Different, Not Damaged

by Andy Peloquin

  He'd spent the better part of two years training the fingers of his left hand to grip the needle. His mangled right hand lacked dexterity. At least it served to hold the material in place. And Seraphina could rip the seams when he made a mistake. It was easier to start afresh the next day than try to handle the tiny dagger himself. The quiver that ran through his hand had destroyed far too many costly fabrics.

  He turned over the last jacket in the bundle. A fragment of black thread hung from the stitch Seraphina had missed. He froze, hands trembling. The ghost of screams tugged at the corners of his mind. Soft leather shifted in his grip, turning into crimson-stained flesh. Black cord snaked through layers of skin as he fought to close Corporal Garvey’s leg. Dark arterial blood pumped from the wound, but he would not yield. He had to stop the bleeding before—

  Chest heaving, Dahvynd hurled the jacket away and rushed to his chair. The needle dipped and darted into Mistress Alahnah’s dress as he forced himself to take deep, calming breaths. His world narrowed to the soft gown, the delicate white strands, and the shining length of metal in his hand. Every shred of willpower went into keeping his mind focused on the work, his eyes fixed on that needle.

  The thread came alive in his hands, and Dahvynd watched the patterns take shape. He didn’t control them; they seemed to guide him, pulling him into the complex web of string and fabric until the memories—indeed, the world around him—faded into nothing. He could live like this: disconnected from everything save for needle and thread.

  A silvery tinkling snapped him from his trance. Dahvynd blinked at the two men entering the shop, taking note of their thick arms and sloping foreheads.

  "Gentlemen." He nodded. "I'm not takin’ new requests right now, but—"

  One—a hulking fellow who reminded Dahvynd of the white mountain apes common beyond the Frozen Sea—slammed a hairy hand down on the counter. "You know why we're here, tailor."

  Dahvynd's eyes dropped to the brand tattooed on the man's forearm. Crimson dripped from a hand, the five too-long fingers tipped with razor claws.

  He spoke in a measured voice. "I've no interest in the Bloody Hand's business. And we'll have no problem, s'long as you steer clear of mine."

  The second man—bull-necked, and with a face like crushed gravel—growled. "Ye are the Bloody Hand's business." He looked around the cluttered shop. "All this cloth…shame if it somehow caught fire or got stolen. Thankfully, we're here to make sure nothing happens to yer precious property."

  The mountain ape leered. "And alls it'll cost you is one imperial a month. In gra-tee-tude for our services, as it were."

  Dahvynd set aside the dress and stood. Bull-neck and ape-man's eyes widened a fraction as he rose to his full height. He could see them measuring his arms—of a size with their own, and strengthened from years of swinging shield and sword rather than the wooden clubs that hung from their belts. No Legionnaire had ever accused Dahvynd of being compact.

  Once, Dahvynd would have vaulted the counter and let his fists do the talking. Even before years of hard training in the Legion, he'd walked away victorious from more than his share of fights. That was before Killia. Before he'd nearly caved in a man's skull in a blind rage.

  Another side effect of the damned battles. The tremor in his hands was the first indication of another episode. If he let the memories take him, he'd have little control over his actions. His left hand had begun to tremble like a leaf in a hurricane.

  The wooden counter creaked in his grip, and the two thugs' eyes narrowed. Dahvynd made no move to attack. His left hand sought the thin band of metal around his right wrist.

  Strength and Courage. He took a deep breath.

  "Best you turn right around." He jerked his chin toward the door. "As it stands, you and me got no quarrel."

  Bull-neck sneered. "And if ye want to keep it that way, ye’ll pay what—"

  Dahvynd took a step toward the counter, looming over the men. "Leave now, and I'll forget I saw your faces."

  Man-ape flinched and took a step back, but recovered a moment later. "Don't be foolish."

  Dahvynd rested his left hand atop the handle of the wooden baton Killia had insisted he keep behind the counter.

  Bull-neck's hand went to his own club. Man-ape stopped him. "You're making a mistake, tailor." He nudged his companion toward the door. "We won't be as friendly next time." The bell gave an angry jangle as they left.

  Gasping, Dahvynd wrenched his hand from the club. His left hand trembled so violently it set his shoulder quaking. He hadn't touched a weapon since…

  His fingers fumbled for the silver band as he dropped into his chair. He pulled his knees to his chest, closed his eyes, and forced himself to take deep breaths. Ragged threads of memory—water soaking his boots, the reek of blood, the ululating battle calls rising from a thousand barbarian throats—rushed into his consciousness. He ran his thumb over the smooth metal, letting the familiar feel soothe him and drive back sights, sounds, and sensations he ached to forget.

  Strength and Courage, Dahvynd, he repeated, as Killia had so many times. Strength and Courage.

  For a Legionnaire, what he was doing now felt like anything but.

  * * *

  Dahvynd pulled his heavy cloak tighter and lowered his head against the driving wind. The bright, cheery day had turned to a chilling evening. His hands had stopped their nervous twitching hours ago, but the pressure in his head remained. The burden of his past pressed on his mind, threatening to break free. He had to get home to--

  No, Killia wasn't waiting for him. Even now, more than a year since the plague had claimed her, he still found himself smiling at the thought of seeing her. Reality wiped the joy from his face all too soon.

  He had no desire to face an empty home. Perhaps Sorrin and Layrie would be at their usual spot. He could use a bit of company, the warmth of a fire. Hells, he'd settle for a swallow of whatever swill they had handy. He needed the escape.

  Darkness greeted him. Layrie and Sorrin must have found another place to spend the night. His left hand clenched into a fist. Home it is.

  As he turned back to the street, a weak cough sounded from among the debris. "Dahvynd?" The name--his name--stopped him as cold as the ice floating in the Frozen Sea.

  That voice! He hadn't heard it since Hangman's Hill.

  The lightless alley disappeared, replaced by a grassy hill and the screams of a thousand barbarians.

  "Dahvynd!" Private Indar screamed in his ear. "Sarge says reinforcements are an hour out. We hold 'til then!"

  "Dah...vynd..."

  The voice snapped him back to reality. Dahvynd once again stood in an unlit alley in Lower Voramis, beside a pile of debris that shifted with a wet gurgle.

  "I-Indar?"

  Dahvynd squinted down. Moonlight glinted off angular features stained with a crimson darker and wetter than Indar's scarlet hair. The slim shoulders shook as Indar gasped. "Help...me!"

  Dahvynd scrabbled in the debris and dug his strong left hand under Indar's body. Indar hadn't weighed much more than the standard Legionnaire's pack even when well-fed, yet the form hanging limp in Dahvynd's arms felt more skeletal than spare. Blood misted in the chilly air as Indar coughed. A gaping wound ran from chest to belly.

  Instinct turned his steps toward his shop. He had needle and thread aplenty. If he got to Indar's wounds before the man bled out or drowned in his own blood, the private had a chance. Patches of dark snow followed him as Indar's wound seeped with every step.

  Indar struggled to speak. "S...S..." A harsh, wet wheeze cut off his words.

  "Hold on, Indar." Dahvynd's jaw tightened. "You're not dyin' on me, damn you."

  His breath came in quick, harsh gasps. Fragments of memory pushed in on him, but he shook his head to dispel them. He didn't have time for them now. Indar didn't have time.

  He didn't bother with the key—his boot opened the door to the tailor shop. The metal locks pinged in the darkness, but Dahvynd had eyes only for the wooden countertop and
the delicate lace gown he'd laid atop it with such care. Lady Alahnah would have her dress a few days late.

  Setting Indar down as gently as he could, he reached for the scraps of discarded cloth cluttering the workspace. "Hold these tight, Indar." His mangled hand pressed Indar's pale, cold ones against the wound. He knocked bolts of cloth from the shelf as he rushed around the counter and fumbled in the darkness for the firestriker.

  Flickering candlelight revealed Indar's wan face, beaded with perspiration, pinched cheeks bordering on pallid. Taking a deep breath, Dahvynd removed the blood-soaked cloths from Indar's chest. Crimson oozed from a tear that ran from sternum to belly button. The patter of droplets hitting the floor filled the tailor shop, broken only by Indar's weak groan.

  A tremor shook Dahvynd's hand and turned his legs to clay. His fist closed around the damp cloths as the memories swept him up in their current.

  Blood dripped from Dahvynd's hands as he pressed his spare tunic against the remnants of Garvey's right leg. He could have tried to dam the Frozen Sea with a twig for all the good it did, but Legionnaires never gave up on a comrade.

  "Hold on, Garvey! Healer's on his way any second." He cradled his right hand—now as useless as Garvey's foot—to his chest, biting back a groan of pain. Garvey needed him.

  All around him, the men of 2nd Platoon screamed in agony, shouted for healers, and spoke in hushed voices to fallen comrades. A few sat with mouths agape, faces the color of the not-yet-dead, eyes wide and unseeing. The mountain of corpses behind them paid testament to the bravery of 1st Shield Company. Brave men died beside cowards and fools.

  He pressed the cloths tighter against Garvey’s leg, but the corporal didn't so much as grunt. He'd stopped screaming long ago.

  "Dah…vynd…"

  Indar's weak voice dragged him from the river of the past. "Easy, Private. Don't move." He reached for a needle, heedless of the blood that stained the spools of delicate thread. His trembling fingers refused to grip the sliver of metal.

  "Dah…vynd." Indar's words came out barely above a whisper.

  Dahvynd abandoned the needle and pressed his hand against the torn flesh of Indar's midsection. As fruitless as the day he'd sat beside Corporal Traynor, but he wouldn't stop trying.

  "He's…coming." A trickle of blood leaked from the corner of his mouth. His last words came out so faint, Dahvynd nearly missed them. "Sarge."

  Sarge. The name sent cold feet dancing down Dahvynd's spine. The images slammed into him, and he stood once more on the grassy slopes of Hangman's Hill.

  "Stand firm, lads!" Sergeant Gardner's rough voice could cut through the din of a stampeding herd. He stalked behind the lines, a solid, comforting presence at their backs. "One step back, and by the Swordsman, I'll chop you to bits myself!"

  Perhaps not comforting, but fierce and unyielding. If any barbarians got through their lines, they'd have the Sarge to face.

  Acid surged in Dahvynd's throat as a thousand barbarian throats took up the ululating war cry. The tip of his sword wavered in his trembling grip.

  Indar's voice came calm, quiet in his ear. "We hold, Dahvynd. Until the Keeper himself comes for us."

  Palms sweaty, Dahvynd tightened his hold on the sword. Leather softened by months of training creaked in his grip. His left shoulder ached from the shield's weight. He ached to free himself of the burden, to turn, to flee with the rest of the 1st Shield Company. But no, 2nd Platoon had been ordered to hold Hangman's Hill. Sarge would kill anyone who broke. Legionnaires never turned their backs on death. They did not falter, even when outnumbered five to one.

  "Here they come, lads!" Sarge clashed sword and shield, and the men of 2nd Platoon took up the challenge. The howling, screaming mass of wild-eyed, long-haired barbarians surged up the hill in a tide of flesh and bone, and the men of 2nd Platoon met them head on.

  "Well, well." A cold, hard voice from a lifetime ago broke the stillness of the tailor's shop. Horror shivered through Dahvynd as the memories faded. The familiar bearded, scarred face of grim reality stared at him from the doorway

  "S-Sarge?" Dahvynd's heart pounded as if trying to break free of his ribs. He clenched his fist, but found it already squeezing Indar's lifeless wrist in a grip that shattered bone. The private was beyond complaining. "What are you doin’ here?"

  "Thought I died, didn't you?" Fury glittered in the sergeant's dark eyes. Candlelight danced across his craggy face, twisting his features into something from Dahvynd's nightmares.

  "I…I saw you fall." Dahvynd touched the scar on his cheek. The barrage of spears had lain open his jaw to the bone; Sarge hadn't been so lucky. He'd resembled one of Dahvynd's pincushions when the physickers had hauled him away. "You were dead, Sarge."

  "Takes more'n a spear to the gut and chest to put me down, Dahvynd. We Legionnaires are a tough breed." He bared his teeth in a snarl. The scars crisscrossing his face made the expression look more monstrous. "Some of us, at least. Those with real metal in our bones."

  Dahvynd stared at him, confused. "What are you talkin’ about?"

  Sarge stabbed a stump of a finger at him. "You, you bastard. All of Second Platoon. Gutless, the lot of you!"

  Dahvynd took an instinctive step forward. "The last man who insulted us is lyin’ face-down in a grave. Legionnaire or not, I won't let you—"

  "What do you call a company that breaks, Dahvynd?" Sarge spat. "Cowards, is what!"

  The ragged threads of memory tugged at Dahvynd's mind. A wall of howling barbarians slammed into their line. Axes cut and hacked, spears thrust, and short swords chopped. The shield wall buckled and bowed, but held.

  "We never broke, Sarge. We never faltered."

  The sergeant's face darkened. "Liar!" His hand dropped to his belt. The sword hanging there flouted Voramian law, but there were no Heresiarchs nearby to see. "As I lay in the physicker's tent, wounded, dying even, I heard what happened. The line broke." He thrust the single-knuckled finger at Dahvynd's chest. "Your platoon, Dahvynd. And Landen died because of you."

  Dahvynd's gut twisted. Landen. Sarge's son, younger than Dahvynd, Corporal of 3rd Platoon, 1st Shield Company, Green Battalion. His platoon had held the line to Dahvynd's left. Beside Indar.

  Indar. His eyes dropped to the body, but it no longer lay on the wooden countertop of his tailor shop. The private lay screaming, hands clutched around the spear through his leg.

  He had to go to Indar, had to help him. But he couldn't break the line. The shield wall would only hold for as long as he did. One gap was all the barbarians would need. He screamed and fueled his frustration into a blow that chopped a barbarian's arm free at the shoulder.

  Green grass turned to a sickening ochre mud as Legionnaires met the howling hordes. The metallic tang of fresh blood mixed with the stench of loosening bowels, the reek of rancid barbarian hides, and the icy chill drifting off the Frozen Sea.

  He'd hold fast—Indar would have to fight for himself.

  "We…" He swallowed, trying to wash the taste of blood from his mouth. "We held, Sarge."

  Sergeant Gardner shook his head. "The physickers told me what happened. 2nd Platoon caved under the onslaught. You failed the Legion, Dahvynd. All of Second Platoon did. You failed me. You failed Landen." He drew something from behind his back. "And you're going to pay, just like he did."

  The flickering light glinted off the edge of a broadaxe. Dahvynd took a step back. The Legion of Heroes wielded short swords and shields, but Sarge's sword had never tasted blood. Too many barbarians to count had fallen to that axe. The same one that had split Indar's chest open.

  "I can still hear it, in here." The sergeant tapped his temple, and his face twisted into a grimace. "The screams and cries. The smell of blood and death. You don't forget that easily."

  The tremor returned to Dahvynd's hand. "Don't do this, Sarge. This isn't you."

  "It is now. I am what they made me." His stare pierced Dahvynd's soul. "What you bastards made me the day you let my son die. I wasn't there to save him,
but you were. All of you. And I saw what they did." His hatred broke, and sorrow twisted his features into something pathetic. "My boy, carved up like so much meat. All because of the cowards of 2nd Platoon."

  He attacked. The axe swung upward, a short, vicious chop that would've opened Dahvynd's gut had he not slipped aside. He ducked a high swing and grunted as Sarge drove a knee into his face. Blood streaming from his nose, he gave ground. Sarge followed him, axe glinting in the candlelight.

  Fury and hatred contorted Sarge's features like one of the demons depicted on the tapestries that hung in the Temple of Heroes. Dahvynd retreated, but the cluttered shop left little room to maneuver. The back of his legs struck the counter, and his left hand fell on the baton.

  Instinctively, his fingers closed around the wooden grip, and he knocked the axe head wide. His mouth went suddenly dry. His heart pounded a tattoo, sweat broke out on his forehead, and his hand quivered. Time stood still as the images cascaded over him, dragging him under the swirling torrent of sensations.

  Sweat and blood stung his eyes, his shoulder ached from the relentless pounding of the barbarian axes, but still Dahvynd held his place. Beside him, Indar screamed. A gap opened in the shield wall as the private slumped. Dahvynd laid open the barbarian's throat and risked a glance at Indar. The private lay screaming, hands clutched around the spear through his leg.

  He had to go to Indar, had to help him. But he couldn't break the line. The shield wall would only hold for as long as he did. He drove his sword into another barbarian's gut. The bearded, tattooed man shrieked to his gods and collapsed, hands clutching at the coils of intestine spilling onto the blood-soaked grass.

  An enormous, dark-haired brute drove his shoulder into Dahvynd's shield. Dahvynd retreated one step before shoving back. Off balance, the barbarian flailed, and Dahvynd plunged his sword into the man's exposed throat.

  Two more charged him, knocking him from his feet. He fell, hard, head striking the shield behind him. Vision whirling, he stared up in horror as the axe descended.