by James Hunt
Once alone, Canice found the pain in her stomach replaced with something else. It was empty, a void that pulled her inward, a force that she couldn’t stop any more than the steady stream of tears running down her face. The realization of what she’d lost finally sank in. And now she was burdened with finding the strength to live without it.
***
The table was set for four, but only three filled the seats. Kemena stared at the empty chair across from her while Kit and Sam took small, slow bites from their plates, unsure whether to keep eating, stop, or speak. Kemena looked over to Kit, who hadn’t taken off his uniform since he’d made it through basic training with the latest group of recruits. Luckily, Dean had the good sense to make sure the boy was stationed close to General Monaghan, mainly working with the artillery units.
Sam kept his head down, picking at the chicken on his plate. Kemena hadn’t even seen him crack a smile in days, no matter how many times she tried to cheer him up. The war spared no one, draining the youth of their energy, and the silence was deafening.
The tent flaps were flung open, and Dean stepped inside, marching hurriedly to the table. Kit shot up out of his chair, standing at attention, as was customary for all soldiers when the governor entered a room, but Dean waved the boy down. “It’s all right, Kit. Consider dinnertime off duty.”
Kemena noticed the forced smile from both as they took their seats. She knew Kit was grateful to finally have his chance at war but was resentful that he couldn’t choose which branch to join. In reality, none of the men who joined could, but she knew Kit believed that his uncle had something to do with the fact that he was stationed in the rear with the artillery unit instead of the front lines.
Not much was said for the rest of the dinner, and Kemena noticed how blatantly Dean avoided her gaze. He would depart in less than two days, heading north into the tundra wilderness to finish off Rodion’s forces. She’d let her disapproval be known upon the news, but Dean wouldn’t budge.
With dinner finished, Kit returned to the barracks with the rest of the soldiers, offering his brother a hug, his uncle a handshake, and Kemena a light kiss on the cheek. She watched him until the back of his head was beyond her vision and then felt a tug on the back of her dress and turned to see Sam looking at his feet. “What is it, Sam?”
The boy’s blond locks were a mess on top of his small head, and he fiddled with his fingers awkwardly. “Are you going to leave too?” He looked up, his blue eyes a glistening wet.
Kemena bent down and scooped him up, Sam wrapping his arms around her neck and squeezing tight. “No, of course not.” She pulled her head back and made sure she looked him in the eye when she spoke. “You don’t have to worry about your brother and your uncles. They will come home. Everything’s going to be okay.”
Sam sniffled and nodded his head. Kemena wasn’t sure if the boy believed her, but it was enough to finally manage a grin out of him. She set him down and kissed his forehead. “Now, you go and help clear the table. When you’re done, we’ll see what we can find for dessert, okay?”
Another quick smile, and the boy sprinted inside, carefully balancing the plates with some of the servants as they walked out the tent’s side entrance. Kemena went to look for Dean and found him out back, disassembling a rifle. He kept his back to her, focusing on the weapon. “You need to speak with Sam before you go.”
“The boy will be fine, Kemena.” Dean clicked two pieces together and examined the sights of the rifle. It was one of the moderns from the vault the engineers had refurbished.
Kemena stepped in front of him then snatched the rifle from his hands and tossed it on the ground. “The boy is not fine, Dean. We are not fine. You are not fine. The people are not fine!” She kicked the dirt, sending a spray of earth over the weapon.
Dean stood, picked up the rifle, and started disassembling it once more, cleaning the parts that had been dirtied.
Kemena spun around, her lips trembling in anger and fear. She ran her hands through her hair, feeling the shaking of her own fingers through the thick, wavy curls. “You don’t have to go. You know you don’t have to.”
“It’s not about what I want,” Dean said. “It’s about what’s best for our people. Those people you mentioned that are not fine. They won’t be fine until this is done.”
Kemena turned on him so fast that he nearly dropped the weapon to the ground again. “And when is it done, Dean? When does this end? What new enemy will seek us out tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that?” Her pulse raced, and she felt the heat radiating from her cheeks. “When does it end?” She stomped her foot and shoved her husband hard in the chest.
Dean set the rifle down, his expression stoic and his motions slow. “I don’t think there is an end, Kemena. And if there is, I’m not sure if I’ll live to see it.” Dean grabbed the rifle then headed back inside the tent.
No emotion, no feeling. Kemena stepped back from the stranger in front of her. “You can’t leave us!” She clutched her stomach then fell to her knees as short gasps of air left her sobbing in the dirt. Every step Dean took forward was one more away from her, from their child, from home.
Chapter 10
Nearly two hundred ships trailed Dean and Jason in their vanguard. The armada cut through the cold waters of the north Pacific like a horde of iron beasts searching for land. Dean had ordered every last soldier in their army to board the vessels, along with the clansmen. Even with Rodion limping in retreat, Dean knew the Russian general would not go down easily or willingly.
But with the combined efforts of the refurbished moderns from the vault along with the AK-47s they’d managed to confiscate from the retreating Russian horde, every single sailor and soldier was armed, and combined with the might of their navy, Dean knew the Russians wouldn’t stand a chance.
They drew port at what was left of the Alaskan fisheries. Dean and Jason led his men through the burnt wreckage of the village and toward the tree line, where they would gather the bulk of their strength. General Monaghan walked alongside the governors, all three men pulling their coats tight about their collars, shielding themselves from the wicked cold. “I want scouts sent ahead to confirm Rodion’s position while we mount our offensive. It’ll take a few hours before the army can march, and I don’t want to waste any time finding him.”
“I’ll send riders out with the first wave of horses, governor.” Monaghan stopped with Dean and Jason at the edge of the forest. Snow clouds were growing overhead. “Sir, I understand the need for a quick resolution on this, but perhaps it would be wiser to wait for—”
“We will not wait, General. Now see that the preparations are taken care of.”
Monaghan dismissed himself, and Jason followed Dean to the edge of the forest. A sea of trees and compact snow and rocks lay before them. “He’s out there, Jason.” A cold wind blasted Dean’s face, and he closed his eyes, the frigid breeze causing neither a flinch nor a shiver.
“The general’s right, Dean. We need to wait for the storm to pass.”
“There’s always a storm, Jason. Or the potential for a trap, or lack of supplies, lack of soldiers, ammunition—there’s always a reason to not go.” Dean turned to Jason, neither disappointed nor angry. Despite everyone’s worry, he was seeing more clearly than he ever had before. “But there is always a more important reason to push on.” He clapped Jason on the shoulder and found his horse.
“And what’s that?” Jason asked, shouting, his breath puffing with frost.
“The preservation of life.” The snow fell as Dean met with the scouts before they departed. A layer of white frosted his beard, and he watched the riders disappear into the wilderness, the clouds above spitting a thicker sheet of snow the farther they rode. Dean knew that what evil was left beyond that forest needed to die. And he was the man to kill it.
***
Rodion thumbed the last round of ammunition into the magazine and set it aside. Piles of snow grew taller around him, and his entire army had been
dusted with the weather, which seemed content to let the snow swallow them whole while they huddled and shivered under blankets and tents. No fires burned, and the only advantage the snow offered them was camouflage to any of the governor’s scouts.
Rodion placed his hand on the frozen stack of ammunition to his right, all that was left of his own supply. But he knew that bullets would be of little help if the North Americans arrived with more of those weapons that had decimated his army.
Craven attacks in the middle of the night. The deception reminded Rodion all too well of Delun’s games; it was tiring, and Rodion was done playing. He pushed himself off the frozen earth and trudged his way through the growing snow piles. He found one of his officers under a lump of snow-covered blankets and kicked him awake from his frigid slumber. “Gather the men.”
The colonel was too tired or too frightened to ask any questions, and the men were stirred against their will while Rodion squinted through the growing snowfall. The sheets of white waved through the air, wind gusting and shifting the flurries in all directions, creating a fog of snow. “We march west!”
Each step forward brought back memories of Russia, the unforgiving cold, the dark skies, and the heartless landscape that would just as likely kill you as offer something to save your life. The snowfall grew so thick that Rodion nearly smacked into a tree before he came to a stop. He looked to his left and right, and through the falling sheets of ice and snow he saw the tree line that signaled the end of the tundra.
Rodion dropped the rifle to the ground and replaced it with the handle of an axe. He gripped the worn wood handle and swung wildly into the first tree in his path. Ice and snow chipped off the bark with every swing, and Rodion felt the splinter and crack of wood, the wedged blade of the axe digging deeper into the tree trunk until the tree wavered and crashed into the icy earth.
Rodion’s muscles burned in the cold, the sharp sting of fatigue pulsating through his arms and shoulders, quick puffs of frost revealing a labored breathing from the effort. He turned back to his men, raising the axe high. “We will not hide from our enemy! If they seek to find us, then we will welcome them with the lead from our guns and the steel of our blades!”
One by one, officers, soldiers, anyone with a blade hacked down the forest in front of them, felling tree after tree then breaking up the long trunks into logs, which were thrown into a pile. Rodion had those without blades or axes search for kindling.
The flames started small, the wind preventing the initial sparks from catching the tinder, but it wasn’t long before tall columns of smoke wafted into the sky, penetrating the sheets of icy sleet raining down upon them. The fire grew with every log and branch tossed onto the flames, reaching twenty feet high. The heat from the fire burned with such intensity that it melted the snow around it, even the flakes still falling from the sky that ventured too close to the fire.
Rodion felt the heat from the flames on his back as he hacked down another tree, the snow and ice on his face, beard, and clothes mixing with his sweat, slowly soaking him to the bone. Rodion would set fire to the entire forest if he had to, whatever it took. No more waiting.
***
The scouts returned nearly an hour after Dean had seen the flames. At first the orange glow to the east looked almost like a sunrise, but as it grew larger, Dean knew it was no sun. He ordered Monaghan to wake the men.
“Governor Mars.” The scout called out to him and dismounted before the horse even came to a stop. “The fire stretches for nearly half a mile. We couldn’t see anything beyond the flames, but with the way the forest had been chopped down, it had to be the Russians.” The scout was covered in a mixture of snow and fallen ash, the black soot staining and contrasting against the pristine white.
Jason appeared out of the darkness, already dressed for combat. “You found no trace of Rodion’s men?”
“No, sir.”
“Rejoin the ranks, and make sure you have ammunition,” Dean said then sent the scouts along their way before any more doubt crept into his mind.
“Dean,” Jason said, “it could be a trap.”
“Rodion’s not clever enough to set a trap. He wants us to find him. That fire is his taunt.” Dean slung the rifle strap over his shoulder, his eyes unable to remove themselves from the bright-orange ball in the darkness. The flames entranced him, calling to him through the darkness. “We came here to end this. Tonight.”
Before Dean could turn away, Jason grabbed his brother’s arm, forcefully swinging him around. “Dammit, Dean, enough!” Jason’s face was illuminated with the fading light of the distant flames and the shadows of the night, accentuating each expression. “You and I both need to come home from this war, and that’s not going to happen if you keep pressing forward like this.”
Dean shoved Jason off him, pushing him out of the light of the fires to where he became faceless. He looked around at the officers and soldiers, only the outlines of their bodies visible. Faceless men. All of them. “You see that?” He pointed to the dusty-orange glow through the trees. “Fire, ice, steel, and lead await us. And those instruments will decide who lives and who dies.” He turned to his brother, making sure Jason knew he was looking at him. “I will not die.” A swell of rage and energy flushed through him as he turned to the rest of the men, their faces slowly taking shape the closer they moved to the fire. “Do you hear me? I will not die tonight. Nor will you if you choose to believe it! This is not just a war! This is our survival! We will not die!” Dean thrust his fist into the air, which was punctuated by the shouts of his men. “We will not die!”
With the swell of war beating in the heart of their army, Dean and Jason mounted, leading their soldiers through the thick of the wood, toward the raging fires in the west. Dean kept a steady pace until halfway, when the snow and ice from the storm finally let up. Clouds dotted the sky, blocking the moon and stars, but the light from the fire in the distance guided their path.
Pops and cracks echoed through the forest from the burning wood, and the flames flickered the long fingers of shadows through the night. The heat melted the snow and ice from his coat, a mixture of water and sweat dripping from the tip of his nose.
The stallion gave a whinny and grew wary the closer they moved to the flames. The snow falling over them was soon replaced with the falling black ash of the fire, staining the earth as black as the night sky.
Dean saw Jason to his left, keeping the lines tight, but no sign of Rodion or his men. He signaled Jason to ride north, and Dean headed south, hoping to run into their enemy along the way.
The fire raged to Dean’s left, the steady thump of his men’s boots against the snow drowned out by the roaring flames. Dean pulled his rifle, tucking the stock under his shoulder for support. Once they rounded the corner of the fire, Dean let go of the reins, and the warhorse kept the path without any guidance, the familiarity of war returning to the animal easily.
Dean scanned the horizon through the rifle’s metal sight but saw nothing but flames to his left and darkness to his right. He lowered the weapon, and the horse stopped. “Captain, send a unit out to scan the forests—make sure Rodion didn’t march south.”
“Yes, si—”
Gunfire exploded, bullets slicing through the captain, his blood staining the blackened snow a shade of crimson. Dean’s horse reared, nearly kicking him off, but he grabbed the reins just before he fell.
Dean returned gunfire to the enemy clustered in the darkness. The muzzle flashes from their guns were the only indicator of their location. “Lines! Hold your lines!” Dean kicked his heels into the horse and sprinted forward into battle. He squeezed the trigger, bullets flying from the muzzle faster than the beat of the hooves under his stallion. He trampled over bodies, and the crunch of bones intermixed with screams piercing the night.
Gunfire burst close, and the horse whinnied, its legs buckling underneath him and then crashing into the snow and ice, flinging Dean from the saddle and skidding across the slick tundra surface. He kept
hold of the rifle and awkwardly pushed himself from the ground. The fire behind him offered the only beacon of reference, and when he turned, he saw the bulk of Rodion’s men marching. The shadowed figures clustered together then separated at will, swarming one another like demons engulfed in fire.
Dean snapped out of his stupor, and he ducked behind the dead horse for cover, bullets tearing into the animal’s flesh. He used the stallion’s rib cage to steady his aim and returned fire into the darkness. His elbow wavered slightly on the animal’s hide, and each squeeze of the trigger sent recoil to his shoulder.
Shell casings littered the ground, and he nearly slipped on a cluster when he sprinted back to the front lines, jumping over fallen bodies, keeping his footing on the icy ground. The heat from the fire and cold of the snow ricocheted his body temperature up and down. Snow fell, impairing his vision, and soon Dean couldn’t tell what was snow and what was ash.
A cluster of Dean’s men was pinned down by the flames, the Russians backing them into the fire. Dean fired but only felled two of the six enemy soldiers before his ammo ran out. Not slowing from his sprint, he tossed the rifle aside and reached for his blade in the same motion, both hands working independently of each other. Before two of the guards turned around, he hacked their legs.
Dean knocked away the muzzle of the first rifle aimed at him, the soldier firing wildly into nothing but air and darkness. The light from the fire danced wildly off the Russian soldier’s body, consuming it in shades of orange and black. Dean watched the Russian raise his rifle, his finger already on the trigger, and suddenly he felt the veil of immortality lift.