The soldiers fled in the direction they had originally come from.
I sat there in the wagon, heart thumping like a trapped animal. I’d never known such terror nor witnessed such carnage. I was split in twain, one half morbidly fascinated and disgusted by such violence and waste of life, the other half celebrating that I’d survived, and glad it was me sitting there in my sweat and stink, still breathing, and not lying in a heap at the back of the wagon like a bloody bundle of meat.
I climbed out of the wagon and saw Braylar in the distance, slowly riding in my direction, the crossbow hanging from the strap at his side. Then I heard a noise below me, and suddenly remembered the other soldier Braylar had bashed out of the wagon. He was in the grass, struggling to crawl out from beneath the horse and harness. I wasn’t sure if I should slink back into the wagon or call for help. He tried to stand, wobbled and almost fell back to his knees. That’s when he turned and saw me, the front of his gambeson covered in blood, face a ruin, eyes full of fear.
The soldier turned and stumbled as he tried to run. I waved to Braylar and realized I was still holding the dagger-the bloodied soldier must have assumed I was coming to finish him off.
Braylar saw me and pushed his horse to a trot, and then saw the fleeing soldier and spurred his horse forward, riding hard.
The soldier hadn’t gone far when Braylar turned his horse before him, the crossbow aimed at his chest. The soldier stopped, realizing he couldn’t outrun a bolt, and dropped to his knees, arms raised in the air, the left more awkwardly, as the gambeson was torn near the elbow and Braylar’s earlier strike had clearly wounded him there as well.
While I’d been paralyzed by fear just a moment before, I now found myself scrambling off the bench and down into the grass, nearly falling face first as I did, shouting “no” as I ran up to the pair.
Braylar looked at me and made no effort to disguise his irritation. “Is there something you need?”
I stopped alongside the soldier. “Wait. Don’t do this.”
Braylar glanced at the dagger and back to me. “Do you wish to do it, then?”
“No. And I don’t want you to either.”
Braylar’s horse pawed the grassy earth, equally as impatient as his master. “And what would you have me do? Take him prisoner?”
The question was asked in such a way that any answer other than “no” would only be worthy of ridicule. I replied, “And why not?”
“Perhaps you’ve forgotten, but we’re headed back to civilization soon. Perhaps you’ve also forgotten, civilization is a place where they don’t appreciate their militia-even their thieving bandit militia-being held captive after their entire outfit has been killed or driven from the field. Please tell me you’ve forgotten these facts, lest I think you a complete ass.”
“You can’t kill him,” I replied.
“I can. In fact, it isn’t altogether difficult.” Braylar drummed his fingers along the outside of his crossbow. “A little pressure is all it takes. Now, step aside unless you want his blood on you.”
The soldier moaned then, a mournful, honking sound through his battered nose. I pleaded, “Don’t take him prisoner, then-release him.”
“Simply let him wander into the wilderness, until he winds up getting torn to pieces by a hungry family of rippers or skinned alive by Grass Dogs? Is that your idea of mercy, then? It would be better to kill him quick now.”
He leveled the crossbow at the soldier’s chest, but I surprised all three of us by stepping in front of the soldier. “He’s unarmed,” I protested. “Badly injured. He’s no danger to you.”
Braylar didn’t lower the crossbow, and for an instant I was sure I’d acted far too rashly, but he didn’t shoot. “Injuries heal. And what’s more, tongues wag. He’s seen me. That’s no large matter-the others who fled, they can identify me as well. But he’s also seen you. This unarmed, badly injured boy who’s so wholly won your heart, he’s the only one who knows you exist.”
I couldn’t argue this point, and so didn’t. “If his life or death don’t affect you, only me, shouldn’t I be the one deciding his fate?”
Braylar lowered the crossbow slightly and his horse snorted. “And you would have me let him go, even though he can identify you? You have your own fate to consider, so I recommend you consider it well.”
I turned and looked down at the soldier, his arms still in the air. There was a large welt on the side of his head, his eyes were bloodshot, nose twisted in the wrong direction, lips swollen to obscene proportions, face crusted with dark blood. I knew what I was doing might be madness, or at least monstrous stupidity, but I’d seen enough bloodshed for one day. And so I said to the solider, “Do you swear that you won’t speak of what happened here?”
He nodded quickly as spittle dribbled from the corners of his lips.
I couldn’t hope to intimidate like Braylar might, so I mustered as much solemnity as possible. “You must swear it. On the life I’m giving you. Swear that you’ll say nothing of this. If your commander or comrades ask what befell you, you must say you were struck in the head, which your injuries will bear out, and that you remember only falling from the wagon, crawling free when this man rode off, and then riding off yourself before he returned. If you speak of what occurred here, or of me, I won’t do anything to save you again. In fact, this man will likely take his time killing you, and enjoy every moment. Do you understand?”
He nodded and said he did, although it was absurdly difficult to make out through his torn and puffy lips.
I asked, “And you swear to reveal nothing?”
He said, with a great deal of desperation, “Ah sweah.”
Braylar laughed behind me, clearly mocking, but I didn’t turn around. I believed the soldier meant his oath just then, but I wasn’t certain he’d keep it. Still, there was no turning back. So I told him he could have his horse and whatever food and water he’d brought.
He looked past my shoulder, at Braylar, and back to me again, wondering if he was being toyed with.
I told him to go and I thought tears would roll down his cheeks. He said, “Thank oo” and tripped over his feet, barely righting himself as he ran off through the grass to claim his horse.
Even after he was in the saddle, he gave a final furtive look in our direction before digging his heels into his horse’s flanks and galloping off.
Braylar ordered me to remove the body from the wagon. I balked, but he insisted, claiming I was lucky that was the full extent of my punishment, given my incompetence during the battle and foolishness after. There wasn’t much I could say to that.
After steeling myself to the task, I unlatched the back gate of the wagon. The dead soldier was slumped in a pile, the floorboards stained a dark red all around, nearly black. I took hold of his belt and the one ankle I could reach, closed my eyes and tried unsuccessfully to pretend I was moving something other than a body, and pulled until I felt the weight slide free of the gate and fall in the grass. Forcing myself not to look at the body or its awful wounds, I quickly walked to the front. Braylar was standing next to the horses. He moved from one to the next, rubbing their necks, wiping them down with handfuls of grass, and though it was difficult to reconcile coming from a man who’d shot two men today and struck down two more, he was apologizing to the horses for having to endure such an ordeal.
I stood there, looking at the spear that was still lodged in the seat. My eyes traveled up to the canvas flap, and the small spray of blood, the handiwork of Braylar’s buckler. Looking away, I noticed he was walking into the grass. His back was stiff, arms at his sides, feet heavy and halting as if his balance were off.
Wondering if he was hurt, I called after him, but he didn’t respond. I started after him.