Mitchell Smith - Moonrise

… There was time enough, searching through the Infantry rows, stopping at camp-fires to curious glances – glances from eyes often reflecting silver circles by firelight – there was more than time enough to consider and reconsider. To say to himself, "My God," that ancient and most basic of Warm-time's copybook pleas for attention, salvation. "My God…" What had seemed both clear and clearly necessary only a while before, now seemed dubious, badly mistaken.

Nancy – how would she do if he were killed? What slashing blow in a storm of fighting would catch her unaware, with him not there to parry it? What injury, even accidental, on the ice and surrounded by Shrike savages?… And he lying dead here in permafrost, broken by a brute, and left behind forever.

Certainly, it seemed to Baj – walking through freezing night past fires' warm shadows – certainly the woman in Nancy would forgive him if he decided on caution after all – and after all his speech-making. The woman in Nancy would be relieved, understand, and forgive what there might be to forgive.

But the fox in her – even the small portion contributed – would not. The vixen swimming through Nancy's veins, crested with russet fur, golden eyes slit-pupiled, would never quite trust herself to him again… nor wish Baj to sire her kits, who must be brave.

So, foolishness perhaps, and perhaps not – but he was surely, in the copybook phrase, "stuck with it."

At the eleventh fire, he found George Brock-Robin – recognized him by the broad, furred back, the wide flat skull and small, rounded ears. Very little Sunriser-human to be seen – at least from behind.

Brock-Robin was with other Moonrisers – four bear-bloods – so he sat the smallest at the fire.

Baj took a breath, and stepped beside him – watched though the smoke by brown eyes under great shelves of brow.

"You," Baj said, "need a lesson in keeping your hands to yourself."

The badger-blood looked up, his thick neck requiring some shoulder-turn to do it. Brock-Robin's eyes were gray, their pupils very small. "You're not the first to say so," he said, the words sizzling a little liquidly, from the muzzle conformation of his mouth.

"The last, though," Baj said, "that you'll be hearing."

One of the others chuckled.

"Sounds dire," Brock-Robin said, "- but the girl's a whore, and our quarrel about money." He turned back to the fire.

"I've been told it's no use to call you a liar -"

"Been told true, boy." One of the others, his voice as deep and fine as Richard's. "That's only description, not insult."

Chuckles around the fire. They seemed jolly soldiers.

"And to call you coward – I was told everyone knew otherwise."

"True." Brock-Robin turned to look up at Baj again, and seemed to be smiling.

"Then, the rest of what you are must be due to your mother. In Boston's pens, instead of the Talents' tinkering, she must have preferred to go to all fours to be fucked in the ass by the boar-badger itself… to produce the shit you are."

Then, no chuckles. The camp-fire's flames seemed to fall and flicker to the beat of Baj's heart.

Brock-Robin slowly stood, close enough so Baj could smell his harsh odor amid the dung-fire's stinging smoke.

"Say that what you just said, Sunriser-boy, is not so."

"I will – after you come to Nancy-Thrush, kneel down before her, and beg her pardon."

Standing, the Person was a little shorter than Baj – and easily twice as wide. In only hide trousers, hide jerkin, and boots – unarmed, unarmored – he still looked able to grip and break Baj's arms at the shoulder-joints, to lack and stave in his ribs… and considering fangs, tear out his throat.

"Not in camp!" One of the soldiers at the fire.

"No," Brock-Robin said, "not in camp. Will you fight a decided-duel, boy? Come over the ditch with me?"

"Now and by moonlight, if you like."

"Dawnlight will do." Brock-Robin nodded pleasantly, and gestured to their fire. "Join us? We're discussing this interesting expedition north."

"Thank you, no," Baj said, and bowed to the others. "- I'll need a good night's sleep to kill you clean." And walked away from more fireside chuckles… Jolly soldiers.

"You are a fool a fool a fool!"

"More than possibly, sweetheart. But I offered him a chance to come and apologize."

The four of them – including Errol, who seemed troubled as if he understood – sat staring at him. Then Richard sighed. "Baj…" pronouncing the name as if in mourning. "Baj, in a decided-duel – and the Wolf-General may not allow it, would not allow it if you were in the Guard, and a higher or lower rank – in a decided-duel, you meet over the camp ditch, with officers presiding. You fight with personal weapons only, and wear no helmet, no armor."

"Fair enough." It was beginning to seem more a dream than not, with a dream's floating, almost sensible conversation.

"We can go," Nancy said. "We can go!"

"No," Patience said. "We can't – and wouldn't be allowed to, unless Sylvia permitted."

"I don't mind!" Nancy tugged on Baj's arm. "I don't mind. I forgive him – he was drunk."

"But I don't forgive him, sweetheart."

"You'll have your sword and dagger, Baj," Richard said, "there'd be no objection to them. He'll carry short-sword and shield."

"Shield…"

"That's what he fights with, Baj. What all Light Infantry fights with."

"But he rides."

"Rides, yes – to carry the standard. But he's still Light Infantry."

"The shield," Patience said, "will make a difficulty."

"Then I'll have to make it his difficulty."

Another silence, and staring, as if he'd changed to a great mushroom.

Richard cleared his throat. "Tomorrow? No delay?"

"Tomorrow, as I understand."

"Too bad. Too bad… We could have practiced you a little against sword-and-shield. Many, many tricks to that."

"I have practiced that sort of fighting, Richard – though not often. I won't really know his way, and he won't know mine."

"Yes… Remember this, Baj: a shield is also a weapon. I've known fierce fighters killed by the edge of a shield, with no blood on a sword at all."

"I will keep that in mind."

"You have no mind," Nancy said. "You're a boy and a fool. I should have let him fuck me, and been quiet – and you would have known nothing!"

"I would have known… everything," Baj said, and when she began to weep, caught her in his arms.

Fearful when he lay down with Nancy curled tight against him under their blankets, Baj sank to sleep surprisingly swiftly… and was surprised again on waking (after no dreaming at all) to stretch luxuriously under warm wool, against a warm girl, and feel very well in gray end-of-night, with a light snowfall drifting.

Lord Winter had stepped down from the Wall.

He was up, and the others were up – even ignorant Errol – looking worried, weary in the weather.

"The cold will slow you, Baj – and snow on the tundra makes it slippery…"

"Richard, I'll step light and wear no parky; the exercise will warm me."

Nancy, crouched striking sparks into grass starters for their fire, mouthed the word exercise, but didn't say it.

As the little dung-heap lit, smoking nastily, its chunks rimmed red, Baj – feeling perfectly calm, really very well – noticed with surprise that his hands were shaking. A fine tremor that seemed to vibrate up his arms. So, if he wasn't frightened, his body seemed to be.

If the others noticed – and they must have noticed – they said nothing.

Patience, wrapped in her new greatcoat of colors, walked away to the mess-tent with their tin bowls.