Exile to the Stars (The Alarai Chronicles) (77 page)

That
was not the truth. Linked with Balko’s mind, the distance could easily be
bridged. Down deep, something would not let him contact Gaereth or Carl. Some
dark mood that grew stronger by the day.

“As
you have suggested, Lieutenant, we will proceed cautiously and stay within the
forest whenever possible until we understand what awaits us. If the siege is
not broken, we will march to our camp north of Rugen.”

Neither
Jeff nor Helwin could bear to mention another possibility. Rugen might have
fallen to the Salchek.

That
night, moved by a deep need for the solace of music, Jeff groped around in his gear
bag looking for the recorder. Coming up empty-handed and feeling something akin
to panic, he feverishly dug deeper. His hand touched cold plastic at the bottom
of the bag. Grasping the cylinder, Jeff snaked it out. And blankly looked at
half a recorder, the jagged edges of one end pointing at his heart like a
spear.

He
was immobilized by a sense of grief that went far beyond the fact of a broken
instrument. Jeff could not believe that it was gone, that his music was gone. A
tear gathered in each eye and quivered uncertainly. He was holding the
mouthpiece fragment, raised it to his lips and blew. A squawking screech cut
his soul. Two tears fell into the snow and disappeared.

Thirty-five
surviving warriors and seventeen horses filed out of camp in a silent line.
Jeff had made his farewells to the two packs of wolves several days earlier
when they announced their intent to leave on an extended hunt to rebuild their
strength. They also intended to do some recruiting. Both packs had lost three
or four wolves.

A
week or so after they resumed their journey, Helwin discovered a body sticking
halfway out of the snow. Remembering the agony of their trek north, the troop
gathered around the frozen corpse and stared.

The
body was so emaciated it appeared more a skeleton than once a thing of flesh.
It lay on its back with jaw agape and arms thrown wide. Frozen eyes stared into
a future they all knew one day would also be theirs. Warriors who had faced
death in battle without a thought began muttering sympathy and unease.

“Captain,
this is not good. We must leave before fear of such death accomplishes what the
living could not.”

“I
agree, although my heart tells me that worse is to come. I believe we are
seeing the answer to the first question.”

“Yes
sir, but I do not understand this.” Helwin gestured at the body. “There is game
aplenty in the forest.”

“The
Salchek conscripted town folk, Helwin. Farmers and tradesmen, not hunters. I
also suspect that this man was in desperate straits by the time he deserted. He
never had a chance.”

From
that point on they encountered many bodies. Huddled together in death, strewn
among and within makeshift huts, more often they were curled up alone. Some
bodies showed evidence of disease, others had been butchered. Jeff shuddered
with revulsion as he looked down at a group of three skeletal bodies. A picture
he had seen of Auschwitz came to mind, and he hurried away.

With
spring only weeks away, a warm front moved in from the south. Sleet rattled
down as they formed a skirmish line and moved out into farmland with bowed
heads. Entering a burned-out village they passed hundreds of bodies sprawled in
filthy sludge. Village after village, the story was the same.

That
evening, Jeff wearily led Cynic into a field. “We cannot stop in a village,
Helwin. There is no room for the living. We must search out a spot free of
death.”

Camped
in a muddy field, Jeff sat in a huddled knot. His stomach still churned at what
they had seen that day. Reason kept demanding that he contact Gaereth or Carl.
Unconsciously, steadily, he shook his head.

A
tide of sadness such as he had never known fought to consume him, and a sense
of guilt growled for recognition. They had seen only a few bodies that could be
identified as Salchek. There is no excuse for killing civilians, he thought.
How can I take pride in that? I will not call. Maybe we can slip into the city
unannounced.

Helwin
had never seen such an expression on his face, and fervently wished there was
something to make a fire with. She moved over to sit beside him and draped the
fur robe she had around her shoulders over them both.

They
had started their last day’s march when Helwin spotted a cavalry patrol some
ways to the west. As she watched, the patrol abruptly swerved to approach with
drawn swords.

The
lieutenant in charge was disgusted by their filthy, ragged appearance. He
wasn’t sure what to make of them, but decided they might be a band of
cutthroats out to loot the dead. They wouldn’t be the first he had run across.
Making no move to greet the patrol, Jeff stood silently and stared at the
ground.

The
lieutenant was forming his squad when Helwin advanced. “Be at ease, Franze. We
met at the Alemanni camp before the Salchek arrived.”

At
the mention of his name, Franze Steppord held his arm up to halt the maneuver
and dismounted. He walked closer, peered at Helwin and recoiled backward a
step.

“Helwin?
Is that you?” His face a mask of horrified disbelief, Steppord took several
steps toward her. “By the gods, it is! You have returned! But what?…” Lieutenant
Steppord hurried back to his squad. He jumped into the saddle and reined his
horse close to Helwin. “We return to the city! The king must be informed! You
will not be received as beggars! Shall I send assistance?”

“No,
Franze. We have come this far on our own, we will finish it on our own.”

Steppord
saluted Helwin, whistled shrilly and dug his spurs in. His horse leaped off
with an angry squeal and the rest of the squad tore after him. Jeff resumed
walking but did not raise his head.

By
early afternoon the temperature eased above freezing, turning icy fields into
quagmires. With each step the calf-deep mud threatened to strip boots, slowing
the pace to a crawl. Some slipped and fell and would have lain there had not
comrades pulled them out of the mud. After fighting it for a period, several
could do no more than stand there and their friends were too weak to help.

As
the troops had accepted the horses as comrades, so Cynic had accepted them as
worthy of being horses. He suggested to Jeff that they grip the saddlehorn from
either side and he would pull. His plan worked and the march resumed.

Sleet
pellets once again came driving in from the south. Jeff hunched his shoulders
in an attempt to lessen the discomfort, but really wasn’t aware of the sleet.
Their discovery by the cavalry patrol had been the last straw. The possibility
of a quiet entrance into the city was gone. Guilt dug long claws into Jeff’s
spirit and dragged it down for a leisurely feast.

Reviewing
all his perfectly sound motives and well thought out reasoning, he cast them
aside. Jeff grasped thoughts of loved ones and safe warmth, what Gurthwin had
earlier said, but they slipped away leaving only sorrow.

Somewhere
inside his soul cried, why do I live when they are dead? Husbands, sons,
daughters—stupid, helpless civilians who couldn’t even hunt. And you thought to
understand and help people. All you’ve done is murder and kill. The refrain
went on and on until Jeff unconsciously put hands over his ears in a futile
effort to block it out, even as city walls loomed high and intact.

Reminded
of his duty by the walls and a commotion he could already hear, Jeff stopped
short of the south gate to form up his warriors. He would at least not
discredit what they had achieved by having them look like rabble.

The
south wall was packed shoulder to shoulder with smiling faces as they neared
the gate. Both portals began to open, but were pushed with such enthusiasm that
they got out of control and slammed into the stops with a boom. A blast of
sound rushed out of the city. Drums and bugles sang an exciting martial air but
were nearly drowned out by a multitude of voices.

Entering
the city, a roar of greeting hammered them to a stunned halt. It made the
reception for Rengeld’s Raiders seem like nothing. Humanity surged back and
forth, filling the street from side to side. A forest of arms reached through a
double line of city guardsmen trying to keep a lane open.

Those
that noticed Jeff’s silent tears applauded them as joyful, not the expression
of a sundered spirit that had given its last effort somewhere on the plains of
death.

The
noise was a sustained bellow that was nearly unbearable. “This isn’t right,”
Jeff said in a dazed mumble, “there is nothing to celebrate. I’ve got to get
out of here!”

So
tired he could barely stay on his feet, Jeff looked at all the smiling faces
and felt raw bitterness. Why are they so fat and rosy when everyone else is
dead? At that moment he wanted nothing more than to sit by himself in some
forest glen free of death until peace should happen upon him, however long that
took.

“Captain!
Jeffrey!”

Jeff
lurched out of his mental haze. “I’m turning the troop over to you, Helwin. I
must leave.”

“No
sir, you will not. It is your honor, and by the gods you will have it! You are
my Captain, and I will not permit you to leave!”

The
roaring crowd seemed to fade into the background as Jeff took strength from
Helwin’s defiant eyes.

“Let
us finish it, then.” Jeff signaled the troop to march, and they wound their way
deeper into the city.

Lost
in a fog of utter exhaustion and self-loathing, Jeff did not see the freshly
repaired gouges on the gate as they passed through. In the city he took no note
of buildings beaten to rubble and those blackened by fire.

The
king and court were arrayed to greet them when they entered the main plaza,
which was packed wall to wall with people. Imogo, Ethbar, and Rengeld were
standing at the center. Close by on one side were Rogelf and Belstan. Carl and
Gaereth gravely stood with Zimma on the other side.

Both
men were in fear of what they would see. The report they had received from the
patrol had been devastatingly frank. Hearing the crowd noise swell, Carl and
Gaereth shared a troubled look behind Zimma’s back. The fact that Jeff had
contacted neither of them sat like a lead weight in their minds.

At
least Steppord thought he recognized Jeff, Carl thought. Another thought came
unbidden: what will be left? Gaereth caught that fragment and slowly nodded,
head bowed and rubbing his chin.

As
the column forced its way deeper into the courtyard, the crowd threatened to
become a mob. They screamed their lungs out and stamped such excitement that
the cobblestones trembled. Zimma drew in a quick breath and a hand flew to her
mouth when she spotted Jeff. Neither she, Carl or Gaereth mistook his drying
tears for other than what they were, or the starved condition of the few horses
remaining for other than what they represented in terms of human suffering as
well.

The
column drew to a halt in front of Imogo. Ears and brain pounded by crowd noise,
Jeff handed Cynic’s hackamore to Helwin. Taking the hackamore, Helwin’s free
hand fluttered toward his face but withdrew. Walking like a windup toy with a
bad spring, he slowly advanced toward Imogo.

The
cobblestones were slippery with icy mud and Jeff fell, landing on his knees.
The pain was so bad that he cried out. Those who could see what had happened
gasped in dismay, but no one moved to help. He tried to get up, slipped again,
and collapsed in a sprawl. Zimma was nearly frantic.

“I
must go to him! I cannot bear this!”

She
was about to rush forward when Carl laid a restraining hand on her shoulder.
“No, Zimma. You must let him finish this on his own.”

“But
he cannot!”

“Yes,
he can.”

Rengeld
watched Jeff shake his head and understood his agony. “Come to us, Jeffrey. You
are ours.”

The
stern, uncompromising tone of Rengeld’s voice was such that Jeff braced himself
erect and staggered forward. Her vision blurred with tears, Zimma squeezed
Carl’s hand like a vise as Jeff halted in front of Imogo.

“Your
Majesty, we return. It is done.”

Imogo
was the son of a mercenary and had grown up with endless war stories. He had
directed a war but never personally experienced the field of battle. The
reality standing in front of him was horrifying. Caked with mud and filth, Jeff
wavered back and forth. While not given to introspection, Imogo felt he was
looking on something worse than death. He had prepared a long speech but
quickly pared it down.

“Your
services and those of your warriors will never be forgotten by us or this city.
That its successful defense is due in major part to your efforts is known by us
all, and will be heralded for generations to come regardless of what else shall
transpire. Be it known to all present that you are named knight of the kingdom
and duke of the realm, with all honors and lands ascribed to such position. We
are aware that your journey has been most perilous and rest your immediate due.
At a later date when all is repaired we will gather in festival.”