by CJ Brightley
It was not in her to be cruel, and if I heard her words as a cruelty, it was only my awareness of my own inadequacy that was to blame. She had every right to wish for tenderness; it is the deepest desire of a woman’s heart, just as men desperately need respect above all else. I’d failed her, for I couldn’t give her that tenderness that she needed. I didn’t know how. I didn’t even know where to start. I had thought, foolishly perhaps, that the sincerity of my love would teach me. Clearly I had been wrong.
If I had failed her, it was only to be expected that I would similarly fail with any other woman. I was under no illusions that she was some demanding minx with absurd expectations. She was entirely reasonable. Hakan pleased Kveta so much precisely because he could be all those things I could not. Funny. Sweet. Perceptive. Gentle. So my utter despair was not only at my failure to please Riona, but at my realization that she was probably more patient than any other woman would be. That I would not, could not, please a woman was for the simple reason that I was unpleasing, unable to be what a woman desires.
Besides, I did not want another woman. It would be her, or it would be no one.
Is it any wonder then, that I was a bit careless? I didn’t expect my men to take stupid chances, but I ceased to have a care for my own life. I’d thought, months before, that I was content, that my life was not one that needed a woman, though I was hardly unaware of their attractions. I was resigned, if not entirely satisfied. But now that I had dreamed of such bliss, almost tasted it, the loss was shattering. It was hardly her fault. She couldn’t have known how deeply my heart was lost to her, but nonetheless it was. A man walking about without a heart can hardly be expected to care much for anything else.
We had a vicious battle in a snowstorm just before Izotz was complete. It was just after the new year. If it hadn’t been so cold, construction would have been faster, but the temperatures made the wood as hard as iron. We had halted construction for the day. The wind was so frigid that even with gloves the men could barely grasp their tools, and the snow would soon be thick enough to prevent us seeing anything. The walls were complete, but only two of the interior buildings were finished. Some thirty men had been outside the walls bringing in firewood, and we opened the gate to let them in before the blizzard hit. The snow was falling so thickly and the wind so loud that it was a moment before we even realized that we were under attack.
It was a chaotic few minutes, but we managed to get the gates closed, though some twenty Tarvil horsemen were inside when we did. In the lee side of the main building, where the wind was not as strong, we could see a little better and fought the Tarvil on foot. Arrows rained in over the walls. I wondered whether the Tarvil archers realized how many of their own men were inside, or whether they didn’t care. Thick layers of clothes protected us somewhat, and most of us wore hardened leather armor under our cloaks. The skirmish was bloody and longer than it should have been.
The snow abated for a few minutes as we were finishing them off. The arrows were a worse challenge than the horsemen, but we had decent cover and soon would be able to send our own archers up to the walk around the wall to return fire. I don’t know how it happened, whether Yori was knocked aside by one of the horses or whether he left cover for some other reason. He fell with arrows in his chest and was nearly trampled by a Tarvil horseman before I got to him.
It was stupid, really, if you judge my actions by what is rational. But I saw his face as he fell, and I couldn’t be rational. I fought the Tarvil horseman above him and pulled him to cover. An arrow went through my right thigh. It could have been much worse, the wound was clean and through the thick muscle, but it slowed me. The last horseman bore down on us, already off balance with arrows in him as well, but his blade met mine before he fell himself.
Another arrow hit my shoulder as I wrapped my hand around Yori’s collar. I nearly fell. I don’t know what gave me the strength to jerk the boy under the cover that I had left for him. The arrow in my thigh was angled down and to the outside, and the head slid into the snow by my boot as I knelt beside the boy.
He looked so much like Hakan. I’d seen him before, though we hadn’t spoken much. He was eighteen, a volunteer six months out of training. His eyes were the same cool blue as Hakan’s. Now he was choking on his own blood, but he tried bravely to smile at me. Four arrows stuck out of his chest. He had only moments to live, but his gratitude made it worthwhile.
We stared at each other. I put one hand on his shoulder, and he clutched at my sleeve. I watched him fade and tried to give him courage as he died.
I was shaking and slightly dizzy with pain. I took off my glove to close his eyes, and I couldn’t get my glove back on, clumsy with cold. I thought about trying to rise and walk to the barracks, which would be acting as the infirmary, but I was too dazed to really put my mind to it. The snow drifted against my legs, the wind whipping my cloak about. It pulled on the arrow in my shoulder, and I tried to reach it with my right hand. The angle was too difficult, and I could hardly move my left arm at all. My outstretched fingers barely touched the shaft and succeeded only producing a blinding rush of pain.
Between the gusts of wind, I could see the fog rise from Yori’s wounds and from my leg. The blood crimsoned the snow around us, a thin line soaking through my breeches and spreading into the snow, a larger stain around Yori. My mouth tasted of copper, blood, sorrow. The fog of my breath came unevenly, slow and ragged as I focused on it. From Yori’s mouth there was no fog, the blood in the corners of his mouth already thick and dark. Inside my leather armor, the sweat of battle was cold and clammy.
The snowstorm drove the Tarvil away, and in the thick flurries, it took the men several minutes to find us. I smiled at Eneko when he stomped up, cursing and shouting. They didn’t have a stretcher ready, so Eneko and a young kedani helped me up and half-carried me into the barracks.
It is amazing how much blood the human body needs. I could feel the lack of it in the way I perceived the pain. It was excruciating certainly but from a far distance, as if it belonged to someone else.
I’ve felt that hollow coolness, awareness fading, only once before, in that last battle before I was discharged from the army. I’d lain pinned to the ground and watched the blood flow from my chest, slow and steady. It’s almost peaceful, though the pain is distracting; if you set your mind past that, put it aside for a moment, there is serenity in the cool touch of death.
I half-leaned against the edge of the table. Eneko, my young deputy, was barking orders, and Amets, the healer, nearly dropped his forceps when he saw me. There would be nothing to dull the pain; Amets had run out of ale, of white willow, of valerian, and almost everything else. He was pale and nervous, I suppose at the thought of me dying on his table. I remember that I smiled at him because I didn’t care.
Amets and his assistant cut the head off the arrow and pulled the shaft back through my leg. The shoulder was more of a challenge. Tarvil arrows are viciously barbed, and he’d run out of goose quills to cover the barbs. They cut off my cloak and the leather armor beneath it, and the shirt, tunic, and undershirt beneath that. The point was lodged in my shoulder blade, and he worked it free with quiet, steady cursing. I remember most of it, though not clearly; the darkness faded in and out, the pain a burning fire as the metal grated against bone.
I went north for one reason, to give my life for Hakan’s reign. I loved Hakan, love him still, and to die for him was an honor. But I did mean to die, and none of my men could have known that. I had not yet admitted it even to myself. Looking back, I remember that my feeling of satisfaction with the wounds startled me, and no doubt my smile was disconcerting to poor Amets.
He twitched in my arms as I dropped my weight. I felt the bones in his neck crack and his sudden limp stillness. I stepped back and watched him twist.
I vomited in the woods. I’d never killed an Erdemen soldier before. I might have trained him myself. Might have led him in battle. Would have died for him without hesitation.
The king’s honor demanded it. The honor of an unknown peasant girl demanded it. Which was greater, I cannot say.
I have done many things for Hakan that I am proud of. This was not one of them.
Despite my expectations, I did not die. The first few days were a fog of pain, disjointed memories of reports from scouts and from couriers from the main fort. Eneko listened to them in my room so that I could give my orders, when I was awake enough to have an opinion. The advance was falling apart. Kepa had strengthened the border posts quite capably, but the drive north was stalled.
A military should not depend on one man. It was unconscionable that I had almost left Hakan’s army headless, or near to it. Berk Havard was reportedly quite good, but he was stationed on the southern border, not readily available to replace me. There were a few bright young officers serving under me who had the potential to be excellent commanders, but they lacked experience. Kepa clearly could not do it. Eneko, my deputy, was intelligent but inexperienced and clearly petrified at the thought of being left with sole command of our push north. When I determined that I would live at least a while longer, I began planning our next advance.
Eneko, Kudret, Shui, and Akio were the best I’d seen since I’d been there. No doubt there were others who also had potential, but these I had noticed. I called them in to me when I could sit propped up in bed. I questioned them about what they would do and why they would do it. I tried to make them think, and posed questions about possible setbacks and unexpected boons that might change their plans. I made them draw maps of the land from memory and diagram how they would disperse their forces for a given assault. They were respectful, too much so, and I urged them to argue with each other, to question each other’s theories. Not in anger, but in useful and challenging exchange.
My leg healed relatively quickly and well. I was able to ride in a week, though not without pain. My left arm was of no use, but a suvari rides with his arms free to handle his sword and shield anyway. Amets treated my shoulder, changing the bandages every evening with clean dry ones, boiled to prevent infection. He did what he could, but the healing supplies were sorely limited. The snow had been so thick that it delayed shipment of everything I’d requisitioned. Replacement boots, additional cloaks, herbs and honey and bandages for treating wounds, blankets, various supplies for the repairs the buildings already needed. Food, of course.
The first time I saw the wound in my shoulder, the reflection bounced from one polished metal mirror to another, I thought it wasn’t as impressive as I’d imagined. Barely the length of one finger, a deep gouge through muscle to the bone, not especially wide. But it hurt. It hurt like fire, and it only got worse, despite Amets’ efforts. The initial wound had felt clean, painful certainly, but a clean cut that should have healed well. It did heal some, but the pain grew deeper, and Amets lanced an abscess with a hot sharp knife. I nearly screamed at the pain, but it was fast and the next day I felt markedly better.
Amets bound my arm to my side to keep me from moving it. A week went by, and I had another abscess lanced. The flesh around the wound grew swollen and hot, and each night when Amets changed the bandages it was an exercise in discipline to keep silent.
The pain kept me from sleeping at night, though I tried to rest. I caught quick restless naps on horseback or in my room in the afternoons, but most nights I paced uncomfortably or lay on my pallet staring at the wall. When I could sleep, it was hardly restful.
I barely noticed when I stopped eating. We were on short rations anyway, and between the pain and a slight persistent nausea, I didn’t feel much like eating. I tried, of course, but most of the time it was easier to pass my rations to whatever soldier looked like he most needed them.
I received a letter from Kveta in the packet from Hakan that arrived some three and a half weeks after I was wounded. They couldn’t know yet, though Eneko had said he’d sent word to Hakan about my injury. Kyosti read it to me.
“It is dated the second of Nalka. Her Majesty Kveta Aranila Tafari, su da Hakan Ithel, His Majesty King of Erdem, Glorious and Free, to the honored Ambassador and General Kemen Sendoa:
“Greetings, dear friend. I write with much gratitude for your great service to Erdem. I hope you are well and look forward to your safe return. We have heard of your astounding success, and I cannot adequately express my appreciation for your skill, courage, and devotion to Erdem. Your valor inspires us all.
I write to share our great joy with you. I am with child, and we expect the birth this summer, in Kugatsu. Hakan hopes for a girl, but I hope for a boy with Hakan’s eyes. If the child is a boy, Hakan and I request your consent to give him the name Kemen Tahir Hakan, after your noble spirit and your friendship and in hopes that our son has your courage and honor.”
I smiled. Kyosti’s voice flowed on. Kveta wrote of tea and games by the fire, of riding with Hakan, of banquets, of peace along the Rikutan border. I stared into the fire half-dazed. The pain in my shoulder seemed to come in waves. At night, when I was tired and the fever was worse, the peak of each wave was dizzying; my ears roared and my vision blurred. I thought of Riona, of how she laughed with delight at the little firza chicks. How she smiled at me when I drew water for her. How I wished to take her riding.
“Sir?”
I blinked, and the pain returned.
“Shall I write a reply, sir?”
“Please.” I dictated the greeting. “I thank you for your concern and your thought of me. I am well, and the campaign is finding much success due to the courage and perseverance of our soldiers. I will not bore you with the details, though Hakan will have them in a separate letter if you wish to know. I say only that it is an honor to serve with them.” I drew a deep breath and tried to focus my thoughts.
“Sir?” He almost stuttered. “You’re not well, sir.”
“Write it.”
It happened during a meeting with the officers one evening. Kudret and Eneko sat across from me, Teretz to my right, and Kepa and Shui to my left. We were discussing the next advance, whether to wait another three days to give the Tarvil time to consider their losses, or whether we should strike the next morning. Eneko pushed the map closer so Teretz and I could see in the dim light. I lifted my mug.
“How much ale have you had, sir?” Commander Teretz asked.
“This is my second in five days. Is that a problem, Commander?”
He shrugged and bowed a little with a slight, mocking smile. “No, sir. It’s only that I thought rations were one mug a week, sir.”
I slammed the mug down on the table. “Wounded have always gotten double rations of ale. You wouldn’t know that, though, because you’ve never been wounded in the king’s service, have you, Commander?”
He stood so quickly his chair overturned behind him. He flexed his fingers around the hilt of his sword indecisively. “I’ll ask you to take that back, sir.”
“Why? Isn’t it true?” I watched his hand.
“I’ve never been wounded because I’m not stupid enough to try to get myself killed!” His voice had risen.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the others with their hands already on their sword hilts. Tense. My ears thundered with fever.
“You do seem to find yourself conveniently at the back of any battle, though. The last to enter and the first to leave.” I’d heard Kepa’s report the night before. Teretz was a problem, though his tactics were solid. He’d lost respect among the men.
His eyes flicked to Eneko, who was closest to him, and he hesitated. Then he drew, faster than Eneko, and slashed at me.
I parried with my bootknife, because it was easier to draw from where I sat, and I swept his legs from beneath him as I stood. Eneko’s sword was at his throat, and Teretz was smart enough not to fight any longer, on his back and alone.
Kepa was flushed with rage.
I felt cold and a little shaky, but more with illness than anger or fear. Kepa started to say something, but my voice cut through his and he stopped in respect. “Commander Teretz,
you are under arrest. You will surrender your weapons.”
His mouth was tight, and he cursed softly under his breath, but he did as I said, laying his sword down on the floor. Kudret pulled his bootknife and the one on his hip from their sheathes, and then they let him stand.
“Where shall we take him, sir?” asked Eneko.
“His quarters.” I didn’t want him put in with the Tarvil prisoners.
“Yes, sir.”
He would be court-martialed later. I could not bring myself to care what happened to him, so long as he was removed from his position.
Once, only once, did I consider it. I thought of asking Eneko to return my sword, shield, and bootknife to Riona as my next of kin, my nearest relative, because she possessed my heart. I discarded the idea almost immediately. It would have put a burden of guilt on her that was entirely unjustified. She did not owe me love any more than the sun owes its warmth and light to a blade of grass. The grass might die in shadow, but that is the grass’s weakness, not the fault of the sun.
Besides, such melodrama appealed to me only for a moment, a dark moment when I shivered by the dying embers of the fire in my room. My sword and other things would be returned to Hakan, as they should be.
To pass the time in the sleepless nights, I rummaged in my memory for bits of poetry, epic works I could use to take my mind off the pain. I timed the words to my pacing, though I did not speak them aloud. Eneko would have thought I was losing my mind, fevered and mad to pace back and forth talking to myself in the dark each night. I didn’t want him to doubt my competence. I was entirely clearheaded and made battle plans with as much lucidity as ever. The third week of Ketsala, I guessed where the Tarvil raiders were hiding after another failed attack on Izotz, and when I sent Kudret at the head of a small squad, he brought back word of a total rout.
The poetry was a distraction, nothing more. It didn’t soothe the pain, but it helped me push it to the back of my mind for a few hours every night. I’ve always had a good memory, I suppose because I’ve exercised it so much. I’ve had to, since I can’t write information I want for later. I’ve never read the works I love. I don’t have a poetic bent, I could never have been a poet myself, but I’ve always loved the hypnotic rhythms, the pathos in the great tragedies, the love, the sacrifice, the heroism. I worked my way through all I could remember of Elorsku’s Great Moon King, all of Horukan’s Plague Chronicles, which was more encouraging than it sounds, all of Kemarda’s Sword Brothers, and pieces of my favorite works by Iskanoa, Liraliamu, and Arket.