Episodul 5 · One More Morning

— I —

The soldier needed to find the banner before the smoke closed over it again.

He had seen it beyond the broken cart, a dark strip lifting above the helmets. His company should have been there. If he reached them, he could get into line, put his shield beside another man’s and wait for someone who understood the battle to tell him what to do.

An arrow struck the cart as he passed. He ducked behind the wheel and pressed his forehead against the damp wood. The shield on his arm was cracked from edge to center. His sword was still whole.

He counted the breaths it took to stop shaking, gave up counting, and looked around the wheel.

The banner had fallen.

— Here!

A man waved from a gap between two shields. Half his helmet was missing. The soldier recognized the broad chin before the smoke shifted across it.

He left the cart and ran toward him.

Blue light burst among the men ahead. It lifted the shields like leaves in a gust. The soldier saw one turn slowly in the air before the pressure hit his chest and threw him backward.

He came to on his side, trying to breathe through mud.

The cart lay nearer than before. Or he had been thrown back toward it. He could hear a high note that swallowed the horns and shouting, and when he pushed himself upright the ground tilted until he planted his hand again.

His shield hung from a twisted strap. He worked it off with fingers that kept missing the buckle. The sword had fallen beside the wheel. He crawled to it and closed both hands around the hilt.

Ahead, the gap between the shields was empty.

He called for the man with the broken helmet. His own voice sounded muffled, as though he were shouting through cloth. Nobody answered. At the second attempt, a cough doubled him over.

Smoke moved past the cart. Through it, he could see a clear stretch of ground leading toward the low bank where they had waited that morning.

He could get there. Beyond the bank were the supply wagons. Someone would know where the company had gone.

He looked down at his hands. The hilt trembled between them.

At home, his sister had once asked whether soldiers were afraid. He had told her that they were too busy. She had accepted that, because she was young enough to think an answer became true when you spoke it confidently.

He wanted very badly to be busy now.

The soldier stood and started for the bank.

A man emerged from the smoke ahead of him. Different armor. A sword held ready at shoulder height. The soldier lifted his own blade just before the man struck.

The impact drove through his wrist to his shoulder. He gave ground and tried to move toward the clear patch, but the man stepped across his path. Another blow came from the same side. He caught it with both hands on the hilt and felt his own sword touch his chest.

The man was stronger. He knew it too. He crowded closer, keeping the soldier’s blade high, then shoved hard enough to send him stumbling backward.

His heel hit a body.

He could not recover his footing before the next stroke. Instead, he let his knees fold. The blade passed above his face as he fell sideways into the mud.

For a moment he lay beside the dead man’s boots, sword trapped beneath his hip. The attacker stepped over the body to reach him. The soldier caught the planted ankle and pulled with everything he had left.

The boot slid. The man fell across him, driving the air out of his lungs.

He felt the sword arm moving between their bodies. He pushed his shoulder against it and held on. If the man got the blade free, there would be nothing he could do about the next thrust.

His knee found ground. He forced it under him, turned and shoved until they rolled together. Now the man was beneath him, one arm caught against his side.

Fingers clawed at the soldier’s cheek. He turned his face away and dragged his sword across the mud until he could bring its point beneath the man’s chin. The position was awkward. His right hand shook so badly that he put his left over it.

The man tried to lift his head.

The soldier leaned forward.

He kept his weight on the hilt until the hand fell from his face. Even then, he stayed over the body, waiting for another movement, afraid to lift the pressure.

At last he let himself breathe.

Him. Not me.

The relief was so great that he almost laughed. He was still here. He could get up, reach the bank, find the wagons. He would tell somebody about the man with the broken helmet.

Pain caught low in his belly when he tried to rise.

He looked down.

A short length of metal stood out through his armor. One side had a small rounded bump. Blood gathered beneath it, slipped over the lower plate and fell onto the man he had killed.

The soldier touched it. He could not remember being struck there.

He wiped his hand against his thigh and pressed it over the wound. More blood came between his fingers.

— Help!

The word scraped out of him. He tried to stand, but his legs folded and left him sitting in the mud. Two men ran past, watching the smoke ahead. He lifted an arm toward them. Neither turned.

The bank was still visible. It looked close enough for him to crawl to it.

He got onto one knee before the movement pulled something inside him. His breath stopped. When he could draw it again, it came shallow and quick, too little to carry another shout.

He sat back beside the dead man.

The kitchen at home returned with painful clarity. His mother moving a pot from the fire. His sister setting down bread with the burned side hidden. His own place between them, too narrow unless he kept his elbows in.

He had complained about that table. He had meant to earn enough to buy them a larger one.

Now he wanted the old table and the burned bread. One more morning crowded between them. He would wash the dishes afterward. He would even admit that he had been afraid.

His hands grew heavy over the wound.

The soldier lowered his head into the mud and tried to take a breath deep enough to call for help.

— I’m afraid, he whispered.

His chest rose once more. He waited for it to rise again.

The sounds of the battle went out.

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