Fight Like A Girl

by Juliet E. McKenna

  “We’re fucking fucked.” Sergeant Latham propped his halberd against the crossed pike doorway of the tent and threw his helm onto a straw pallet.

  Alyda was watching a column of warriors marching over the brow of the hill, sunlight flashing across their helmets and flaring off the blades of their weapons. “In what particular way are we fucked today, Will?”

  The sergeant’s pock-marked face was scarlet, his grey hair plastered to his forehead, steam rose off his gambeson. “They’ve shoved us back over the bridge. Fucking archers have their heads up their arses as usual, and we can’t take the horses down that bank. Fucked! Anyway, Captain’s ordered the Company t’form up at the bottom of the hill.” He blew his nose into his hand and wiped it on his leg.

  “We’re going in on foot?” Alarm tainted Loridan’s question.

  Alyda turned to her fellow knight. He was the colour of curdled milk. “So it would seem,” she said. And so it began.

  It felt like she was sinking into a snowdrift. The tension in her muscles —built up over the course of a week of hard riding— released as the first flush of ice water ran through her limbs. Her fingers tingled, anticipation fluttered in her gut. It was almost unpleasant; to shiver so softly, so constantly. She felt light, as though she was made of air. They spoke of “the heat of battle’, but for her, when that moment of certainty came, it was always cold.

  She pulled on her gauntlets, worked her fingers deep into the gloves while her page fastened the buckle of her bevor. Her arming cap was close fitting, tightly quilted; it muffled sound, but she could still hear the din of battle rising out of the valley beyond the hill. It was a hard, brutal noise, laden with the promise of pain. A fickle wind gusted from the north bringing with it the rank stench of slaughter.

  Latham downed a flagon of murky beer, picked up his helm, and limped through the camp to where the company was massing at the bottom of the hill. Alyda shrugged her shoulders, flexed her arms, checked that every lace was tight and every buckle fastened. “Come on Lori, it’s time to go.”

  Loridan didn’t get up. He was sitting on a straw bale, turning his helmet in his hands. “They hung that deserter from the 12th Lancers,” he said, staring hard at the ground. “This morning, before dawn. Stripped him of his armour and hung him in the orchard by that village.”

  “They hung him for stealing; desertion would have earned him a flogging. He knew the penalty for theft.”

  “He just took the horse to get away.”

  “It wasn’t his horse to take. Now come on.”

  At twenty, Loridan was almost three years older than Alyda. He was a passionless man, often pensive, always dour; the kind of person who would remember if a single drop of rain fell on an otherwise cloudless day. “I can’t do it. I’ve tried, but I can’t.”

  “Yes you can. Come on.”

  He slammed his helmet into the dirt; put his head in his hands. “You don’t understand, nothing bothers you, you’re always so . . .”

  “Cold?”

  “Aye.”

  She shook her head. “Not in the way you think. You just have to find a way through the fear.”

  “I don’t . . . What do you mean?”

  “Asha’s paps, this isn’t your first fight. How did you get through the others? Mallon’s Reach? Kasmire?”

  “I don’t know . . . I just did.”

  “Then do it again.”

  “How do you do it? How do you find a way through the fear?”

  “How did you do that, Grandfather?”

  “Do what?”

  “How did you walk through the light?”

  He laughed and brushed sand from her face. “The trick is, never look at anything square on. You have to be like a horse, keep the light in the corner of your eye and just keep going forward, and then you’ll find your way through.”

  “Is it magic?”

  “Aye, perhaps it is.”

  “They say you’re supposed to face your fear,” she said. “My advice is, don’t. Keep it in mind, but it’ll scare you less if you don’t look at it square on. Now get up.”

  They made their way through the camp in silence. Three hundred knights and soldiers of the king’s army were gathered here, ready to push north to the borders and send the marauding Tamalak warbands back where they came from. What had been pasture a week before had been churned to a mire by the soldiers ploughing back and forth between the camp and the bridge which lay beyond the hill to the north. The weary faces of those returned from the fray told the tale of an ugly, scrappy fight. Both sides were bogged down, the bridge between them like a hare caught in the jaws of two hounds, neither willing to give up the prize.

  Loridan fell behind and had to run to catch up with her. Wisps of yellow hair had escaped his helmet and glinted in the sunlight. “Wait,” he gasped. “I can hardly breathe.”

  “Me neither,” she said, as they joined their company and waited for their turn to climb the hill.

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “Just remember what I said.”

  “I can’t do it, not again.”

  “You don’t have a choice.”

  Light drew her eye to the warriors coming down the hill as it danced across their blood-stained armour, casting them as shadows beneath a filigreed sheen. Alyda blinked away the ghostly images imprinted on her vision, and fixed her gaze on the ridge where a brisk wind agitated their unsullied standard. The measured thunder of war drums echoed across the valley beyond the hill — a rhythmic counterpoint to the rough descant of clashing steel and dying screams.

  Loridan clutched his sword to his chest. Neither helm nor mail seemed to fit him; he looked awkward, out of place. “Are you scared?” he asked her. The blustery wind snatched the words from his mouth, thinning the tone to a reedy whisper. Alyda looked at her companion, at the fear shining in his eyes, at the way the breeze spun the errant strands of his hair into a wiry halo.

  “I suppose I must be.” She couldn’t begin to explain that she felt hollow, without substance, as though at any moment she might fly apart; sundered by her dissonant heart.

  Her grandfather outpaced her, and vanished in the golden brume that boiled off the sea. Shackled by the ringing surf she watched him appear again, as he cut between the bars of light reflecting off the beach, off the pikes and halberds . . .

  The ringing chant of harness marked the brisk pace of their march to the brow of the hill, where Alyda unslung her shield and drew her sword. The hill was just as steep on the other side; half of a sharp v, joined by a river and spanned by a wooden bridge, now thronged with knights in heavy armour and painted Tamalak warriors.

  Light raced across the scrubby defile, pierced the cloud-borne shade and ribboned across the valley. Silver and gold flashed from the churning water, gilded helms and blades, casting an undeserved glamour over the carnage. The unarmoured Tamalak warriors held the bridge; their mounting dead a bulwark, their burnished spears a deadly thicket. But inch by inch, the press was moving across the splintering planks. Men and women swarmed both banks, scarred the ground with their blood, and marred the quiet earth with their fury.

  “I can’t do it, Ali. I can’t.” Loridan started to back through the rank coming up behind them.

  She grabbed his arm and dragged him over the brow. Stones skittered under his reluctant step. “You can’t go back,” she said. “Lock your shield against mine.”

  Stumbling and numbed by fear, Loridan did as he was bid. Alyda slammed down her visor. They closed ranks, files compressed, the pace quickened. She was carried along on the roaring tide with Loridan beside her, their cries lost in the tumult.

  The first, shuddering impact was when they hit the rank in front. The second, when the rank behind hit them. Driven forward, the lightness vanished. She was part of the wall now, part of the rolling mass of steel. She dropped her weight through her body and dug in. To lose her footing here, to fall amid the press, meant certain death.

  The world narrowed to the slit in her v
isor, the sky became a flickering wing of blue, glimpsed through the fanning bones of polearms being brought to bear. She used her shield as a lever against the back of her comrade, opened the slightest breathing space, and gulped a mouthful of fetid air. A spear thrust between the two knights in front of her. She thrust her sword along the shaft, cut flesh. The knight in front fell against her. Thinking he’d lost his footing, she tried to shore him up using her shield as a brace. He half turned and grasped her shoulder for support. His lifeblood was pumping from his neck in a pulsing flow. He coughed in her face, sprayed blood across her visor as death stole his final breath. Half blind, the taste of sweet iron in her mouth, she stumbled sideways, felt the handrail of the bridge against her hip. The press heaved, the rail cracked and splintered before failing completely.

  She closed her mouth against the breathtaking gasp summoned by the hard drop into the icy river. Water surged into her helm, hissed in her ears. All around her she could feel the heavy thumps of bodies hitting the water. She pulled her arm free of her shield strap. Let her sword go and clawed at her helm. The light dwindled to a faint smear of green as she sank into the darkness.

  “Keep up, Ali,” Her grandfather called. The hiss of sea spray washed the richness from his voice. He sounded distant, far beyond the faint green light. “Come on, Ali . . .”

  She stopped panicking, pulled off her gauntlets and drew her dagger. Starting with the bevor, she hacked the buckle from the strap, when it fell away she cut the chin strap on her helm. She would have cut more, but the precious breath she’d hoarded was done and her lungs were burning. She swam towards a shaft of light which speared through the water, a luminous guide to light and air.

  The sea roared in her ears, sunlight burned the crests of the waves. She ran to her grandfather, dragging her legs through the foaming darts that rushed upon the shore . . .

  The first breath she drew seared her throat. She was under the bridge, swathed in shadow and surrounded by others as desperate as she was to get out of the freezing river. She struck out for the bank. Silt clouded the water’s edge, she clawed at the soft earth; it crumbled, dissolved, and flowed away. She fell back, swallowed a mouthful of water, spat it out, and coughed. The current was strong here and she knew that if she went under again, she would die.

  Faced with that certainty, she kicked out, dug the toes of her sabatons into the soft mud of the bank. Upstream, not five feet away, a Tamalak warrior broke the surface of the river, gasping for air. They looked at each other. It was a fleeting acknowledgement, but enough to spur Alyda on. Pain burned through her thigh as the muscles tore under the strain of trying to drive her out of the fast flowing river. The Tamalak grabbed a stunted shrub and began to pull himself onto the bank. Unencumbered by armour he got out before her. She yelled her fury at the bank, at herself, at the Tamalak. It sounded like everyone was yelling, invoking stone-hearted gods, cursing capricious demons, or crying out for their lovers, mothers, fathers. Every voice, hers among them, was lifted in the fervent prayer to whoever would listen: Let me live now; let me survive this moment. The Tamalak retrieved a broken spear from the bank and staggered towards her; his sodden woollen tunic slowed him down, but not enough for her to get out of the river. She looked up as he steadied himself above her; indigo paint running down his face. He took a two-handed grip on the spear, and raised it above his head.

  With the last of her strength, she drove her mud covered dagger through his foot. He screamed, mistimed the thrust. The spear skidded off her cuirass, winding her. He crashed into the water, tearing her dagger from her hand and almost taking her with him as he tried to save himself. She caught a glimpse of his face just before he sank beneath the murky waters; saw the horror dawn in his eyes a moment before the current dragged him under.

  All allegiances were forgotten now, all factions and loyalties put aside. Her battle was with a muddy slope and the river that was trying to draw her into it’s the treacherous depths. Hand over bloodied hand; she pulled herself up the bank.

  The sand was rough; she rubbed her toes together, felt the rasp of a thousand tiny grains. She was curled up in the cart, a bucket of clams beside her. She looked at her hands, at the way her water wrinkled skin sparkled in the slanting light that ran between the budding trees. She yawned; fell asleep listening to the rhythmic creak of the wheels turning . . .

  The ground was rough against her cheek. She opened her eyes, rolled onto her back. The sky was violet, striated with red and gold. She was lying in the cold shadow of the bridge. It was quiet, save for the creaking wheels of a handcart being dragged along the opposite bank, loaded with dead Tamalaks. Somewhere, out of her line of sight, the sun was setting.

  Silent Running

  Sophie E Tallis

  In my dreams, I am dying . . . then I wake and wish my dreams were real.

  *

  The capsule hurtled through space, spinning uncontrollably as it shot through the temporal rift, sparks flaring from its dented sides.

  Life support was in critical failure, and the air grew increasingly toxic. The inertial dampers, damaged in the blast, were offline, leaving the occupants at the mercy of the pod’s violent forces. Only their body straps saved them from being flung around like rag dolls. Adii was barely conscious. She struggled to keep her eyes open, aware of the pod’s increasing velocity, but unable to stabilise it. The three humans were out cold, their pale clammy skin luminescent, death-like in the gloom.

  A proximity warning sounded. An object was approaching fast from beneath them.

  “Draelloth!” she murmured, groping for her pulsar. A shipping freighter came up beside them – a massive Talkin transport, originally a mining frigate from the outer colonies. Its superstructure dwarfed the tiny capsule.

  “Draelloth . . .” she whispered again as the ship loomed over them.

  Moments later, a huge mechanical arm was drawing the pod into an enormous storage bay.

  Adii forced her eyes open, gasping for air. Her lungs felt ready to explode. She could hardly hear the humans breathing now. The co-pilot, Michael Shannon, a great bear of a man, looked half dead. He had succumbed to the pod’s forces first, crumpling like a deflated balloon. His dark haired friend, the one they called Caulfield, swiftly followed. But Daniel McKendrick had stayed conscious for nearly as long as Adii had, his bloodshot eyes fixed on her in an expression of hatred.

  She managed to unstrap herself and fell to the floor. Whatever ship they were in, it had a gravity drive.

  The pod lay on its side, plunged in darkness. Through the slits of the viewing windows, Adii could see a faint greenish light emanating from outside. She fumbled her way over the others and found the hatch door. She forced it open and fell out onto the cargo deck. She struggled for a few moments, the rush of oxygen expelling the contents of her stomach. Her bleary eyes caught a shadow moving towards her. She tried reaching for her weapon . . . then nothing.

  *

  “How are you?” came a familiar voice. She knew those gravelled tones.

  The engines hummed in her ears, telling her she was alive and awake.

  Adii slowly opened her eyes. She was in a shabby medical facility, hooked up to some antiquated monitors.

  An old man smiled down at her. “Welcome back, Commander Nakiri. We were lucky to pick you up when we did.”

  “Lithir? Where am I?”

  “Safe. Not back on Kaelin, but on our way,” Lithir replied.

  She forced herself up.

  Lithir helped her. “Easy. Your body has been starved of oxygen. You also have two broken ribs, concussion and a nasty gash on your head.”

  “Just another day . . .” she cracked a half smile and held her head for a moment, her fingers instinctively searching for the sticky mass. The pulsar blast had skimmed her head. If her assailant had been a better shot, she’d be dead.

  She sighed. Everything ached.

  “You all right?” Lithir asked.

  Adii nodded, tasting the metallic tinge of blood in he
r mouth.

  “Well,” Lithir continued, “this rusty hulk may not look much, but her Captain is a good friend of mine, someone we can trust. I mean it though. We were lucky to pick you up when we did. None of you would have survived another hour.”

  “The humans?”

  “They’re recovering in the med unit down the hall. A rather precious cargo you’ve been carrying.”

  Adii shrugged. “A lot of trouble you mean. You may not thank me for rescuing them. Watch out for the tall one with the light hair, the one called Daniel. He asks incessant questions. He could be a problem.” She scowled.

  Lithir looked at her seriously. “How are you . . . really?”

  “I’ve been better.”

  Lithir pulled himself up on the bed beside her. “I hope you don’t object, but I took the liberty of viewing Koia’s last flight log and your journal. I’m glad they were downloaded into the escape pod’s memory banks, though naturally we will have to erase any trace of them from the records.” He smiled. “Who would have thought it, three humans from Earth? I don’t know why, but I expected them to look more primitive.”

  Adii winced, feeling the broken ribs now. “Koia . . . I had no choice but to self-destruct . . . we were attacked; I couldn’t let them have the humans.”

  He placed a hand on her shoulder. “My dear, you did well. As great a ship as Koia was, she was expendable – you are not, and neither are your passengers!”

  “We lost one. The captain, his name was Matthews, Stephen Matthews. He was a good man, I think, perhaps the best of them. I fucked up and he got shot. It was my fault. His wounds . . .” She shook her head. “He wouldn’t have survived. He sacrificed himself to give us a chance to escape.”

  “I know. Brave man, staying behind like that. According to the log you were ambushed on Retris Station, trying to find parts for the ship after the Thral attacked you? And then you were attacked again? Is that right?”