The Wandering Soldier, Chapter 4

The sound of wind rasping against a shimmering edge whisked toward her. Bracing her feet, a young Gorenne raised her weapon, a dull iron thing used for practice. The blade careening toward her tilted and pushed back against her haunches and she fell to the smooth grass with a heady grunt.

“Your footing was too obvious, Gorenne,” The young and bright-eyed Commander Frelon, second in command to Captain Redal, grinned with the morning sun behind him as he pointed his steel at her neck. “Brace your feet at the last moment.”

“There is no way I could predict a maneuverer with that level of accuracy,” Gorenne retorted, pushing herself to her knees. “There’s nothing I can do against someone far more skilled.”

Frelon reached down and grabbed her wrist. His strong, calloused hand pulled her easily to her feet. He chuckled at her words and looked over her with an unusual glance. “That’s true, but also a dead man’s thought. You will encounter warriors far stronger and more capable. Use them to learn their ways, not to falter in your conviction and allow their expertise to disarm you.”

“A dead man’s thought?” Gorenne repeated playfully.

“A dead girl’s, in your case.” Frelon’s retort was plain and honest, though amused.

“A girl?”

“A woman wouldn’t be so easily defeated in the face of an unlikely challenge. Show me that you’re worthy of the title.” As his words slapped her in the face, he gripped his sword anew and watched her with piercing eyes. Gorenne felt a fire burn within her, ignited by her desire to put such a capable fool in his place. One day she will defeat him. “Come on, Gorenne,” he called. “Gorenne!”

“Gorenne!” Badel called, shaking her shoulder. The world seemed to snap back to the present. The cold, bloodied body of Captain Frelon gazed aimlessly upward. The sound of battle had since died down somewhat, and the others were clamouring to their feet in preparation to leave at once. “Gorenne, we have to go.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she muttered, almost to herself.

“If you want to die here, that’s on you,” Badel said, getting to his feet. In the corner of her eye, Gorenne saw the others clamouring to horses stationed nearby. Some of the horses had satchels stacked with wares looted from their camp, as though their departure was planned.

“We have to bury him,” Gorenne’s whisper was hoarse. “At least stay to bury him.”

“Dig two holes, lassie,” One of the others piped in from their horse, a brawny, hairy fellow. Gorenne remembered him to be an honest and loyal man. “You’ll need one for yourself if you stay.”

The sound of hooves ripping the earth ricocheted from the tall pines of the forest wall as the other mercenaries fled in to the forest. Gorenne stayed with the captain until the harsh whistling of crossbow bolts whisked overhead, striking down three of the riders as they rounded a tree. Almost by instinct, the dead sound of arrows killing her comrades shook her from the daze she crawled in to. Whipping her head around, she looked toward the shades of red that was the battlefield where her life had once again danced on a blade’s edge, hearing the now dead mercenaries fall from their horses. The brilliant crimson of enemy soldiers wandered the field of dead, thrusting their uniform swords, stained a shining dark red, through the bodies before their feet. Despite their ferocity, they carried honour in their hearts. One of them, a middle-aged man with a hooked nose and pointed beard wandered about the others, pointing his broad fingers and shouting orders, though he was too far away for Gorenne to make out the words. His uniform was similar to the others but it was heavily gilded in a gold trim and blue steel plating. As he turned, the crest on his chest plate shone in the morning light, an elaborate shield with silver wings.

The Crown.

Gorenne’s face turned cold. Enemies of the crown. As she got to her feet, she saw archers heading up the rise to where she crouched, readying their crossbows to shoot them down. Including her. The battle wasn’t over.

Looking around for cover, she saw a fallen tree nearby and motioned toward it while keeping an eye on the archers. She saw the tell-tale sign that one of them had fired their bolt, and with the speed of a diving eagle, she drew her sword and parried the bolt from the air. It wasn’t enough, as another bolt was fired immediately after the first and struck her in her thigh. Howling, she pressed on despite the pain searing her leg and managed to crawl to the old log. Nearby, she saw the dead mercenaries, their blood steaming in the crisp morning air. Each one of them was shot clear in the head. They were good, but she was better.

Amidst their calls in the distance, she heard the whinnying of a horse nearby. Sure enough, a brown gelding stood deeper among the tree line, absentmindedly playing with the pine needles. A pang of excitement shot through her, though mixed with the regret that this animal was free due to the death of one of her comrades. Eyes wide, she winced as she turned to see the archers gaining ground between them, their stride unperturbed by all the death they had caused. They were bound by duty, just like her, yet she knew they would not leave a single soldier alive.

Gorenne found a stick in the underbrush and shoved it in her mouth to stave her cries of pain. Using the log for cover, she slowly crawled through the pine needles to where the horse stood waiting for its next rider. The thick smell of her own blood hot against her leg lay deep in her nose and mixed with the sweet aroma of pine sap made it sickly. As the debris slowly rumpled below her weight, the hard footsteps of the archers behind her drew closer. Even while she advanced, the brown gelding seemed a lifetime away. She knew they would make it to her before she could make her escape. She pressed her eyes shut as the frustration and fear kicked in. Not like this, she thought. Not like this!

“Commander Yukavila has called all surviving soldiers to convene where he stands!” A voice called, smooth and commanding, their enunciation was impeccable.

“Lord Hule,” one of the archers called back. His tone was arrogant and sounded as though he had coins in his mouth. “I respect the commander’s wishes, though there are runaway vagabonds scattered throughout the woodland. Our orders were to dispose of them as per the king’s request.”

“Your orders were,” The smooth voice projected, “at the behest of His Majesty, King Airal of the Gooseneck plains, first of his name, to follow the direction of Commander Yukavila, martial councillor of His Majesty for the Jundul regions. I respect your due diligence, but this was our missive.”

The others made dejected huffs, as though following their commander was a choice. Their uniform was remarkable, but their discipline was laudable! Gorenne rolled her eyes at this exchange, remembering her own troubles dealing with Frelon’s men. The thought amused her, and pained her greatly. “Very well, but we hunt down the deserters shortly thereafter.”

As Gorenne heard the archers stamp away, she clamoured toward the horse and bit down on the stick in her mouth until it drove splinters in her tongue. Tears streamed down her face as the pain washed over her, but after several long, aching moments she managed to make it to the beast. Gorenne spat the stick to the ground and began working on pulling the splinters from her mouth. She wasn’t a drinker, but a decent swig of brandy would ease the infection and the pain a great deal. Panting, she petted the horse’s forequarter. “Don’t worry, girl,” she breathed. “We’ll make it out of here soon enough”. The horse shook its mane and let out a soft whinny toward her, the hot breath from its nose brushed in her matted hair. Gritting her teeth, Gorenne slowly got to her feet and, with all her might, stumbled in to the saddle. The shock shooting from her pierced thigh caused her to yelp, and to this the gelding pranced a little in shock. “Woah now! Steady, girl. Steady”, Gorenne cooed, patting its mane.

She took one last look toward the battlefield, one look toward the forest, and turned the animal toward the trees, never to see Captain Frelon, or her band of mercenaries, again.

Shortly thereafter, as Gorenne meandered through the quiet woodland, a familiar voice called.

“Gorenne! Ha! Never thought I’d see the day when I’d look forward to seeing you.” It was the mousy haired girl from last night.

“I thought I told you to leave. Why are you still here?”

“Huh? Was that you?” Her laugh was a shrill cackle. “I thought I was seeing things.”

“I’m very real. What made you think I wasn’t?”

As Gorenne rounded toward her, the girl’s face contorted with serious concern. “What happened to you?”

Gorenne rolled her eyes, impatient by the idle chatter. “Are you going to get on or do you want us to get killed?”

She pointed toward the blood seeping from her wound. “Your leg-”

“Can wait.” Though for how long, she was unsure. “We have a window of escape, but I don’t know for how long. I’ll investigate the injuries once we’re clear of any pursuers. Right now,” her words were hoarse, and the blood loss was making her dizzy. “We need to escape.”

“Fine, but I’ll take the reins. You’re about to pass out from the blood loss and, by the look on your face, the adrenaline is wearing out fast.” The girl, wearing regular farmer’s clothes, jumped to the saddle just in front of Gorenne, then handed her a gourd.

“What’s this?”

“A mixture. It’ll slow your heart and contract your muscles just enough to stop the bleeding around your leg. In two hours, you’ll feel like a pincushion, but it’ll save your life.”

“I need brandy,” Gorenne retorted, pushing the gourd away.

“You don’t drink brandy.”

“It’s for the infection in my mouth.”

“Ah. You couldn’t find a better stick?” The girl handed her a bottle of alcohol, but before Gorenne could take it, the girl snatched it away, dangling it above the ground slowly moving below them. “Don’t swallow it. If you do, the mixture will react to the alcohol and poison you.”

Gorenne watched the girl with renewed confusion. This unassuming, scatterbrained fool of a girl had a glint of something new in her eye, as though what she had seen and what she sees now were two completely different people. “You’re a medicine girl,” Gorenne mumbled. It was a challenge to find the energy to be surprised.

The girl nodded her head. “So you better be listening.” The girl handed Gorenne the alcohol. “Swash, don’t swallow and spit it out. Boys don’t like it when you say that.”

Gorenne spat out the alcohol as the girl said this and spun her head around to face her. “Do you have to be so vulgar?”

The girl just smiled and traded her the alcohol for the gourd filled with the ‘mixture’. As Gorenne opened the lid, the most awful, pungent smell of fermented dung and burnt hair stung her nose.

“What in the Stars is this?” Gorenne cried. “I am not drinking this!”

“Yeah, it’s like that, but you need to live. The Stars led you to safety, and now you need to honour their choices.”

To this, Gorenne pinched her nose and took a decent mouthful, the horrid taste burning her mouth and throat as it slid to her stomach.

As time passed, the sound of hooves padding the earth lulled her, and the world became blurry and bizarre. As much as she tried to fight the sensation, her struggles only seemed to pull her deeper, deeper in a troubled slumber.