"What are you doing, Yemi? Have you gone mad, too?"
With one sword in each hand, he points one of his blades in my direction as he points at me with the same hand, and his words make clear what everyone seems to know is about to happen.
"You are the mad one. I will not go any further in this desert, pursuing this foolish cause."
I only put one hand on the handle of my sword, still hoping that this will not happen, and a few other people try to stop it. Two of Yemi's brothers come up from behind him, and one tries to grab his shoulders. Yet, both get shoved away so aggressively he risks cutting them with his blades, even as they are held sideways, and, for both of us, Em pleads.
"STOP! Both of you! What're you going to do? Kill one another?"
Her words show disbelief more than they do reason, because nobody needs to ask if death comes next if we are to fight, and, before that happens, I try to watch for any signs of him faltering, when he could have just cut me down already. The look in Em's eyes shows fear too, since this is the first time any of us have seen Yemi act like this, and, were it not for that, I have no doubt she would run between us. Even the wolves watch us quietly, so it is no surprise none of the other men do anything, or have anything to say. So, when Yemi shows no signs of giving in, I tighten the grip on my sword handle and am already ahead of what he commands, at last.
"Draw your sword."
As soon as both of my hands are around the weapon that almost closes the gap between us, he rushes forward, through desperation or anger, or because he knows he will struggle to get close if I am ready for an attack, so, before he cuts into my neck, I have the sword in front of my body, catching both of his swords. The two of us hold them there for a few moments, pushing against one another to see if the other will fall back or loosen their stance even a little bit, and, in that time, all I notice is how bloodshot his eyes are. Such a detail matters, when most of the men and myself likely look the same, but it only makes him appear more insane. The wait has frustrated him so much that he takes one blade away and punches me in the gut, even though he could have just stabbed me then and there. So, with both of my hands still pushing against his one, I shrug off the blow, dismiss the punch and poor decision for rage, push him back, and strike him far harder across the nose with my pommel.
The weight of the blow is enough to let out a cracking sound and draw blood, both from the nostrils and the tear in the flesh as his nose has been bent, and the pain he is in, or the fact that I have hurt him so much already, only sends him into more of a fit. But, this time I am ready for him. His blades come one at a time, and sometimes with two, yet so fast that all I can do is backup, force the crowd behind me to move, and glance off his blows. He puts all his strength into each one, from the side, overhead, with a lunge, or a jump, it doesn't matter. The sweat on his brow only grows, enough that it eventually mixes with the blood from his nose, yet there is no time to wipe our faces, catch a breath, or even let out a curse.
When he comes from the side, with one blade or two, I swing my sword almost like I am rowing a boat, and, because my sword is so large, I catch each before he comes close to ripping me apart. When he comes from overhead, lunges, or is so foolish he jumps to put more force into his swing, I have to be quick to change my stance. No longer do I hold the distance. Instead, I put one hand around the blade, or on the back of it, and try to catch each hit now that my sword is no longer swinging so wildly. Doing so rids me of the advantage I have with distance, but the change in grip lets me push back with each attack, or even get in my own swing, no matter how short. I can tell he grows tired with time, and, with that, more frustration comes. What was already a dirty fight grows dirtier when he tries to kick sand up into my face, so that I too struggle to see like he does, and, when that combines with the sun in my eyes, I move left or right and try to fight on, tearing up a bit, and wait until the sun is at my back.
How we have not tripped or tumbled down any of the dunes we dance upon, I do not know. What the men around do or say, or what expression Em bears on her face, tears, shouting, or the attempts to jump in between us that would succeed and bring her harm if it were not for the men grabbing hold of her arms to make sure she does not get killed too, I try to ignore it all and focus on nothing but the sound of our blades hitting and fading into the distance so fast that I know we both disappoint the men who have died before us, Gorm, Abraham, Newt, and every other poor soul, and the thought makes me want to shout into the wind and Yemi's face so loud that the dead might rise from their eternal slumber. But before that can happen, Yemi stops after an attack from my left side, showing more and more signs of tiredness in the way he stands and slows down, and, when he tries to kick sand into my face for the dozenth time, I have made sure to keep the sun at my back so that only he struggles to see through the light and the yellow mist. That is when I finally give a swing my all.
With both hands around the handle as tight as I can, I swing upwards, so careless to what stands in between me and his death that I catch sand with the tip of the blade as it comes around after swinging in front of me through the motion I have practiced more than a hundred times in such a short span, and I only know I have cut into his body when I hear his cry of pain and a voice that could only be Em's.
"NO!"
Red covers the sand, as does one of the swords he has dropped, and, while he falls to his knees and stabs his other sword into the sand to admit defeat, only then do I see the full impact of the damage I have done. He holds his right arm over his left shoulder, and, underneath, his entire arm is gone and tossed to the sand like his one sword. Gone. Amputated. And, while he tries to stop the blood hopelessly, he lets out a few words now that I know he is not dead yet.
"You have won."
While I let my own sword fall to the ground, now that the battle is done, his brothers rush to him just as Em rushes to both of us, but, before anyone can aid him, he leans forward, loses the grip on his bloody flesh, and falls face first into the sand he once loved so much. My final thought before the day gets any worse is how one of my last friends will die so painfully in the place he once called home, a place he should love, and all there is to stop that thinking is the pain I feel as I fall too, my head hits the ground from the side, and my ear fills with sand after the exhaustion has done me in so bad I pray that I just dream of somewhere better than this before the heat forces me to greet my death as well, alongside so many other men.
And, for a short time, I do dream. In it, I am wrapped tight in a single, heavy blanket that barely keeps out the cold, and the mattress I sleep on is the most comfortable bundle of fluff I have ever slept upon. Then, the dream only gets better as I look to my left and see candles and flowers that I have not seen in some time, and would not be surprised if they are gone or shriveled up outside of this dream, just like everything else, and, as I look up, she appears by the bed, looking down on me. Smiling, happy, no tears in her eyes or shouts building up in her throat, and she caresses my cheek, and the only part of that dream that remains when I wake up is Em's hand, on my face, but for a much different reason.
While my eyes struggle to open, her fingers do not caress. Instead, they check my temperature, and, when I look at her face, all I see is a frown, even if she now knows that I am awake once my eyes open up enough that we both can stare at one another. Though, there is little time to even appreciate the look in her eyes when my body feels like it is burning alive. The sweat on my skin makes me feel so cold, like I am wet with water, but, at the same time, my insides burn, so hot I could scream as I sit up on the bed she has covered with so many blankets and startle her so much she jumps. While I woke up from a peaceful dream, it now seems like I have woken up from a nightmare with the way I act, but it's only the nightmare being alive brings that frightens me. I could never rip the blankets off fast enough and properly stand up, so I am thankful for her to catch me in her arms, and attempt to calm me with her words.
"You need to take it slow."
In th
e time I have been out, who knows how long, Gorm's old tent has been set up and furnished with what little we have left, and, beyond being lucky that I am alive, I am glad to see those same candles and flowers on top of the dresser of hers that I wasn't sure if we kept. It looks out of place in this tent, but it makes me happy, even if it is next to a bed that is nowhere near as comfortable as her old one and now wet with sweat. Speaking of which, she has cut the sleeves from her leather armor too, something we should have done long ago to fight the heat, and I will be sure to do the same if I ever get the rest of my clothes back now that I stand about in a light shirt and pants, and, with the bare flesh that she has exposed, the sweat on her skin mixes with mine. Yet, I tremble from the cold of her skin. It is strange that she feels so cold when we both sweat, and I can only assume it is because she is only cooler than me, and not cold on her own. Yet, before I even thank her, I have a question that is bothering me.
"Why did you cover me with so many blankets?"
While her arms already care for me, like her hand did in that dream and even when I awoke, now that I think about it, her words show how she has cared for me so far, more than anything else.
"You are sick with a fever. I've been trying to sweat it out."
Such an effort seems foolish when I feel like I am to die of heatstroke, and when those methods never worked in my youth, but only time will tell, and, based on what she says next, time has done too much already.
"I need you two to work together. The rest of the men have given up in the time you have been asleep. It is a miracle they have not started to fight one another, and the only reason they do not leave is because there is nowhere else to go, unless they die. We have lost so many more while I cared for you, too."
Her words are heavy, and force me to wrap my arms around her back with what little strength I have, as she holds me even tighter, but the news she indirectly shares with me carries an even greater weight in my heart, as I wonder how the man survived.
"How is he alive?"
She is straight to the point.
"He lost a lot of blood, but that was not enough to kill him, if that is truly what you hoped for."
I have to think about how I really felt for a few minutes, what I really wanted to do to him in that moment in the heat, as tired as I was getting, and as much as I did not want to die, so, when I do speak, I am certain of my answer.
"No. Not at all. I would not have ended his life at that moment. I don't even know how I managed to hurt him, but I fear he will only want to try to kill me again."
To say I don't know how I managed to hurt him is a bit silly. Surely, I know what I was doing each and every time I swung my sword at him, or at least risked it if he did not block my hit, so what I really mean is I do not know how I brought myself to do it, besides the growing frustration and fear for my life. And, more importantly, I do worry that he might try again, and wonder why he has not tried to kill me yet, but Em has an answer for everything.
"I would not worry about that. Losing part of his body has humbled him in a different way."
I'm not sure what she means by saying it has humbled him in a different way, so I ask her to explain, and to confirm that she has spoken to him, if she knows something like that.
"How so? And he is awake?"
Her answer is surprising.
"Barely. He struggles with a fever just as you do, but, now, he feels like he owes you a debt, since he thinks you spared his life."
I'm not sure what to do with that information, not yet at least, but it calms any worries I have, or just those about Yemi. So, while I ponder this life debt, I have something else to ask.
"And how long have I been out?"
Her answer to that question is surprising as well, but not unexpected entirely, since I know what minutes in this sun can do, versus an entire day.
"Only a day, but we will have so few men left if we don't figure this out."
If so many have died already, as she says, we will need to move quicker with what strength all of us have left, and that is without thinking about if we do or don't have enough men left to take on a giant anymore. So, for the time being, I release her from my grip, once I stand steady enough to be sure I can do it on my own. She has not shown too much affection for me yet since I awoke, but how she almost refuses to let go of me tells me how she is feeling, when words may be too hard after all that has happened. Because of this, I invite her to join me as I leave her tent and step out under the sun again, no matter how hot I still feel, with an outstretched hand. Makeshift is the best word to describe what I see. What the men have set up is even more temporary than a camp normally is.
While a few other tents are set up, most have been stretched out to make canopies where men can stay out of the sun, and look at me with little expression as they see me for the first time since the fight, with Em in tow. The camp has been set up in the slight shade of a tall dune, thankfully, and I can see where they buried in a row those who have died, out of most of the heat. Yet, those who are alive after everything squint at me, when the sun is not even at my back, and I can only assume it is because they are not sure what they are seeing is real or just another illusion brought on by the desert. When I get moving, they seem to be a little surer that it is in fact me, doing alright, and I count maybe two to three dozen of us left. Though, I can see another ten dying the next day if we don't pack up and find water within that time.
It is hard to think this, but, with less mouths to care for, our supplies will last a little longer, but not long enough for us to stop like this. So, while I am partially thankful for that, but also pained that we have lost more because of the delay, the greeting I get outside of the tent that I can only assume is Yemi's gives me the strength to do what comes next, when I am still afraid to approach the man for different reasons than when I believed he still might want to kill me. All of his brothers stand outside, watching me approach, and, when I expect them to be interested in striking me down after I hurt Yemi, despite how they did not want him to start the fight at all, that kind of strength washes over me like if it were to rain on me right now, when all of them are kind enough to nod, and smile, as Em and I walk past them and all the wolves, skinny but living, and into the tent of the man they all watch over.
This tent was once Yemi and I's, Abraham and I's before his death, and just Ham's before I arrived, and what time has done to us all could not be better shown by how the tent is now Yemi's, alone. The passage of time is not normally a sad thought, or at least it should not be, but, this time, the weeks and months gone by do hurt me, just as the sight of the poor fellow struggling to survive does. He lies on a bed, rather than a sleeping roll thankfully, and faces towards the wall, while the bed is on the right side and his head is closer to the entrance. This lets me see what is left of his arm right away, as much as that makes it feel like my stomach is ascending to my chest. The end is tied up with so many light bandages that it stands in stark contrast to his dark skin, wet with sweat like the rest of us, and, when Em pushes me forward because I am too scared to do so myself, he rolls onto his back right away, and does his best not to put his weight on the wound, or what is left of it. And, before I can gather myself, he has something to say.
"It is you. If only you had been the first person I woke up to, not that I did not like having Em, or my brothers, or the pups by my bedside in the meantime..."
He laughs and smiles after he is done speaking, between a couple of coughs, and I do not know why he is so happy until he manages a joke.
"I might have thought you were the Reaper, or something of the sort. Not only did you take my life, but now you are here to take my soul too."
I have no idea how to respond to what he says, but I don't think there is much meaning to it either, just a random thought. So, after what has happened, I try to give him some encouragement.
"You are not dead, Yemi. Not yet, my friend."
Faster than he should move, as weak as he might be, he sits up and asks for my
help.
"Then help me get out of this bed."
Before I can give him a hand, lift him up, and make sure he does not fall over like I almost did if it were not for Em, he explains why he is in such a rush.
"I would like to feel the sand under my toes once more. I have enjoyed my time in a bed, rather than sleeping on the ground, but, even as hot as it is, I really cannot get enough of the fine feeling shifting between my feet, especially when I have never been closer to meeting my end."
When he is done talking, my hand is waiting for him, and, with the hand he has left, he grabs hold and I lift him out of the bed. Yemi is not quick to fall over like I did, but I watch his legs tense up and his teeth grind as he tries not to, successfully. I figure we are all sore, and, while the bed is nice, sleeping only sets the soreness, worse so when one has not stood in some time. But, despite that, he shows great strength, and is even able to say something light-hearted about what has happened to him, to us, and to everyone else because of our fight.
"Think about that. All the beasts we have fought, and it is some boy who almost killed me."
He laughs at that, either because he enjoyed his dance with death, as I have in the past, or because it is silly to think that it was the two of us who brought us closer to our demise than something hundreds of times our size, yet the past matters little when the man seems to have something prepared for the future, that I already expect after what Em told me. So, while he does his best to get down on one knee and bow his head, he wobbles because of his lack of strength, or because he is getting used to the change in balance without one of his arms, or both, and, from under the bed, he drags something shiny through the sand and continues with what he last said, just as he explains his intentions simultaneously.
"That is why my life is yours."
I did not have the courage to stop the man from doing what he does now, lest he knows that Em warned me like she did, but it is hard to jump ahead of something like this, if it would just make me look like a fool. So, now that he has started the conversation, I try to shift the responsibility of saving his life off of myself and then off of everyone.
No Name for the Free Page 22
