by Scott McKay
“I’ll tell you how,” retorted Will. “You accept it. Of course you enjoyed it. Bastard got what he deserved. He’d done the same to friends and neighbors…hell, family of ours. For all I know he was at Grayvern and did my mother in. I’m glad you sliced him up. My only concern was we were going to run out of time out there.”
“I don’t want to accept it,” Rob said. “I think it’ll drive me mad. And the family needs more from me than to be some crazed killer.”
“Understood,” said Will. “But the country needs exactly that. Crazed killers are all the other guys know how to make, and they’re coming for us.”
Rob grunted. “I’m getting a little sleep. Good talk, Will.”
“Suit yourself, little man.”
…
THIRTY FOUR
The Mouth of the Cave – Midnight (Second Day)
The Udar could also tell there was a ship nearby on the water, but didn’t appear overly concerned. They weren’t dousing the campfires, there was no particular effort made to move to higher ground, and the mood among the Anur was unchanged.
Nevertheless, this was clearly a more somber camp than it had been the previous night. Sarah could tell the Udar were shaken by their reduced number of warriors, and, as a result, the guards were more than a little surly in treating the captives. The guards had returned to the captors and proceeded to bind their arms in the all-too-familiar painful folded position behind their backs. That was a change, as following the unfinished ritual they’d been left unbound other than having their collars strung together with ropes. They’d been fed a mouthful of gruel and swigs of water, but no marwai, then the guards admonished them with prodding from spears and quirts to be still.
Sarah noticed that the gray goo she’d had covering her body was stiffening and becoming exceptionally uncomfortable as it dried. It wasn’t just sticky anymore. She felt as though her body hair was being plucked out of its follicles as the paste had its way.
But whatever the climax of tonight’s ritual was supposed to be, clearly it wouldn’t be happening now. The Udar were largely ignoring their prisoners at this point. Sarah wondered–dreaded–that whatever was planned after their debasement earlier in the evening might have involved the presence of the warriors of the Anur who didn’t make it back to the camp.
Sex, she guessed. We were probably all getting raped.
Then again, Charlotte had said the aim was to make them all javeen. She figured that meant they’d be sold all over Uris Udar, since it sounded like an Anur only had a handful or less javeen in service at any particular time. Charlotte had also said being a javeen was a choice, although not much of one. Either consenting to being a whore for the tribe or being set on fire was an unacceptabe lose-lose proposition. But that didn’t make it straight-up rape, did it?
Then again, the more marwai she drank the more agreeable she was to whatever they’d planned for her. So would it be rape if the marwai said yes for you?
She had lots of opinions on that topic, for sure, but as she worked it out in her head she didn’t think what was coming was rape, or even marwai-rape. It was surely something unpleasant, though.
We need the cavalry in here, she thought. Faster, please.
That also got her thinking. Who was coming? There was obviously an Ardenian force out there, and close by. And she knew there was at least one warship floating just off the coast, probably with its guns trained directly on them. In the morning this was surely to be a dangerous place, with either an exceptionally awful outcome, or maybe the one she’d obstinately dared to hope for.
Sarah figured the force pursuing the Udar and so badly thinning their ranks earlier that day, in all likelihood, had come from the army base at Barley Point. It would have been Col. Terhune’s men, which would be a source of Sarah’s confidence. Father had known the Colonel well and called him a capable man; he had said Robert would do well serving under Terhune for his five-year Army service following graduation at the academy at Aldingham.
Then she had another thought. I’ll bet there’s militia from Dunnansport too. And if that was the case, it could well have been Uncle David out in those hills somewhere, since he was the commander of the town’s militia force. That made her smile. Her uncle was, next to her father, the kindest man she knew. If Uncle David came to rescue her in the morning, she thought, that would be just fine by her.
But wait. What if Robert were there? He was coming back from Aldingham by train this week, she thought, and was to arrive at Dunnansport a couple of days ago. He could well have joined up with the expedition. Was Robert really out there battling Udar warriors?
She didn’t like that idea much. Her brother hadn’t had a good time of it at the academy. He was barely bigger than Sarah. In fact, though she was a year younger, she was actually taller than her brother. Imagining him trading sword or dagger blows with some Udar raider filled her with panic.
No, he wouldn’t survive that, she thought. Father, Mother, Matthew, Tabitha – and Robert, too?
It was too much.
And then there was William Forling, who she reckoned would have been traveling with Robert. That was at least something. William, for all his clumsiness, was at least a giant of a man and certainly physical enough to hold his own with the Udar. Maybe if William was there with him, Robert might be safe.
At least, she hoped so.
We’ll find out tomorrow, she mused.
…
THIRTY FIVE
Along The Coast – Dawn (Third Day)
The ride began at a trot, as the cavalrymen made their way, first south over the patchy grass of the coastal plain, then west along the beach toward the campfires not far from their location. The riders were quiet, wearing steely, murderous glances. Even the horses picked up on the mood.
Behind them, the first streaks of sunlight began to appear in the eastern sky, almost as fingers of a hand stretching out to grab the enemy and wring the life out of him.
At least that’s how Latham thought of it.
He looked around at the 200 riders advancing in a wedge along the sandy shore toward the enemy camp. With him were a number of men who had distinguished themselves during the expedition – Wells, the Marine lieutenant from the Adelaide who’d supervised the signal communication with his ship and fought with a lion’s heart at Sutton Hill, Sgt. Michael Pearson of the Barley Point garrison who shrugged off an arrow to his collarbone to continue the battle on the hill, the Forling boy who was the true hero of the battle, and Robert Stuart who was the first of the expeditionary force to kill one of the enemy.
He was proud to serve with these men. Shortly they’d have their moment of truth. They’d either accomplish their mission or die valiantly in the effort.
It was anything but the fate he expected forty-eight hours earlier, but though every cell in his out-of-shape, overweight and too-old body screamed in agony at the nonstop riding, lack of sleep, and uncustomary physical exertion of the last two days, Latham decided that he was satisfied regardless of how things turned out.
I’ve done my duty, he thought, and I’ll keep doing it. If that means I’m a cavalryman instead of an architect, so be it.
He was fighting for his country, and there’d been nothing more noble in his life than that.
A small contingent of the Terhune force was to their north, riding along the ridgeline into the lee of the Rogers Range, and would descend south to the camp from the rolling cliffside to its northwest. They’d flank the Udar while Latham’s wedge, commanded as it was by young Forling–he thought Will was an excellent choice–was making the frontal attack.
Just before they began their pre-dawn march, Adelaide signaled that the four ships were all in place and Yarmouth would steam to the beach at dawn along with the frigate’s lifeboats containing its twenty-two Marines. Though the sea looked glassy in the dawn gloom, Latham was worried that Adelaide’s 100-pound guns would be less than accurate in shelling the outskirts of the tent village and cause too much collateral dama
ge for the success of the mission.
Just ahead, he saw Forling raise his sword and stand in his stirrups.
“It’s time, men,” he called, flinching to spur his horse into a full gallop. “CHARGE!”
The men of the Forling contingent let out war whoops and followed closely on.
They covered the 3,000 yards to the camp in less than five minutes, but as the cavalrymen drew closer, it was clear that the enemy was ready for them. Standing in front of a large bonfire on the eastern edge of the camp were more than 300 Udar, mostly women, Latham noticed. In front of each of them, with necks outstretched and arms bound, were the Ardenian female captives, all naked and covered in what appeared to be mud.
Each captive had an Izwei dagger pressed to her neck by an Udar.
Forling held his hand up, and the charge petered out to a slow, careful approach to the camp.
And as they entered, a woman naked in the mild morning air stepped forward.
“I will translate,” she announced.
Forling dismounted.
“You’re a prisoner?” he asked. “Or are you one of them?”
“I am Shori’zel,” she responded. “Formerly my name was Charlotte Naughton, wife of Col. John Naughton of the Strongstead citadel garrison.”
“We heard about Strongstead,” said Forling.
“I have a message from the Var’asha,” Charlotte told him. “Brave Rapan’na, Cleanser of Profaner Lands, Master of Horse and Avenger of Gana’fali, declares Kawes’kin and challenges you to honor your humanity in single combat.”
“I don’t know what any of that shit is,” Forling responded.
“You will choose a champion to fight Rapan’na with the dagger,” she informed him. “If your champion bests him, you may have your captives returned to you. If you do not, you will leave your weapons and horses and depart from this place.”
“Or else what?”
“Refusing Kawes’kin is the ultimate dishonor,” Charlotte said. “Such a grave insult would be disastrous.”
Just then an Udar warrior dragged one of the captives forward. The Ardenians trained their guns on him intently as tension escalated.
“That’s far enough,” barked Forling.
The warrior then dragged his Izwei across her throat. She collapsed in a heap, blood spattering the sand.
With his pistol, Rob shot the man in the heart. He crumpled and fell atop his victim.
“The requirements of Kawes’kin have been satisfied,” Charlotte announced. “You must choose your champion, or we will all die here this morning.”
It was at that point when Yarmouth and the four lifeboats from Adelaide made their way to the beach, though very slowly as the events at the camp were clearly at a delicate stage.
Broadham disembarked from one of the lifeboats and hustled, half-swimming, half-wading, to the shore astride the Ardenian cavalry. “Who’s in command?” he asked.
Forling gave a wiggle of his raised wrist. “You’re the translator?”
“Ensign Joseph Broadham, sir, of the ANS Adelaide.”
“Will Forling, Lieutenant, Ardenian Cavalry,” came the response. “Damn glad to meet you.”
“What’s the situation?” Broadham asked.
“Kawas-keen. I think they want me to fight their head guy over the hostages.”
“Right,” said Broadham. “This is the heart and soul of who they are. If you do this, it’s a fight to the death. And their champion is going to be really, really good.”
“I’m better,” Forling responded. “It’s either do that or they start cutting throats and we end up in a bloodbath.”
The rest of the Terhune contingent slowly rode up, with the Colonel jumping off his horse and approaching the discussion. “What in the red hell is this?” he spluttered.
“The Udar want to fight this with single combat,” Latham said. “Forling against their guy, whose name is Rapan-na. If Will wins, they give up the hostages. If the Udar wins, we lay down our weapons, leave the horses and get on the boat without the hostages.”
“Absolutely not,” said Terhune.
“Who is Rapan-na?” Forling asked loudly. “I don’t see him.”
Just then a hulking Udar, standing almost six feet tall and easily twenty stone, his massive torso barely contained by a leather vest and rippling arms bare save for a series of iron rings lining his left arm from his wrist to just below his elbow, his head covered by a helmet wired together with cascading bits of bone topped by the enormous skull of a raptor, stepped forward. His Izwei was pressed to the throat of an Ardenian captive he dragged with him to the front of the line.
“Sarah!” called Rob. She gave him a desperate glance, but then she cast a look at Will and her eyes grew perceptively larger from Rob’s vantage. It was clear Sarah no longer saw the clumsy oaf of his youth. This was a warrior and a man; the kind of man she could see herself sharing a life with.
“Let her go,” Will said through gritted teeth, holding his composure as he pointed to Rapan’na. “You let her go, now.”
“Vivatz,” the man shouted at him. “Adoa cassuna kefuzui! Kawes’kin!”
“He said…” began Broadham…
“I know what he fucking said,” Will cut him off.
Terhune then spoke. “We have already killed most of your warriors,” he said, as Charlotte translated aloud. “We are not here to kill you. We wish to free our people and return them home. Those who want to survive this day may lay down their weapons and leave. We will not pursue you. Let them go and we will let you go.”
None moved. Rapan’na continued pressing his Izwei to Sarah’s throat below her collar. “Kawes’kin!” he hissed.
“Colonel, they’ve orchestrated this thing to get just this result,” said Latham. “It might be the only way to save the hostages.”
“Refusing the single combat challenge is seen as the worst insult imaginable, Colonel,” added Broadham. “Their reaction to a rebuff won’t be a good one.”
“They will kill all of the women if you refuse,” Charlotte interjected from across the de-facto neutral ground between the Ardenian contingent and the Udar camp.
Terhune pointed at her. “Who are you? Don’t I know you?”
“She was Col. Naughton’s wife, Colonel,” said Latham. “At Strongstead. It seems she’s one of them now.”
The Colonel shot Latham a pained look, then stared disconcertedly at Charlotte, at Rapan’na and Sarah under his knife and across the camp at the Udar holding knives to the terrified hostages.
Terhune threw up his hands and turned to Forling. “It’s either the bloodbath or it’s your show, Will. I’ll leave it up to you. So you know, though, I’m not giving up my weapon and neither are any members of my command.”
“Don’t you worry, Colonel. I’m going to kill him,” Forling said, staring at Sarah. Her eyes grew wider still.
Will then got himself ready for a fight. He began by pulling off his gauntlets and, with the gloves held in his teeth, stripping off his coat. He turned toward Charlotte and threw the outergarment to her. “Give that to Sarah, for mercy’s sake,” he growled.
Will then replaced the gloves on his hands and drew his cavalry fighting knife from its sheath along his belt.
Broadham approached Will and confided softly, “So you’ll know, those rings on his left arm? You get one of those for each time you kill somebody in single combat. He’s done this a few times before. But those have likely all been against daggers like the one he’s got, so you can maybe take advantage.”
Forling nodded and placed a hand on Broadham’s shoulder. He then pointed the knife at the Udar and waved it lazily in his direction.
“You ready, you animal?” he shouted at the Udar. “You want some? Come get it.”
…
THIRTY SIX
Kawes’kin – Morning (Third Day)
Unlike the Udar Izwei, the Ardenian cavalry fighting knife isn’t dotted with prominent barbs along its shaft. But the knife, manufactured ex
clusively by the Pearson Standard Co. of Greencastle, is similar to the Izwei in that it is also a wide, double-bladed knife designed for slashing an enemy rather than simply stabbing at him. The Pearson Standard C-1 fighting knife, known by its users simply as the C-1, is a steel instrument with a serrated edge along the top blade and a straight edge on the bottom, with the tip of its nine-inch blade–three inches longer than the Izwei–curving slightly to the top. It’s a fourteen-inch monster of a dagger, and very deadly in the hands of a man who knows how to use it.
Will was such a man, having become a student of knife-fighting as a means of transforming himself from a gangly, clumsy oaf of a boy to a trained killing machine at the defense academy at Aldingham. Close-combat training became an obsession of Will’s when, during his first week at the academy, he’d been plucked out of a class by an instructor for a demonstration of knife-fighting techniques and been badly embarrassed in repeated fashion. That was a critical-mass moment for Will, whose youth had been spent as an overgrown, poorly-coordinated, though powerfully wiry child with undeveloped athletic skill. He sought out the instructor, a Major James Tennant, who had not just been a veteran of Dunnan’s War but had also posted four enemy kills in the very close-combat situation Will was about to undertake today.
Tennant had taken Forling under his wing, and in virtually every free moment in that first year at the academy the major mentored Will in the use of the C-1 in single combat situations. Knife fighting unlocked a level of hand-eye coordination and body control the young cadet didn’t know he had, and within months the resulting athleticism translated to boxing, horsemanship and even rugby. In a short time, Forling’s 6-foot-4 frame was an asset rather than an impediment, especially as he began filling out that frame, and shortly following his physical transformation, Will shed his stumbling, graceless interpersonal immaturity, becoming a confident young man and an indomitable cavalry officer respected, and even feared a little, by his peers.
A year and a half later, Forling had forgotten none of those lessons. He would put them, and his C-1, to the test at this moment.
