A Veteran Returns Home: Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Nemo stood in the centre of the dilapidated building. His eyes focussed on the skeleton holding the knife. What devastation have we wrought? He reflected. With clenched eyes he pictured his village, his home, and his wife and children. 

‘Ohh, what do we have here?’ A man whistled from outside in the language of the conquerors.

He snapped his neck to the noise carried on the breeze through the curtains of thin fabric. Crouching he held the unadorned scimitar hilt in one hand ready to unsheathe. He trailed close to the rubble laden floor of the house towards the window. 

Atars snorted and his hooves patted the earth. The shadow of a hand reaches over the cloth.

‘Hey,’ the man said again. ‘What do you have there?’ He asked the horse.

Nemo moves his hand from his sword to the knife in his belt. A slim plate of cheap steel, held within a handle of wood, for fletching. He pulled the knife free of its leather sheath wedged between belt and armour. 

Atars padded the ground harder, snorting all the while.

‘Come here,’ the man snarled. Nemo watched the shadow of the man as he held the reins in his hands.

The sounds of struggle continued. Man and horse at odds. Atars lived up to his name. Nemo smiled. His heart slowed and his brow furrowed as he stared at the shadows moving across the curtain. 

The enemy soldier shifted in the curtain, his head casting a dark shadow into the house. The man’s head peaked into view. A closely shaven pate of dark stubble and sun burnt forehead.

Nemo was on the ball of his feet and with knife in one hand he grabbed the window sill with the other and leapt out of the house. Fletching knife out in front he crashed into the man’s chest, knees first, and he thrust towards his neck. The man, wide eyed, dropped the reins as he hit the floor. He didn’t scream. He didn’t have time. Nemo pushed the blunt fletching knife deep into the soft tissue of the man’s neck and wrenched it across. Blood burst forth as if wanting to escape from a retched creature. 

Breath escaped the man in bubbles and foam. Spit stretched like a spiders web between his lips and teeth as he moved his mouth foolishly. There was no air for him to breath. Not now. There was no words for him to utter. Not anymore. Scarlet ebbed and flowed from the man. 

Always more blood than I can imagine. Nemo thought as he pulled the knife free of muscle and flesh. His hand a deep shade of red, his knife too. He straddled the man’s torso and watched him die. It was always best to make sure of a kill before turning away. 

The man’s eyes bulged towards the valley wall. His skin torn where he had strained his neck away from Nemo. A drip of blood leaked from one nostril and traced the smooth skin of youth. Did this man, if he was one, reach his meaning? Nemo thought on the propaganda of the Thesusian state as he stared into the dead eyes of one of its youth. 

‘Hey, Duris? You there? Find anything?’ Came the call. 

Nemo flicked his head to the alleyway between the two buildings. More of them, he thought as he pushed himself off the enemy. He traced the dead man, Duris, with his eyes and scanned his belt. A small pouch hung from one side and an undrawn sword from the other. Nemo reached and stole the pouch, string snapping with the force.

He turned to Atars who stood a few feet away licking a boulder. Nemo cleaned his hand and fletching knife on the inside of his once clean cloak. Stuffing his new coin pouch into a saddle bag he pulled Atars away from the dead man and against the side wall of the house. He leant against it staring back the way he came. A long winding path out of the valley. He would not make it. His mind calmed at the thought. Cleared of doubt and choice.

Unwrapping his bow and fetching an arrow he knelt near the corner of the house near the valley rock wall. He listened. His heart interrupted. One target he was used to. Two was doable. But there were more than that here and he was alone. 

‘Duris?’ Came the inquisitive comrade. The familiar rasp of steel on leather. The scuff of boots against sand. 

This one has poor form, Nemo thought hearing the boots scrape against sand and stone. He notched the arrow and half pulled the bowstring.

‘Duris!’ The man cried.

Nemo, arrow notched and bow pulled tight, peaked around the corner and loosed the arrow fly. He ducked behind the wall again. He heard the thud of a second dead man. And so would the others. 

‘Eryx?’ A gruff voice called. 

Older. Probably. Experienced. Maybe.

He remained low and sneaked his way to the other corner of the wall. The one facing the path. He pulled a second arrow from the quiver on Atars saddle. He notched the arrow and half pulled the string.

The sound of hurried footsteps and unsheathed weapons flooded the valley. The remaining soldiers called out the names of their comrades twice more before their commander shushed them.

Nemo held his breath. His lungs ached. His right calf ached and felt unnaturally warm. Not an infection, not now. He pulled the bowstring tight and stood up. He stepped into the path and loosed the arrow. A man flew onto his back, sword flying from his hand, arrow blooming in his neck. Nemo dropped the bow and drew his scimitar as three men charged him. 

More than I hoped, he thought tracing the three of them. Two with swords, one with a war hammer. The youngest charged. Nemo sighed as he gripped the hilt of his blade with both hands. The boy swung, Nemo parried with the smallest of movements. The boy’s sword arm swung wide. Nemo slit the inside of his sword arms forearm, and the top of his thigh.

The boy, no more than sixteen, cried as he crumpled to the ground. 

‘Stay down,’ he said to the boy in rough Thesusian. 

The boy cried and reached for his sword with his injured arm. 

‘I said stay down,’ Nemo shouted again at the soldier laying on his back.

The boy swung with the sword and Nemo was forced to parry the blow aimed at his leg. He snarled and stepped over the boy. With clenched teeth and one eye on the other two he slit the, now, man’s throat. 

‘Should’ve listened.’ He flicked the young blood off the tip of his sword as the two remaining soldiers closed in on two sides.

He held the scimitar in his right hand and moved in a half crouch. His other arm out to the side for balance. The man wielding the war hammer snarled and swung from high to low. Nemo leapt aside and deflected a blow from the other soldier. 

Nemo watched the two soldiers close in on him. His back to the wall of the house. The younger of his enemies stole a look at the boy, now man, dead on the ground, his eyes blood shot and staring up at the sky. The Thesusian’s sword drooped. Nemo swung batting the sword away and opening an escape. He slashed at the man’s arm and his sword scraped leather and metal rings. No blood. 

The commander swung low and Nemo jumped over the swing, unsure if his scimitar could withstand a hit from the war hammer. The commander let the hammer swing wide and pound into the wall of the building. The plaster cracked and split with a loud thud. Atars neighed and bolted back the way he and Nemo had came.

Nemo watched and made to chase but the remaining sword wielder jumped in the way. 

‘Damn horse. So much for being undaunted,’ Nemo swore to himself.

The two soldiers laughed and began to circle him. The commander and his junior swung simultaneously. The hammer aimed to his right shoulder. The sword to his left leg. He slid to the left, into the sword swing, and repelled the blow as the hammer whistled past his ear with a breathless roar. 

Nemo attacked the swordsman once, batting his opponents sword wide. He turned to the commander, hoping he over swung again. His hair whipped round his face. Beads of cold sweat hit his face as he saw the exposed neck. He thrust the scimitar out. The commanders hammer held in the wrong hand and near the ground. The scimitar parted flesh and cloth with similar ease. A thin river of crimson rose to the surface and for a moment that was all. Nemo withdrew the sword along the same gash with deeper ferocity and the river became a waterfall as blood burst from the neck wound. 

In one movement he was facing the young swordsman again. His enemy stepped back, sword quivering, ran and dropped his sword as he fled. His commander yet to drop to the ground.

Nemo looked for Atars, but his horse was gone, and so where his arrows. 

‘Damn,’ Nemo muttered to himself between deep breaths of hot, dry, air. He reached down and grabbed the dead commanders undershirt and cleaned his scimitar of blood. Why’d you allow that boy to charge? He grimaced at the corpse as he sheathed his sword. He kicked the corpse of the commander over onto his front. He sighed. No loot. 

He meandered over to the newly turned man who refused mercy. Straightening his cloak to hide the emblem of the Free Cities as he went. The boy stared up into Nemo’s eyes. Each filled with sorrow. An unnecessary death, one of ignorance and pride. How many young boys and almost men did the Republic send south? How many patriotic youth did the Free Cities send to meet them? All sent to die and promised victory, glory, and fulfilment. How many reached it? How many survived?

Nemo held the dead boy’s gaze for too long and the image of his son play fighting flashed in his mind. Would that be his fate or would he be sensible enough to choose to rely on skill than the promise of glory?

From the valley came the sound of galloping. Nemo’s mind cleared on instinct and he half drew his scimitar. Rushing towards him was Atars, startled and wild. The horse neared and slowed enough for Nemo to catch the reins as the passed by. 

‘Woah, slow down. What’s the matter?’ He said.

The horse pulled and turned in a circle around him. He patted the horses mane and his black eyes shrunk.

‘See, nothing to worry about,’ Nemo stroked the length of Atars’ flank as he checked the saddle and bags.

‘I’m guessing that other coward tried to ride you and you galloped off like those other men at camp? Well no need to worry as we are now going towards more of those Thesusian’s from the north,’ Nemo tightened the saddle as he spoke and peered down the narrowing valley as it grew darker and darker as the cliffs closed in from both sides.

Beyond lay endless stretches of conquered territory. More patrols. Guards on every gated city and in every town. Merchants who were as trustworthy as a snakes. Had the Republic convinced the conquered of their justness or was resistance rife?

He put a hand under his cloak and felt the stitched emblem of the Free Cities on his armour. Tracing the outline of the tri-crest design, the crown, lion, and eagle, he hoped to see his children again. To see the all too familiar outline of his home on the horizon.