His body hurt, but that was normal and he had learned to ignore it. Slowly, he tested his limbs. His legs were stiff, sharp, stabbing pains spearing through his muscles as he moved. Both arms were mostly fine. His chest ached, lungs burning with every breath, but lessening with each. It was his head that called most attention, though.
David couldn’t remember a worse headache, and he’d had a fair few bad ones in his time. It felt as if Poncio the Wrestler—whom David had had to fight in a barehanded duel to the death several centuries past—had his hands on either side of David’s head and squeezed with all of his considerable strength. The pressure behind his right eye was incredible, as if something hard was lodged back there. When he opened his eyes and tried to focus, he discovered he couldn’t see out of the right one.
It wasn’t the first time he’d suffered blindness. The sight would return in time. It was something he could be certain of.
The memories of the latest incapacitation came back in a barrage as the pain in his head settled into a miserable knot in his right eye socket. The fight with the Alarians as they emerged from their holes, the arrows through his torso, the firing squad.
Had it all been for nothing? Were any Delaluzians in the camp still alive or had the Alarians wiped them out? Was the boy alive? Was he free or captured?
He wasn’t going to find answers lying here, wherever here was. Sitting up, he squinted at the dark walls around him, finding them rough and raw, revealed by a narrow shaft of dull light falling in from above and behind him. The floor was dirt, hard packed, rocky and uneven; the air stifled and stale.
It was a cave. Turning and blinking into the light, he reassessed that thought. Not a cave, a tunnel, one of those used by the Alarians to capture Tejon Company.
He had to get out of here, find out what was going on and what he needed to do. As the residual pains faded, he took stock. The long jacket was full of holes, the steel plates in the torso punctured in places, dinted in most others. Tunic and pants were riddled with holes and smeared with blood. Boots had come through the melee fine, though. Thank Saint Ciro for small comforts. He was half blind but at least his toes were protected from stubbing. Of all his weapons, only the knives in his boots had made it into this new situation. They were better than nothing.
The foul scent of vomit caught his attention. Recalling the object lodged in his throat, David studied the pool of half-digested food and found a mangled bullet. Undoubtedly one of those that hadn’t gone right through, working its way out as he healed. There were several more on the ground, some clean, others wearing a gobbet or two of flesh.
Letting out a remorseful sigh for the days when all he had to deal with was sword wounds and the occasional poisoning, David stood, stretching muscles and popping joints until he felt limber and ready. He clambered up the rise, his working eye showed him an opening smaller than those he’d seen being made. The dirt at the top of the rise was loose and threatened to slide away from under him. Fresh, perhaps shovelled in to fill up the hole. Thankfully they hadn’t finished or David would have been trapped.
Banishing the memories of running through the tunnels, passing dead and dying soldiers, of the stinging fear he might be entombed alive, David carefully poked his head into the light and looked up.
The sky was dark grey, hanging low and threatening. There was a brisk chill to the fresh air, carrying the clean, clear scent of coming rain. Sliding through it was the faint smell of smoke and an even fainter hint of burning tabac. In the near distance were the usual sounds of a large camp—scuffling feet, a low murmur of voices, clanks of pots, pans and weapons, the rare whinny of a horse, a burst of laughter followed by a couple of loud exclamations.
Then an odd silence came across the camp in slow degrees. The march of armoured bodies paused, the laughter died, the clattering faded. It was as if the camp held its breath.
Bang.
A moment later, the general noise resumed.
A single gunshot. The proceeding silence sat uncomfortably with David. Something important had just happened. An execution.
It answered one question. There were still Delaluzians alive in the camp. For how much longer though...
“Another one gone.”
The voice was close. David flattened himself against the wall of the tunnel, burrowing into the shadows.
“What’s that? Three?”
“Four, if you include that first bastard.”
The accents were Alarian, and now David knew they were there, he heard the creak of their leather as they moved, the soft pad of their boots against the ground. They moved toward him, bringing that particular reek of men who’d mostly abandoned hygiene and a stronger waft of tabac.
“Perhaps they don’t know where this Rafe is.”
The other soldier grunted. “They know. They’re just not talking because they know if they hand him over, they won’t have an excuse for a war anymore. Would you look at that?”
“What?”
“Bloody lazy Ninth. They were supposed to have all these holes filled before nightfall. Imagine if it was dark and we came round here and walked right into that.”
David wished he’d thought to draw a knife. As it was, pressed into the shallow protection of the wall, he couldn’t risk moving for fear they’d see him. He judged they were perhaps a yard or so back from the opening, standing pretty much over him.
“Don’t know why they didn’t get the natives to do it. They filled the ones inside the camp in no time.”
“Roulier doesn’t want them outside the camp, in case they decide to run off and warn the next battalion.”
Someone, most likely the speaker, kicked the ground and a shower of dirt cascaded into the hole. David closed his eyes against the falling grit.
The other soldier laughed. “The natives wouldn’t do that. Wouldn’t enter into their heads. They hardly even know a war is going on in their country. Smile and do as they’re told, that’s all they do.”
“Come on, let’s fill this in before the next patrol falls in.”
With a groan, the second man complied and more dirt poured into the hole.
It was now or never. David had to get out, find the boy and get him back to Ibarra.
He was moving before he’d bothered to catalogue his disadvantages. Scrambling through the falling dirt, he reached for the edge of the hole and hauled his upper body out in a swift move. Pushing off the unstable dirt with his feet, he flipped his legs out of the hole and overhead. He came down on his arse to cries of shock. Hands reaching for his knives, he rolled over his right shoulder and came up on one knee facing the two soldiers. They were drawing revolvers as his one eye focused on them. David tossed both knives.
One of the soldiers fell backwards, a knife in his chest, dead. The other staggered, the hilt of the thrown blade striking his shoulder.
Damn his half blindness. David hadn’t missed with a thrown dagger in centuries.
Surging to his feet, David took two steps and hurled himself over the open hole. He crashed into the Alarian. As they wrestled, more and more cries went up beyond them. The alarm was passed on and very shortly, David would be terribly outnumbered. His opponent was schooled at hand to hand, breaking the best holds David could get on him, keeping his centre of balance low. He was skilled, but David was better.
Letting the body fall to the ground, David plucked a revolver from its holster and the arming sword from its scabbard.
Duck.
David dropped. A gun fired. Spinning on his heel, David saw a dozen or so Alarians running for him.
In the time it took him to empty the revolver, he took in his surroundings. He was outside the camp, in what used to be the airfield. The cradles had been broken down into piles of wood, some of which had been used to build the huge pyre between him and the earthworks. The remains of the pyre were little more than crumbled, blackened piles of jagged ends, still glowing in places, thin twists of the grey smoke getting lost against the rain-threatening sky.
&
nbsp; Neat rows of Alarian tents stretched out from either side of the gates. Behind the initial charge, scores more soldiers were gathering. They didn’t advance, assured that twelve of their fellows would be more than enough to take down a single man.
Two fell to David’s revolver before they could raise their shields. A few fired at him as they ran, most of their shots going wide, a couple kicking up dirt a little close for comfort. Discarding the empty gun, David grabbed the shield from the back of his dead opponent and charged into their midst.
As always, he let instinct take over. It guided his sword arm and shield. He twisted, leaped and kicked, his sword a glowing blur trailing red droplets. He felt the touch of their steel but he moved so fast it was nothing more than light kisses. Pain was incidental. The fear of injury didn’t hold the same power if you knew you would survive, would heal perfectly.
Then he stood alone, fallen Alarians fanned around his feet like harvested wheat. The first few drops of rain plinked into a slowly spreading pool of blood.
“It’s him,” someone said, far enough away David just heard the tremor in the voice. “The demon from last night.”
The soldiers stayed back, weapons drawn but seemingly forgotten as they stared at David. These people weren’t swordsmen. Not anymore. They had their guns and a reluctance to get too close.
One of them finally raised his gun. David deflected the bullet with his shield. As if reminded of what they were, the rest of them levelled revolvers and rifles at him. He couldn’t take another volley of gunfire full on. He didn’t think they would let him escape the pyre two times in a row.
Before him, the firing squad took aim. One round shield wasn’t going to protect him fully and he didn’t think they’d fall for another charge.
More water fell from the sky. It hit David’s head with gentle little taps, rolled down his face and across his mouth. He licked his lips, realising how parched he was. The damage from vomiting up the bullet was healed and the pressure behind his right eye was increasing, feeling like it was going to push his eyeball out of his head. His nose filled with the charged scent of rain, an eerie tremble in the air making the small hairs on the back of his neck lift up.
The tension in the air broke. Lightning stabbed down from the sky, striking the ground on the far side of the pyre. Men shouted in surprise and those facing David jumped, distracted, turning to see what had happened.
David charged.
As they’d discovered the night before, with so many of their own surrounding a single opponent, they couldn’t use their guns to any great effect. They fell back on their blades and agility but it was clear they weren’t a match for David, even half-blind.
Lightning continued to strike, coming down all across the flat plain. None of it came quite as close as the first strike, but one did lance down within the camp, hitting something flammable. The tops of the flames could be seen over the earthworks. The rain began to come down in earnest, big, fat drops falling straight and hard. It soaked into the ground, disappearing as fast as it hit. Then it began to pool on the surface, turning the dirt to treacherous mud.
By the time David faced only two Alarians, the rain was so heavy no one had the advantage of better eyesight. The air was wet, the light was grey and the mud clasped at their feet. Each breath pulled in as much water as it did air. It was hard to keep hold of swords and shields.
With the skill of many lifetimes, David directed the fight, drawing this pair away from the pyre, away from the gates. He lunged and they jumped away; he twisted, turned and backed off, they followed. When he had them where he wanted them, he was careful to make it look like he stumbled, going down to one knee. Ducking an opportunistic sweep of a sword, David grabbed the soldier’s arm and, using his momentum, flipped him over his shoulder. The man tumbled down into the partly filled in hole David had emerged from.
Gun.
David dropped into the hole after the soldier. The gun fired, bullet ripping through the trailing end of his coat. He slid down the muddy slope, crashing into the soldier, who was valiantly trying to get to get to his feet. Forcing himself up and over the man, David slammed him face first into the muddy ground. The soldier struggled but David leaned an elbow on his head and savagely ripped the revolver from the man’s holster.
A gun fired above him. David flung himself to the side and fired several times at the opening. There was a muffled grunt from the downed man but David ignored it, pressing himself to the side of the tunnel. He peered up at the opening, trying to see through the rain and falling mud around the edge of the hole.
Sure enough, there was a flash of a head, very quick, over the edge of the hole. David resisted the urge to fire, waiting. Another quick look confirmed the man was in the same place. As quietly as he could in the slick mud, he shifted until he was under the man lying on the ground above.
Holding the barrel of the gun an inch below the softening dirt, David fired the remaining bullets into the ground over his head.
As the suppressed sound faded into the thud of the rain, David listened for movement from the man overhead. There was nothing. Waiting as long as he dared, not seeing any motion around the opening, David finally scrambled up the mud slick. Very slowly, he lifted his head.
The soldier was dead, lying face down, arms outstretched, rain-diluted blood running from the side of his slack mouth.
After making sure no one else was around, David scavenged the man’s weapons and dropped back down into the hole.
The other soldier still lay where David had left him, though he’d turned his head to the side, his face out of the mud. He’d wiped his eyes clear, the whites luminous in the mud-dark of his face. The rain didn’t reach him, but the mud coming down from above would eventually smoother him if he didn’t move.
David removed the rest of his weapons, the soldier not once protesting. It was possible he was in shock, but then David saw the blood on his back. A shot from above had hit him in the lower back, close to his spine. If he wasn’t already crippled, a wrong move could soon amend that.
Sitting against the wall, David catalogued his injuries. Not too many, considering, nothing that wouldn’t heal in a day or two. His right eye continued to be a bother. He contemplated removing it, perhaps relieving the pressure, but was reluctant to do so. The curse would take care of it, eventually.
“Who are you?” the Alarian asked.
“No one.”
The soldier coughed. “Are you going to kill me?”
“I’m going to ask you questions.”
“Then kill me?”
David didn’t answer. He didn’t know the answer. Killing was generally what the dukes of Ibarra woke him up to do. He was good at it. It stood to reason. What else would you do if you couldn’t die?
“What is the situation in the camp?” he asked instead.
The Alarian stared at him but kept his mouth shut. Mud oozed around his head.
“You can either talk voluntarily or under force. Doesn’t bother me either way.”
“It wouldn’t, you being a demon.”
David tilted his head to get a better focus on the man with his good eye. “I didn’t think Alarians believed in demons.”
“We believe in them. They’re a curse the One God placed on Delaluz when it turned away from Him. I just didn’t think demons could pass over the borders.”
“They can’t.”
With a bitter twist of his lips, the Alarian muttered, “Yet here you are.”
“Why am I a demon?”
“I saw you take wounds and not flinch, not feel any pain at all. You just kept going. The Eleventh told the rest of us what you did last night, walking into their gunfire without hesitation, getting up with two arrows right through you. No human could do that.”
The corner of David’s upper lip lifted in bemused scorn. “No Alarian, certainly.” He leaned forward. “Do your people have the boy?”
“Not yet,” he said. “Though with a few more executions, I’m sure the Delaluzi
ans will give him up and gladly.”
“That I doubt. The de Ibarras are fiercely loyal to each other.”
“That may be, but the de Roque mage isn’t.”
Castillo was alive. Something close to relief passed through David. Though if the Bone Mage was responsible for putting the boy into Alarian hands, Castillo would come to regret—
Bang!
It was like a horse kicking him in the chest. His breath exploded out in a startled cough. Blood bloomed in the middle of his chest.
On the floor, the Alarian was on his side, a small, single shot pistol pointed at David.
In his chest, there was no movement. It was odd. When it was beating, he couldn’t feel his heart. Now that it wasn’t, he could, a dead weight inside, a piece of pointless meat. His body went weak, heavy and light all at once. He began to slide to the side, easing down the rough wall.
“Maybe you’re not a demon,” the soldier muttered, watching him hit the wet ground.
With a grunt, the Alarian lifted himself up, moving his legs gingerly. Rolling over, he found the exit wound low in his side. A caking of mud had stopped the worst of the bleeding, though it seemed no major blood vessels had been hit. Chuckling at his own good fortune, the soldier tore up his dirty cloak and bound his wound.
The soldier was sliding a sword into his scabbard when David felt it.
A single thump in his chest. It hurt, and the pressure squeezed against his lungs, but blood pumped through his chest. Another thump, like a hand around his heart, compressing and releasing. More blood spread, rushing into his arms and legs, up his neck. Warmth returned to his body.
“Don’t worry,” the Alarian said with sly joviality, “I’ll see that your grave gets closed in.”
Desperate for a breath, David resisted the urge to gulp down a lungful. He stared straight ahead, listening to the clumsy, grunting progress of the soldier as he tried to climb up the mud slope. Only when he was certain the man was completely fixated on his efforts did David move. He rolled over, retrieving the dagger he’d taken from the dead soldier above. Getting up, he crept up behind the Alarian, grabbed his leg and yanked him back down.
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