by Glenn Wilson
It struck at the top of the lion’s back, behind its shoulders, just about the time it was lowering its head at Rory. Ian’s second was doing his best to scramble back as he fought to draw his own sword. The knife partially went into the lion. It jerked both physically and in its growl, its head coming down further into the ground than it seemed to have intended.
The room it gave Rory was only momentary, however, as it continued after him with its jaw, biting after his boot. Rory made a panicked sound but managed to swing back at it with his sword, entirely missing as it appeared. But the sabre must have at least nicked the tip of the lion’s nose, because it gave a violent reaction to that, thrusting its head back in surprise and pain and whatever else.
But then Ian reached it. He swung up hard from below his knee all the way up and around his body. Ian saw the lion pulling back away from the blow reflectively, turning Ian’s swing into something far less fatal that cut up into the side of its great jaws. The bone that it did hit offered just a brief touch of resistance.
Ian only caught a glimpse of this.
And then a crushing force struck down into his shoulder, sweeping him headfirst into the underbrush and pulling his arm and stillborn swing as well. It was scarcely all he was conscious of, as if his mind chose to ignore the pain of his flight.
It was hard to say how much time passed before he was aware of himself again. When he was, the top of his shoulder and neck throbbed out of tempo with his heart, working its way up to his head, where a network of scratches kept better time. Rory’s hand lantern was several feet away, giving enough light so that Ian could see his second propped into the side of a tree, not moving. He couldn’t tell if Rory was alive or not, but they were temporarily out of danger, the lion—the lion was—
Half-struggling to his feet, half-turning to where there was noise, Ian saw the rest of their party, fragmented and scattered about the two lights that were still gainfully employed. The margrave was reloading again, the captain nearby with the Chax. The lion was out of sight, though its roar was coming on and off around the trees, pain and rage running through it.
Ian had to stop. He sank to one knee, blood rushing to his head. Hard to breath. It burned to breath.
Stop—he thought. Prioritize.
He could walk, he just needed another moment. He still had his sword tightly clenched in one hand; it was a miracle he hadn’t landed on it. That was all though, his rifle and even his knife were as good as gone for the foreseeable future. Rory’s rifle, however, was not.
Scrambling to his second, he noted that Rory was still breathing. He had probably just been knocked into the tree too hard, and Ian could see no major wounds. Rory’s boot was quite torn up though.
Ian grabbed Rory’s rifle from beside him. Cradling it in his lap and glancing up a lot, Ian did his best to quickly reload. His fingers weren’t moving like normal though. Focus, that’s all he had to do. But there was blood, his blood, on the action of Rory’s rifle, making it hard to handle. He did his best to wipe it away with his sleeves.
“Sorry, old boy,” he said to Rory, turning back to his margrave and captain.
They were some fifty feet off, trying to establish a ring. At first Ian started toward them, but stopped after a few paces, listening.
The lion’s roars changed, seemed to shift, but it was so hard to tell. Lowering himself back down to one knee, Ian kept his rifle up and listened, watching the ring of light and panic in front of him as well as everything beyond it. He could see much better from here, and though he was extremely vulnerable if the lion would happen to find and come at him from any other direction, Ian didn’t think that it would care about him very much.
Ian grimaced a little, watching the captain trying to cover all around Lord Wester, despite there being far more sides to the margrave than he could watch. They needed Ian now beside them—no, not if it wasn’t to their best advantage. Ian knew that. But it was difficult logic.
Move, Ian thought, he had to move, do something—
He tightened his hand around his rifle sporadically, trying to watch everything around the ring. But then the lion was there again.
It came from Ian’s right, plowing through Will and another Chax at their weakest side. Its momentum wasn’t nearly so great as before. It struggled more in its movements, but it had an incensed fury to all of it. The reduction in its mobility made it all the more palpable.
Ian nearly fired immediately and then again just as it swept through the Chax. He rose to his feet and still had it in his sights, more precisely than any time before. But instead, he took his finger off the trigger and ran the best he could to the ring, even as the margrave’s shot went a little wide past the lion, and the captain’s startled shot did even worse.
The lion pressed on toward the margrave as he stumbled backwards. Captain Marsden rushed forward with his sword in hand, momentarily stopping the lion as it clipped its head back angrily at the sight of another one of those things waving in front of it. But as the captain swung his blade high, just a little short of the lion, it threw one of its paws into him, throwing him backwards.
Ian reached the edge of the lights even as the lion stepped over the still captain. Will tried to beat at its hind leg with his club. It pressed forward, another stiff step toward the Lord Wester. The margrave fell backwards to the ground, trying to press in a fresh cartridge. A sharp flick with its leg fell Will back to the ground again.
The lion stepped once more. Ian slowed to a walk and raised the rifle’s sights to his eyes. Just as it reached the margrave’s feet, Ian finished his aim and pulled the trigger with the bays wide open.
He saw the shot tear into the top of the lion’s front leg, a horrible explosion of burning and howling. It staggered, nearly fell.
Ian pushed a little harder, past the pain in his boot. He dropped his rifle. Got in front of the margrave, between the lion as it thrashed. For a lingering second, he thought he would have to drop on top of the margrave, the lion looking as though it was going to stumble over them. But after a moment, it rolled off to the side, still trying to pull itself up. Its breathing was labored. Broken.
Ian watched it. Weariness was in his shoulders and lungs, tired pain in his legs. Its face was so angry, still so defiant.
“It appears I owe you a great deal of everything once again, private.”
Ian half-looked back.
The margrave rose. Finished loading his rifle. Finished killing the lion.
Ian found himself lying on the ground. Found himself smiling. Found the darkness so warm, so gentle in the midst of so much death.
Chapter 20
“Show me a great man, and I will show you a liar.”
—Chax saying
“Where’s my rifle?” Rory mumbled as he stumbled above Ian.
Ian stirred, coming back to focus.
“Don’t move,” Will said, intent on Ian’s shoulder. He had been working on it for some indeterminable time now with a pair of stitchers. Every able person at hand had told Ian that the lion swipe looked much worse than Ian believed it actually was.
“I had it with me,” Rory continued, his eyes wheeling around blankly. “I never let it go.”
“I had to take it,” Ian said.
Rory turned and peered at him. “What do you mean? Where is it?”
“I don’t have it,” Ian began, rubbing at his head. He cut off Rory’s confused reply. “I took it for my last shot, but I had to drop it afterwards. It’s—somewhere over there. I’m sorry, I needed it.”
“Oh,” Rory muttered, tenderly peering around the brush for it. “But what happened to your rifle?”
“I dropped it,” Ian said, his voice growing testy. “I needed my hands free for my sword and so that I could throw my knife.”
Rory stopped. Stared at him. “You really need to learn to hang onto your weapons.”
Ian let out a breath, tried to lean back the best he could, but it was awkward with Will trying to reach over his shoulder.
“I have to say,” Will said, “that I’m not very much of a doctor, but you have to be one of the best patients I’ve ever had.”
“It’s funny,” Ian said. “I barely feel it at all. I can feel the edges of the stitchers, and some of the tugging hurts, but that’s about all. Do you think that’s a bad sign?”
“I hope not,” Will said. “I’m not very much of a doctor.”
There was a small cry from Rory, and a moment later Rory had his rifle in hand.
“What did you do?” Rory cried. “You half-ruined all of it!”
“I’m sorry,” Ian tried, mostly contrite, but another, more urgent cry rang out from the other side of their makeshift camp.
Will leaped to his feet and raced off that way, but there were already other cries joining the first, and then a low wail.
“What’s the matter?” Rory asked as Will reached the Chax who was lying on the ground, covered in Will’s first and best medical efforts.
Ian gathered himself together and stared at the ground.
“He’s dead,” Ian said.
* * * *
It wasn’t until well into the next morning that they broke what little camp they had. The two remaining Chax guides took their fellow away and buried him somewhere, without Will. Their company did their best to draw themselves together as everyone was at least decently banged up and exhausted, but they didn’t have time for such things. Still, Ian moved in a fog through his part in processing the lion’s remains and his other chores.
In the light of day, the red lion didn’t necessarily lose any of its awe, and in some ways it was more impressive to see it stretched out in its full dimensions. However, its mythical sense was greatly diminished in the tangible and very much harmless state it lay in now.
Will gave no shortage of information, prompted mostly from the captain. The lion was old, very old by Will’s estimate. Its hide was short and hard, long past its youthful softness. Scars twisted their way through it as well, evidently the marks of hardship that males without a pride faced. Will estimated that the lion must have been nearly twenty years old, it being very uncommon for a lion to live that long.
Twenty years, Ian thought as he worked at extracting the lion’s claws. It was difficult to imagine such a long time full of constant danger and conflict. It was odd to think that something could be cut off so quickly that had lasted so long like that.
They also took the teeth from the lion, some of them being longer than Ian’s hand, but it was the hide that was the real prize and the real chore to remove. It weighed a great deal of unknown pounds when they did. Rory was volunteered to carry it, and Ian took everything else of his.
And so they moved, without the earnestness or fear of failure as before. They retraced their steps back to their Chax guide that they had left on top of the rock.
When they were within sight of the Chax, and he had given a verifying wave back, the rest of their party pushed on toward him. But Ian noticed that the margrave hung back closer to him.
“May I have a word, private?” Lord Wester asked.
“Yes, My Lord,” Ian said, trying to keep his voice level, trying not to sound as tired and unenthused as he presently was for conversation with the margrave.
“Your courage is very admirable. It has been fortunate to have your services on this expedition.”
“Thank you, My Lord.”
“And I must admit that I feel particularly indebted to you.”
“I have only done what I should do, My Lord,” Ian said, unsure exactly what level of protest would be appropriate. “I don’t think there’s any extra … thanks needed for that.”
And at least Ian could claim to still be alive.
“Nonsense,” Lord Wester said. “You are a young man of fresh desires. Of what sort of things would you like? Surely your wages are hardly worth how often your life is risked. Perhaps some sum would help quicken what you will no doubt achieve in time?”
Ian put his eyes to the ground, attempting to make some fast considerations, but finding it difficult. His family immediately flashed to mind, and he could surely help them through whatever the margrave was offering.
“My Lord—” he stalled—what did the Bible say about these kinds of situations? Exactly what kinds of situations was this? Surely there must be something—he could help his family through it. That would be good—“I cannot ask for anything like that.”
The margrave stirred in protest.
“And I would have to refuse anything offered,” Ian added. “I do beg your pardon if it seems like ingratitude, because it isn’t. I am very grateful for your offer. It is very humbling, sir. But it is precisely because I don’t deserve it. No more than anyone else who was doing their duty.”
The margrave stared at him for a long moment, their pace slowed as the others had reached the wounded Chax by now. Madeline’s father looked as though he was teetering between frustration and a calmer sort of consideration. Ian experienced some pangs of worry at the frustration, but he silenced those. He was to respect His Lord’s person and duties, not worry about what the man thought of him.
“You are an interesting soldier, private,” Lord Wester finally said. “Very well, then. I will respect your wishes. But surely there is something else you would like.”
Ian faltered more than a little bit inside, and evidently a little of his exasperation showed.
“Come then,” the margrave said briskly in response, “it need not be anything substantial. I will count it as a discourtesy if you accept none of my gratitude at all. What about my youngest daughter, then?”
Ian mentally jumped, uncertainty and fear over what he was talking about—
“I have seen you favor her with your time and attention,” the margrave went on, not sounding angry, or really any other distinct emotion. “That is good. And she has shown the wyverns to you?”
“Yes, sir,” Ian said quietly.
“Do you they interest you?”
“Well, yes, sir—”
“There,” the margrave gave a small smile. “It is settled then. I will have her teach you how to ride them. Is that a satisfactory arrangement?”
Ian floundered for a moment, almost saying that Maddy had actually already offered to teach him, but in the end, his instinct was that this was a satisfactory enough end to these arrangements.
“Yes, My Lord. It is.”
The margrave frowned. “Flying like that does not trouble you?”
“No, My Lord,” Ian said, and then conceding, “I don’t think so.”
The margrave’s frown deepened a little further. “You have an exemplary courage, private. Very well, then.”
And with that, he left Ian wondering just who exactly Lord Wester saw this arrangement benefiting the most. And Ian watched, but the margrave kept to himself for the rest of their return, his eyes distant on the hide that their party carried.
* * * *
Some hours later and they reached camp. Ian, by this point, felt largely bereft of the optimistic attitude he’d had setting off. It had happened; he had all the jumbled memories and wounds to prove it. And these were largely what he had left to entertain himself with on the long return trudge. He preferred the memories, hard and insomnia-like as they were, replaying over and over in his mind the things that he had done, the things that he was. It seemed unreal that all of that could have really happened, maybe not precisely how he would have planned it, but in the same vein. It seemed unreal, but the throbbing pain, radiating the most from his shoulder, was a constant reminder that it must have happened.
The return trips were always terrible. They required all of the work of the trip to the destination, only without any of the purpose. Their party moved much more directly and maybe quickly now that they weren’t tracking and knew which ravines to avoid, but it still felt much longer. Maybe because every step hurt, and progressively so the more the hours drug by.
“Never coming back,” Ian murmured as he rolled his head in the heat, t
hinking that was the kind of trip he would like best—the kind one would never have to return from.
It hurt, and the sun and the distance and the throbbing made it worse, but he had no room to complain.
Their camp let out calls and cheers upon finally sighting them. Kieran and Brodie ran out to meet them and graciously took their loads. The pair made some remark on their party’s appearance, and the Chax quickly melted away to another part of the camp. Will alone remained to tend to the margrave and his trophy.
The Wester daughters waited politely at the edge of camp. With varying degrees of patience.
“Is that really the red lion?” Maddy asked, maybe a little before they were completely within earshot. “Father, are you all right?”
Ian did his best, through the heat, through the lightness in his head, to peer through the moving air that was shaking even more than normal to watch the Wester girls’ faces and eyes. Elizabeth’s eyes indiscriminately wandered over all of them, pausing at the most grievous conditions, which evidently included him. Maddy’s eyes kept jumping from her father and Kieran carrying the lion hide and Ian. And Ian.
“That’s quite enough,” the margrave said tiredly.
Maddy fell quiet for a moment. “Where is the other guide?”
But her question was lost in the necessary bustle of receiving their party. Pardoned as Ian and Rory were from anything further for the foreseeable future, Ian started for the middle of camp with the intent of collapsing with all dignity manageable. He hoped, for his dignity’s sake that he could do it without any special attention or—
“Oh my goodness,” Maddy said to him, going to his side, “what happened to you? Did you try to wrestle the lion?”
“I—” Ian started, but she was already dragging him by his overcoat sleeve.
“Come here,” Maddy said, trying to peer at his shoulder even as she directed him, “you’ve got dried blood all over you—and what is the matter with these stitches? Did the lion do those, too?”