K Parker - Devices and Desires

They were looking at him; some at his face, some at the blood trickling through the joints of his leg-armour. He'd forgotten all about it.

'What happened to you?' someone said.

The scope of the question appalled him for a moment; then he realised it was just his stupid wound they were talking about. 'Friendly fire,' he said briskly. 'I guess I'm the only man on the field who got hit by one of our arrows.' He started to dismount, but something went wrong. His left leg couldn't take any weight, and he ended up in a heap on the ground.

He yelled at them not to fuss as they pulled him to his feet; it was ridiculous, bothering with him when there were thousands of men gradually dying on the other side of the brake. Before he could forbid it, someone sent a runner for the surgeon. Stupid. No time for that.

'We've got to get out of here,' someone was saying. 'They don't seem to be following up right now, but we've got to assume we'll have their cavalry after us any minute. Does anybody know where anybody is?'

Orsea had views of his own on the subject, but quite suddenly he wasn't feeling too good. Dizziness, like he'd been drinking; and he couldn't think of words. He opened his mouth to say something, but his mind had gone blank. His arms and head seemed to weigh far too much…

When he woke up, the sky had turned to canvas. He looked at it for a moment; he could see the weave, and the lines of stitching at the seams. He realised he was lying on his back, on cushions piled on a heap of empty sacks. His throat was ridiculously dry, and he felt so weak…

'He's coming round,' someone said. (Fine; treat me like I'm not here.) 'Go and fetch Ducas, and the doctor.'

He knew that voice, but while he'd been asleep, someone had burgled his mind and stolen all the names. He tried to lift his head, but his muscles had wilted.

'Lie still,' someone else said. 'You've lost a hell of a lot of blood.'

No I haven't, he wanted to say. He let his head slip back on to the cushion. There were heavy springs bearing on his eyelids, and the light hurt. 'Where is this?' he heard himself say, in a tiny little voice.

'God only knows,' someone said, just outside his limited circle of vision. 'Just to the right of the middle of nowhere. We've rounded up what we can of the army and the Mezentines seem to have lost interest in us, so we've pitched camp. Miel Ducas is running things; I've sent someone to fetch him.'

He definitely knew that voice, but it didn't belong here. It was absurdly out of context; it belonged in a garden, a little square patch of green and brown boxed in by mud-brick walls. His father's house. Now he knew who the speaker was; his second oldest friend, after Miel Ducas. Fancy not recognising someone you'd grown up with.

'Cordea?' he muttered.

'Right here.' There was something slightly brittle about Cordea's voice, but that was only to be expected in the circumstances. 'They got the arrow out,' he was saying, 'they had a hell of a job with it. Apparently it was right up against the artery, nicked it but didn't cut into it. The doctor didn't dare draw it out, for fear of the barbs slicing right through. In the end he had to go in from the side, so you're pretty badly cut up. Infection's the biggest risk, of course-'

'Shut up about my stupid leg,' Orsea interrupted. 'What about the battle? How many…?'

He couldn't bring himself to finish the question. Simple matter of pronouns; how many of our men did I kill?

'Nine thousand dead.' Cordea's voice was completely flat. 'Two thousand badly wounded, another three thousand cut up but on their feet.' Cordea paused. 'Miel insisted on going back with his lancers and the wagons; he picked up about eight hundred before they started shooting at him. Of course the surgeons can't cope with numbers like that, so we'll lose another two, three hundred just getting home. Actually, it could've been a whole lot worse.'

Well, of course it could. But it was plenty bad enough. 'Has anybody got any idea what those things were?' Orsea asked.

Cordea nodded. 'Tell you about it later,' he said. 'Look, it was me said that Miel should take charge; only I couldn't think of anybody else. Are you all right with that?'

Orsea tried to laugh. Talk about your stupid questions. 'Absolutely fine,' he said.

'Only, I know you and he don't always get on…'

'Cordea, that was when we were twelve.' He wanted to laugh, but apparently he couldn't. 'What about moving on?' he said. 'We can't just stay here, wherever the hell we are.'

'In the morning. They're shattered, we'd lose people if we tried to move out tonight. We've got sentries, in case they attack.'

'How far…?' Dizzy again. He gave in and closed his eyes. If he let himself drift back to sleep, maybe he'd wake up to find it had all been taken care of. He'd never wanted to be a duke anyway. 'Ask Miel…' he began to say, but the sentence didn't get finished.

'It's a real stroke of luck, him getting wounded.'

He'd opened his eyes but it was still dark; there was just a glimmer of lighter blue. He lay still.

'There's going to be hell to pay,' Miel's voice went on, 'but we'll make out he's at death's door, it'll go down well. No need to tell anybody it was one of our arrows.'

'Tell them he was a hero, fighting a desperate rearguard action so the army could escape,' someone else said. 'I'd rather we were bringing home a victory, but a glorious defeat's not so bad. Better than a bloody good hiding, anyway. How's the water holding out?'

'Not wonderful,' Miel answered. 'Thank God we were able to save the barrels, or we'd be completely screwed. As it is, we'll probably get to the foothills tomorrow night, and there's plenty of springs coming down off the mountains. You'd better cut the ration, though. The horses should come first, we can't afford to lose any more.'

'All right.' The second voice was getting further away. 'We were right, though, weren't we? I mean, basically it was a good idea.'

He heard Miel laugh. 'No,' he said. 'No, it was a bloody stupid idea. Maybe next time when he says, let's not pick a fight with the Mezentine Empire, somebody'll listen.'

(But that's wrong, Orsea wanted to say. I was against it to begin with, but then they explained and I realised they were right. It made good sense, it was the bigger, broader view, and the only reason I was against it at the start was fear…)

'Doctor's here,' someone else called out. 'Is he awake?'

'No,' Miel replied. 'At least, I don't think so. Tell him to wait, I'll take a look.'

They lit a lamp so the doctor could see what he was doing. Not anyone Orsea had ever seen before; he looked drained, as was only to be expected. His eyes were red, and all he said when the examination was over was, 'He'll keep. Just don't bounce him up and down too much.'

'I'll bear that in mind.' Miel turned his head, knelt down beside him, and for the first time since the battle, Orsea saw his face without the thick, obscuring smear of caked blood.

'Hello,' Miel said. 'How are you doing?'

He was glad he hadn't had to see it before they stitched it up; but Miel wouldn't be getting the sort of stares he was used to from the pretty girls in future. Orsea felt bad about that; he knew how much it meant to him, always being the best-looking, never having to try. Well, that was a thing of the past, too.

'Awful,' he replied. 'How about you?'

Miel shrugged. 'Things are pretty much under control,' he said. 'One more march should see us off this fucking plain. I don't see them following us up the mountain. I've sent ahead for what we need most.'

Orsea closed his eyes. 'I was lucky,' he said.

'You bet. Another sixteenth of an inch, the doctor said-'

'That's not what I meant. I was lucky I got hurt. It meant I got to sleep through all the worst bits, and you've had to cope. I'm sorry about that.'