Tales of Anyar

by Olan Thorensen

  “Hold steady, men,” an Oroszian officer called out. Kemescu didn’t notice the man’s rank—he had more important concerns. He also didn’t worry why he found himself under an Oroszian officer and standing alongside members of his own Farkesh clan and men from Pewitt. After the first attack, the section overrun by the Narthani had been repaired as much as possible in the time allowed and re-manned by men he didn’t know. Although his position had barely held, almost half of the men were killed or wounded, then replaced by Pewitt men slotted into gaps within the Farkesh ranks, with men of both clans now commanded by an Oroszian.

  “You’ll get the word when it’s time to shoot at the bastards!” the officer yelled.

  Munmar Kellen’s apprehension at charging the islanders’ fortifications a second time was tempered as his men trotted forward. He hadn’t seen the first units leading the attack, but he’d heard the islanders’ cannon and musket fire and was surprised when only occasional musket and cannon fire targeted his new regiment. Most of the sounds of combat came from the other side of the berm. For the last few hundred yards, he and his men stepped over bodies from both attacks. By the time they reached the islanders’ water-flowing trench, he’d stepped on more bodies than he cared to remember because so much of the ground lay hidden by the once-living. His boot elicited a scream from a man he’d stepped on when he thought the man dead. But he didn’t stop. Orders and intuition told him to keep moving if they wanted to live.

  As they crossed over the trench, Kellen wondered whether the planks were the ones his original company had put in place as they led the first attack or new ones. Once across, he directed his men to several ropes lying down the glacis, the other end of each rope tied to a grapple whose hooked points anchored in wood or earth on the other side of the berm. He had led to this point but now dropped behind and was the last to climb, to make sure the men kept moving.

  At the top, he paused only a second to behold a nightmare scene. For hundreds of yards to his front and several hundred yards wide, Narthani infantry poured over the berm and into islanders massed to stop them. It was the flow of an unstoppable liquid into an immovable mass. Where the fighters touched, hand-to-hand fighting raged. He and his men were on the edge of the flow over the berm, and he’d already lost sight of most of the men he’d followed. A few he recognized from their backs as he moved forward, but most of them engaged islanders as the Narthani salient tried to extend.

  In front of him, islanders drove into several of his men moving forward. Some of his other men turned to defend themselves. Kellen gathered himself to jump down onto the rampart when a ball from a canister ball spun him around. He fell face forward, his throat striking a wooden corner as he landed on a wounded islander.

  For a moment, his throat spasmed, then air fought through, and he was simultaneously aware of pains—in his left arm, right leg, and chest—as the islander grabbed him and they rolled over.

  Elac Kemescu’s position was not at the point of the second Narthani breakthrough, yet close enough that he could see another apparently endless stream of maroon-and-blue–clad enemy pouring over the berm and into the melee to the west. He and a knot of clansmen found themselves isolated on the rampart with Narthani on all sides. He reached for another potato-masher grenade (as Yozef Kolsko called them) to throw at the Narthani coming toward them. His hand groped for it in vain. With no time for cursing or praying, he fought hand-to-hand as Narthani came over the berm and jumped down to attack the clansmen. The enemies fought over a layer of bodies.

  He tried to fend off a bayonet but failed. It penetrated his guard to pierce his side above the waist. He swung his musket butt at the Narthani and missed. The enemy combatant pulled his bayonet back to prepare for another thrust, but one of Kemescu’s clansman clubbed the Narthani in the back. Then clansman reached for Kemescu, only to fall himself with a Narthani bayonet protruding through his chest.

  Kemescu fell to his knees. A searing pain from the stab wound finally gained his brain’s attention. As he pressed a hand against the wound, he saw blood pouring down from a gash on his upper arm. In the stress of the fighting, he hadn’t noticed when or from whom he’d received the other injury.

  Suddenly, a Narthani fell onto him. The two men grappled and twisted together on top of bodies dead and wounded. Kemescu tried to reach the short-bladed knife in his boot, but his injured arm wouldn’t cooperate.

  More Narthani stampeded over the berm. They ignored the two embracing men and rushed to join the fighting to the west. Kemescu felt the Narthani weakening. Unfortunately, so was he. The grips of the two men slackened until neither attempted to force his will on the other. Men jumped onto them from the top of the berm, then ran on. A Narthani stopped, looked down at Kemescu, then drew a knife. Kemescu expected to die in the next moment. Yet he was too exhausted and weak to feel relief when another Narthani—an officer, by his tone of voice—yelled something, and the knife-wielder resheathed the blade and moved on.

  Kemescu pulled himself into an alcove that some unknown islander had dug into the earth-exposed rampart wall. He watched the eyes of the Narthani he’d been trying to kill moments earlier. Neither said anything, not that any words would have been audible over the yells, the screams, and the firing of muskets and cannon.

  Kemescu watched as the wounded Narthani dragged himself toward the alcove. His brain told him to prepare to fight again, but his body refused. He was stunned when the Narthani, instead of grabbing a weapon, began pulling out items the unknown creator of the alcove had accumulated in the recess: clothes, hardtack, cheese, and a single boot.

  Later, he couldn’t understand why he’d acted as he did, but he took a water jug and a worn copy of the Word from the alcove to make more room. Then he helped the Narthani into the alcove. Neither spoke. Kemescu looked at his arm. It still bled badly.

  I need to put a tourniquet on it , he thought but drifted into unconsciousness before he could act.

  Munmar Kellen didn’t know whether the islander would knife and kill him, but he was too exhausted and injured to care. He crawled to the recess holding the enemy, along with other items, and began clearing space for himself. The islander’s help in making room stopped Kellen for a second. Then he dragged himself up next to the islander, the two of them sitting side by side, backs against the berm.

  All nearby islander resistance along the rampart had ended, and Narthani infantry streamed past them. Neither man could see the fighting, but they could hear the din. How long they sat, neither could tell. When Kellen thought the sounds of fighting might be diminishing, he looked at the unconscious islander, whose arm still bled. Kellen felt sick of death. He had been in training or active duty for eight years. He had seen more men die than he wanted to for the rest of his life. He hadn’t chosen the army life, but given the family into which he had been born, it was expected of him. Yet it had never been a calling, as it was for other men in his family. He inspected and felt his body. Minor wounds from canister balls to one leg and one arm. A painful wound to his upper chest. He touched the collarbone and almost fainted from the pain. It must be broken , he thought.

  His throat felt swollen. He uncorked the water jug the islander had pulled out of the alcove and sipped, then drank two deep draughts. The water went down, but his neck ached. He looked again at the islander. Too much death. Who was this man? He appeared a little older than Kellen. Did he have a family? If the Narthani won this battle, would the man survive the day?

  Did he care whether the man died? Kellen didn’t know his name or anything about him. Dismay flashed through his mind. The insanity of the two of them trying to kill each other when they were strangers.

  I suppose he’s defending his home and family , thought Kellen. But why am I here? I don’t even know why we’re on the damn island. I’m sure it has something to do with expanding the empire and defeating enemies of Narthon, but what does that have to do with me? And why do I care if the emperor adds to his realm?

  Elac Kemescu woke to cries of
wounded men. From where he lay, he could see movement from both islander and Narthani bodies down the rampart. What he didn’t hear were musket or cannon firings. He looked at the man sitting beside him, their bodies touching from shoulder to foot. The Narthani stared blankly ahead.

  Kemescu had been unconscious. For how long? Was the fighting over? Who won?

  He tried to use his right arm to pull himself out of the alcove, but a terrible pain shocked him. The pain came from a wound and a tourniquet on the upper part of his arm. Then he remembered the wound and recalled thinking that it needed a tourniquet. But he didn’t remember applying it, especially not with a strip of dark blue cloth matching Narthani infantry pants. He glanced at the Narthani’s leg with part of his pant leg cut away. A piece of the cloth had been used as a compress bandage on the man’s leg and two more pieces for Kemescu’s arm and a compress bandage on his side wound.

  At first, what Kemescu saw made little sense. Did someone use cloth from the man’s pants to treat both of us? He discarded that possibility. He couldn’t imagine any islander bothering to treat a Narthani. Not during a battle. Nor could he imagine the Narthani caring about a wounded Caedelli.

  Did I do it? Wouldn’t I remember?

  The only other possibility seemed no more likely—that the Narthani sitting next to him had bound his own wounds as well as Kemescu’s.

  With his good arm, Kemescu tapped the Narthani’s thigh to get the man’s attention. He pointed to the bandages and mimed a question with hand gestures. “Did you do this?”

  A sad smile and a nod answered him.

  “Why did you do it?” said Kemescu in Caedelli.

  The Narthani shook his head and tried to say something, but only a croak came out.

  “We were just trying to kill each other. And not just us. Our people must each have killed thousands of the other side these last few hours.”

  The man only shook his head and gave a pained shrug.

  “Of course, you can’t understand anything I’m saying, can you?” muttered Kemescu.

  The Narthani reached out toward the tourniquet and used a twisting gesture.

  He’s telling me to release the tourniquet? wondered Kemescu. How long has it been on? It feels numb. Too long and the arm will die?

  Kemescu released the knot holding pressure on the arm. As circulation returned, he gasped from pain and his head slammed back against the alcove. Bleeding began immediately, fresh blood flowing over the caked blood coating the arm.

  How long do I let it go? he thought once the initial agony subsided. Too long and I’ll bleed to death. Will help come, and who will it be help for, me or the Narthani? Who won?

  He felt squeezing again on the arm. The Narthani twisted the knife scabbard he’d used to tighten the tourniquet. It hurt, then the pain subsided as blood flow slowed.

  Men moving along the rampart thirty or forty yards away caught Kemescu’s eye. Clansmen. He groaned as he pulled himself up to peer west of the rampart where the fighting had been fierce. On the flat land, he saw a carpet of bodies. Clanspeople were carrying or aiding their wounded compatriots toward wagons or walking toward Orosz City if they were able. Medicants treated wounded in place. Pain and faint-headedness dulled what should have been Kemescu’s elation. The clans must have won the battle.

  Other men moved among the bodies. Men not intent on aid. Men with knives, swords, and clubs checking Narthani bodies for signs of life and, if found, snuffing them out.

  Kemescu looked back at the man he’d been willing to kill and who might have killed him. The man who might have saved Kemescu from bleeding to death.

  “Well, damn it, God! What do I owe him? He’s a cursed Narthani who would have killed or enslaved all of us! Who knows why he helped me? Maybe he knew his people had lost, and he’s hoping I’ll save him. Maybe God will whisper to Yozef Kolsko what I’m supposed to do, and the Septarsh is on his way here right now!”

  The spoken words brought forth an aborted chuckle, as Kemescu let himself sag back down. He looked at the Narthani.

  “You are in deep trouble, my friend or enemy or whatever you are. I may not have the strength to finish you, and I guess I don’t have the same urgency to do it that I might have had an hour ago.”

  Kemescu and the Narthani stared at each other for almost a minute. Then the islander decided.

  “All right, God. The Word says those who give mercy are worthy of mercy themselves. I hope you’re watching, God, and I get some credit for past and future transgressions.”

  Kemescu tugged at his own clothes, motioning as if to pull them off. Then he tugged at the Narthani’s pants and made the same gestures. The man stared at him, eyebrows scrunched in puzzlement. Only when Kemescu rolled a dead clansman onto his back and began removing his clothing did the Narthani understand. Both men worked as quickly as they could. By now, the Narthani had seen clansmen dispatching wounded enemies and moving toward them. Kemescu put a hand over his lips, shook his head, then pointed at the Narthani’s mouth. The point was understood—don’t talk.

  Kemescu didn’t think the Narthani would finish dressing in time, but a man moving their way with a dripping knife stopped to talk to two other clansmen. Kemescu couldn’t hear the words, but it was an argument. Finally, one man walked away, and the men killing wounded Narthani worked toward Kemescu. By the time they started again and reached the alcove, they saw two wounded clansmen sitting next to each other amid bodies.

  One of the men stood on top of the berm and shouted for medicants. Twenty minutes later, Kemescu and Kellen lay on a wagon heading to Orosz City.

  “No, no!” Kemescu called out when the medicant assistants tried to put him and the Narthani in separate rooms. They were in an Orosz City building being used as a temporary hospital ward.

  “He’s my cousin. He’s simple-minded and doesn’t speak well. He’ll be frightened if I’m not with him.” It was the only excuse Kemescu could think of.

  He had worried that the Narthani’s lack of a beard would give them away because all Narthani were cleanshaven, except for occasional mustaches. However, in the rush to treat so many wounded, it went unnoticed. Now, if the Narthani just refrained from speaking, intentionally or in sleep or delirium, their secret might be safe.

  Both men had lost a dangerous amount of blood, but once treated, none of the wounds threatened their lives. Fortuitously, when the Narthani fell onto the rampart and struck his throat, the swelling and bruise hindered vocalization and provided a perfect excuse for his silence. But that couldn’t last. And then what? Kemescu’s thinking hadn’t gotten further than keeping the Narthani from being summarily killed and then having his wounds treated. Several times, he felt tempted to call for a senior medicant and reveal the deception. It would then be someone else’s problem. Once, when he’d almost decided on that course, he overheard other men in the ward grumbling because so many Narthani soldiers had been spared. They’d been taken to camps near Neath, in southwestern Moreland Province.

  Yozef Kolsko had insisted those prisoners would be valuable in convincing the Narthani to leave Caedellium. However, this leniency apparently didn’t apply to Narthani who fled the battlefield and were being hunted down by clansmen. Kemescu knew that if they discovered the Narthani he’d shielded, the man’s fate would be death. He worried that even the medicants might kill the Narthani, despite their calling. He’d heard too many of the them, especially younger ones, cursing Narthon. Treating thousands of wounded had taken most of a sixday, even with so many of the island’s medicants on hand. Exhaustion and an experience like this could affect the feelings of even the most pious and caring of medicants and theophists.

  Three sixdays after the battle, Kemescu felt well enough to travel. He thought the Narthani was in better shape than himself, except for the man’s broken collarbone from a canister round. Medicants had immobilized the arm on that side with a sling held by straps crossing both shoulders and his back. They told Kemescu it would take three to five sixdays for the collarbone t
o heal enough so he could move his arm.

  For the last two sixdays, both men made their way daily to a temporary voiding tent behind the building and sat outside a few hours. As soon as they moved out of other people’s hearing, Kemescu began teaching the Narthani to speak Caedelli. He had no idea how far they could progress, but the man needed to understand a few phrases.

  First came names, and within a minute they were known to each other as Elac and Munmar. From there, the first lessons succeeded with go, stop, run, and walk .

  This Narthani is sharp , thought Elac. Probably smarter than me, which is good if we’re both going to get out of this mess I’ve gotten myself in .

  Not that Elac feared for himself. He could always claim it was an attempt at mercy for a helpless human—even if a Narthani. The worst would be how many people would get angry with him. However, the consequences could be fatal for Munmar. Despite his better judgment, Elac felt a bond with the Narthani. He knew of stories and legends from other lands where those who saved lives became obliged to care for them. It wasn’t so in Caedelli customs. Maybe not here , Elac thought, but if I feel this way and it’s known in other lands, maybe it’s something natural for humans. I don’t know, but I can’t let Munmar be killed .

  Elac’s plans coalesced when a medicant gathered together all the patients in their ward. He read a five-page message from the Caedellium War Council, the four hetmen and Yozef Kolsko, who had organized the clans against the Narthani.

  “The Narthani have agreed to leave Caedellium. It will take five to seven months for all of them to go because there aren’t enough ships. But the available ships will be loaded up, sailed to Narthon, then return for more people. The Council thinks it will take two or three round trips. No slaves will be forced to go.”

  Elac waved a hand for attention. He worried about sneaking Munmar into Preddi. “Are the Narthani scattered throughout Preddi Province?”