Kei's Gift

by Ann Somerville

  “I’m sorry, “ the medic said calmly. “It is as the gods will it, Sei.”

  Arman gave the man a hard look. “You’ll do what you can to save him or I’ll cut your throat.”

  “Sei, the boy’s guts are pierced. It might take a few hours, or a day, but there is nothing I can do. I swear by Lord Niko.”

  Arman swore and pushed him away, stalking back to where Loke lay. He knelt beside him, reaching for his hand, and brushing his long fringe off his forehead. “Arman?” Loke whispered. Arman leaned forward to hear him better. “Are you angry?”

  “Not at you, my friend. I want to move you out of the sun. Can you bear it? I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  “Hurts, Arman. I...I’ll try.”

  “That’s my boy,” Arman murmured gently. He checked where else Loke was hurt—he had a broken leg by the look of it. He took his knife and offered the handle to Loke. “Bite down. I’ll be as careful as I can.”

  Loke nodded and accepted the wooden handle, but his muffled scream as Arman gathered him into his arms was still piteous, pain tears running down his face. Arman moved as fast as he could, yelling at his men to get out of his damn way as he headed towards where his tent already stood. His pallet had been unrolled, although nothing else was set up. He laid Loke down and called for cloths and water so he could wipe Loke’s face. He eased the knife out of Loke’s mouth. There were teeth marks in the hardwood. “Brave lad. It’ll be all right.”

  Loke couldn’t speak, his mouth drawn down in tight agony. Arman twisted around and saw the medic standing there. “Can’t you do anything for his pain?”

  “He could take some wine, Sei, although with the stomach wound, it might make it worse. General, there are other wounded men I can help. I must attend to them.”

  Arman wanted to scream at him that nothing was more important than saving Loke, but the soldier in him recognised the validity of the point. “Go, do what you can, and return as soon as you can. Send someone in to assist me.”

  The medic bowed, retreating out of the tent. Arman stripped off the rest of his armour, leaving it where it fell, and resumed his place at Loke’s side. Shortly after, a soldier came bearing a bowl, and a towel which Arman dipped into the water and then wiped over Loke’s sweaty face. “Bring me some wine,” he ordered. “And find out who threw that bomb and have them kept at my pleasure.”

  “Yes, Sei general.”

  The soldier left. Arman continued to wipe Loke’s face, until a little reason came back into his eyes and he relaxed a little. Loke’s hand reached for him, so Arman caught it and held it gently. “There, better?”

  “Yes.” Barely more than a breath. “Am I dying?”

  “No, you’re not. Not if I can help it. Just rest. Let me look after you for a change.”

  “I...I stayed at the rear.” Each word was gasped out, and sweat broke out on Loke’s brow. Arman wiped it away. “Your orders.”

  “Yes, you obeyed me. It’s my fault. I’m sorry.”

  Loke’s grip on his finger briefly tightened. “Not...your fault. Arman...please...my mother...a letter.”

  “You don’t need to write her a damn letter,” Arman said gruffly. “You’ll see her soon enough.”

  But Loke was determined, tugging on his hand. “Please...write for me.”

  “No, damn it!”

  “Please.” Loke’s hand brushed his cheek. “You’re weeping.”

  “No, I’m...you’re not going to die!”

  “But if I do...Arman, please....” He coughed a little and his mouth clenched tight in pain. “I beg you.”

  Arman wanted to howl with grief. Instead, he found his pack, dumped in the corner of the tent, and pulled out his diary and the inkset. “What do you want to say?”

  Eyes awash with tears, Loke managed to smile in thanks, and then dictated a few simple lines of love and devotion to his mother. Arman held the book so his friend could shakily sign his name with the quill, and then Arman blotted it carefully before storing the book back in his pack. “You can give it to her yourself in a few weeks.”

  “Of course.” His eyes closed as a spasm of pain hit him. “I’m cold.”

  Arman yelled for blankets to be brought, and more bandages as the one at Loke’s side was soaked. If they could keep the bleeding under control, surely a strong, healthy boy like Loke could defeat this? The medic hadn’t even bothered to set his leg. The blankets were brought, as were the bandages and finally the wine. Arman replaced the bandage over his belly, and covered him with two blankets even though the tent was stifling hot. He tried to help the boy drink some wine, but Loke refused. “Feel sick. Sorry.”

  “Never mind, lad, it doesn’t matter.” The only thing Loke wanted was for Arman to hold his hand, and while he wanted that, Arman would not move from his side.

  Outside, he heard shouting, and frantic activity. He should feel guilty for abandoning his post. He would apologise to Jozo later. But while his dearest friend lay injured, Arman could not find the will to leave him.

  Reports came in, delivered with an obvious respect for what was happening in Arman’s tent. Five soldiers killed, three injured, one seriously. The person or persons who threw the bomb had not been discovered, but the villagers had been rounded up and were all under guard. Two urs beasts were dead, but the village had enough to replace them.

  Arman listened to it all, not really caring. All he could hear was the harsh sound of Loke’s breathing, and his small choked whimpers, trying to hide the extent of his pain from his master. To look at the boy, you would never suspect him of such strength. A slight, fair creature, with eyes which drew you in with their sorrow when he was sad, and which lit up his face when he smiled. There was good breeding in Loke, and an iron will. Arman prayed hard to Lord Niko he would spare his friend.

  The day wore on, the heat got worse. So did Loke, who rambled a little, having a mumbled, mostly incoherent conversation half with Arman, half with his dead father. Arman did his best to follow him, wiping his forehead, and despairing at the cold feel of it. He changed the dressing again—the bleeding was a little abated, but not much. Loke still refused wine, but allowed Arman to trickle a little water into his mouth. It only made him cough and choke, so Arman stopped and helped Loke sit a little until he could breathe.

  The medic returned, Arman wasn’t sure how much later. Regretful eyes, damning words—nothing had changed, he said. “But the bleeding is slowing,” Arman hissed, drawing the man out of the tent so Loke could not hear him.

  “Sei, he’s bleeding inside. I’ve seen this before.”

  “Then why in the name of all the gods don’t you know how to treat it?”

  “It’s been tried, general. The patients suffer agonies, and die of infection anyway. None survive. I wish I could offer you better news. Loke is a good lad.”

  “Get out of my sight,” Arman growled. The man nodded and walked away, unperturbed by his general’s anger. Such acceptance only made Arman more enraged, but there was nothing and no one he could vent his anger against.

  He turned to go back into the tent, but heard his name called. He stopped and waited for Jozo to reach him. “How is he?” Jozo asked.

  “The medic says he’s dying. The man lies.”

  “A gut wound, I heard. I’m sorry, Arman.”

  “Everybody’s sorry. No one has an answer.” He forced himself to rein in his bitter temper. “I apologise for leaving you to deal with things...but when I saw—” He shuddered and drew a breath. “Have you found the perpetrator?”

  “Not yet. We’re secured the supplies and hostages have been selected. We won’t move until you’re ready.”

  Until Loke dies. “They will pay for this outrage, Jozo. Loke was no threat to them. We have killed no one on this campaign.”

  “No, I know that, and they will pay, I promise you. But for now, you’re relieved, my friend. Go to him and give him comfort.”

  “Wait—the men who died. I don’t want their bodies anywhere near this wretched
village.”

  “We’ll carry out rites for them tomorrow. Don’t trouble yourself.” Jozo clasped his shoulder. “I know this is hard, my friend. But it’s war.”

  “Loke is not at war with anyone,” Arman bit out, and shrugged off Jozo’s hand. “I’ll be on duty tomorrow.”

  “As long as it takes,” Jozo said kindly.

  Arman stalked back into the tent, and was immediately struck by the stink. Loke had soiled himself, and was distressed by it.

  “Never mind, it’s nothing,” Arman said gently, soothing his anguished friend’s embarrassment, cleaning up unobtrusively and settling clean blankets around him. Even these gentle careful movements caused Loke acute pain, every bitten off cry like a knife in the heart to Arman.

  But at last he was settled again. “I’m so cold, Arman. Hold me?”

  “Of course.” He tucked more blankets around the shivering body and sat on the pallet, lifting Loke’s head and shoulders into his lap. “Is that better?”

  “Yes,” Loke sighed. “It doesn’t hurt so much now.”

  “That’s good,” Arman said with a sinking heart. This was not relief that came from anything but the beginning of the final struggle. Unbidden, tears trickled down his cheeks, but Loke’s eyes were closed, so he could not see them, thank the gods. He forced himself to smile, so his voice sounded cheerful. “Did I ever tell you about the time Tijus and I stole two jesigs and decided to race them across my father’s garden? I was only eight.”

  “No,” Loke whispered. “Tell me.”

  So Arman told him about the escapade and the unholy mess they’d made, then about the time they trained Karus’s pet tuktuk bird to swear. And how he had once tried to make the fish in his mother’s pond turn pink by feeding them clisel berries, but all it did was to send them into a frenzy, and the gardener had had to net them and separate them before they fought themselves to death. Loke laughed a little, even though it clearly hurt him. “You...were a bad child, Arman.”

  “Very naughty. Karus said I was one of the worst boys he’d ever taught.”

  “And...the best...man. He said...you...the best man....”

  “Only because he never taught you, my friend.” There was no colour at all in Loke’s face now, and his breathing was ragged, each breath a struggle. Arman helped him sit up a little, which eased his breathing, but pained him so much Arman had no choice but to let him lie still. “Loke...I need to tell you....”

  Loke opened his eyes a little—even that effort seeming to exhaust him. “Yes?” A word or a puff of air, it was hard to tell.

  “I have always valued you. I wish I had made that plainer.”

  “You did.” The barest whisper. “Always...felt treasured.”

  “You were. You are. I love you, and I can’t bear.... Please don’t go. Stay with me.” Tears dripped unhindered down Arman’s face. He brushed them carefully off Loke’s hair where they had fallen.

  “I’ll...try. Don’t...weep. I...love...Arman.”

  Arman bent low and kissed Loke’s forehead, and laid his hand on Loke’s cold cheek. Loke reached his own hand up and weakly held Arman’s fingers as Arman grieved as silently as he could, his sorrow a wild, uncontrollable agony in his chest, the depth of his loss immeasurable and indescribable.

  He didn’t know when Loke finally passed. All he knew was Loke’s hand had dropped away, and the shallow breaths had ceased, the body that had suffered so long, now lax and free of pain. He still checked, his palm against Loke’s mouth, a finger against the missing pulse. Then he slid out from under Loke’s shoulders and laid his head down gently, before bending and kissing the cool forehead again. “Farewell, dear friend. The gods grant you a home in the heavens.”

  He covered Loke’s face with the blanket and then stood. He pulled his armour back on, strapped on his sword, and walked out of the tent. Two soldiers stood on guard. “No one goes in,” he said curtly, then he strode off towards the village, calling for someone to fetch Jozo, and for the men to fall in behind him.

  He found the villagers assembled in the main square, kneeling in the dirt, under close guard. “Which one of you threw the explosive?” His anger was cold as snow in his chest.

  No one responded to his call, so he stalked over to the clan head and dragged her up by her hair, drawing his sword and holding it to her throat. “Let the man who threw the bomb step forward, or she dies now.”

  At first there was no reaction, but as he pressed the edge of his sword against the woman’s neck, a voice cried out in distress. “No! It was me, don’t!”

  Still holding his captive, he scanned the prisoners. “Come forward, you coward.”

  A teenaged boy stood, and was immediately dragged out and over to Arman, cast on the ground in front of him. Arman pushed the clan head away from him. “Who is kin to this boy? Who are his mother and father?”

  A man and a woman stood, and were also dragged over to him. Arman had them held facing him, as he pulled the boy up, his arm around his throat. “You are his parents? Answer me!”

  “Yes, lord,” the woman said, her voice trembling. “He is our son, our only child. Please, I beg you, be merciful.”

  “Merciful,” Arman repeated with heavy irony. “I know another woman with an only son, an only child. At least, she had a son. I have his last note to bring to her. Will that comfort her, do you think? Will she rejoice to know your child killed hers, who never harmed anyone or anything in his life? I think not,” he spat at her in anger. “You ask for mercy?” He took his sword and thrust it suddenly up under the boy’s ribs. He heard him choking, and let him fall to the ground. “There is your mercy. You can bury him. That’s more than she will have.”

  The woman screamed and fell to her knees, clutching the boy’s body to her chest. The man raised his hand at Arman in anger, but the soldier knocked him to the ground before he could strike. Arman ignored him and stepped away from the pitiful scene, in which he had no further interest. “This is how it will be, you honourless bastards. You kill one of my people, we will kill yours. If you kill my soldiers, your hostages will die, and we will take more. If you strike again, your village will be razed to the ground and every one of you sent to work in the torkezi mines until you die of exhaustion. The Prij will not tolerate rebellion. I will not tolerate cowardice. I will pray to Lord Niko for the rest of my life that yours will be short, miserable and filled with grief.” He spat on the ground to show his disgust. “This village is damned. I curse it and all of you.”

  He turned. Jozo watched him with an unreadable expression, and as Arman approached, he gripped his arm. “Don’t tell me I shouldn’t have done that, or we will be at odds,” Arman said through gritted teeth.

  “No, you did what I would have done. Do you want any more executed? We lost five other men.”

  Arman glanced back at the villagers. The mother with the dead boy still keened over his corpse. “No,” he said coldly. “For once I started, I would want every one of them destroyed and that is not Her Serenity’s will. But I want the camp moved. I don’t want to breathe the same air as these curs a moment longer.”

  “Yes, of course, I’ve already given orders.” Jozo hesitated. “And Loke?”

  The sound of the name made his eyes fill again, but when he spoke, his voice was cold and calm. “I will see to him. He is still in my care.”

  And ever in my heart, my dear and beloved friend.

  Chapter : Darshian 8

  Gren nuts were plentiful this year, but Banji still had to wrestle Reji to prevent his friend stealing so many they wouldn’t have a respectable amount to take back to Meis. Reji cracked them cheerfully as they walked back. “You’ll have no appetite tonight,” Kei warned.

  Reji only grinned and tossed another shelled nut into the air before catching it and chewing it. “Oh, I’ll have an appetite, I promise you. I’ll be stocking up for the long ride, when I have nothing but camp cakes and dried berries to eat.”

  “Huh. Stock up any more, Rei-ki and you’ll have to
ask Myka to let out your trousers.”

  Reji stuck his tongue out at him. Kei rolled his eyes and dropped back to where Banji and Risa were walking more slowly. “Can I beg a handful of nuts for Myka? She’s fond of them.”

  “Only if you don’t give them to that glutton,” Banji said, scowling at Reji, but he filled Kei’s pockets anyway. “You should run home before he strips you to find the food. He’s worse than a tuktuk.”

  Reji heard that comment, and turned to sniff indignantly at them. “If you’re going to be abusive, I’m going home. I’ll see you later, Kei, if you can manage not to be mean to me for more than five minutes at a time.”

  Kei made a rude gesture at his lover’s departing back. “That damn man,” he said with a sigh.

  “Kei, do you love Reji?”

  “Eh? What kind of question is that, Banji-ki? And in front of Risa too.”

  Risa scowled. “Love talk, yuck. I’m taking these home to Ma before someone steals them.” Banji ruffled his cousin’s hair and gave him the other basket to carry, still only a small load for Risa’s sturdy legs.

  They were left alone and Kei changed direction, heading over to the edge of the waterhole, so he could sit in the shade of a tido palm. “Why the sudden interest in my feelings for Reji? You’re not going to declare you love me yourself?” he teased.

  “Gods, you’re the most irritating person. I don’t know why I bother trying to have a serious conversation with you.”

  Something was biting Banji’s tail today. “Neither do I. Of course I love him. It’s not romance, it’s more like...well, brothers or something. We’ve known each other a long time. And since we’re the only infertiles, it’s not like we have many other choices.”

  Banji stared. “Is that all it is? Just for want of something better?”

  “Hells no. It’s just lucky we like being together, that’s all I meant. If we didn’t, we’d have nothing, most likely.”

  Banji nodded, as if that was clear enough for him. “But when did your feelings change? I mean, you didn’t always want to sleep with him, did you?”