Paul Hoffman - The Left Hand of God

An hour later Cale was overcome by an abrupt wave of exhaustion. He looked for a way into the woods and, failing to find an entry through the mass of briars and thorns between the trees, had to cut a way in, though he was slashed over his face and arms as he did so. Once past the edge, however, the thickets gave way to a mulch of dead leaves. He tied the horse and eased Conn carefully to the ground. He stared at him for a couple of minutes as if unable to understand what had brought them to this place together. He set his leg as gently as he could and strapped it with two branches he cut from an ash tree. Then he lay down and immediately fell into a deep and terrible sleep.

He woke up two hours later when the nightmares became unbearable. Conn Materazzi was still unconscious, now white as death. Cale knew that he had to find water at least, but he was drained and exhausted still, and for ten minutes he just sat as if in some dreadful trance. Soon Conn began groaning and moving restlessly; he woke up to find Cale staring down at him. He cried out in horror and confusion.

“Calm down. You’re all right.”

Wide-eyed and terrified, Conn tried to move back and away from Cale. He screamed in pain. “I wouldn’t try moving around,” said Cale. “Your thigh bone’s broken.” For a couple of minutes Conn said nothing as the terrible pain in his leg only slowly ebbed away.

“What happened?” he said at last. Cale told him. When he’d finished, Conn said nothing for some time. “The thing is,” he said when he finally spoke, “I never saw one-a Redeemer, I mean. Not one. Is there any water?” Conn’s utter hopelessness and misery, just the terrible state of him, began to move Cale to both pity and irritation.

“I saw some smoke just before we came in here. I thought I heard yesterday something about a village near the hill. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He stripped the armor off the horse and cut away as much as he could of the mailed padding on its back and flanks and then led it out onto the path. He mounted and stroked the top of its head.

“Thank you,” he said to the horse, and then rode it on.

Within three hours Conn Materazzi had been collected by a local farmer, put to bed and had his leg reset and rigidly splinted with four hazel sticks and eight leather straps. He’d passed out again and groaned pitifully during the hour or so it took Cale to straighten the leg satisfactorily, and had not yet regained consciousness. Indeed, he was so deathly white at the end that it didn’t look as if he ever would.

“Cut his hair,” said Cale to the farmer, “and bury his armor in the woods in case the Redeemers come. Tell them he’s a laborer. If I make it to Memphis, they’ll send people for him. They’ll pay you. If not, he’ll pay you when he’s well enough.”

The farmer looked at Cale. “Keep your advice, and your money.” And with that he left them alone together. Shortly after this, Conn woke up. The two of them stared at each other for some time.

“I remember now,” said Conn. “I asked for your help.”

“Yes.”

“Where is this place?”

“A farm, two hours from the battle.”

“My leg hurts.”

“It’ll need to stay like that for six weeks. No telling if it will heal straight.”

“Why did you save me?”

“I don’t know.”

“I wouldn’t have done the same for you.”

Cale shrugged. “You never know about things like that until they happen. Anyway, I did-and that’s all there is.”

Neither of them said anything for some time.

“What are you going to do now?”

“I’ll head for Memphis in the morning. If I make it, I’ll send someone.”

“And then?”

“I’ll take my friends and go somewhere the soldiers aren’t mad and stupid. I didn’t think it was possible to lose a battle from such a position. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it.”

“We won’t make the same mistake again.”

“What makes you think you’ll get the chance? Princeps won’t hang around at Silbury admiring himself in the mirror; he’ll be kicking your arse all the way to the gates of Memphis.”

“We’ll regroup.”

“With what? Three out of every four Materazzi are dead already.” Conn could say nothing in reply, but lay back miserably and closed his eyes.

“I wish I were dead,” he said at last.

Cale laughed. “You need to make up your mind-that’s not what you said this morning.”

Conn looked, if such a thing were possible, even more dispirited. “I’m not ungrateful,” he muttered.

“Not ungrateful?” said Cale. “Does that mean you’re grateful?”

“Yes, I’m grateful.” Conn closed his eyes again. “All my friends, all my relatives, my father, every one of them is dead.”

“Probably.”

“Certainly.”

This was probably true, so Cale could think of nothing to say.

“You should sleep. There’s nothing else you can do anyway but get better and pay the Redeemers back in whatever way you can. Remember: revenge is the best revenge.”

And on this wise note he left Conn to his miserable thoughts.

The next morning at first light he left, riding the horse and having decided there was no need to say good-bye to Conn. He had, he thought, done more than enough for him and was now somewhat ashamed of having risked his life for someone who, by his own admission, would not have done the same for him. He remembered a remark made by IdrisPukke when they had been smoking together one night under the moonlight at Treetops: “Always resist your first impulses. They are often generous.” At the time Cale thought this was just another of IdrisPukke’s black jokes. Now he realized what he’d been driving at.

Despite his anxiety to get back to Memphis to be sure Arbell Swan-Neck was safe, Cale started out heading northeast in a wide arc away from the city. There were going to be too many Redeemers and Materazzi wandering about in the confusion, and none of them too particular about who they killed. He avoided towns and villages and bought food only from such isolated farms as he came across. Even so, news of a great battle had reached all of them; though some talked of a great victory others spoke of a great defeat. He said that he knew nothing about it and moved on quickly.

On the third day he turned west and headed for Memphis. Eventually he hit the Agger Road that ran from Somkheti to the capital. It was deserted. He waited in the trees above the road for an hour and, when nothing passed by, decided to risk using the road directly. This turned out to be his third mistake in four days. A strange unease had grown over him the closer he got to Memphis. Within ten minutes a Materazzi patrol came around a sharp corner and he had no opportunity to avoid them. At least they weren’t Redeemers, and he was relieved, if surprised, to see that the man leading them was Captain Albin. Though what the head of the Materazzi intelligence service was doing out here puzzled him. But puzzlement turned to alarm as the twenty men with Albin drew their weapons. Four of them were archers on horseback, their arrows pointing directly at Cale’s chest.

“What’s the problem?” said Cale.

“Look, it’s out of our hands, but you’re under arrest,” said Albin. “Don’t cause a fuss, there’s a good boy. We’re going to tie your hands.”

Cale had no choice but to do as he was told. Probably, he thought, the Marshal was angry about his having left Arbell with Kleist and Vague Henri. An alarming thought struck him.

“Is Arbell Materazzi all right?”

“She’s fine,” said Albin, “though perhaps you should have thought more about that before you buggered off to wherever it was you buggered off to.”