Chapter 3
JO
I keep my eyes peeled for any sign of purple amid the bodies, but the red of Strou’s crest seems to be the predominant color.
For that I’m thankful. A nearby soldier places a foot against one of the dead, using the leverage to yank the curved saber from the chest with a wet squelch.
Curved blades have a tendency to get stuck once the blood thickens.
He inspects the blade before throwing it in a nearby keep barrow.
At least the end of the battlefield is in sight.
The last of the casualties littering the ground are being picked over for usable equipment while the dogwatch of soldiers piles the fallen bodies in a heap, ready to burn.
It takes two of our men to carry a single Strou warrior. Meaty bastards, the lot of them.
In the northern reaches of the continent, where the winters rarely mellow and they eat oxen for breakfast, the most brutal of men are raised.
If you can even call them that. Men. The scars marking their faces, arms, and chests give them a monstrous appearance.
A slash of hearthstone across their skin for every life taken by their hands.
I’ve seen the count leave their mouths in the heat of battle.
Trophies, General Samasu called them.
This fight in particular was short. Nothing more than a squabble before bedtime.
They’ve been toying with us for months since they’ve arrived.
They send a few hundred men down at a time, sometimes a thousand.
The numbers of men they ambush us with is always different, so we never know what the day will bring.
We’re not naive to their tactics: dividing our military’s focus, harrying us at random intervals to distract from their true intentions—getting aid and men across the gulf to Kenta.
We knew what they were doing the moment we received word that Strou warriors were spotted in the hillside just beyond our border.
It was expected, but not ideal as we hurried to spread battalions across the expanse of land neighboring ours, dividing our resources.
Food and supply have to be diverted in two opposite directions.
Things like food and water, as well as cots, clothing, and oil.
My breath escapes in a puff of fog as I release a sigh.
Night sits on the horizon, the stars already visible as the sky fades to gray.
Winter is closing in quickly this year and I’m not eager to embrace it.
My mother told me I’d get used to the bite from the wind and the smell of ice in the air, but I’ve yet to do so.
“You shouldn’t be out here.” I look over my shoulder and find the source of the exasperated voice. General Samasu points a wordless order to a soldier before giving me his full attention. “You need rest.”
I bend to pick up a stray dagger. “Speak for yourself, old man.”
Fredrich, the soldier beside him, shucks the commandeered weapons into the uncovered wagon.
I’ve heard the shielder speak all of five words in the months since we’ve been stationed here, so when he notices my stand-off with Sam, his slightly upturned lips catch me off guard.
Especially considering there’s no love lost between him and myself.
I first noticed Fredrich observing me back in Maile.
Lingering on rooftops or inside alleyways.
Always around, but never too close. When I mentioned a soldier had been following me to my mother, she admitted to speaking to Sam about getting me protection.
Not wanting to upset her, I accepted the tail, thinking my mother’s paranoia would wane over time.
But when I realized he had followed me to the border, I’d had enough, and I, in no uncertain terms, made sure he knew to stay away from me.
And in the face of my ire, all he did was stare at me with indifference.
I continue my search of the battlefield, swatting away the flies swarming around me with a wave, only for them to return a moment later. They’re a constant nuisance. Their buzz has followed us since the first battle, as if they know dinner will come if they hover around long enough.
The eyes of the dead are their favorite.
My gaze catches on the purple emblem peeking out from under an overturned Strou; a portion of the golden butterfly of the Maile’s crest is visible. I work my foot under the body, pushing the heavy warrior off of the man underneath.
My breath stutters in my chest.
The young boy’s face is familiar. I’ve seen him around camp. Son of a farmer, I believe. He would often turn his gaze away in my presence. At first I thought it was due to shyness, but over time I realized he was trying to hide his disdain for me. I suppose that was a kindness.
It’s odd. He looks almost peaceful, as if he were sleeping—if it weren’t for the scarlet blood splashed across his bone-white face. Most soldiers die with stricken faces, eyes wide as if their fight continued beyond the veil of life.
The ache in my chest somehow feels comforting and I welcome the sensation.
I raise my arm and wave, signaling a need for help with the retrieval of one of our fallen brethren. “Maile,” I yell.
A soldier nearby drops his weapons, another already stepping over the body at his feet as he moves toward me. I look back down at the Maile soldier and practically stop breathing altogether. His eyes are open, glossy as they stare up at me.
Alive.
He’s alive.
I drop to my knees. “Raina!” Gently holding the face of the soldier, I inspect his pupils, then the slow rise of his chest—the very shallow breath that takes entirely too long to draw in. “Raina!” I yell. “Someone get Raina!”
I hear footsteps pounding closer. “She’s coming,” someone informs me.
It feels like an eternity before the healer is sinking to her knees on the other side of the soldier. “I’m here,” she says, eyes already roving over the body, inspecting. “Remove his armor.”
My fingers fumble for the buckles at the side of his breastplate and Raina helps me remove the metal, heaving it aside. Any breath left in my lungs evaporates at the sight of the blade sticking from his abdomen. The dark, oblong blade of an ax. Black. Hearthstone.
Raina’s eyes meet mine and the dim resignation in her gaze is more fuel for the steady flame of anger that refuses to expire inside me.
“Try,” I order her. “Roll him over.”
I don’t wait for her to help, gripping the soldier by his leathers and heaving him onto his side. A low groan escapes him but Raina and I share a look in stony silence when we see his back. The ax is cleaved straight through his spine.
Raina’s voice is placating. “Jo—”
I ignore her as I wrench the blade out. The lack of blood that follows makes my heart sink again, and by the time I’m able to roll the soldier onto his back once again so I can see his face, his eyes have already glazed over—lifeless. The hand I place over his chest doesn’t move.
Dead.
In the span of mere seconds, he’s dead.
Sitting back on my haunches, I take in the soldier. No longer sleeping peacefully, his eyes—open and scared.
I wasted his last moments trying to save him, when I should have tried to offer him comfort instead.
Who am I kidding? He’s probably cursing my name all the way to the afterlife at this very moment.
I blink as I look up and realize we’re surrounded by fellow soldiers. Their faces are a barrage of pity and anger like mine, but some are indifferent, having seen enough death to be numb to the experience.
There’s a flash of golden hair as Sam shoulders through them, motioning for them to disperse with a flick of his wrist.
I force my legs underneath me. “Come on,” I tell him, standing by the dead soldier’s feet. “Let’s get him to the wagon.”
Sam doesn’t speak as he helps me lift the body.
We carry him to the enclosed cart, laying him next to the other fallen.
Sam removes the emblem from the soldier’s shoulder and I take it from him, tacking it to the side of the wagon and smoothing it down with a closed fist. It’ll inform the families of the soldiers’ identities when they’re transported into the city for claim and burial.
Today’s count currently stands at seventeen. Not a bad number in comparison to others.
Sam stops me from returning to the battlefield with a hand banded around my upper arm. “You’re done for tonight.”
I move to shrug off his grasp, but he doesn’t budge.
“Jovinnia,” he says, using my full name. “You’ve done enough.”
My hard stare meets his eyes, the color of wheat, and I consider putting him in his place, that ever-present anger in my chest eager for a fight.
As if sensing the fire ready to spew from my mouth, he lets me go. “The field is nearly cleared.”
I look toward the clearing and, sure enough, the flickers of growing flames begin to envelope the dead of the Strou, a plume of gray smoke reaching into the sky.
My gaze shifts to the dots of smoke in the distance.
Up in the hills, our enemy settles in for the night.
They can undoubtedly see the evidence of their comrades’ cremation.
Relenting, I nod and Sam tries and fails to hide his relief.
The exhaustion in the camp is palpable when I reach its boundary.
I can feel the eyes of my men on me as I trudge through.
The same men I fight alongside, eat with, mourn with.
It was important to prove my worth to each of them, those men sent to fight a war I initiated.
I just didn’t realize the scale of the guilt that would come in the wake of my choices, or how heavy it would make their regard.
They bow their heads in a show of respect as I pass by, and I deny myself the reprieve of looking away.
The hours immediately after battle are always quiet, but there’s something especially burdensome about the silence around the campfires tonight.
Like the shortness of the skirmish makes the death of our men feel all the more senseless.
The camp feels barren in contrast to the bustling tents from when we first set up camp.
When there was only just enough space to walk due to the overcrowding.
At least everyone has a bed now.