A Bad Business

I never expected to last this long, truth be told, but even so the imminence of my demising still took me by the bowels and squeezed me tight. I'd been soldiering almost fifteen years now, been through my fair share of tight spots and was hurt bad enough in '37 that the chirugeon wanted to put me down like an old horse. He didn't though, and I walked sure enough a few days later out of his butcher tent. Now it seemed like my luck had fair run out, and the end couldn't be too far away.

We'd been running for about two days, what remained of the Fifth Company and me, running and trying to make the Samael River. If we could ford it, we'd have a chance of finding some measure of safety in Hommlet proper, or at least make a go at holding the bride. No such luck. The Captain was a good man, refused to leave Jennings or Gilbert behind, wounded as they were. Good men both, but they were like to be the death of us, slowing us down as they were. Hard enough to make your way down these mountains without having to carry two stretchers. Still, none spoke up to gainsay the Captain. Could have been any of us on those stretchers, and what would we have said then?

Air cold and thin so that the orc's cries carried down shrilly to us through the mountain pass above. Must have been some thirty of them on our trail, enough to sweep a us away if they made a bold front of it, but for some reason they were holding back, shy like maidens to their marriage bed. Mayhaps they thought there were more of us then there really were, mayhaps they thought we'd more strength in our sword arms, or maybe they were just enjoying the chase like a cat will with a mouse. Either way, those shrill cries and jagged laughs dogged out steps, and when we were close to true collapsation and the Captain ordered we rest for a few hours, those very same laughs haunted our dreams, stupored as we were.

I'll give the young Captain this much, he knew how to pick a defensive spot. The little pocket he found in the rock was barely large enough to hold the fifteen of us, and could only be approached through a narrow cleft in the wall. Only one way in, and if the orcs tried to rush us that night they'd have had to come one at a time, and we'd have choked up that cleft till their bodies bottled it up like bleeding corks. Course, one way in meant one way out, and I think that was part of the Captain's decision making process. He'd sized us up, taken measure of our desperation, and then cooly made sure none of us would bolt when the attack came. Gave us no choice, really, and in doing so assured him that every last one of us one stand and fight.

Gorgeous night. Propped up against the rough rock, I couldn't help but stare at the stars. Something about them always draws my eye before a tough fight. Just when I'm about to get in the thick of it, they're always there, distant and cool and untroubled. Makes me think all sorts of nonsense, and it's those times when I get to thinking about how a farming life wouldn't have been all bad; get to thinking a barn and a field or two, some hogs and life with my hands in the earth instead of wrapped around a sword might have been mighty fine, after all. But inevitably I look away from the stars and remember the stench of hog shit steaming in the cold dawn, remember how painful the cold water from the well would chap my hands and the pains and aches that would get in my back and arse and never go away were, and such thoughts would pass.

Captain came over and sat down next to me. He'd ditched his fancy shield a few miles back, a big gleaming thing of heavy metal with a red dragon painted on its front. Beautiful and heavy and now dropped and gone. Smart lad.

"Another hour, I think, and then we'll move on," he said, though I knew he'd give us at least two more. "We stop for too long there will be no moving us."

"Aye," I said, and wished for thousandth time for my pipe. That had gone with my pack yesterday when I felt like I was like to keel over from exhaustion. "Be good to be on the move once more."

We didn't say anything for a spell, and then Jennings got to groaning and the Captain stared in his direction.

"They never describe these parts," he said, voice low, "At least, I never heard of Silbaris the Silver or Kurg Iron Hand having to decide whether to leave a wounded friend behind. All bravery and glory in the songs. Not like this."

I kept quiet. The Captain bit his lower lip for awhile, chewed on it, clearly thinking, and then looked over to me.

"What do you think, Jag?" His voice was quiet, and I knew what he was asking. I sighed.

"It's a bad business no matter how you cut it, Captain," I said. "There's no right or wrong here. Just a question of how practical you want to be."

"Practical," he said. His dark face was haggard. I'd thought him less than twenty when we first set out. Now he seemed as old as I was. "Now there's a word to haunt your thoughts."

Jennings groaned again, and subsided.

"We're about twelve hours from the river," he said. "We can cut that to six if we travel fast. The orcs will make a play for us just before we break the tree line. Which means we'll have to take the last mile or so on the run, or be dragged into a standing fight, and we can't win that."

I waited, giving him room to talk himself into it. Idealism always goes last with some, but if they're good, if they have the makings of a good leader, it will go just the same.

Another long pause, and then the Captain stood up. I'd like to say he looked wiser, stronger, something, but to me he just looked even more tired. As if a candle had been blown out from behind his eyes. He stood looking at nothing for a long time, and then, without another word to me, drew his knife and walked over to the wounded.

A bad business, no matter how you cut it.