K Parker: Shadow

Instead he contrived to put his foot in a pothole and go down hard on his face. A stone found his cheekbone, jarring him painfully enough to make him cry out. What the drunk made of the sound he never found out; best guess was that he took it for a challenge or a battle-cry, because the next sound was that of a sword blade cutting empty air as the drunk drew and slashed at where he thought his enemy ought to be. All wrong, of course, but a drunk waving a sharp object about in the dark can be just as dangerous as a well-trained swordsman-worse, in some cases, since his moves are irrational, therefore impossible to read and predict. Staying still was probably the best policy, except that the drunk was very close now, so close that he could easily blunder into him. More choices, more decisions… Just for once, couldn't something contrive to happen on its own, without him having any say in the matter?

He decided to run; after all, nothing to be gained here… He got up as quietly as he could; but the drunk appeared to have taken root, he couldn't hear his footsteps or breathing any more. That was bad.

'Got you, you bastard!' A loud swish and a disturbance in the air told him that the drunk was fencing at shadows again, this time uncomfortably close. He backed away, as quietly as he could (and that was very quietly indeed, apparently), and was just starting to think he'd made it when something hit him in the back. It turned out to be the back wheel of the cart.

'Is that you?' the woman's voice called out nervously.

That didn't help. The drunk must have assumed that he was trying to get in the cart, to steal it or kill the woman or whatever. He roared angrily and charged, and the chunk of wood on bone announced that he'd run into something, probably the boom. Anyhow, it was a fix of sorts, enough information to let him decide which direction was away. It was just bad luck that the woman chose that moment to start fooling around with a tinderbox.

There would still have been time to run, he decided later; he'd got that wrong, that was all there was to it. In the event, as soon as he heard flint and steel noises he froze, torn between running and some dumb notion of getting underneath the cart and hiding there. While he was still trying to make his mind up, the drunk came blundering in his direction, still swiping with his sword. He felt the slipstream, a cold breeze on his face -And the rest was pure instinct. He could have sworn he'd forgotten all about the sword he'd taken from the dead man in the river combe, but in the time it took him to figure out what he was doing his hand had found the hilt and started to draw. The first he knew about it was the sound of steel in flesh (no other sound like that in the world, a hissing, sucking, solid, meaty noise) and the shock of impact travelling up his arm to his shoulder.

His first thought was that the drunk had cut him. It was only the heavy thump of a body hitting first the side of the cart then the ground that started him wondering if in fact it had been the other way round. Then he realised there was something in his right hand, and remembered about the dead soldier's sword, which he hadn't even looked at all day. What the hell did I do that for? he asked himself, just as the woman's fourth attempt at lighting the tinderbox succeeded, and the small orange glow caught the corner of his eye.

Light to see by, growing quickly as she applied the tinder to the wick of a lamp. As the lamp opened up the darkness like a folded blanket, he saw first his hand around the hilt of a sword, and beyond that something like a sack or a pile of bedclothes, slumped at the base of the cart's front wheel.

'Who the hell are you?' said the woman's voice, somewhere above his head.

He'd have answered if he could. Instead he knelt down and turned the body over. Interestingly, the cut started just under the right ear and carried on down to the collarbone. Of course, that may have been pure random chance.

'He's dead,' he announced, superfluously.

'Fuck,' the woman said. 'Oh, that's bloody marvellous, that is.'

This time he looked round, surprised at her tone of voice, which suggested a lame horse or a broken wheel. She was holding the lamp up in front of her, so all he could see was a vague reflection of light off her face and one white hand. He wondered whether it would be safe to put his sword away, then realised he'd just done it.

'Bloody marvellous,' the woman repeated. 'Now what am I going to do?'

All he could think of to say was, 'I'm sorry,' because he was. That didn't seem to impress the woman very much.

'You're sorry,' she said. 'Thank you, but that's a fat lot of good. What the hell did you have to go and do that for?'

He looked at her. 'He was trying to kill me,' he said.

'Was he?' She didn't seem surprised, or particularly interested. 'He always was a bloody fool, and a liability. I should never have let him get his hands on the stuff. God knows, he was dumb enough sober. Oh hell,' she added. 'Just my typical rotten luck.'

Maybe if he'd still had his memory, he'd have known how to cope with the situation. Just then the lamp guttered-the rain, presumably, or the wind-and went out. He caught his breath. He'd never have a better chance to make a run for it, and surely it had to be the most, the only sensible thing to do. Instead he waited patiently while she scraped and swore at the tinderbox.

'Let me try,' he heard himself suggest.

'Get lost.' There was the orange glow again, followed by ivory lamplight. 'There used to be a glass bell for this lamp, but the bloody fool dropped it. Never knew anybody quite so clumsy. Here, let's have a look at you.' She swung the lamp towards him; this time he caught the instinct in plenty of time and suppressed it, letting his hand fall off the sword hilt and back to his side. 'My God,' she said, 'what the hell have you been up to? You look like you just went for a swim in the slurry pit.'

'Thank you,' he replied. 'Actually, that's not far off…'

'Whatever.' She moved the lamp a little closer to his face. He made an effort to keep still. 'Who did you say you are?'

'I was asleep,' he replied. 'Your cart nearly ran me over. Then he came after me with a sword. When he got too close, I must have just lashed out. I'm sorry.'

'You keep saying that.' He could just make out her eyes, by the reflection of the lamp in them. 'And that's not what I asked. Who are you?'

This time he couldn't resist saying it, because it had been a long day and he was past caring. 'You know,' he said, 'that's a very good question.'

'What kind of an answer is that?' she said.

He recognised the tone of voice: disapproval, impatience, stop-being-silly-this-is-serious. Straight answer, 'I'm afraid,' he replied, yawning. 'I haven't a clue who I am. I got bashed over the head'-no need for awkward details just now-'and I can't remember anything. I've been wandering about all day, and-'

'Oh,' the woman said. 'I see. Still doesn't give you any right to go killing people in the middle of nowhere.'

He couldn't help frowning at that; why was the location so important? 'I'm sorry,' he said, for a third time. 'It was him or me. Whoever I am, I'd rather not get killed by some drunk for not lying still and getting run over. Who was he?' he went on. 'Your husband?'

The woman laughed. 'Do me a favour,' she said. 'No, he was my god.'

'Your what?'

'My god. And a bloody hard time I had finding him, too. Waste of effort that turned out to be.'

Let's assume there's a rational explanation. 'What are you talking about?' he asked, as gently as he could manage.

'What? Oh, I see what you mean. He wasn't a real god,' the woman explained. 'Actually, I don't believe in gods; well, it'd be rather hard to do that in my line of work.'