Empire of Ashes

Chapter LVIII - Crow-Picking

I've been on holiday with a bunch of school friends without wifi, so I spent the whole week playing 'how long can I spend typing on my laptop without someone getting suspicious.' The answer was about ten minutes, but the joke's on them - I just snuck out to write while they were sleeping, so this chap is brought to you from some very sleepy 3 am's :)

I didn't give chase with the others. Neither did Anlai, Fendur and Tem. As soon as there was an opening, we slipped backwards, towards the wagons. It was a difficult walk because there were corpses strewn everywhere and worse — the ones who were still clinging to life, who cried and writhed on the scree and begged us to help.

I didn't find it very difficult to ignore them, those dying, desperate strangers. As horrible as it seemed, instinct told me to keep away, and once combined with the purpose of reaching Colloe in time, it was easy to overpower that tiny soft and pitying part of my heart.

We reached the carts, which were overrun with the children and those who had been too weak to fight. They were watching the slave army chase down the few remaining Anglians with grim satisfaction. But upon seeing us, the blood-painted tatters of the northern warriors, they were almost falling over each other to get out of the way, carving us a path to the further of the two carts.

Colloe was leaning against a wheel, sat hunched over to keep the tear in his stomach closed. There was a little boy no older than ten holding a wad of fabric to his wound, but it was already soaked with red. His face was deathly pale, and he was having trouble keeping his eyes open.

We formed a circle around him in silence, and we took off helmets, laid down swords and shields and caught our breaths. I savoured the feel of the wind against my sweaty scalp, and it was a relief to let my aching arms hang loose for the first time in an hour.

"We won," Tem said quietly. He had stuffed his broken hand back into a glove, doubtless to hide it from Colloe.

"Aye, boy, I've been watching," he assured him. "An easy victory, all things considered."

The warlord shrugged. "A messy victory. The Anglians broke too easily. They can't have been as well-trained as we assumed."

He made a clumsy gesture at his shredded stomach. "Well-trained or not, this was just rotten luck. I was not finding them worthy opponents."

With a humourless attempt at a smile, Colloe fumbled for his belt pouch with shaking, clumsy fingers. And from within, he drew out something. It was small, black, and about the size of his palm. A piece of slate. I felt a memory stirring — a conversation beside an ocean. A conversation about death.

He pressed it into Tem's palm. "For the necropolis. Twenty-seven years of fighting for Sierra — I think I have damn well earned that much, heroic death or nay."

"Of course," Tem murmured, like it would be unthinkable to have done anything else. The man spilling his lifeblood onto Anglian soil had spent his entire life fighting for Tem's father and then Tem himself. He was about to die for that exact same cause. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that he had earned the necropolis a thousand times over.

"Anlai," he said next, and the golden-haired warrior raised an eyebrow. "He will be short an Iyrak. No time for a melee. I don't like you, and I never have, but you're better than nothing."

"He's my cousin," Anlai retorted. "So I don't need your blessing to protect him, old man."

Colloe snorted. "If you turn that fire against our enemies for once, stripling, this war will end all the quicker. Now, where's the girl?"

I had been half-hidden behind Anlai, so I stepped directly into his line of sight. He beckoned me closer until I was crouched beside him and his mouth was beside my ear. Tem frowned, shifting his weight from foot to foot because he had realised that he wouldn't be privy to our conversation.