C10 Chapter 10

Around one fire sat three men and a woman. One man cooked dinner, a fatty cut of the goat. Kalf cleared his throat to ease the reverent silence out of the group, and the other three looked up.

”It's ready,” said Kalf. He tossed a few handfuls of sand over the flames to take the heat down and readied wooden plates. ”Everyone cut off a hunk. And remember to eat slowly. I know we're all starving after today, but don't make yourself sick.”

Arn was the first to take his long knife and cut a slice. Viktra was next, mumbling something in her native Mongla as she took her helping and leaned back to eat. Orest, the youngest of the group, took his own small portion and chewed slowly, trying to focus on the flavor of juices and the texture of the meat.

A gap was between Kalf and Arn, large enough for another man to sit. Each of them glanced at the empty spot a few times as they ate, doing their best to ignore it but failing to notice it was no longer occupied and never would be again.

They ate in silence, but the sounds of dogs and vultures were loud in Orest's ears, and he let out a deep sigh, breaking the silence. How could they hear the scavengers miles from the battlefield? The desert was cruel and full of tricks, including the that of carrying sound for miles around.

Orest took another bite, being sure to fill his mouth, and hoping the mouthful would disguise his shaking voice, he said, ”Arn, why are you still wearing your chest plate? It's as hot as Odlik's crotch out here.”

”I don't think I could lift my arms if I tried,” Arn said. He was the oldest of them, near forty, with a thick black beard and a large head that sat heavy on his thick neck and broad shoulders. His vast arms bulged with muscles and tendons as they do after laborious exercise.

”Vat iss dat?” Viktra asked Orest. Her dreadlocked hair and multi-colored face-paint made her the most frightening of the group, at least in Orest's opinion. They had all decided on speaking Edoratha for her benefit, and even the common language she barely spoke.

”What is what?” he said.

”Vat you say...kratch?” She rolled her r's when she spoke.

The others chuckled in low tones, and Orest smirked. Kalf waved at Viktra, and she looked at him. He grabbed himself and gave the handful a shake.

”Crotch,” he said.

”Oh-ho,” said Viktra. ”Netchya voys gde zhanya. I understand. Very funny.” She laughed, showing her straight white teeth that contrasted with her brown skin, brown eyes, and dark hair.

”It's not so bad at night,” Arn told Orest. ”Today, I thought the heat would kill me if a cheed didn't get to me first. There were a few times I was sure I'd pass out. It got to the point that I wanted everything to end, not because I was afraid of dying, but because I needed a drink.”

Orest agreed it was colder at night, but that didn't mean much. Temperatures during the day in Lesh Kalae were hotter than anything they had experienced in Eirmanlenidh. The sun was bright, and the sand was hot to walk on, even while wearing shoes. Many soldiers had returned from the battle with blistered skin that had come in contact with their metal armor. Orest imagined he could fry an egg on his breastplate when the sun was highest. The night was hot enough to make him sweat, but it was a far sprint cooler than the inferno that was daytime, and he had to be grateful for that. They were Northerlings, used to mild, rainy summers and harsh freezing winters. They never imagined a place like Lesh Kalae existed. But part of being a Northerling was having the strength and the stubbornness to make it through any attack of man or nature. Heat and cold were two sides of the same coin.

Kalf swallowed his last bite and set his plate aside, then went into their shared tent. He emerged a moment later with a small wooden barrel under one arm and two cups in each hand. He distributed the cups, set the barrel on the rock that served as his chair, and opened the small corked hole on the side. The four of them passed cups around as Kalf filled them.

Viktra leaned forward and stared at the smudged writing on the barrel in the firelight. ”I do not know dis script.”

”Nawid,” Arn said. ”Kalaea for wine. Or at least something like wine.”

”Nav-vid,” Viktra repeated.

”Nawid,” Kalf said. ”You almost have it. You have a hard time pronouncing the wuh sound, don't you?”

”Vuh,” the woman said. ”I can say it.”

Kalf shook his head. ”At least we can all understand you. Sometimes I wonder if your name isn't actually Wiktra.”

”It is my name. Viktra!” She stared at the three of them in confusion as they all laughed.

The wine was warm and tasted like strawberries. Orest grimaced at the taste, but the burn of alcohol in his throat and belly made his aching muscles lose a bit of their pain, and he took another long chug. Arn drained half his cup in one gulp, sighed when he took the cup from his mouth, then drank the rest.

Arn smacked his lips. ”That...is some dung wine.” The others chuckled in agreement. ”Those cheeds were probably laughing to themselves, seeing us take these away.”

Viktra sneered at her cup. ”Ushla mzelko! You call dis drink? Pah! You do not know drink until you have ilozhnya from my home. Den, you know drink.”

The others took Viktra at her word and worked on emptying the barrel, not having any choice in their liquor. The silence settled back into the group. Off to the north, a dog yapped.

Arn rubbed his neck and scratched his beard. Kalf stared into the fire, grabbed a long stick, poked it. Sparks popped at spiraled upwards. The dog stopped barking. If the other groups in the camp were talking, they were using voices too soft for the four of them to hear.

Someone shouted, and they all jumped in their seats. Their heads turned toward the most enormous tent in the camp, just a few tents down from their own.

”Ulfhrem,” said Kalf. ”I wonder who's getting it this time.”

”Can you make out what they're saying?” Arn asked, leaning toward the prince's tent as if to hear better. They all shook their heads.

”Whatever it is, he isn't happy,” said Orest. He took a small sip of nawid. The more he drank, the less horrible it tasted. He felt warm, and it was oddly comfortable despite the hot night.

Two leading voices argued in Ulfhrem's tent, taking turns shouting. After several minutes of this, the voices stopped. A tent flap opened, letting out a stretch of bright lamplight onto the desert floor for a moment, and a man charged out with two men trailing after him.

”Who iss dat?” Viktra asked, but no one could tell in the dark.

Then at the northern end of camp, a bonfire made a tremendous woosh as it erupted in flames. The four soldiers turned their attention to it.

”The pyre,” Arn whispered.

Orest's stomach turned, and he looked to the empty spot across from him between Arn and Kalf. Rollen was as close as a brother to Orest. He had known the man his whole life. In a few hours, Rollen would be ash, mingled with the ash of hundreds of other soldiers who died today.

Another man exited Ulfhrem's tent, stealing back the group's attention, and stood in place with his hands on his hips, watching the men who left moments before as they walked to the south end of camp. The man let out a defeated sigh and looked up at the moon. Then he dropped his head, shook it, and ran a hand over his face. He looked up to see their fire, and the four of them sat up straight. The man made his way toward them, and soon Orest was able to recognize him in the firelight.

”Evening, men,” said Captain Rygg. ”Oh, and wyn. Mind if I share your fire for a spell?”

Kalf and Arn stood, and Orest and Viktra followed their example.

”Captain Rygg,” said Kalf. ”Please, make yourself comfortable.” He spoke in Edoratha, signaling to Rygg to switch languages.

”Thank you, gentlemen. And...” He gave an awkward nod to Viktra. The captain smiled at them all and made a grunt as he lowered himself to sit between Arn and Kalf.

”I'm sorry we can't offer you any goat,” Kalf said. ”We just finished off what we cooked.”

Rygg waved a hand. He wore a genial smile that shone through his eyes and lifted his short beard. ”I ate earlier,” he said. ”Although I could use a cup of that wine if you have any to spare.”

”Tastes like piss,” Orest blurted. Everyone looked at him. Kalf and Arn widened their eyes in shock, turning expectantly at Rygg. Orest swallowed and added, ”Sir.”

Viktra broke down laughing. After an awkward second, Rygg joined her. He closed his eyes and shook with laughter, and when he was finished, he said, ”I think I'll have some just the same.”

Kalf filled a cup and gave it to the captain, who tasted it and frowned.

”Well...” Rygg licked his lips and looked up in speculation. ”Of all the piss I've tasted, this is certainly in the lower half.” He winked at Orest, who flushed with embarrassment.

”Sir,” said Kalf. He nodded at Ulfhrem's tent. ”What was that about just now? If it's alright to ask.”

Rygg shook his head. ”Complications is all. The prince is constantly having to make difficult decisions, and often not all the officers agree with those decisions.”

”I hope it's nothing too bad,” said Arn. He had finished his fifth cup of nawid and was now drawing in the sand with a finger.

”That remains to be seen.” The captain drank more and scowled. ”You were right, boy. How old are you, anyway?”

”Seventeen, sir,” Orest said. He perked up, proud that a captain was speaking to him.

Rygg clicked his tongue. ”Same age I was when I joined up. That was some time ago...” His voice faded as he looked down at his lap, his lips parted, and his gaze far away. He looked up after a beat. ”I hope today wasn't too much for you all. Was this your first battle—what was your name?”

”Orest, sir. Yes, it was, but Captain Lier had me stay toward the back.”

”Don't resent him for it.”

”No, sir. I would've liked to...to have helped. But I was glad for the chance to, um...” The nawid clouded his thoughts.

”To get acclimated to a battlefield?” Rygg offered.

Orest nodded. ”I'm sure he'll have me fight in the next one. When do you think the next one will be, sir? Tomorrow?”

”No, no.” Rygg rolled his head around, and his neck popped a few times. He turned toward Kammun. ”The day after tomorrow will be the soonest, but I doubt it will be for some time. I, ah...” He looked around at the group. ”I take it your little group survived the day?”

They all shared a painful silence, and Orest stared at the ground where Rygg sat. Rygg saw him staring and noticed for the first time the sizable gap between Kalf and Arn. He frowned.

”I'm so sorry.” The captain sighed. ”He's in the Shatter now, safe and at peace. What was his name?”

After another silent beat, Kalf answered, ”Rollen.”

The captain raised his cup. The others raised theirs as well, whether or not they were empty. ”To Rollen,” Rygg declared.

”To Rollen,” repeated the others, and they drank whatever remained in their cups and saluted the stars above.

They gave Rollen's memory several moments of silence. In Orest's drunken mind, he saw a green valley between snow-capped mountains, riddled with willow trees. Hunting dogs barked, and a birch bow sounded with a twang, and the long-gone voice of Rollen shouted, ”You got him! Nice shot, Orest. A natural.”