Among the Numantians who died at Sidor were a dozen dominas, five generals, and three tribunes, including Nilt Safdur, commander of the cavalry, and the emperor’s brother-in-law, Aguin Guil.
Safdur was killed when the demon swept the cavalry squadron from the bridge, leading from the front.
Guil didn’t return to the Wheel in nearly as heroic a fashion, but was cut down inside Sidor, surrounded by his bodyguards. A Maisirian wasn’t as dead as he looked, and took one more Numantian with him into death.
For me, their deaths diminished Numantia not at all, but the single worst casualty was one who still walked — Myrus Le Balafre.
I’d encountered him just after the battle, while I was scurrying to the rear to make sure Alegria was safe. I’d congratulated him on our victory and gone on.
Alegria was safe, having been treated as if she were in lamb’s wool by the Ureyan Lancers. She looked pale, drawn, and I vowed she’d have a proper meal before we marched on, and a magician’s spell or a chirurgeon’s potion to let her sleep around the clock.
Le Balafre’s face kept returning. It was gray, haggard, and that famous fire in his eyes was gone. I sought him out as soon as possible, two days after we’d burned our dead and marched away from that gods-damned charnel house of Sidor. He looked no better than before, and I asked what was the matter. Was one of his old wounds bothering him?
“No, Damastes. I’m just tired.”
“There’ll be time enough to sleep in the grave,” I jested crudely.
“That thought has come more than once,” he said, without smiling. Now I was truly concerned. I took a minute, through my own fatigue, to find what I hoped were the right words.
“Come on, man. You’re too long without Nechia,” I said.
“I’m afraid the absence has only begun.”
I sought for another jest, but couldn’t think of one. He nodded, tried to smile, and asked if I’d excuse him, for he had pressing duties. I felt helpless, but couldn’t hold the hand of every soldier, even one as vital as Myrus.
• • •
The emperor told me I’d be in command of the cavalry, as well as my regular duties. He asked me to lead the march, which he still insisted was an “advance,” never a retreat. I said I would if he insisted. But I thought Linerges more suited for point. I could better serve Numantia by bringing up the rear, as he’d first commanded me.
I assumed the Maisirians were behind us, and would mount an attack at any time. I asked if his magic had shown otherwise. Tenedos looked upset, and said he could see nothing. I was astonished, and he explained: “It’s not that they have so many great magicians. The azaz seems to be the only one I should concern myself with. But they’ve got many, many of these War Magicians, and each seems to have some favorite spell to fog the mind. Break one, and there’s another. Break that, and there’s a third. I don’t have the time or the energy. So your idea of where the Maisirians are is as good as any. Better than most,” he said grudgingly.
It would have been very easy to accept the emperor’s command, for then I’d have been in the vanguard, not seeing the gore and filth of the army as it crawled onward. But I knew where my duty was, and evidently so did the emperor, for he merely growled and said I could do what I wished, and perhaps I knew best.
• • •
We hadn’t moved far beyond Sidor when the Negaret returned, snapping at our flanks. Stragglers and outriders were easy prey for them, or for the ever-increasing partisans. Patrols reported something disturbing: The partisans had been reinforced with squads of regulars from the Maisirian Army. Prisoners said King Bairan had sent a general order out requesting volunteers, something unheard of in their army. He promised that anyone who came forward would, when the war was over and we were driven out, be freed of any and all debts and burdens, including those that were hereditary. Not quite freeing the peasants, but very close.
I cursed, thinking how Tenedos could have done the same, or better.
The horses drawing my coaches, though they were given as much care as any of my Red Lancers, were wearing out. We stripped and abandoned one carriage after four horses died eating some sort of half-frozen prairie brush. We went on, with twelve horses slowly pulling what eight had easily galloped with.
As the winter grew worse, so the war became grimmer. We took no prisoners, having no way to keep or hold them.
The Maisirians were almost as brutal, but they did take a few. The lucky ones were officers who shouted they could ransom themselves, although this only saved them if they were faced by the greedy Negaret. A few more became slaves, and still labor in the heart of the suebi as far as I know. Others met a harsher doom. The Negaret learned they could sell Numantians for a few coppers to peasants. These prisoners were slowly and cunningly tortured to death, an evening’s entertainment for an entire village.
The eye, the mind, grew numb to brutality. I saw so many corpses, so much evil, that my memory blurs over much. Only the extraordinary remains.
One incident can serve for all: A Guard victualling party vanished, and I rode with the Twentieth’s patrol to see if there were any survivors. There weren’t. Half a day’s march from the trading route the Guardsmen had come on a small village that hadn’t been looted or abandoned. They’d found supplies — and women.
After the village men had either been slain or fled, the Guardsmen enjoyed themselves heartily. Children were slaughtered before the Guards turned to the women, eldest to child. Then they were killed, not quickly.
In the midst of the blood orgy, they were surprised, and it was the Guardsmen’s turn to die slowly. Their mutilated, naked bodies were lined up on blood-soaked ice, cocks and balls severed and stuffed into their mouths.
I thought it had been partisans, for the Maisirian women were not buried or cremated, but the troop guide with me offered another possibility: It could well have been Numantians. I was shocked, and he reminded me of the deserters, stragglers who marched along the army’s flanks like jackals, and like jackals fed on what they could, when they could.
I had the women’s bodies burned, and said a prayer, but would not permit any honorable disposal to the Guardsmen. We rode away from the dead village, leaving their bodies for the wolves, four- or two-legged.
• • •
The cavalry I commanded was a bitter joke. I should’ve had a million men, two million horses. But instead, I had far fewer men still mounted than when we’d first campaigned against Chardin Sher so many years ago.
Most of our horses were dead, and more were dying. We had no ice nails for the horse’s shoes, and so they’d slip and go down on the icy tracks. Even if limbs remained unbroken, an animal wouldn’t have the strength to get to his feet, and was left to die.
The cavalryman would curse, hurl his heavy saber into some bushes, abandon his saddle where it lay, and lurch onward as an infantryman, but one who had no more idea of how to form a line or attack a redoubt than of how to fly. A cavalryman thinks of himself as better than his unmounted fellows, and so, afoot with the commoners, it was easy for him to give up hope. And that was something, in those terrible days, no one had very much of.
But some lived. Strong men did, and I do not mean those with bulging muscles, for many of them saw yet another icy hill to clamber up, whimpered, and slumped to the roadside as not, while a puny, scrawny boy from Nicias’ gutters gritted his rotten teeth and went on — another foot, another league, another day.
Men with faith lived, and it didn’t seem to matter what they believed. Some were religious, which is a rarity in Numantia, insofar as true religion goes. Or they had faith in family, wife, even, I suppose, although I know of none, in themselves. A man’s friends, his squad-mates, if he still had any, would be his strongest bower, chivvying him on when he wanted to stop, cursing him, even striking him when his soul weakened. A league farther it would be turnabout, and his turn to scream, swear, and cry at one of them, and together another league would creep past.
I lived, I think, because my oath would not let me die as long as men who depended on me still lived.
And because of Alegria.
Beyond that, beyond her, I lived because Saionji had not yet tired of japing with me.
• • •
I woke, without knowing what woke me. Alegria coughed, a deep, racking cough. I sat up in our blankets, scrabbling for flint and steel.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” she said. “I’m sorry I woke you. Go back to sleep.”
“Are you sick?”
“No. I’ve just got a cough.”
My heart turned. “How long have you had it? Why haven’t you told me? Why haven’t I noticed?”
“Because you’ve had other things to worry about. And it’s only been … a couple of days or so.”
I struck the steel.
“Don’t bother with a light,” she said hastily.
But I persisted, and our tiny lantern flared, illuminating the cave-like interior of our carriage, blankets hung over the windows to try to hold in some warmth. Alegria hid something under the covers.
“What’s that?”
“Just a handkerchief.”
I pulled her face close, saw its utter paleness in the flickering candlelight, then saw something worse. There was a hint of blood at the corner of her mouth.
“Let me see that handkerchief.”
“No!”
“Dammit, show it to me!”
Reluctantly, she did. It was wet with blood.
At dawn, I took her to the imperial caravan, before the army began to move. The emperor’s own chirurgeon examined Alegria, against her protests of good health.
“Yes,” he said, and his tones were artificially hearty. “Not the first such I’ve seen. I’ll mix up some herbs, and I want you to make tea three times daily. That’ll give you some relief from the coughing.”
I followed him to his carriage.
“What is it?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s been going around for about a week now. The first case I noticed was after we had that little set-to last week. In that village.”
I tried to remember. But there was always fighting.
“The one with two temples,” he said. “We used both for hospitals for the two days we were there, before Tribune Linerges broke through.”
I vaguely remembered it.
“That’s when it materialized.”
“How long does it take to recover?”
The chirurgeon gnawed at his lip, looked away.
“I asked a question,” I said sharply.
“Sorry, Tribune,” he said, unused to being commanded. “I don’t know. I really haven’t had the time to follow up on things like that. There’s far worse matters to fill my hours.”
“How much worse can it get?” I asked.
The man looked around the encampment — the dirty snow, the bundled men, the dark sky — then at me. “I’m sure your lady will recover,” he said. “Keep her in a carriage, and make certain she eats. She’ll have as good a chance as anyone.”
I was afraid to press him, afraid I had my answer.
• • •
We marched on, bodies strewn in our path like a carpet. They’d always be stripped, and now it was commonplace for them to be half-butchered. I made sure, when I was invited to eat something in my rounds, that I inquired about the source of any meat offered. But most didn’t. They couldn’t — there simply wasn’t that much food.
Even I, the highest tribune in the army, went hungry. One or two days at a time wasn’t worth a single complaint around a fire, and was sure to elicit a sympathetic reply such as “you overfed fat bastard.”
I came back from a long patrol, out in the cutting snow for almost a week trying to find the gods-damned Maisirian Army, and almost cried when someone handed me a blackened, half-roasted, half-burned potato he’d dug from a farmer’s field and roasted in a tiny fire. It tasted better than a many-coursed banquet.
Some of the Maisirian women who’d become bed partners of soldiers stayed with their lovers where they fell. Others found new mates within the hour. I remember one general who’d happened on a very pretty girl in Jarrah and seduced her. She’d foolishly gone with him when we retreated, fearing her countrymen would kill her when they reoccupied the city.
When the general found the girl to be pregnant, he threw her out of his carriage and said if he saw her again, he’d put her to the sword. The man who told me the story said she’d stood beside the line of march like a statue, eyes staring in disbelief, tears in a frozen runnel down her cheeks.
The rear guard came on her half a day later, crouched beside the trail. Her face, dead eyes still wide, stared up the roadway, after her lover.
• • •
The first sign of catastrophe was the high shrill of our lead horse, as he lost his footing on the curve. He pulled the pair behind off the icy road, and the carriage slid gracefully with them and tumbled into the deep ravine.
At the top of the low hill we were climbing I planned to have the carriage pull over, unsaddle Brigstock, tie him to the rear of the coach, and slip inside for an hour’s sleep. It was snowing, getting worse, and I dreamed of holding Alegria and the warmth around me in a few moments.
Instead, I watched a wooden box holding all I held precious go a-tumble down the rocky slope. I was out of the saddle and scrambling down the icy rocks, somehow not losing my footing. The carriage hit the bottom of the ravine, smashed through a frozen rivulet, and lay still, on its side. The body of one teamster was impaled on the winter-frozen spear of a tree stump, and the other lay crushed under the wagon itself, screaming. His screams stopped just before I reached him.
I jumped atop the shattered box and pulled at the door. It came off in my hands. There was no movement in the darkness, then a pile of blankets stirred, and Alegria’s tousled head peered out.
“Am I alive?” Alegria asked, then spasmed in coughing.
“Yes. Oh, gods, yes,” and I was down in the carriage, holding her close.
Please, gods, I prayed. Name your price, name your sacrifice. But don’t let her die. Please. I’ve seldom prayed to you, feeling that if I went to you in good times, you’d never listen when things were bad. Take me if you wish, but let her live.
The Lancers helped us take what was salvageable and clamber back to the top of the hill.
A gust of wind hit Alegria, and she shivered. “It’s … good to be out,” she said, attempting good cheer. “Stuffy in that coach. It’s time I got some exercise, anyway.”
I paid no attention, but looked down the trail, through the now-heavy snow. An ambulance creaked toward us. I waved it down.
The driver didn’t recognize me in my filthy greatcoat and my long-unburnished helmet. “Full up,” he shouted. “No room for nobody, not officer, not man. Out’n the way.”
Svalbard jumped in front of the horses, grabbed one’s halter and pulled it to a halt. “For th’ First Tribune, you’ll fucking stop!” he shouted.
“Sir! Sorry, sir. What do you need?” the man stammered, coming out of his frozen stupor.
“We lost our carriage. Is there room for my lady?”
“Sir … she’d be more’n welcome, but there’s no room for her to fit. Sir, I wasn’t lyin',” the man said, knowing I could kill him if I wished and no one would stop me. He clambered down and yanked open the door of the low carriage. I flinched, smelling drying blood and sickness. There were half a dozen men packed in the interior, which was more like a coffin than anything else.
“Go on, driver,” Alegria ordered. “I’m healthier than any of these men. I can walk.” Then she promptly disproved it by bending double in a spasm.
“Here,” a man said, and pulled himself from the carriage. “I’ll not ride when a great lady is on foot.” His uniform was in tatters, and he wore a Maisirian cloak, cut at the waist so he could walk. He had the emblem of the Seventh Guard Corps pinned to the cloak’s side, and a bandaged left leg. He put weight experimentally on the leg, fought back a wince, tried again, and managed a smile.
“Hells, sir. I’m ready to go back to my comp’ny. If there’s a comp’ny to go back to.”
I knew what I wanted to order, but could not.
“Driver, I said move on,” Alegria ordered.
The man climbed back to his seat.
“Now, you,” she said, turning to the Guardsman. “Get back in.”
But he wasn’t there.
“Where …”
Svalbard pointed to the edge of the road, where it dropped off into the ravine. I ran to it and looked down. I saw, dimly through the snow, a man, limping as quickly as he could, away from the road into the darkening suebi.
“Stop!” I called.
But he never turned, never looked back, and a moment later was lost in the storm.
I never even learned his name.
• • •
The ambulance, with its sick and wounded, and Alegria, became part of our formation. The men in it were given some treatment by two of my Lancers, who knew a bit about herbalism.
We’d just pulled off to the side of the road, circled the half-dozen open wagons we had, set out pickets, and considered our miserable rations for the night, when the emperor’s galloper found me.
• • •
“How dare they!” Tenedos shouted, and spun a wand against the tent wall in rage. It wasn’t a question. “Gutless back-stabbing bastards! How in the hells could they betray their country so?”
The emperor had tried time and again to use his Seeing Bowl to reach Nicias, but without success. Finally he’d used seven of the most skilled Chare Brethren to force his spell. With that power, he’d successfully contacted one of the Brethren at the palace. They’d been trying to contact him as well, but without success, until the seer thought of summoning his two sisters, Dalny and Leh, “blood touching blood,” Tenedos explained.
The news from both sides was bad. There’d been an attempted revolt. Scopas and Barthou, the former members of the Rule of Ten Kutulu had warned of, had led it, backed by those same barons that had come to me for help and approval in setting up a private army, with Marán’s brother Praen. The group was now headed by Lord Drumceat, and had no more loyalty to Numantia or the emperor than before. I held back rage. I should’ve done what I’d threatened and had those traitorous sons of bitches arrested.
They’d gotten two of the parade units in Nicias on their side, and seized about half of the government’s buildings. But they’d made two errors, Tenedos explained: They hadn’t arrested the magicians, and they hadn’t bothered with two regular units camped outside Nicias awaiting ships to take them south to the war.
“There was a third mistake,” Tenedos finished. “They didn’t have any real leaders. So when they called for the people to rise up, the people went home.”
A day later, the revolt collapsed. But neither Scopas, Barthou, or Drumceat had been taken. They were in hiding, although every warden in the country sought them. Nicias, however, was safe. “At least for the moment,” Tenedos said.
“What did they want? What could they …” I’m afraid I was sputtering like an old fool.
“What did they want? Power, of course. How could they consider such an action? Easily. When the lion weakens, the others in his pack stalk him. Things aren’t going … as they should here. I assume rumors have gotten through. And not hearing anything from me since Jarrah could only have made matters worse.”
I gathered myself. “What of the Tovieti? Were they involved?”
Tenedos gave me a hard look, then grudgingly admitted: “No one mentioned them. Perhaps they had sense enough to realize only a fool would follow Scopas.”
I thought of how Tenedos had constantly ridden Kutulu about the men and women of the yellow cord, and told him to ignore anything else, and Kutulu’s warnings about Scopas and Barthou, but realized only an idiot would bring that up, or mention Kutulu’s name, although I desperately wanted to suggest that the Serpent Who Never Sleeps should be brought back from exile and given a free hand. Brutal though he might be, he’d at least guarantee the emperor’s back was safe. But, as I said, I wasn’t in the mood for imbecility.
“What can we do about it?” I asked.
“Nothing, now. Dalny broke down when I told her of her husband’s death. I suppose she might’ve actually loved the man. I ordered my Brethren to bring whatever Guard Corps that are anywhere close to trained from Amur and garrison Nicias.” Tenedos growled. “As if we won’t need them when we reach the frontiers. Leh will be named regent.”
I kept my expression blank, remembering the last time I’d seen the emperor’s sister — half-naked, being serviced by several Guardsmen.
“That’s not good,” the emperor went on, “but in these times we have to do with what we have. Hopefully I’ll be able to keep in touch, and the Chare Brethren won’t let her do anything completely absurd. Damn it, but I wish Reufern hadn’t been killed!”
I pointedly looked aside, and there was silence in the tent except for the wind whipping at the canvas.
“Oh well,” Tenedos said. “He would’ve insisted on coming with me, so it wouldn’t have made any difference.”
“Sir, you really didn’t answer my question. What do we do?”
“All we can do is move as quickly as we can,” Tenedos said. “As soon as possible, I’ll have to leave the army and get to Nicias. I can’t fight a war if my kingdom is slipping from under me. You’ll have to take charge of holding the Maisirians at the frontier, if they’re foolish enough to follow us through Kait.”
I barely understood his last words. Abandon the army? How could he even think that? Didn’t the oath all of us had sworn require an equal duty from the emperor?
Tenedos must have read my face.
“There are no good decisions, Tribune. Not when everything is falling apart around us. This is the best that I can devise. Perhaps you have a better plan, not just for your so-loved army, but for all Numantia?” He waited, lip curling a bit.
I didn’t.
“Very well,” he said. “This is some time away. You’re forbidden to speak of this to anyone, including your woman. That’s all.”
I think I managed a salute. I stormed outside the tent for an hour, rage seething, paying no heed to the storm, or the curious glances of staff officers, before I was capable of riding back to my post.
This would be the emperor’s second betrayal of his army.
• • •
I wonder, if I’d not been in such a black mood at the emperor’s unbelievable callousness, if I would have behaved in another manner to Herne, and if I had, if that would have changed anything? Probably not, for Herne always had an eye out for his own welfare.
We were pushing our way back through the darkness when we came to a roadblock. Six freight wagons made up a small caravan before us, with an enormous carriage in front. Two horses on the first wagon had gone down, creating a cursing, shouting jam. Infantrymen were pushing past on either side, still far from wherever their officers had planned to stop for the night.
Imperial orders were very clear.
“Captain Balkh! Find this infantry column’s officer and, with my compliments, have him detail men to strip that wreck and push it off the road!”
Before Balkh could answer, there came a scream of rage from inside the carriage: “In a pig’s arse! This is a tribune’s property, and there’ll be no interference! Lend a hand, you big-mouthed shit out there, instead of playing like you’re a god!”
I slid from the saddle, went to the carriage, and saw Tribune Herne, fuming and mud-covered. He recognized me in the dim light from the carriage’s sidelamps. “Oh,” he said weakly.
“Oh, my ass,” I snapped, giving rein to my temper. “What the hells is going on?”
“This is my … my staff’s supplies,” he said. “I’ll send one of my officers down the column and commandeer a pair of horses. We’ll be moving as soon as possible.”
“Captain Balkh,” I said. “Follow my orders!”
“Sir!”
“You cannot do this, á Cimabue,” Herne snarled. “I have my rights!”
“Sir, you will stand at attention when you speak to me,” I half-shouted. “You may be a tribune, but I am general of the armies, am I not? Do you wish to be placed under close arrest?”
I dimly realized this was a threat I was using a lot these days.
“This is absurd,” Herne said, his face reddening to match his elaborately worked uniform.
“Two men,” I ordered. Svalbard and Curti were beside me, fighting to keep their faces expressionless. “Tear the canvas off that first wagon.”
“Sir!”
“Dammit, Tribune …” Herne said, then fell silent.
My two men were atop the wagon, daggers out. Ropes were slashed, and the heavy canvas dragged away. Of course the “staff supplies” were barrels of wine, hams, bags of bread, sides of beef well frozen by the cold, and other fineries. The marchers had stopped, and were staring at these goods they hadn’t seen for weeks. I heard a low growl, as an unfed tiger makes.
There was an officer beside me. “Sir, Captain of the Upper Half Newent. At your command.”
“I want this wagon off the road,” I ordered. I thought of propriety, then red rage made me discard it. “Here are my orders. I want them followed precisely. This man is Tribune Herne.”
“I know, sir. We’re part of his corps.”
“Very well. He is to be allowed to fill one wagon, and one wagon only, with whatever he wishes from this wreck and from the others. Then he is to go on his way. Everything else — horses, wagons, and what they hold — are now the property of your unit. They are to be shared out equally between officers and men. Use them well, use them fairly. If I hear of any favoritism, I vow I’ll have you hanged, and when I return to Nicias, your family will be notified of your having shamed your uniform.”
“You won’t have any cause for that,” Captain Newent said flatly.
“I hope not. If Tribune Herne attempts to interfere, I want him held here until my rear guard reaches this point. At that time, I’ll take charge of the prisoner and deal with him as necessary.”
“Yes, sir.”
Herne was glaring at both of us.
“Tribune,” I told him, “those are my orders. You are to obey them absolutely or face imperial justice. Do you understand?” Herne muttered something. I used an old drill instructor’s trick, and spoke to Herne again, my face almost against his, but as if he were across a parade ground. “I said, do you understand?”
Herne opened his mouth to bluster, finally had brains enough to realize my mood, and said only, “Yes.”
“Sir!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well,” I said. “Further, if I hear of any attempts to revenge yourself on this officer or on his unit, I’ll have you relieved and your entire staff and servants assigned elsewhere.” His face whitened, for this would be a death sentence. He’d be no better than the crookedest sutler, regardless of his high rank.
“That’s all!” I strode back to my horse, remounted, and we forced our way through the mass of soldiers. As we rode off, there came cheers and, for the first time in recent memory, laughter.
• • •
Captain Balkh drew my attention to a corpse beside the road.
It was a giant of a man, perhaps in his fifties. His right hand had been amputated earlier, and the bandages had come away from the stump. His features were hard and lined, and he wore the insignia of a regimental guide. An old soldier, but the bodies of old soldiers weren’t uncommon. Then I noted what had made Balkh point. The man’s coat had come open, and there was a flag wrapped around the warrant’s stomach.
The guide was the last of his regiment, and had torn the colors from the staff, and tried to carry on, tried to carry them back to Numantia.
I thought the flight from Kait had been terrible enough, but this was worse. This was the slow death of my army, my emperor, my country.
• • •
There were soldiers without units, and officers as well. Tenedos ordered all officers who had no command to his headquarters, established a “Sacred Squadron,” and ordered them to concern themselves with only one thing — his safety.
He already had bodyguards, but at least this gave these men something to worry about, something to occupy their minds on the march. That was good enough for some, but not others, who were beyond even his reach.
One was Tribune Myrus Le Balafre. Curti told me he was riding with the Twentieth, without servants, guards, or staff, no more than a common soldier. I sent one of my officers to find him and ask him to join my staff. The officer returned saying he couldn’t find Myrus.
I sent again, and once more the tribune couldn’t be found. I would have to go myself, winkle him out and kick him until he was ready to try to stay alive again. But before I could find the time, his troop was sent out against some Negaret.
The enemy turned out to be stronger than anticipated — two full companies, almost two hundred men. The cavalrymen reined in, ready to pull back to our lines for reinforcements.
Le Balafre shouted something, someone said a battle cry from a regiment twenty years disbanded, spurred his horse, and, at a full gallop, charged the two hundred. They sat befuddled as this madman came, saber pointed, standing in his stirrups.
Then he was among them, and his blade flashed, and there was a frenzy and they lost sight of him. Seconds later the Negaret rode away, as if fleeing a regiment. They left six dead or dying in the snow.
Next to them sprawled Le Balafre. His body had more than a dozen wounds. When they turned his corpse over, there was a contented smile on his face.
I remembered what he’d said when Mercia Petre’s body was burned: “A good death. Our kind of death.”
I hope Saionji granted him the greatest boon, and released him from his debt to the Wheel. For I cannot conceive there could ever be another warrior like him.
• • •
The day was clear for once, and the way was straight and level, the suebi reaching to the horizon. If there were any Negaret about, they were harrying another part of the army. If it hadn’t been for the solid, dark mass of staggering, dying humanity, and the scatter of bodies for three miles on either side of the main road, the day might have been almost enjoyable.
Brigstock stumbled and went down, pitching me into a snowbank. He tried to get up, failed, then tried to find his legs. He looked at me, expression infinitely apologetic.
I looked at this ruin of a magnificent stallion, ribs showing, mane and tail scraggly and long, his coat mangy, only rough-groomed. His tack, once so splendid in many-colored leather, was cracked and rotting. His eyes were dull, his gums dark and diseased-looking when he tried to nicker and managed only a faint wheeze.
I should have found a quartermaster and given him up, but I couldn’t.
There was a narrow draw about a quarter mile away, and I took Brigstock’s bridle and gently, slowly, led him to it. The draw was only about fifty feet long, and the snow was thigh-deep, but anything in it would be hidden from the road.
Brigstock followed me into it and stood dumbly, as if waiting for what he knew would happen.
I scrabbled in one saddlebag, found a few scraps of sugar at the bottom, and let the horse lick it from my glove.
I held his eyes with mine so he wouldn’t see what my right hand was drawing; caressed and lifted his head gently with my left. I slashed his throat cleanly with Yonge’s gift dagger, and blood spurted.
Brigstock tried to rear, but couldn’t. He fell to his side, quivered once, and was dead. I sheathed the knife, turned, and stumbled back toward the column.
The sun was dark and the sky was the deepest black.
• • •
The Seventeenth had found a tent for Alegria and myself. It was a gaily colored thing, intended for a baron’s summer lawn, perhaps so his children could pretend they were explorers in distant lands. A soldier talented with a needle sewed blankets inside for a lining, so it was cozy in spite of its summer look. We’d laid canvas for floor, had our sleeping furs, and were warm. Normally we slept fully clothed and I only allowed myself one luxury — slipping out of my boots before I moved in next to Alegria.
She hadn’t gotten any better, but rather had grown paler, and her coughing fits made her shudder in pain. I was about to come to bed, thinking she was already asleep, when Alegria opened her eyes.
“Damastes. Please make love to me.”
I didn’t know if I could, being utterly fatigued, but I didn’t protest; I slipped out of my clothes.
Alegria was naked under the furs, and I took her in my arms, kissed her deeply, stroked her, trying not to notice how thin she’d gotten, how coarse her always silken hair had become. Surprisingly, as her breathing came faster, I found myself hard, and then she rolled onto her back and raised and parted her legs. I moved over her, and slid my cock into her, moving gently, rhythmically, to her sighs of pleasure.
Alegria’s body shuddered under mine, and then I spasmed for a moment. “There,” she said, when her breathing slowed. “Thank you.”
“Thank you.”
“I love you.”
“And I’ll always love you,” I said.
“There’s a better place,” she whispered. “Isn’t there?”
“Of course,” I said, although in truth I doubted it.
“We’ll be very happy there,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
She didn’t answer, but her breathing became regular, and she slept. Thank whatever gods there are, gods I’m no longer able to worship, I didn’t follow her into sleep. Instead I lay there, holding her close, still inside her, trying to keep from crying.
Sometime during the night, without outcry, without any sign at all, Alegria stopped breathing.
And my life came to an end.