by Andy Remic
Through barred windows moonlight illuminated pallid skin, and the springs creaked, the bed sighed, and the man climbed in next to the boy who slumbered under heavy influence of drugs.
They lay there for many minutes, in silence, the man pressed close and warm, feeling the soft skin of his prey. He could feel the boy’s flesh through the thin gown of stained white, and his eyes closed; he breathed deep, calming his thoughts, and his lips brushed the skin of the boy’s shoulder, and tenderly he took the boy’s hand and looked at the healing scar, scabbed, stitched.
He whispered words into the sleeping boy’s ear.
He languorously enjoyed the proximity and warmth of a shared bed . . .
And then he was gone, and the boy’s eyes flashed black in the darkness, and he scrambled into a seated position, breathing fast and shallow as he pulled the bedcovers up around his throat.
He was here, he thought.
His eyes narrowed. His breathing calmed. He could smell stale cigarette smoke.
It’s going to get worse, he thought.
A tear rolled down his cheek.
If he comes back, I will kill him . . .
Part Four
Hurt World
Hurt World. “Towards the Mountains.” 3rd. November 1917.
THE WOODLAND SWEPT DOWN to the lower slopes of the mountain range, littered by boulders which had crashed through the forest centuries earlier and become part of the landscape. The trees turned gradually from beech and oak to wide tracts of evergreen, their tightly interlocked branches and dense pine needles blocking out what little light beamed from the moon and stars above. A carpet of dead needles underfoot deadened all sound, and the place was silent, still as a tomb at the very end of the world.
Jones and Orana followed narrow woodland trails, and as dawn broke, a watery orange glow filled the heavens, filtering through pine branches and giving the world an ethereal ambience.
The ground was rising now, and Jones found himself relaxing. They had reached the foothills of the mountains, and there had been no further sign of pursuit.
Jones was bone-weary, and looking to Orana, he watched her stumble. “I think we should rest,” he said.
“There’s a clearing up ahead.”
They walked forward and stopped by the edge of the trees. Reaching out, Jones pushed aside a branch of silver fir and looked upon a scene of massacre with tired, tear-filled eyes.
Several rooks were tearing flesh from bodies, their grey beaks stained with old blood, their intelligent eyes watching for signs of danger. Jones moved forward, caught a flash of white, and watched as the birds took to the sky with a pounding of wings, disturbing snow from the upper branches of overhanging larch, snow which fell in fine drifts across the scene of slaughter.
Orana stepped forward, past Jones, and crouched beside the first twisted, mangled body, her eyes tracking. She reached out as if to touch the broken corpse, then pulled back her hand, touching fingers to her lips.
“A battle,” she said, words whispered and cold.
Jones peered over her shoulder; the man was young, his face lightly stubbled and white as china in death. His hair had been parted neatly and was now frosted with ice. He wore no armour, just simple clothes of brown and black. His boots had been stripped from his backward, broken ankles, his weapon taken. A black wound, ringed with torn wool, gaped from the man’s shoulder close to his throat. His white, bare feet were bony and undignified in death.
“Did a gun cause that?” said Jones, gesturing with the barrel of his Enfield.
“Yes. It is the wooden bullets; they flatten or splinter on impact and produce larger holes than your gun.” She pointed with distaste at his rifle.
Jones stepped over the body and moved towards the centre of the clearing, wary now, his eyes searching. He could read the battle—several large logs had been dragged to one side of the clearing facing a wide path, and riflemen had taken cover behind the dark trunks. It would appear they had been easily overrun and slaughtered.
Orana moved to a group of fractured bodies. “These are village men,” she said, and looked back at Jones. “See, the armies come close even as we stand here resting. It is happening already. It is happening too soon!”
Jones gazed at the ten or eleven corpses, weary to the soul. Slowly he moved between the bodies, and although they had been stripped of boots, weapons, and ammunition, they still carried pouches and small cloth bags which contained coins, tinderboxes, and several bags of provisions. Jones held the bags up for Orana’s inspection. “Oats, salt, sugar. And some bread. Why did the attackers not take the money?”
“The Naravelle army have become wealthy beyond imagining,” said Orana, sitting on a log with a deep sigh. She gazed across the corpses . . . One man had been wounded, had crawled to the edge of the clearing, where his head had been split wide open by the butt of a rifle. His brains trailed across frozen pine needles. His carcass lay in a foetal position, frozen, black blood ice surrounding his fractured head. “They do not need the coin owned by peasants.”
“Why here, though?” asked Jones, realising that his geography of the locale was seriously lacking; if he was going to help Orana, then he would have to learn the terrain, and learn fast. “Is there a tactical advantage?”
“Soldiers swept through Yellow Pass several weeks ago; there was a fierce battle, but the rebels were wiped out. Many took to the lower woodland pastures for cover and to fight back . . . The soldiers and walriders have been searching them out and destroying them. It disgusts me.”
“Me, also,” said Jones. “But that is war.”
“Yes, I think I understand this abomination called war.” She looked at him with her dark grey eyes, and Jones stared back. Her face seemed twisted and strange, her look painted with anger and—hatred?
And then it was gone. She looked away, and Jones said nothing. The scene in the clearing had obviously touched Orana, and Jones realised why: these men, these people, were the same as her own over the mountains. They were simple villagers, wiped out by the advancing vanguard. It was a mirror in ice, a chilling representation of what, one day, was going to happen to Orana’s people . . .
What did she really believe he could do?
Wipe out the Tonrothir Empire single-handed?
Shit.
He laughed, the sound hollow and misplaced in that arena of death. He got to his feet, gestured to Orana, and together they headed into the woods, pushing larch branches out of their path and decorating their clothes with a fine powder of snow.
They left behind the butchered bodies and made for higher ground.
An hour had passed, and they reached the upper outskirts of rocky woodland on the mountain flanks. They made a cold camp beside a frozen stream, and Jones cracked the ice with the butt of his SMLE and refilled his canteen.
Orana dug out two rocks, and shivering against the cold, they sat on the rocks and ate hard bread scavenged from the slaughtered villagers. It was tough and stale, but to Jones it was the finest of meals and filled his belly and killed his hunger, at least temporarily.
After eating, Orana got to her feet and moved into the woods until she was out of sight. Jones checked his rifle and felt the presence of Bainbridge and Webb hovering at the edge of his subconscious, his reality.
“The walriders are about an hour behind you,” said Webb, and Jones smiled. “They are still in pursuit.”
“It is far enough. We will soon be up in the mountains. I’m wondering if they will bother to follow us that far. The soldiers can’t use their horses, we’re out of range of their guns, and Orana believes the walriders don’t function properly in snow.”
“They’ll follow all right, lad,” rumbled Bainbridge. “Their unit has split; there’s ten men and two walriders on your tail. If I’m not mistaken, that man whose flag you shot is a holy bit pissed. I think he thought you an easy target, but maybe his arrogance overwhelmed his judgement and now he is filled with stupidity. He wants to hunt you down, to destroy you .
. . It’s like that fodder further back in the woods . . . Did you see their formation? How did they hope to defend in dense woodland behind a couple of logs? They should have split and run. Instead, they were surrounded and cut down—because of stupidity.”
“What they needed was a good leader like you,” said Jones through gritted teeth, and the sarcasm in his voice did not go unnoticed.
“Hey, don’t be bitter, lad,” said Bainbridge. “I know you feel out of place, lost in a strange land and hunted by men and beasts. You can’t go home. You have no friends. You do not know the land. What option have you got, other than to go with Orana?”
“None. Or I will die here.”
“I hate to admit it,” said Webb, “but for once, Charlie is right. He might have the sensitivity of a pig, but his military grounding is proficient.”
“Hah! Proficient, you potbellied mother’s boy; don’t talk to me about military knowledge . . . I remember when that Fritzy ran at you all screaming and foaming, and you stood like a little kid caught with his pants around his ankles, all right!” Bainbridge’s laughter boomed loud in Jones’s mind.
“I’ve told you not to call me a mother’s boy,” hissed Webb.
“Listen, once a mother’s . . .”
“Whoa!” interrupted Jones. “Come on, don’t start bloody arguing. I’ve had enough of you two. Just keep an eye on the soldiers following, and let me know if they get close enough to take a shot . . .”
“Orana is coming back,” said Webb.
Jones coughed and packed away his canteen. Orana strode from the trees and said, “I thought I heard voices.” She looked around and Jones did not miss the trace of fear in her eyes. “Are you alone?”
“I’m alone,” smiled Jones. “Come on, it’s time to move out onto open ground. It’s going to be bloody cold, though. I hope you’ve brought your thermals!”
Orana did not smile.
The light began to fail early, for which Jones was thankful. He walked behind and to the right of Orana; they crossed rocky scrubland and finally joined with a narrow trail leading up into the mountains, which towered above, ominous and oppressive. After an hour of walking as darkness fell, the land dropped away behind them and the world spread out in a carpet of conifers and, farther south and west, brown sparse woodland, an undulating carpet of frosty pastels.
Jones searched for the castle which had housed them for several days, but he could see no sign. He could also see no sign of their pursuers, even as far back as the tree line of dense silver fir. Orana watched him scanning the horizon.
As darkness fell, the mountain pass to the right spread out, a chasm of mighty depth and breadth; far below ran rivers of ice blood that made Jones shiver. Orana saw him shiver and she laughed . . . and the hate was no longer in her voice and he felt the subtle spell break.
Tentatively, Jones said, “You did well, coming all this way alone.”
“I’m a tough girl,” said Orana with a wry smile. “In my own way, a soldier. A survivor.”
“Even so, it is quite a journey. You did well to get so far before running into that group of bastards who captured you; the terrain is harsh, the weather against you, and as to your words concerning the Yellow Pass . . . well, there must still be units of soldiers roaming these parts.”
“There are. But I hid a lot.” A curious tone had entered Orana’s voice, and despite not knowing her very well, Jones could not fail to miss it. “I hid. I avoided patrols, soldiers, units of men. I was . . . careful. Until the walriders captured me. But even they would have had difficulty, if it hadn’t been for—” She bit her lip and looked at him then. A curious look.
He stopped on the rocky trail and rested on his rifle. The metal parts were cold, and he pulled the cuffs of his coat over his hands.
“What is it? What are you not telling me?”
“It’s nothing,” said Orana, and continued to walk, forcing Jones to follow. He jogged up beside her, and her face was shadowed by the looming wall of rock to their left. He glanced up at the majesty of the mountains. They made him feel suddenly tiny, insignificant. The very war was an ants’ nest to the mountains.
Orana gestured at the gaping pass below. “That is how I feel inside,” she said, and suddenly, her face looked much older than her years, and Jones swallowed hard. “I am empty, vast, filled with nothing, filled with a huge emptiness.”
“Why?” Jones’s voice was soft, spoken with gentility.
“I cannot tell you; I cannot tell anybody!” And Orana was crying, and their steps faltered and they stood there in the silent gloom. A cold wind caressed them, chilling exposed flesh with the gentlest of songs. Jones gathered Orana in his arms and hugged her through thick layers of clothing.
“It’s okay,” he whispered, stroking her hair. “Come on, I think we should search for shelter. There is a lee further up on the left; it will hide us from the biting wind.”
Orana allowed Jones to lead her, and as they approached the rock, she suddenly said, “I was captured. By soldiers, a company of Naravelles. They carried grey flags and they carried red flags. I can still picture their faces. I can picture all their faces . . .”
She said no more. She huddled against the rock and Jones huddled next to her for warmth and comfort. They could not rest for long, because their pursuers were still behind and closing. And they did not dare risk a fire, even for morale.
Jones understood, without being told, the terror of Orana’s situation. No wonder she hated ——ing Naravelles! She had been captured and abused, used for sport, and then cast out into the woods as a plaything for the walriders . . . and Jones understood with horror his own love for the woman, their own intimacy, and he felt sudden shame claw its way forcibly into his throat so that he could not speak. How did she see him? Like the abusive soldiers?
He shuddered.
Jones ran his hands through his hair and risked a glance at her . . . She had her hands between her thighs to keep them warm and was humming softly to herself as she gazed out across the dark pass.
What scars do you bear? he thought. What wounds have I added to your list of grievances against men? Men like me? I am sorry, I am so sorry . . . But the words stuck in his throat until he feared he would never be able to breathe again.
The Naravelle Offensive. Battle of Talen Ridge (7th. Battle of). 3rd. November 1917.
THE MEN CHARGED THROUGH the frozen mud, boots churning earth into oblivion and their guns thundering through the smoke. An oppressive gloom had settled across the land, a dark cloak of hate cast by God across the mortal realm. Femorian soldiers cowered in trenches and behind machine guns and heavy artillery, and pounded the Naravelle lines as crumps screamed through the heavens and bodies were flung, doll-like, screaming through the smoke and stink and hell of No Man’s Land.
Naravelle infantry spread out, taking cover behind old barns and the burnt remains of walnut and alder which stretched for the heavens, black, supplicated figures of suffering reaching out as if in final prayer. Troops advanced in stages, rifles barking at the enemy, and horses went down screaming in the mud, eyes flaring white, nostrils wide and snorting the stench of their own deaths . . . Rex, a sergeant with the Naravelle Second, watched as a horse charged past him, howling a woman’s wail, its hooves stamping its own steaming entrails until it finally collapsed in a shell hole, twitched, and was still.
“Forward!” he bellowed, and firing several shots from his heavy rifle, he led troops into the field and up towards Talen Ridge and the enemy trenches. More crumps roared through the heavens, and Rex and his men hit the ground hard and fast as soil rained down on their helmets and they cursed the Femorians and their technical superiority.
Femor riflemen charged into the field, and the two phalanxes of infantry crashed together with cries and screams of pain and anguish, and bullets roared in close quarters, and bodies were punched down with gaping wounds pouring blood to the dark greedy soil.
Rex shot a man in the face and watched him scrabble with di
rty fingernails at the wide, pouring hole; he sliced a second man across the belly with a large blade, but the warrior was armoured, and Rex head-butted the man with the rim of his helmet, then stabbed him in the throat as he lay moaning on the muddy ground.
“Advance!” he roared, and his men obeyed with the precision of well-trained Naravelle infantry; they formed a solid square of men and marched across the muddied hell of No Man’s Land, men falling left and right with bullets in their guts and throats and skulls, but with the main phalanx punching through enemy soldiers and on towards the trenches and the preciously guarded heavy weapons beyond.
Rex was sweating, his head throbbing with pain. A bullet had skimmed his helmet, denting the thick exterior and punching him to the floor. He’d staggered to his feet, rifle in one hand and knife in the other, and screamed in anger and frustration and joy. His blood was high and he replaced the magazine and shot a Femor in the chest, leaving a flower of smoke and a tattered corpse in his wake.
So easy, he thought. So easy for the bastards to issue orders!
Take the enemy trench.
Take the enemy mortars.
Discover the secret of their explosives . . .
Why didn’t the bastards in command come down to the battlefield and carry out the orders themselves? “Bloody cowards, to a man,” he rumbled, and continued with the forward march.
Suddenly, crumps screamed across the heavens, trailing smoke, and the advancing phalanx split and ran for cover. Rex, cursing, dived behind a stone wall and covered his head as the ground shook and smoke enveloped the battlefield, and he cursed the Femors and cursed their weapons and cursed their advancements which made a mockery of old battlefield tactics. How could a phalanx, a superior phalanx—advance on the enemy with bombs exploding in their midst?
“Bastards!” he screamed, and ducked his head once more as another series of explosions shook the earth. Already he could hear bugles sounding retreat, and his head lifted, eyes burning bright with anger under his dented grey helmet, and he glared at Talen Ridge and the shadowy, distant figures hiding behind their mortars and guns, and hate ran through his veins, but his military bearing stamped its mark on his brain, and with great reluctance, he turned and retreated with his men across the silent, wasted, smoking battlefield.