombarding her with their questions, with their ailments, with their pleas.
“Please, my daughter, she was hurt on the journey south.”
“Doctor, my father has not been well for some time, and the stress of the war has only worsened his condition. You have to help.”
“One of the Russian scouts attacked us in our home. My son, please, you have to save him.”
Each theatrical plea was accompanied by pained faces dripping with expressions of helplessness. It was all Kemena could do to make it through the massive crowds in one piece. When she stepped out onto the street entrance, the crowds only worsened, and she found Kit with General Monaghan.
“Governess, I found your nephew jumping aboard a wagon heading for the front lines, dressed in military uniform and armed with rifle and saber.” The general lifted the arms belt, and Kit lowered his head. “He tried getting a jump on me in the morning by waking before dawn to hide amongst the crates of provisions. Luckily, one of the lieutenants recognized him and found me.”
Despite Dean’s orders for their nephew to keep out of military affairs until the general bid him fit for battle, the boy had continually tried to sneak into the front lines. With the influx of sick, there also came the healthy. Fathers and sons with nothing to their name were eager to take the military’s offer of three meals a day, clothes, and a place to sleep in exchange for their service. The scouts coming back from tracking the Russians’ progress had told of very large numbers, and the generals here worried that their main forces would have trouble fending off the advancement.
Kemena shifted her gaze to her nephew, who still refused to look up. “Thank you, General. I’d like to have a word with my nephew alone.” Monaghan gave a stiff nod and, taking Kit’s weapons with him, disappeared with a unit down the street, leaving one guard to escort Kit when Kemena was done with him. She took Kit’s hand and led him to the edge of the porch near the hospital’s alley, which provided only a slightly more private area to talk. “Kit, what are you doing?”
The boy remained silent, and Kemena lifted his chin, forcing her nephew to look at her. He twisted his face away and turned his back to her. Kemena wrenched the boy around forcefully and shook him by his shoulders. “You listen to me, young man. Whatever dreams of grandeur you plan to find on the battlefield will not be happening anytime soon. Now, I don’t care if I have to chain you to your bed, you are not going to fight.”
Kit turned on her so fast and quickly that Kemena flinched backward. The boy was taller than she was, and thick for a boy his age, and what she saw in his eyes was a man’s rage. “The people that killed my mother and father are coming to finish the job. You and my uncle think that I don’t have a place out there, but I have more of a right to fight them than any of these beggars on the street!” He raised his voice, his face reddening. “No one will hold me from that right. Just because you open your legs for the regional governor doesn’t make you one.”
Kemena slapped Kit’s cheek hard enough to stumble him sideways. The faces in the street all turned at once to watch, but the soldier ushered them to keep moving on. She reared on her young nephew. “You talk to me like that again, and it won’t be my hand that hits you. You have no right to speak to me or anyone else like that, do you hear me? Whatever right of nature you think you have, you don’t. This rage is nothing more than a child’s tantrum.” Each word and syllable dug deeper into the red handprint etched across Kit’s face, crushing salt in his already burning wound.
When Kit lifted his face, he held his cheek. His eyes had reddened, but the rage and anger she’d seen just moments ago had vanished as quickly as they appeared. Now all that remained were glistening tears collecting at the corners of his eyes. “I’m sorry.” His words left at the edge of a trembling lower lip. “I’m so sorry, Aunt Kemena.” The dam holding back his grief finally burst, and the boy collapsed to the floor, crying uncontrollably. He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders trembling.
Kemena sat down next to Kit and put her arm around him. She gently rubbed his back, pulling him closer until his head rested on her shoulder. It was the first time the boy had showed any sign of grief over the loss of his parents. He’d kept it bottled up for so long, all of his emotions had transformed into nothing but rage, and with that anger finally dismantled, what should have come out long ago finally left. “It’s going to be all right, Kit. I know how much you miss them.”
Kit sniffled, doing his best to regain his composure. Even though he nearly had the body of a man grown, in her arms he felt as small as she remembered when he was a child. He leaned back, his face wet and slick with tears and sweat. He wiped his eyes, trying to get a handle on his breathing. “Everything that’s happened. I just… I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” He turned to look at her with the same eyes that she’d seen in the hospital, pleading for guidance, looking to be saved.
“You are supposed to live, Kit.” Kemena leaned close. Her voice was soft but strong. She held him firmly, feeding him what strength she could. She grazed her fingertip across the indentation her hand had left against his skin, still irritated and red. “Neither of your parents, your father included, would want you to consume yourself with revenge. It is a war with no end, and no winners
or losers.”
“I just feel so helpless.” Kit fidgeted uncomfortably. “I know I can fight. I know the type of soldier I could be on the field. Even if my parents hadn’t died, I’d want to fight.”
“Dean knows what’s inside you. It’s one of the reasons he wanted to keep you away from that while he can. There will come a time for you to take the field, and I have no doubt you will carve your own legend on the Mars family tree, but with legend comes pain and burden. Your father and uncles learned that lesson far too well, and they wish to keep you from it as long as they can. And so do I.”
Kit offered a smile and nodded. “Thank you, Aunt Kemena.” He wiped his nose again and looked down to her stomach. “How are things going?”
Kemena clutched both hands around her belly and the tiny bump that had risen there. She was barely showing, and no one knew about the pregnancy other than family and a few select guards stationed with her for protection. “Everything’s fine. I just hope your uncle makes it back before the birth.”
War drained life in many ways. Sometimes with blood. And others with time. Both were costly, but which was more dangerous varied for each soldier and his family. But one thing was certain, with the number of soldiers already engaged in the fight to come, it would not be over quickly. The larger the armies, the longer the wars. Kemena had come to terms with the fact that Dean may not see their child before it could walk.
“Are you nervous?” Kit asked.
The question threw Kemena off guard, but she knew what the hint of concern was for. She grabbed his hand and squeezed, offering a smile to ease his worry, and her own. “A little, but it’s natural. And it’s more of an excited nervous than a fearful one.”
“I know it happened to my mother,” Kit replied. “Before I was born. She never spoke of it, but the few times it was brought up, she always changed the subject quickly.”
“It happens to many mothers,” Kemena answered. “We don’t know why though. Everything can seem fine, and then… well, everything changes. But that’s not your concern to worry about.” She stood, offering her hand to help him up as well. “You go with the sergeant back to the house and check on your brother. With all of the commotion, he’s probably going stir crazy there by himself. And talk to him.” Her words were again soft, doing her best not to prod the fresh wound. “Both of you went through something very terrible. It’s rare you have someone to lean on in such a tragedy.”
Kit wrapped Kemena in his arms, and she once again felt the returned strength of the man she’d seen earlier. “Thank you. And I’m sorry for what I said.”
When he pulled back, Kemena grabbed him by the chin, her eyebrows raised and her eyes wide. “Remember what I said. Never again, Kit.”
“Yes, ma’am.” And with that he disappeared back into the mob that had become the street. The sergeant gave a light bow up to Kemena then followed Kit through the masses.
Kemena smoothed out the front of her blouse and tried putting back the strands of hair that had sprung loose from her bun. She started for the hospital door but stopped just before entering. She quickly turned her back to the street, a well of grief rising up within her that was just as surprising as it was frightening. She pressed her forehead against the wall, shutting her eyes hard.
The miscarriage from three years ago had been later in her pregnancy. She was nearly eight months when she felt something wrong. A week later she bled profusely, worse than she ever had before, which triggered her into labor, where she gave birth to a stillborn son.
Kemena could still see the dead piece of life in her arms. It was the most painful experience of her life. The child that had grown in her, been a part of her, was taken before she even had a chance to meet him. Zachary. That was her son’s name. The son that never learned to walk, or speak, or write and read. The boy that would never scrape his knees and come running to his mother for help. The son that would never grow into a man with a life of his own. All of that ended when she held him in her arms.
It was months before she let Dean touch her again. She knew how hard it was for him. She had completely shut herself off. She wouldn’t speak to anyone, she didn’t eat, or drink, or sleep. A glaze of impotence covered her, disabling her to the point of death.
After nearly two months of the vegetative state, Kemena finally started performing simple tasks for herself again. She went through the motions like a child, dressing and feeding herself, understanding the concept but struggling with the execution. Then, slowly, over time, she returned to normal. Going outside, speaking to people, eating regularly, going back to work, and eventually, sleeping with Dean again.
They’d tried having others since then, but this was the first time something stuck. She’d eventually just stopped thinking about it, and after two months without bleeding, she knew something had changed.
But for such good news to come in the middle of all this seemed foreboding. And Kemena had never seen Dean in such a haste before a war, nor had she seen such a gathering of soldiers as what collected north on the front lines. Whatever fate befell them, victory or defeat, would carry its own devastation.
Chapter 9
The smoke rising from the burned village could still be seen five miles away. The small community offered little resistance when Rodion and his men rode through. Their massive numbers swallowed the people that stayed behind whole. It wasn’t the first village his men had seen on their march, but it was the first to still have people living in it.
There were only a handful of women, who were quickly run through by most of the men before they were disposed of, left to weep and rot and burn with the village and the men stupid enough to try and fight back.
Rodion’s army had cut a long, thick line down the western coastline. They pillaged towns, felled entire forests, and drained the rivers dry with every steady march forward. Every few hours, he found himself turning around on the saddle of his mount to admire his work.
The journey down had been met with little opposition, as Rodion had expected. The scouts he sent forward had told him of the growing army near the wilderness border that separated these lands from the main territories the Mars brothers controlled. However, he also knew that Dean Mars was not with them, and with the other brothers still overseas, the army was left leaderless, with only a parrot standing in place, barking orders echoed thousands of miles away. He knew what the Mars name meant to the army he was riding to face, and with the royal blood nowhere to be seen, it would impact the enemy’s morale.
The sun dipped lower into the western skies, and Rodion decided it was time to make camp. He reined up on his horse then dismounted, the marching thunder that was his army slowly coming to a halt. Rodion stretched his legs while his men set up his quarters for the night. He grabbed his rifle and headed farther south. “I’ll be hunting. Have the fire ready upon my return.”
“General, you should have an escort.” The captain of his security guard hurried toward him, eager to prove his worth. While the man was loyal, Rodion often found his clinging demeanor irritating.
“Stay with the camp. If I’m brought down now, with an entire army behind me, I have no business leading them into battle in the first place.” Rodion left the captain to worry by himself. Even three miles away from the camp, he could hear the murmur of his soldiers’ voices, and if he could hear them, then any game in the area would as well.
After the sun finally disappeared and cast the forest in darkness, Rodion felt the cold bite of frost penetrate his furs. The temperature finally dipped to Rodion’s liking, and he continued his hunt southeast, heading into the thicker areas of the forest. The farther he walked, the quieter the forest became, and the more fluid his movements.
Rodion had spent his entire life on the frosted tundra of Russia’s north. It was that environment that hardened him into the man he was to become. The man who now commanded the largest, best equipped standing army in the world. The frozen wasteland that was his home had carved him with the sharp picks of ice, which also r
an through his veins.
Rodion slowed his pace. He planted each step forward soundlessly, effortlessly. It was as if he walked on the snow barefoot. He crouched low, his eyes still blind in the dark but his ears opened, listening for any rustle in the area besides the thump of his own heartbeat. He walked for another two miles before he finally came across tracks.
They were fresh, newly indented in the compacted snow. Rodion followed the trail another half mile to a small stream cutting through the forest on its way to the coast. The wind blew hard against his face, bringing with it a rush of cold and adrenaline. He saw the deer drinking less than forty yards away. He bent to one knee and brought the animal into his sights.
Being downwind, the animal never even smelled him. Rodion squeezed the trigger, and the quiet of the night was shattered with the thunderous gunshot that dropped the animal where it drank. The stream’s light babble soon replaced the ringing in Rodion’s ears as he bent over the animal, examining the size of the buck.
The antlers had barely grown out, but the animal was still thin for its age. Rodion pulled the knife from his belt and split the animal’s stomach from chest to tail, disemboweling the animal quickly to avoid the meat spoiling.
Rodion worked the blade effortlessly over the animal, stripping it of its hide and meat quickly. Steam rose from the dead animal’s still-warm flesh, and by the time Rodion was finished, his hands and arms were stained in the buck’s fluids. He held a chunk of the venison he carved from the carcass and eyed it greedily. This corner of the world still teemed with life, a dark contrast to the dead cold of Russia. Nothing but useless ash.
The deer meat concaved against the pressure of Rodion’s fist until the chunky meat dissolved into pulp. He remembered the hundreds of nights when he passed out from hunger and exhaustion. The gnawing black hole in the pit of his stomach was an endless growl of pain and remained that way for much of his childhood.