by Lee Abrey
The knee gave way, I went face-first into the leaf litter, dropped the knife, and curled into a ball clutching at my knee, all the time thinking, bastard, bastard, bastard! I took hold of the arrow. I was lucky, the armour had slowed the penetration and the arrow wasn’t embedded deeply. I had to get it out. Sure I was about to be shot again, I was looking round and saw the bowman step into the open. A big man. Just my luck. I fumbled for a knife from my boot. Suddenly Cree appeared.
Don’t panic, he said, sounding cheerful.
“Don’t panic?” I said aloud. I think I shrieked it. I definitely lost my temper. “Where in the name of Thet have you been?”
Let’s chat later, said Cree, meantime, don’t panic. I resisted the urge to scream abuse at the not-ghost, trying to keep my focus on the Sriaman edging closer. They didn’t look quite like our Sendrenese peasants as a rule, bigger and not as dark. From our prisoners I’d heard they still did some selective breeding of people to get their basic types bigger and taller, though it was voluntary not forced.
This man was a redhead with a beard, wearing a tunic over short breeches and lace-up boots. He wasn’t dressed like a scout or soldier. They didn’t usually use bows, except when in large bands. Was he hunting for food when I crossed his path? Was he part of a large band? I hoped not. Meanwhile, he wasn’t out of arrows. Another was nocked, aimed right at me. He was too far away for a knife throw from the ground. On the other hand I was an easy bowshot away.
Five weeks to go. Five freaking weeks! I prayed to Haka and Zol. Gods of death and war. Despite being fluent, I couldn’t remember a damn word in Sriaman, nor could I think of anything to say in Anglic.
“Don’t move, dragonkin,” said the Sriaman, in passable Anglic, “or I shoot.” he laughed. “Again.” I froze. Dragonkin was not a compliment. It was the equivalent of accusing my mother of doing it with reptiles.
“Get it over with,” I said, feeling and sounding disgusted. I was hoping he didn’t shoot me in the head with the bow from a distance. If he came close I had a chance.
“I not killing you, dragonkin. You, I take back. I see your eyes, know what you are. Not kill. Is why I shoot your - leg?”
“Leg is right,” I said, “my knee, really. Not kill?” He smiled.
“Not kill, let headman have honour,” he said. Great, I thought, tortured to death over a Sriaman fire. I’d seen what men looked like after that. I’d even run my fingers through the rotting slurry that was left. I’d go for him, first chance. Could I kill myself? I wasn’t at all sure. I might manage it if about to be barbecued. Transforming into a dragon didn’t occur to me.
“Your Anglic is good,” I said, and pretended to be absorbed in the arrow, touching it, though I had a small knife palmed. Despite not being deep, the arrow was making the leg like jelly and the pain was completely blocking every Sriaman word I’d ever learned. I couldn’t even remember “Good morning.”
“Lie on your face,” said the Sriaman, “hands behind head. Or shoot you in arm next.” I followed his orders, tense, ready to explode into action, or at least flop about in a threatening manner.
You’re going to be fine, said Cree. I could see his feet. He squatted down so he could look me in the eye. Huh, I thought at him, didn’t you say that just before I nearly died when Aunt Kristen mauled me? Cree waved a comforting hand.
I think I said you’re going to live, but this time you’re going to be fine.
She said I’d live too, I thought, remembering. Who was that woman I saw? The blonde?
Jules? he said, looking amused. How can you think of women at a time like this?
“I’m not thinking of her, I just haven’t seen you to ask,” I said aloud, feeling cranky. “By the way, she looked more real than you do.”
She has the knack, said Cree.
“What did she mean,” I said, “when she asked if I remembered a crown in a dream?” Cree looked at someone or something I couldn’t see.
You’re going to live, Cree said. And vanished. The Sriaman sounded puzzled.
“What are you saying, dragonkin?”
“Praying,” I said, and again tried to focus on the Sriaman. The man was careful, keeping out of reach before moving quickly.
“You won’t be using this against me,” he said in Sriaman, and before I could react or even think, he yanked the arrow out.
I yelped and curled on the leaves clutching my leg, eyes watering. I conceded they were watering so much that I might be crying. My pierced hand hurt too and the palmed knife was gone, dropped in the leaf litter with the other one. So much for attacking when he was close enough. I felt dizzy and sick. My head was thumping. Was I going to throw up? Maybe I could throw up at the Sriaman and confuse him while I escaped at a fast crawl.
The thumping intensified. I guessed this was it. If I was going to die I was going to hurt the Sriaman first. I needed to get to a knife. Closing my eyes, just for a moment, I realised the noise wasn’t in my head. The ground was shaking. The Sriaman picked me up off the ground and held me in front of him like a shield. I was hurting so much.
Why was the ground shaking? I could feel it even through the Sriaman. For some reason my eyes were still shut. I opened them and there was Fire, snaking his great armoured head at us, curling his lips back to show his teeth. He squealed and trumpeted a challenge.
One of his great steel-shod hooves went past my head, nearly taking my shoulder off. I screamed and almost wet myself. The ground reverberated with the thump as the hoof hit the ground right next to us. It snapped me out of my funk but the Sriaman dragged me backwards before I could get to a weapon.
“Stop your horse!” he shouted.
“He’s gone mad!” I yelled, pretending to be terrified. In truth, I was a bit wary. Fire had nearly clocked me. “Run away!” I went limp as if passing out and the Sriaman dropped me. I saw the chestnut coming and stayed down as he jumped over me. “Fire!” I shouted. The stallion ignored me, caught up in the excitement of chasing Sriamans. It was something in the breed. They enjoyed war games. I scrambled to my feet and after him.
So there we were, the Sriaman, the horse, and me, all heading at speed through the forest. Well, they were moving at speed, the Sriaman showing an athletic bent and Fire showing he was very handy at dodging through trees, whereas I wasn’t capable of running. It was more a fast part-hop, part-lope, swinging my leg because the knee didn’t want to bend. They disappeared into the woods. My ghost was gone too. I kept going for a while then stopped. Lost again.
Breathing heavy and dripping with sweat, I wanted a drink and a compass. My water bottle was with my compass, tied to Fire’s saddle like my gloves and helmet. I sighed. Logically, if I looked at the sun I could figure out at least roughly the compass directions. Heading south would bring me to the border. I didn’t know quite which way the fort was but it and the border were miles away. I looked around. The ground rose to my right so I headed that way, looking for a break in the trees.
To my surprise I popped out into a valley that looked like the one I was looking into earlier, but from a different angle. I must have gone round in a circle, first running from the Sriaman, then following Fire and the Sriaman. Remembering it was in a war zone, I backed up. Where was north? Where was the sun?
Hang on, where was Jansen and his horse? I whistled. The nickering was off to my right. Carefully, I moved towards the sound. The moment I saw Blaze, I knew something was badly wrong. The stallion was pointing one fore. Horses rarely point a foreleg. Usually it’s a sign of lameness. I sighed.
“Hey Blaze, good fella. You stand up now. Where’s Jansen got to?” The bay nodded his head and tossed the reins about. The stirrups weren’t run up the leathers, one was swinging loose, the other lying across the saddle, and the reins weren’t caught up short but over the bay’s head. We never left our animals like that. Blaze was obviously distressed but he stood still as I came up crooning about what a good boy he was. I caught the reins and ran a hand down the near fore. He flinched as I touch
ed the fetlock. Even through the bioplas armour I could feel the heat radiating off his leg. Poor creature.
I moved round, thinking to check his other legs, and saw Jansen. He was lying near a tree. I knew he was dead but walked up to him anyway and felt for a pulse. I could piece together the scene. The horse put a hoof in a rabbit hole hidden in old leaf fall. There was the torn-up earth. Jansen went over Blaze’s head into the tree. Silly bugger had his helmet off. There was the scuffed bark of the impact point with a little of Jansen’s hair caught on it.
Back with Blaze, I checked him over and led him forward. He tried to hop then put the bad foot down and hobbled a little. I sighed. It didn’t look as if the leg was broken but he was very lame. I decided to turn him loose and let him limp back to base. I stripped off his armour and tack and left it next to Jansen in a neat pile.
In a fit of inspiration I used one of my field bandages to strap Blaze’s fetlock joint then put the armour back on that leg. It was firm, but not so much the blood was restricted, and did seem to ease it for him. He wasn’t hopping so much and the leg would bear some weight. Belatedly it occurred to me that a bandage might help my knee and my last bandage went on that. I drained Jansen’s canteen of water but shared it with Blaze.
“Right, Blaze, now you go home,” I said. “There’s a good fella.” I needed to find the platoon. Logically it was back through the meadow, up the slope, and then follow our tracks back. I started walking and Blaze began following me at a slower pace. My heart broke for him as he half-hopped along, but short of using one of my knives to put him down for something that might only be a pulled muscle, I couldn’t really do much. I was limping too but the knee wound had stopped bleeding. Blaze was grunting as he went but seemed determined. Bit like me.
Keeping to the trees, I skirted the meadow and climbed the slope. To my relief I found the tracks. I had to keep stopping to rest and the horse would catch up a bit. A pair of cripples, we made our slow way over the hill. I confess I was glad for his company. It was very quiet although I knew somewhere around us were a platoon of soldiers and an unknown number of Sriamans.
As if to underline that, ahead was a sudden clattering of wings as some birds took off. I put my hand on Blaze’s shoulder. He was staring into the forest, ears pricked in that direction. Then he let out a huge neigh. I winced.
“Oh great,” I said, aloud but softly, crouching a bit, “excuse me while I go hide behind a tree while whatever that is comes after you.” I didn’t move. I knew I should but my knee was killing me, my hand was killing me and I was walking and I hated walking.
There was a neigh from behind us and I turned to see Fire coming at a smart trot. I smiled. At last, he’d come back for me. I whistled, and put my hand out. He went straight past me, dodging neatly so I couldn’t catch the reins, which of course I’d knotted up short so he wouldn’t trip on them. I sighed. It was one of those days.
“Bastard animal!” I shouted at his red-gold rump. Blaze nickered and began to move after Fire as fast as he could go. I limped after them. After a few paces I took a knife from one boot and moved semi-carefully from tree to tree, then heard Fire trumpeting and Blaze started up too.
Parallel to the horses’ track and off the path I tried to hurry. I could hear a man yelling then a thumping noise like someone beating a massive drum. If the horses weren’t in the middle of it, I might have made a strategic retreat.
As I came round a tree I saw the source of the noise. Fire was standing on his hind legs, pawing at the stout trunk of a fig tree. The bark was shattered in great gouges, but the Sriaman was higher up and holding on, out of the chestnut’s reach for now. He’d lost his bow and I couldn’t see any other weapons. If he fell he was a dead man.
Blaze was standing by, ears pricked, attention on the man in the tree. I’d never seen anything like it. I slid down the bank to the path again and headed for them. I caught Fire’s reins, dragged him back, telling him he was a crazy horse as I looked up.
“We could call it a draw,” said the Sriaman, raising his hands. I laughed. Maybe I could capture him. “Now I understand, why you shout fire. Thought you were crazy, but crazy horses you have.”
“Very. It’s why we win, our crazy horses.” The Sriaman snorted.
“I see your eyes,” he said, “I know why you win. Not human.” I shook my head.
“We are human. Completely. We are more human than you. We use all our gifts. Everything in our bloodlines.”
Horses and men were coming, lots of them. The platoon. All I had to do was yell. I don’t know why I didn’t demand he surrender. I took a length of rope off the saddle, looped it quickly round Blaze’s neck. I looked up again. The Sriaman looked back at me.
“I am a man like you,” I said, and touched my lips. I finally remembered a useful word in Sriaman. “Quiet.” I kept an eye on the Sriaman while mounting Fire. The chestnut was outraged I was making him abandon his prey and tried to baulk but I heeled him on. Blaze was happy to be in someone’s charge again and followed at a limping walk.
****
It wasn’t long before I found the column. I expected them to help me by collecting Jansen’s body and gear while I walked Blaze back to the fort.
“You can’t leave us, corporal,” said the captain, “you’re the only scout. And we’re not on body duty.” I resisted the urge to tell him where to stick his platoon, keeping my voice polite.
“Sir, as I just said, Sergeant Jansen’s dead and I have arrow holes in two places, courtesy of the Sriamans, so you don’t have even one scout. And if you won’t pick up poor Jansen then I’ll do it myself, but I am returning to base.”
“You will not return to base without my permission,” said the captain. I looked him up and down.
“I’m wounded, sir,” I said, with a pause before the sir, just enough to be insolent, something I enjoyed being to idiots. “So with respect, I don’t actually need your permission. This is not a battle, nor is it a defence. I am advising you to return to base.”
“There are Sriamans here,” he said, “we’re not running away!” The sergeant with the column rolled his eyes.
“Yes sir,” I said, “there are Sriamans here. One shot me earlier, twice, and he’s still out there.” I looked at the captain. He was looking at my eyes, wondering why I was a corporal. Let him wonder.
“You’re Polo Shawcross,” he said, and I muffled a sigh.
“Aye, sir,” I said.
“I’ve heard about you.”
“It’s all lies, sir, she was sixteen.” The men laughed but the captain’s lips compressed. I waited patiently.
“They say Shawcross is disrespectful,” he said, “but a good soldier. So I’m told.” I looked at him. Fire snorted and danced. I breathed out, sat down in the saddle a little, relaxed, and the horse relaxed too.
“Good only means alive, sir,” I said. That made him snappy. Lucky I didn’t tell him what I thought my disrespect signified, beginning with officers who weren’t worthy of the respect I’d give a six-year-old. I bit my tongue a little to remind myself not to needle him.
“My men and I will continue our patrol without your help,” he said, lip curling at me. “Accordingly, you can fetch your dead without our help.” He kicked his horse away and the column all followed at a brisk march, though the sergeant closest to me rolled his eyes at the captain’s behaviour. I was left staring.
****
I swore a bit then tied Blaze to a tree, riding Fire back to collect Jansen and his gear. It was a bugger of a job but Fire stood up while I loaded poor Jansen across his rump, tied him to the saddle, and topped the body with the equine armour. Then I picked up the tack, put the saddle on my left arm, the bridle neatly on my shoulder, and with some difficulty, mounted. Fire stepped carefully at first as I shifted my load of tack to a more central position, then he trotted back towards Blaze.
Once there, I saddled, bridled, and re-armoured Blaze - less for Fire and me to carry - then put the other horse on a lead rope. We did
n’t go past a walk, which made it a long ride, but Jansen had been a good man, least I could do was see him and his horse safe home. I lit a pipe and headed due south.
It was late in the afternoon when we reached the border road. Another mile.
****
Chapter 43 - Last Chance
I was so glad to see the gates of the fort ahead. Despite being punctured, and actually captured, I was alive. For once I’d walked away from killing or even capturing someone. I was trying very hard not to think about why and failing miserably. Five weeks to go and I’d gone mad?
A group of men in fatigues were playing football around and through the gates. They saw us coming and called out to me. I told them it was the sarge behind. They all formed up, dusty and sweating in the sunset, saluting, hands on their hearts, saying vile but funny things about how close Jansen and I seemed to be.
“May Haka treat you kindly, sarge,” called an enlisted man. The rest of us said it together.
“May Haka treat you kindly, and Galaia send you back to us when she can.”
With a shiver, I felt the goddess of death watching us, waiting to see if I was still her champion. Please Haka, I thought, as with hand on heart I made the sign of Galaia, please no more. Fire pricked his ears and neighed.
****
There seemed to be more people around than usual, but I really wasn’t paying attention. First on my To Do list was getting to the morgue, then stables, and in my near future were a smoke, a shower, and food. Later, I might even have a drink. Probably should put something on the arrow holes first, though they’d stopped hurting for now. I was in that stage of hardly feeling it again. I clucked to Fire and rode on.
Suddenly Azrael hailed me and came hurrying up to Fire’s side. The big chestnut checked his pockets for sweets. I blinked. Was I hallucinating? The Azrael-ghost touched my leg, grinning.