A Veteran Returns Home: Chapter Two
Chapter Two
A few days earlier.
White light. Everywhere the light touched screamed in agony. Pain. Life was pain. His thoughts disjointed as he learned the world anew.
Standing up?No, lying down, he realised.
Why are my arms so sore? Why is my chest on fire? He thought before he gasped for air. His lungs cried as the sharp, dry, air forced its way down his throat. He coughed.
He felt someone else touching his hand. He legs were pinned too. Something firm lay underneath his head. Where the hell am I? He thought as he forced his eyes open.
Pain flooded his head in even greater intensity. He quickly closed his eyes again and began to feel the world around him. He gasped as his fingers brushed something hot and smooth. His hand recoiled into something thick and tacky. He opened his palm and searched the sticky substance. More liquid than glue. Something sharp protruded from within a mess of soft, wet, tissue. He searched higher and found a ridge, followed by an opening and then two holes and a point.
Horses galloped. All around. Their hooves relentless. Men brandished swords and spears as they raced around him.
Silence.
‘Loose!’ A man shouted and the twang of bowstring and hiss of arrows filled the world.
Horses screamed. Men screamed. Yet the galloping did not relent.
His foot tingled under the weight of whatever was on his legs. It pained him to move but he felt a need to laugh.
He continued to map the world near his right hand. The thing in his hands, wet one side and like hills in the middle, ended in a short tuft of thick curved grass. He gripped the object with his hand and brought it towards his face.
His eyes still closed he felt cold liquid drip down his arm and into the creases of his elbow. Tentatively he peeked through half a closed eye lid.
A sword swung down from above. A horse raced past. Mud splattered his face. His elbows rang, his shoulders creaked. The sand beneath him was warm and his sword was more than an arms length away. He reached for it before a body landed across his legs. Limp. Eyes stared up at him, the whites of the man’s eyes red with terror, his pupils unfocused. Dead.
As he stared at the disembodied head in his right hand. The sun comfortably blocked from view memories returned. A deciding battle had been fought between the Republic of Thesus and The Free Cities and Union of Free Peoples. The Free Cities had lost. He had lost. He hadn’t even killed a soldier of the Republic. A cavalry charge had decimated the forward infantry. It was better described as a massacre than a battle.
Where’d they find so much cavalry so quickly? Scouts had reported only fifty horsemen previous to the battle. All light armour, wielding spears. Easy pickings for the archers behind the forward infantry. The cavalry that broke the Free Army wore full armour, men and horses alike, and charged with lances and swords. There were over a thousand stretched along the ridge on the Plains of St Iseltor the Stained.
A line of polished steel, chanting, screaming for blood, desiring the conquest of ever more land. More peoples to ensnare in their democratic decadence, the great on going drama of politics and the guaranteed instability of the realm. The Free Cities represented a plethora of monarchies, theocracies, village tribunals, and chiefs, republics, and more. The Republic of Thesus represented the iron fist of the people’s will, uncaring and fragrant in its abuse of power. Elevating their own choice to the status of a god with no balancing figure. The People spoke and the Senate acted. Often they were one and the same. Wars to emancipate were often the call and the Senate eagerly responded, the wealth of other lands ever present in its multitude of minds.
The pupils in the head rolled over to reveal only white. Blood oozed from the severed neck. He tossed the head. The sun rang through his eyes. He shielded himself with his blood covered hand and pushed himself up with his other. Sitting he could see the man lying across his legs was a fellow Free Cities volunteer. His armour dented and crushed by lance, mace, and hoof. The painted emblem flaked in the baking summer sun of late afternoon.
He reached for the water skin on his belt. Fumbling with the strap he uncorked it and pressed the dry leather to his lips. Empty. He tried again. His lips felt drier. Muscles ached. Eyes ached. His stomach cried for food or water or both. The harsh sky blinded him as he dropped his arm to the ground.
Pulling himself up to a sitting position he reached for the man laying dead across his legs. Lifeless eyes watched him in horror as he untied the dead man’s water skin from his belt and rummaged for any other pouches. A small pouch on the far side jingled with coin. He snapped the string as he pulled it off the dead man’s belt.
The waterskin’s cork popped as he bit into it and pulled it out. He lifted the water skin to his lips and drank. Warm, stale, wine filled his mouth and stung his lips. Coming up for air he coughed once and wiped his lips with his bloodied sleeve.
‘Where in the world makes wine that bad?’ He asked the dead men surrounding him.
Not waiting for an answer he drank the skin dry in a few more mouthfuls.
He rested his chin against his chest as he sucked in air. Curls of hair shielded him from the glare of the sun. With one more breath he gripped the cuirass of the man laying across his legs and heaved, more dragged, the dead man across him until only his legs were on his own. Pulling his legs free he pushed himself up.
A sharp pain sparked up his right leg. His head spun and he stumbled a few steps. He tripped on another body and fell to the ground with a heavy groan. He peered down at his right leg as he hissed with pain. No blood. He pulled at the fabric of his trousers, tearing the weak cloth laden with blood and dirt. A dark purple blotch tainted his knee and shin reaching round his calf. He prodded the bruise and winced as he finger met with swollen resistance.
‘It’s not broken. It’s not broken. It’s not broken,’ he repeated to himself imagining the bone splintering through his skin if he tried to stand again. What other choice did he have?
He sat up and pushed himself up by a corpse next to him. Favouring his left leg he hopped and used the toes of his right foot as tentative balance. His right shin protested as he edged his foot flat to the ground.
‘You can stand. That is progress,’ he breathed the words. Lips drying in the heat of the desert sun.
Shielding his eyes he surveyed the Plains of St Iseltor the Stained. The Saint would remain stained covered in bodies, blood and limbs. The smell of faeces and urine curdled with the blood and sweat in the heat of the afternoon.
How he had not noticed before he did not know but now his stomach quivered. He leaned over, hand on left knee, and the wine he drank sprayed out of his mouth over a man’s vacant face. Spittle hung from his lips. He spat as he retched, but nothing was left inside. He spat again.
‘Sorry,’ he mouthed to the Free Cities soldier lying dead on the ground covered in bile and wine.
Pressing a loose sleeve across his mouth and nose he continued to survey the battlefield. The owl atop the mountain of Thesus flew in the wind. Torn white fabric flashed with the piercing eyes of the blue owl. There were only a handful he could see. Far numerous were the three part crest of the Free Cities. The crown, eagle, and lion shield with sword and spear cross behind littered the Plains. Burned. Torn. Covered in blood and sand. Ruin.
The more he searched the more he saw. Men writhed on the ground. Camp followers and scavenger birds picked at the spoils left behind. A few coins here, an eyeball there, a fine sword elsewhere.
A man blubbered and drooled not far from him. His hands wrapped around a trail of what looked like unfinished sausages. Blood and dirt mingled as he attempted to push them back into a foot long opening in his torso. They didn’t fit. Saliva dripped from his tongue onto his innards. He cried out, eyes bulging and bloodshot, his cheeks flushed the colour of a poppy. Veins bulged on his forehead and down his eyelid and tunnelled down his coarsely bearded neck.
The man remained sitting upright his outburst lost in the carnage of cries and moans across the Plains of St Iseltor the Stained. He did not die. Not yet.
You need to go, Nemo, he heard the soft growl of an old man say. A voice Nemo only heard in the worst of times. So I should, father, he thought as he tore his eyes away from the gutless man as he shooed away a carrion feeder. The bird hopped and cawed but did not leave.
Nemo limped away leaving the dead man to die. His leg hummed with each step preferring to be dragged than lifted. The ring of metal stopped Nemo as he walked. He looked to the ground, his sleeve still covering his mouth and nose. A sword lay nearby. Unbroken. Unbloodied. He reached down for it with his free hand and grasped the pommel. The sword was a straight blade, about the length of an arm, a Thesusian blade. He felt glad it was unbloodied as he drove the tip into the dry ground. He leaned on it, resting his right leg. A breath of relief passed his lips. Now to find food, water, and a way out of here.
He worked his fingers on the pommel of the foreign sword and, using it like a walking stick, searched the Plains. He passed the head he mistook for a grassy rock. A Thesusian. Nemo paused and ground his teeth. He kicked the head away, it’s jaw locked in wide surprise.
‘Better than you deserve,’ he hissed at the man’s head.
He limped on scanning corpses for water skins. Coin pouches. Weapons. The flat Plains stretched to the horizon ahead and to the mountains behind. Nemo only knew of the names of what lay beyond the Plains of St Iseltor. The Wastes. The Black Wall of Dohanlu and the Dohanlu Empire itself, cut off from the world for over a century. The mountains behind led to the city of Ramascus first, then the rest of the Free Cities, and finally home.
He smiled at the thought of home. The town of Beargarth where his family lived. Avaya, Delara, and Mani. Waiting, as usual, for him. Always waiting. From this hunt, or that hunt, for a bounty payment, or now from war. A lost war. Nemo tore his mind away from the possibilities a lost war meant for the once Free Cities and Union of Free Peoples. Nothing good, his mind whispered.
Not twenty steps away a woman wailed. She was in the tight fitting silks of a camp following whore, a blue sash looped around her shoulder and tied at the waist. The yellow of her dress pinched around her figure. She wailed, hands gripped over the corpse of some nameless soldier. Rings littered her fingers as if she was robbing some poor old goldsmith. Her fingers worked over something. Nemo squinted at the loyal whore. He laughed. It was the man’s coin pouch she fiddled at with such theatrics. He shook his head as he laughed and stepped over a corpse already riddled with flies.
He stepped over the bodies of his fellow freemen. Though how long that freedom would last now was limited. The Republic would be swarming over Ramascus within the week and Tanussi, Vun, and Mapeth and all the Free Union of Peoples villages in between would fall within the month. He shook his head.
Nemo scanned the piles of bodies for supplies. A full water skin tied to the belt of a Free Cities soldier and a small pouch of hard cheese. A Republic oppressor would not miss the hunk of bread or the solid gold Dinar coin. How did he manage to get that? He thought feeling the mint marks on the face of the coin. His thumb tracked the face of a long dead Senator of the Republic of Thesus. He added it to the silver Dirham and couple of copper Fals in his coin pouch already.
‘That’s not yours,’ a weak voice protested, punctuated by a thin cough.
Nemo looked down at the man he pilfered. Dead. He looked around. To his left a leg pushed at the dirt ineffectively. He scanned the dying soldier up to the bright blue owl on his armour. Blood spray blinded the owl.
‘It is now,’ Nemo said studying the sunburnt man’s blood soaked beard and teeth. One eye was swollen over.
The dying Thesusian coughed, ‘You shouldn’t steal from the dead. Especially not those who defeated you,’ a wisp of a laugh croaked out of the man blowing bubbles of blood from between his teeth.
Nemo gazed around the battle field at the squirming dead and still dying. He nodded and spat bile and saliva into the enemies face before turning to leave.
The soon to be dead man cackled with spit resting over his nose and in his eye.
Would have been easier to kill him, Nemo thought as he limped away faster than before. He was now behind enemy lines. His family where behind enemy lines, had been for weeks most likely. He needed to get home and flee to the last Free Cities further south. If there were any.
He searched for another weapon. A weapon of the Free Cities, a weapon of home. A scimitar or curved sword of any kind. Already he could tell this straight blade was too heavy and cumbersome for him. It made a fine cane, but nothing more.
There were no weapons on the ground where he walked. He searched bodies for knives, water, food, and coin. Nothing. Pouches emptied, scabbards abandoned. These men had already been looted. Nemo scanned the horizon. A few people wandered through the labyrinth of dead men and horses. Arrows littered the Plains like flowers on a meadow.
Smoke rose from piles of bodies in the distance. A mass burning had begun. The owl atop a mountain standard flew in the wind as soldiers walked back and forth carrying bodies of allies and enemies alike.
Nemo hurried onwards, to the edge of the battlefield, towards the Free Cities camp. He kept half an eye on those enemy soldiers burning the bodies of the dead. Other piles had been started along the edge of the battlefield. He limped towards one to hide. A Thesusian soldier paused in his gruesome work.
‘Is that?’ His voice carried on the stench of burning flesh in the air. ‘Stop!’ The solider said as his sword rasped from his scabbard and his armour grated.
Not now. Not before… Nemo thought as he dove behind a pile of dead bodies. He looked around for a place to hide. The edge of the battlefield shown by the trail of bodies thinning. The Plains of St Iseltor stretched off into the distance until the camp of the Free Cities and Union of Free Peoples. The undyed canvas tents aligned in straight rows, a palisade wall encircling the camp.
The sound of running and the shouts of angry men came from behind the pile of bodies. Nemo looked around. Nothing else to do, he thought as he threw the sword away and pulled a body off the pile. He dove inside the tower of death and gore. Pulling the body he moved over himself and worming his way beneath another.
The smell of death and sweat filled his nostrils. Dank and sweet. Congealed blood streaked his face. The smell of faeces rose from the trousers of his deceased neighbour.
Slits of light filtered through past rolling eyes and loose teeth. Nemo could not see out of the pile of bodies but he could hear. That would have to suffice. The muffled sounds filtered through layers of dead flesh, of comrade and enemy alike, told him the Thesusian soldiers were near.
‘Where’d he go?’
‘Did you get a good look at him?’
‘No, he disappeared too quickly.’
Nemo caught the odd word, his Thesusian language learned by necessity of being a bounty hunter near the old border of The Republic.
He waited. The scuff of heavy boots circled the cairn of gore. The steps vanished. Only the rasp of steel and leather warned him to stay inside, surrounded by the heat and smell of death.
‘There’s no one here. It’s just dead bodies. We need to get back to work,’ he heard another soldier say followed by a string of curses he was unfamiliar with.
‘Fine,’ the first soldier said and his footsteps faded behind Nemo.
He waited. Sweat beaded on his forehead and stung his eyes. His arms trapped by the weight of the man he held onto him stopped him wiping the sweat and blood.
He waited. The stench caught the back of his throat. He swallowed a cough. He held his breath but the tickle at the back of his throat remained.
He waited.
There was no one nearby. Not that he could hear. He pushed the first body away to reveal a slit of a view. The blue sky taunted him. The cool breeze that wafted through the gap in the cairn teased him. Nemo pushed the bodies off himself and crawled out from amidst the gore. He held his breath knowing a cough would alert those he evaded. He stayed low to the bloodied ground and crawled towards the camp. Towards food, water, and a horse. He hoped.
Nemo pushed through a huddle of low laying bushes. More dried twig than plant. The camp sprawled before him, the palisade undamaged, the tents rippled in the breeze coming off The Wastes. The Winds of Dohanlu, often an unrelenting battering ram, and at other times a soft caress. The camp looked untouched as the wind passed through. The paths and dirt tracks were empty. The tents and messes likely empty too. Why haven’t they burned or looted this yet? He thought. Maybe there hasn’t been time. He treaded faster towards the camp careless of enemy patrols or excitable allies.
He passed through the open gates to the camp. The watchtowers either side barren of eyes. Ahead, deep in the camp, was the general’s command platform. It looked as if he were snoozing and all the soldiers had been ordered to silence.
Nemo straightened his shoulders as he walked into camp. The air remained thick with discipline under Lapulian leadership. The monarchy of Lapulia had been famed for its military discipline for centuries. Kings often lead the army having, hopefully, decades of military experience while serving in the army as Princes. The rigour and discipline acquired by an heir seeped into every bone of Lapulia when, if, they were crowned.
Yet still there had been fractures between the city states and between city folk and villagers. Languages differed, weapons differed, tactics, food, clothes, all differed. Only their goal was similar, repel The Republic. It had not been enough. A coalition cannot stand against a unified opponent.
Wordless whispers could be heard on the wind. Nemo crouched, he grimaced as his shin throbbed, and listened. He resisted the urge to close his eyes to listen closer. Nothing. Gone. What were they speaking? He tried to sort the wordless sounds without luck. Assume enemy, he thought as he straightened himself as much as he dared.
A gust of wind brought voices in its wake once again. This time it brings something else, the neighing of a horse. Startled. The voices speaking a language Nemo recognises as of the Free Cities but not one he speaks. Shouting, the potential allies struggle with the horse. Nemo glances between the gaps in the row of tents but sees nothing. The sound of hooves pounding sand in a steady gallop towards him. A horse roars past the general’s tent ahead. The reins flailing from its mane. The saddle secure on its back.
Sounds of disappointment come from the men but they did not give chase. Instead their voices diminish. Nemo waited until their voices drown in the distance.
The trickle of a breeze brought with it the sound of rippling canvas and nothing more. He continued down the main path to the general’s tent up on its dais in the centre of camp. His own tent was far on the other side with nothing of value inside. His sword was lost on the battlefield and any money he had was in a pouch on his belt. Sentimental items were at home, except for a simple chain necklace and a ring.
He peeked out from behind canvas into the stretch of path before the tent on a dais. The sand covered path turned abruptly further on, and the same in the other direction. Both were clear. Nemo released a breath he had held from the camp gates. His heart throbbed in his ears and the afternoon sun burnt his back.
He ducked back behind the canvas and breathed deep. Holding the breath he darted across the pathway and leapt up the three narrow steps to the tent. He landed with a notable thud and dove between the two sheets of canvas covering the opening in the tent. He held the fabric in his hand and turned to steady it. He waited for a moment. Listening to the canvas of the tent snap at the breeze. He released the two flaps covering the opening and stepped backwards into the tent.
His ears throbbed, all other sound drowned in the sound of his own blood flow. He ran a hand through his hair, already down passed the base of his neck. Months of marching, skirmishes, and napping instead of sleep left little time for personal grooming.
Scanning the interior of the general’s tent revealed plush rugs, heavy pillows, a desk laden with paperwork and spilled ink, an unmade bed, an empty armour stand, and a few weapons left in a stand. That’s one thing taken care of, Nemo thought breathing a sigh of relief. He walked to the weapons stand and picked up the bow. The bowstring was fresh, parts of the bow stained with sweat. He pulled on the string. It resisted well. He slung the bow across his back. A quick search turned up no arrows.
Next he pulled the curved sword from the stand. An inelegant weapon, its scabbard plain save for the silver tip. The hilt built for purpose rather than form. The blade unsheathed with an eager wisp of sharp steel. Light beamed from the blade seemingly from nowhere. A bland looking blade was unsuspecting, better for discreet travel. Nemo sheathed the blade and the scimitar clicked into the scabbard. He hooked the weapon to his belt.
A lone spear remained. An awkward weapon. Nemo frowned as he tightened his belt to raise the hilt of his new sword higher. He flicked the blade of the spear with his fingernail. The spear returned a short, dull, ring.
Gazing over the desk in the corner of the tent he noticed two ends of string peaking from out of a box lost beneath letters, orders, maps and whatever else occupied a generals time. He pushed the paperwork away, the cream coloured rolls of paper scuffled across the desk and fell to the floor. Chips, grooves, and scratches littered the desktop. Nemo ignored the marks of age and pulled the box out from under yet more paper. Three pouches, string drawn tight, greeted him. He smiled as he lifted one up. The silk stretched and small crescent lumps pushed through the soft fabric. He unfurled the pouch with one hand and pushed his hand inside. The welcome feel of cold metal greeted him. He pulled out a handful of gold dinar coins mixed with smaller silver dirham. There were no copper fals in these pouches. He filled his own rough cloth coin pouch with as much as it could fit and left the rest. Silk pouches were as attention drawing as an inlaid sword hilt and scabbard.
He pulled on his coin pouch to make sure it was secure to his belt. As he did so he scanned the tent again. Discarded half off the unmade bed was a cloak. He looked down at his own and pinched at it. Long tracts of blood stained the fabric. He pulled the cloak off to reveal his Free Cities armour. Another problem. The clean cloak would have to do, for now. He pulled it over him and it covered his torso and arms amply. Nemo snatched the sand scarf and goggles that were tied to the leg of the bed. A sand storm could approach at any time and it was best to be prepared. Tying the goggles around his neck, under the scarf, he pulled back the tent flap just enough to peer out with one eye.
Clear.
He stepped outside. Something padded the ground. He crouched and looked towards his left. Nipping at the ground was the horse from before. Fitted with saddle, a quiver of arrows, and a full sack of something. Nemo hoped it was food. He laughed inwardly at his fortune and made his way towards the horse. Slow and without sound. He held both hands out in front. He snapped off a few stalks of course, dry, grass that grew from under the dais of the general’s tent.
The horse looked up.
Nemo stopped moving, the grass held in his outright hand.
The horse snorted and returned to nibbling the ground and taking the odd step further away.
He moved closer, reaching out with his poor excuse for food. Sweat beaded on his neck. His hand shook. He tried to focus his hearing behind him, incase the others returned. He couldn’t. He was tired, dehydrated, and hungry beyond belief.
The horse looked up again and stared right into Nemo’s eyes. Nemo smiled and lifted the grass towards the horse. The horse snorted and sniffed at his hand. Turned away. Sniffed again.
‘Come on,’ Nemo whispered to himself. His throat course. He suppressed a cough and resisted the urge to lift the grass higher.
The horse nipped at the ground once and then returned to the gift offered. The horse nibbled at the grass in Nemo’s hand. He reached out with his other hand to stroke the horses head.
The grass quickly ran out but Nemo had fondled for the reins and had a solid grip without pulling at the animal. He stood up and the horse wined and stepped back.
‘Shh,’ Nemo repeated to the horse as he stroked its head and neck. The horse seemed to calm or at least sensed Nemo wasn’t a threat.
‘Now the next bit,’ Nemo said as he lifted his foot to the stirrup.
His boot clicked into the stirrup and the horse made a few steps away. Nemo had a firm hold onto the saddle and was in the air. He swung his leg over and pulled the reins. The horse stopped and shook its mane.
‘Easy,’ he whispered to the horse as he ruffled its mane. ‘We have a long journey ahead of us so you need a name,’ Nemo said. Nemo shifted his weight in the saddle until it was comfortable. ’How about… Atars?’
The horses ears pricked.
‘Atars it is.’ He pulled the reins to face towards the mountains at the end of the Plains of St Iseltor the Stained. Towards the city of Ramascus.
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