Chapter 14 The Battle of the Field of Parting
For several days they dawdled from khan to khan, enjoying the rustic villages of Trans-Titan in the sunshine of autumn, glad to be sleeping under roofs, bathing, and eating properly cooked food. They had been nearly out of money, but now Minoz supplied their lack with curious gold coins from his homeland, stamped with the image of a Dragon, and with ‘dragons’ they replaced their tattered clothes. Then in a bazaar in the smallest of villages, Simone came across a small but exquisitely crafted nevel and bought it for Abram. He began to pluck out melodies on it, while wincing from the pain in his shoulder.
When they were still far from their rendezvous with Snag and Snart below Mount Rinna, they began to hear rumors of a dreadful invasion in the north of the land. No two stories matched, but all seemed to confirm Abram and Simone’s prophecies. An army of strangers had come, they were told, and had spread cruel depredations. Mald had them quicken their pace, hoping to escape the fate of this little country.
On the foggy morning of October twenty-seventh, actual refugees arrived outside the khan where the travelers had just finished breakfast and were donning their packs. About thirty wagons jammed the road, each drawn by an ox or a sloth and overflowing with possessions; and beside trudged hundreds of Perg peasants.
King Minoz spoke to a gray haired patriarch among them.
“Kroz-chieftain! What’s happened in the north, and who did it?”
“The filthy dogs!” said the old man. “Sigapoleians, infidels! Many, many thousands of them came from across the mountains. They robbed us, burnt our crops and our houses, and killed anyone who stood in their way. We are some of the lucky ones who got away.”
Minoz looked down the line of wagons, noting that a few refugees, crippled with age, were allowed to ride. Young mothers walked, carrying babies in their arms.
“Are there many more coming?”
“Yes, very many more.”
“And what about our army?”
“Broken in battle,” said the old man. “Some say they were wiped out to the last man.”
Minoz gripped the old man’s shoulder. “These stories, they’re often exaggerated. If our army is broken, they’ll regroup. Don’t give up hope.”
He returned to Simone and the others and reported what the old man had said.
“If the invaders are so close,” said Mald, “we’d better go up in the mountains and sit it out.”
“Yes, go,” Minoz said, “but at a time like this my place is with my country’s army, if there’s any army left. This country is mine, so I bear a special responsibility.”
“They’re all mine,” said Simone, “so I’m going to get help for these Trans-Titanites.”
For once Mald did not argue.
Arriz settled his heavy, shabbily robed figure on a field chair, stroked his long moustache ends, and contemplated suicide. That is, he contemplated the near certain necessity of suicide after his army would fight and lose on the morrow.
“Fifteen engagements, two major battles—and we lost them all,” he said. “You’d think Thoz would have favored us just once.”
Across the field tent his aide Crito raised his eyes from his writing. “It’s a wonder we still have an army,” he said. “But that’s what I’m calling us. I’ve written: ‘From Arriz of Muros, Commander of the Grand Army of Trans-Titan; to Pyrus, commander of the Army of Farja.’ How shall I continue?”
Arriz slapped Pyrus’ recently delivered letter against his knee and cursed. “He demands the boy Pretender!—a blond headed boy with a strange accent, and possibly traveling in the company of a Mangar, of all things. Crito, couldn’t we take one of our young fellows, dye his hair, and send him?”
Crito clucked regretfully. “But what about the accent? And we can’t fake a Mangar. Also, Pyrus says he has someone who can identify the boy by face. What was her name?”
Arriz rescanned the letter. “Lady Metuza Zeezur-Hytra.”
“That was it.”
“‘...the Pretender must be delivered over to us this day, or the Army of Farja will destroy you in the morning,’” Arriz read aloud from the document. He sighed. “Would to Thoz we had him to give to them. The officers are still—?”
“Yes, General, continuous search is being made for him. But we’ve been looking for several days now. I’m convinced he’s not with us.” The oil lamp sputtered and Crito rose to trim the wick. “So what shall I write?”
Arriz rose. “Let’s go for a walk first. We have all night to answer, and really there’s nothing to say. Tomorrow we fight for our lives, that’s all. Pyrus will have cut the valley road west, and his korfy riders hold the crossroads east. With Mount Rinna at our backs, we’ve no place left to retreat.”
Crito slowly nodded. “So here we are on the last corner of Trans-Titan left to us. It’s good to die on our own soil. Let’s not try to break through the bird riders.”
“Agreed,” said Arriz, and the two threw on their cloaks and went out.
It was late on October twenty-ninth as under a cloudy night sky they walked the camp. Here were some thirty-four thousand Trans-Titanites, the most men Arriz had yet been able to gather in one place. But actually it was the enemy who had gathered them, driving them into this corner with alternating threats and crushing defeats. The camp held the remnants of four armies that had suffered in this way. The other three generals were dead, two in battle and one by suicide.
Arriz did not need daylight to know that what had been herded together here was hardly a fighting force. Spears, swords, shields, and armor had been thrown down in flight; supply trains abandoned; and the best officers lost in holding actions, covering continual retreats. He smiled bitterly to think that the Farjan army was reported as smaller than his own. What difference did it make? The enemy was well armed, well fed, confident, and above all well disciplined. Pergs just could not follow orders the way these westerners could. Tonight he would make a plan of battle, knowing that no one would follow it. Frightened and uninspired, the men would break and run as before. Tomorrow would bring a terrible slaughter, and he could do nothing to prevent it.
At least he had managed to send his wounded and the civilian refugees west before Pyrus could close the valley road. But after tomorrow’s battle, the Farjans could pursue those wagons with no more threat of Arriz’ army on their flank. The untouched west of Trans-Titan would lie open to them all the way to the Long Wall. Thus their mad search for the foreign boy could continue till all Trans-Titan was in ruins.
“Who’s this?” said Crito at his side. They had drawn near a knot of noisy men: soldiers struggling to hold a civilian. Several torches showed them the prisoner, a bright eyed, middle aged man who, upon seeing Arriz, shouted his name.
Arriz identified the senior officer present by his red chin strap. “Report.”
“We took his sword from him, sir. He’s that Minoz that calls himself the Unknown King. He says he wants to talk to you.”
“Very important!” insisted Minoz, his eyes popping. “An army is in Mount Rinna that could help you. Not Ulrigs—humans.”
Arriz beckoned and the soldiers pulled Minoz nearer.
“An army of humans in Rinna? Impossible. But I’ll let you tell your story in a moment.” Arriz turned to Crito. “You remember this rogue, how he used to skulk around our Interpreter’s court at Muros? He’s one of those mad beggars from the Far East who think they’re the Kings of the Fold.”
“I remember him, General. I must say I’ve not heard that he begs, but I know his ridiculous claims. This about humans in Rinna is new though, isn’t it?”
“They are there,” Minoz said stoutly. “Four thousand armed men of the Forest States. They’ve come by way of—”
“Wait, wait!” said Arriz laughing. “From the Forest States? How did they fly here? And who leads this phantom band?”
Minoz’ face hardened. “They are led by the
Queen of the prophecy, sister to the Emperor.”
His soldiers joined in Arriz’ laughter. “Of course, your highness, of course.”
“Don’t mock me, listen to me!” said Minoz. “Arriz, send a message to Rinna by way of the Ulrigs and addressed to Princess Simone. Implore her to bring the Forestmen to your aid tomorrow morning. Otherwise, your army is doomed.”
Arriz looked thoughtful. “Crito, have the proper message prepared—and whipped into this moonstruck clown’s back. Then send him up the mountain. Perhaps the Ulrigs will be as amused by him as we are.”
Arriz walked on while Crito hung back and spoke to the officer. “Just let him go, and I’ll take the responsibility. He can’t help his madness, and anyway, they say it’s bad luck to harm an Unknown King.”
“You see, Empress, that I have done as you commanded.”
Towering over the travelers, Dramun gestured with a stony claw across the expanse of Mount Rinna’s Pamanbrem, or council hall, a vast chamber hidden within the mountain. Countless lamps showed them not only the human army that Dramun had dutifully shepherded through the Ulrig tunnels, but many thousands of Ulrigs as well.
Simone stepped forward with Misu perched on her left arm and Mald on her right shoulder; Snag and Snart once again at her sides; and Athlaz and Abram at hand. Still in her soldier’s garb, she showed a face under her helmet both tired and determined.
“Yes, Dramun, very good. I’ll consider returning you to my personal guard.”
The Dragon stiffened and mumbled something about being “over honored.”
“You know about the invasion of Trans-Titan?” she asked. “We have to discuss what’s to be done.”
“Of course, Your Eminence. We wish to discuss this and much else at the proper time. But for now, these nobles wish only to greet and honor you. If you’ll come to the central table....”
They made their way down to a massive stone table set in the middle and lowest part of the Pamanbrem and lined on all sides by throne-like chairs. From all around, the host of humans and Ulrigs looked down; and seeing Simone come into view, the men stood and shouted, raising their swords, and the Ulrigs howled their approbation.
Simone rolled her eyes at Athlaz as if to say, ‘Here we go again.’
At the table were many Ulrig nobles and human iron house Masters. They rose and bowed to Simone.
“I have been chosen to speak for all,” said one of the Ulrigs. “I am Misar Shill of the Tem Staltara.”
“You can trust him,” Misu whispered to Simone. “He’s one of the best of the Ulrigs and a friend of mine.”
“He’s one of the few Ulrigs to be honored with the title of Misar,” added Mald in her other ear.
“We welcome you gladly, great Empress,” Shill was saying, “and congratulate you on your safe arrival. Tomorrow will be a day of council for all of us. But since the hour is late, we’ve arranged that you first be escorted to the royal chambers we’ve prepared. There you can rest and be suitably attired.”
Simone raised her eyebrows. “Rest? Now, Misar? With a terrible battle about to be fought on the plain?”
Shill paused uncertainly. “It is not our affair. What do you wish, Your Eminence?”
Simone eased herself into the chair at the head of the table and looked around with a tight grin. “Everyone sit down while Misar Shill explains himself. Speak loudly so the troops can hear you.”
An hour—and six speeches—later, Simone’s counselors were ready to sum up. “Interference in the human’s battle is out of the question for all the reasons stated,” said the Ulrig Senator Drel. “First, it’s not our quarrel. Second, the Ulrigs can’t do anything because the Pergs hate us and would fight us more fiercely than they do the Farjans. Third, four thousand men are not enough to turn the tide: the Trans-Titanites are bound to lose regardless. Finally, it puts your royal person at risk, Simone, and that is unthinkable.
“Putting that aside then, we are left with one decision only and that is how to bring the Empress to Colonia. The eastern road is now blocked by Farjan korfy riders. Of course, we have ample force to sweep them aside, but not by my counsel. After tomorrow’s battle these riders will move away with the rest of their army. If we wait a day or two, we need risk no one on the plain, and Simone has a clear way to her destination. I welcome other views, but I think we were pretty much agreed on this course before the Empress arrived.”
The Empress was drumming her fingers and had a wild look in her eye. “Can anyone tell me why these Farjans have invaded Trans-Titan?”
Misar Shill answered. “Your Eminence, they came around the northern end of the mountains, chasing the Pretender. Our spies tell us the Farjan general demands the Pretender be turned over to him, or he will devastate all of Trans-Titan.”
“He’s pretty far along on that,” said Mald from where he sat on the table near Simone. “Men and Ulrigs, don’t the Farjans seem to be swatting flies with a catapult? Why all this massive expense and effort to get one boy? Well, doesn’t it suggest that the Pretender might really be Simone’s brother the Emperor, whatever the Farjans may say?”
The nobles were silent and uncomfortable. Only Shill spoke at last. “I’ve wondered the same thing,” he said tentatively. “Go on, Misar Mald.”
“This Farjan invasion has the stamp of Monophthalmos on it,” Mald said. “The old crumbly has done this sort of thing before, you know, inciting one nation to devastate another. Furthermore, Farja has long been a stronghold of the witch cult. Even the Farjan council is infiltrated by them. I speak of the Hytra family, the worst clan of deceivers and murderers to ever disgrace the Fold. The Smoke Hag, too, is often in Farja. I more deduce than guess that the witches have now gained enough power over that city to direct the army, and that’s great power indeed.”
Shill howled softly. “You chill me, Misar. I thought this was the usual human warfare and not a move by Monophthalmos.”
Simone stroked Mald with tense fingers. “You told me once that Monophthalmos is my great enemy. I know it now. This has to be stopped.”
“Yes, Empress, your enemy,” said Mald. “But fortunately he has known nothing about your whereabouts except perhaps that you were at the Palace of Reflections months ago. The Vulture could have told him that. But if you now go down to the plain and show yourself, that’s the first pawn move in a deadly game.”
“What’s this?” said Dramun, stirring behind Simone’s chair. “No one says anything of the Empress going anywhere near the battle. Her safety has been risked enough through the folly of the Fijats.”
“Shut up, Dramun,” Simone said agitatedly.
“No, Empress. I must oppose folly. This Mald is trying to kill you.”
Simone virtually leaped from her chair and faced Dramun, her sword drawn.
“Take it back, Scale Tail, or I’ll make you eat the lie.”
Although Dramun was four feet taller than Simone and many times her bulk, no one in the Pamanbrem laughed. Only Athlaz might have been seen to smile approvingly as he reached for his sword hilts. Snag and Snart glided between Simone and Dramun, but neither drew his sword.
Dramun’s nostrils quivered and blew smoke. “I’ll not be made a fool of. And I’ll not lie. Mald’s counsel has put you at risk of death, Simone.”
“You said he tried to kill me,” shouted Simone, her face red. “Take it back!”
The Dragon waved a deprecatory claw. “An exaggeration, Your Eminence. I—uh—retract the statement.”
“Good. Fine. Then you’re back in my bodyguard, so report to Captain Snag.” Simone turned around and jumped onto the tabletop. “Listen, all of you! I can’t knock down all their practical arguments about leaving the Pergs to their fate; I can’t deal with debaters’ points. But I feel the terrible wrongness of it, the filthy self-servingness. Repulsive!”
Without quite realizing it, Simone was waving her drawn sword, and many of t
he Forestmen drew their swords in sympathy, so that the sound of ringing metal filled the hall. Simone waited till all was quiet.
“I order all the Ulrigs—except those in my personal guard—to stay here. I myself, and my bard Abram, are called down to the battle. If anyone else wants to go, they can. But you’re free to stay here.”
“This is nonsense!” Dramun erupted.
Simone turned on him with a murderous look.
“Seeming nonsense,” he quietly amended.”
“General Arriz, wake up! General? We have confirmed reports of a force of humans coming down from the mountain. In fact, their envoys are on their way to see you.”
Arriz looked at Crito with astonishment. “Have you sent a reply to Pyrus yet?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, wait until we’re clear on whether these people are with us.”
“Yes.”
“And that Minoz—I suppose he’s already been whipped?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“No? Get him in here. He must have had real information after all.”
Handsome, well dressed General Pyrus of the army of Farja stood on a hill and watched the battle lines form. Below him was his own army, lined up stiff and straight as wooden soldiers, twenty thousand of them, and the late morning light gleamed on their helmets and armor. Beyond were the Perg forces, more numerous, less orderly; their line late in forming—the incompetent fools.
What was this? He saw that a section of the Perg line was entirely missing, a good quarter mile of the center. Arriz was bumbling again. If that gap remained another half hour, Pyrus intended to take advantage of it. He turned to the officers and aides gathered behind him and issued orders accordingly.
A runner approached and handed a packet to one of the aides who in turn brought it to Pyrus.
“The reply from General Arriz, sir.”
Pyrus took and opened it. “He’s late with this as with everything else, Demas. Arriz is such a child. You know, I’m almost tired of beating him. One wants a challenge.” His dark eyebrows raised. “Another defiance, but this one has a twist. He threatens us with reinforcements that he supposedly received during the night. Hm, foreigners? And where did they supposedly come from? He doesn’t say wh—” Pyrus paused, his face frozen, and all eyes turned to him. He looked up again at the battle lines. “Captain Timod, watch that gap in the Perg line and report to me on it. I believe it will be filled by a few thousand mercenaries. Everyone hold this position till I return.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Demas, with me.”
Pyrus began to stride off the hill with surprising speed, aiming for the camp, but halted at the approach of the parties he was looking for. Several slave-bearers carried a two-seated litter toward him. The closed box with drawn curtains at the windows halted just beside him. Pyrus stood by a curtain and waited respectfully till he was spoken to. Presently, a creaking, rasping voice came from within.
“Slaughter them, Pyrus.”
“Yes, Priestess, we will.”
“Watch for the boy.”
“Everyone has his orders, Priestess. No one will escape us. But I have something curious to report.” He could hear wheezing, labored breath through the curtain, but no comment came. Silence, he decided, was encouragement. “The reply from Arriz just arrived, late, and he sends us defiance. That’s expected. What’s interesting is this part....” He reopened the message and read, “‘Our defiance is seconded by Simone, Lady of Lucilla, Princess of Eschor, Queen of the Prophecy, and Empress of the Fold.’ He doesn’t quite say that this Pretender is with him but—it’s implied.”
A whispered consultation took place within the litter and momentarily the curtain was pulled back, revealing a young and beautiful woman, her hand extended to receive the letter. As Pyrus handed it to her, he saw that she was leaning across from the far side. In the nearer seat was the shrunken, veiled figure of a woman bent with age. The curtain shot across the window again. A little time passed, then the Priestess spoke, her cracked voice quivering with emotion.
“She’s here, another Pretender. Bring me her, too. The whole army must watch for her. She’ll be young and have Sarrs with her. A strange accent like the other. Tall and skinny. Tell your men.”
“Yes, Priestess.” He nodded to Demas who ran off to deliver the message to the army. “I go now to the battle, Priestess. We’ve only waited till the sun rose high enough to be out of our eyes.”
“It’s almost noon. Go then.”
“With alacrity, Priestess. You and the Lady Zeezur-Hytra will be pleased with the result of this day.”
Pyrus quickly returned to the top of the hill, followed slowly by the litter, for the Priestess apparently intended to watch the slaughter. He found that the gap in the Perg line was now almost filled with the expected foreign troops, standing tall in greens and browns and looking better armed than the natives. Where in Fowroz’ name had they come from? He at least knew that the pretended Empress, if she existed, would likely be found among these newcomers.
Again he gathered his commanders. “A change of plan. Concentrate the battle against the mercenaries in the center. When their line is broken, search in the rear for the woman who has been described to you, and take her at all costs. Search their wagons, their baggage. She may be hiding anywhere. Understood?”
Several nodded. At the same moment a single horn blew in front of the Perg line, followed at once by thousands more. One of Pyrus’ men looked around and dropped his jaw. “Sir! The Pergs are advancing! Sir, they’re attacking!”
Still in her soldier’s garb, with the addition of a shield, Simone stood among the officers, both Perg and Forester, and looked up at Athlaz.
“We have to attack, and all along the line,” he insisted again. “I know, General Arriz, that your people are disorganized and slow to follow orders, but if horns are blown at every point on the line at once, and if your officers lead out, the men will follow. We Foresters have sent runners through every part of your line, announcing about Simone. Your people are excited by her arrival, ready to try anything.”
“Maybe, maybe,” said Arriz petulantly, “but why attack? We hold the high ground here.”
Athlaz answered as calmly as if he were not repeating himself for the fourth time. “Because in past battles your shield line has been broken in every defense, Arriz, high ground or not. Your people are not defensive fighters. Also, because it will dishearten the enemy when they discover that you have taken the initiative from them.”
Arriz seemed to make up his mind about something, for he changed his tack. “And who will take responsibility if this strategy fails?” he asked.
Athlaz glanced down at Simone. She understood at once and, laying a palm on his great arm, said, “I’ll take responsibility. As Empress, I relieve you of all accountability, Arriz, except to carry out the attack.”
“It will be on your head, then?” Arriz looked her in the eye.
Simone paused, remembering the two bandits she had killed in the mountains. Now she was ordering an attack that would leave thousands dead in the field. It flashed through her mind that she should have ordered the Ulrigs to take Arriz’ army into Mount Rinna, to safety. But would the Ulrigs have obeyed, or the Pergs have accepted? Too late now, anyway. She glanced up at Athlaz and just caught a wink from him. She grinned shakily.
“Yes, on my head,” she said loudly for all to hear.
“Very good, Your Eminence.”
Arriz turned and dispatched his officers to both ends of the line, spreading word of the attack. Then Simone’s entourage moved to the very front of where the Forestmen stood facing the enemy. Snag and Snart were with her, still robed and cowled for discretion’s sake after their morning’s march among the Pergs. Dramun was undisguisable, but had needed no protection. The Pergs, and even the Forestmen, kept their distance from him. Misu and Mald rode upon him, and
at his side walked the Unknown King Minoz, summoned by Arriz, his sword restored to him.
Simone looked at the dread ranks of the Farjans, so far invincible in every battle. “You aren’t thinking of sending me to the rear?” she asked Athlaz with a hint of challenge.
“I know you wouldn’t stay back for long,” he said. “Better to have you up here where I can at least see you. Just promise that you’ll stick close to me.”
“Of course!”
He handed her his horn. “Go out in front and blow this, hell-bat.”
Drawing her sword, she strode out many yards into the tall grass to where the army could see her. They began to cheer for her by name. When she looked back to Athlaz, he nodded to her and pantomimed the blowing of a horn. She raised the horn and blew.
Then the earth stirred as by thousands and by thousands the army behind her surged forward, thronging together, and she was caught up with them, running to battle. Athlaz somehow got her shield off her back and onto her arm. He was shouting something to her, but she could not hear over the roar of the men and the blowing of thousands of horns.
“Freedom for the sons of the Forest,” she shouted with them as she ran.
The whole earth resounded. Thousands of trumpets answered from the enemy lines with high, piercing tones as the heavens dinned and the earth trembled. The Trans-Titanites’ ten thousands held their course, thronging down upon the Farjans as if heaven was falling. Before the lines met, the arrows flew from both sides. Simone was astonished at the great cloud of them, so that Snag had to grab her shield and pull it up above her head. A moment later the arrows hit, quick as light and thick as snowflakes in winter. Men fell everywhere, pierced through. Then with a gasp she saw the end of an arrow sticking out of Snag’s shoulder as he loped ahead of her. The Ulrig dropped his shield, but kept running. She screamed her anger and frustration and ran faster.
Then came the sling-thrown stones, smashing even thick armor, sending men spinning to the ground. But just beyond was the solid wall of enemy shields, spears extending out from between them. The line Simone had started running with was no longer a line but a mob, attacking disjointedly. Nevertheless, the men ahead of her crashed into the Farjans here and there with a crack of spears and a crash of shields.
Moments later she did it herself, slipping between two spears and hurling her shield against one of those in the line. To her surprise the man fell down, and she tumbled over him. She leaped up like a cat and began stabbing with her sword at the backs of the enemy. After that she lost all track of the battle except to know that the field was full of Farjans and Forestmen in wild melee, wounding and killing one another at a furious rate. Shields split, helms rolled away, tall men fell, and blood spouted. She stumbled here and there, giving and blocking sword blows, nearly falling over bodies, screaming fiercely; often whirling around to make sure no one was behind her. Her personal guard was scattered from her, and she had no time to look for them, but did, once, see Dramun rearing up above the humans a great distance away and spewing fire from his mouth.
When at last the battle front moved and the throng thinned around her, she looked around at a field of dead and wounded, and only here and there a Forestman standing or walking. The field was discolored with blood, and battle flags lay on the ground. As for the men who had fallen, Farjan and Forestman, they were too ghastly to look at. Enough of them were still moving to give the field a strange, crawling effect.
With her stomach churning, she loped away toward a little stand of woods, hoping to escape the horror. But it was no better. Wounded soldiers wandered throughout that wood, crawling and walking, and it’s paths were bloody streams. Anguish and misery was upon them all. Meanwhile, the uproar of the battle, not far away, never stopped for a second. Simone watched two men step warily around each other, neither knowing whether to stab a foe or spare a friend, since both were so all-over blood as to be unrecognizable. Many others were in the same state. She slumped with her back against a tree and, for a moment, thought that the tree was trembling, but realized at once that it was her own thin shoulders.
Lex saw the boy first and pointed him out to his squad. “One of the Foresters, fellows, a youngster over there by that tree. Looks paralyzed with fright. Probably his first battle.”
They approached the Forestman, a tall, skinny youth with grimy face and dented shield. To Lex’s surprise, the baby-face lurched into a fighting stance, his sword raised.
“Easy, boy. Can’t you see we’re allies? We owe the day to you Southerners. We want to thank you, not hurt you.”
“You’re—Pergs.” He lowered his sword.
“Gotcha. Just give yourself a shake and come along with us. We’ll show you the way to the front. That’s where we’re going.”
“Unless he’d rather stay here,” laughed one of Lex’s men. “I think he’s seen more of a fight than he looked for. Probably ready to go home and hunt rabbits.”
“Stifle that,” said Lex. “You saw he’s ready to fight anyone. What’ve we done anyway? Didn’t have any weapons and had to wait till we could pick ‘em up from the dead. This soldier was probably in the main charge while we did dirt nothing. But maybe there’s some battle left, so off we go. Come along, boy, you’re with friends. Tell us the truth, how many Farjans did you lay down?”
“I didn’t kill anybody,” Simone said thickly as she went with them.
“No? Bad luck. But you’ll do better next time. There now, you’re walking real good. You’re doing fine.”