The afternoon slipped away as Gideon walked through the alfalfa under the sun’s oppressive heat. As it neared the horizon he began to wonder if the field would ever end until, almost without warning, the alfalfa gave way to rolling hills covered with long green grass. When he reached the end of the field he saw a few small groupings of stunted trees clustered in the depressions between the hills, indicating, perhaps, the presence of water. He smacked his dry lips, suddenly realizing his intense thirst.
Once out of the field the road stretched up and over a particularly long hill, and when Gideon reached its top he spotted the Kenanite army camp in the near distance—an ugly splotch of brown mud and wood palisades, standing out like a boil from what was otherwise a picturesque summer landscape. Roughly a mile north of the camp stood the high walls of Forelia City, from which small puffs of black and white smoke still billowed.
The day’s heat had just begun to die down by the time he reached the camp’s south gate. The gate’s four guards were involved in an intense card game set on a low table in the grass by the road, and none bothered to look up as Gideon walked past.
Inside the camp the road became one long causeway of mud, kneaded into doughy softness by the previous night’s rain and the constant activity of the camp’s residents. Twenty thousand soldiers had lived in the camp ever since the siege began in early spring, and each had done everything within their meager power to make their living situation more comfortable, as soldiers always did. Crowded tents lined every inch of space along both sides of the road, interspersed with a few shoddy wooden structures that served as assembly areas, armories, mess halls, and saloons.
The only relatively empty spaces in the crowded camp were the designated latrine areas, where the men sat under the open air on portable toilets to do their business. In order to handle the waste, several latrine ditches had been dug which drained into a gully a few hundred feet from the camp's walls. On occasion, the wind would carry the smell of the gully to the camp, causing the stomachs of even the most hardened soldiers to churn.
After passing through the gate, Gideon struggled through the mud towards the right side of the road, where a crude gangway of wooden planks had been laid. He stepped onto the gangway and looked in the direction of the camp’s center where the Blades had been quartered, searching for any signs of other survivors who might have already made it back. What he spotted instead made him stop mid-step, gobsmacked.
Two Kenanite horsemen led a long column of naked men marching down the causeway of mud, towards the south gate. The men were totally hairless, save for their eyebrows, and crude iron collars had been locked around their necks. Small chains attached to their collars leashed them to a much longer chain which ran down the length of the column.
The two horsemen leading the column held the front end of the long chain, and at the column’s rear two more horsemen held the end. Behind the column, a dozen more horsemen followed along, iron clubs hanging from their belts. The naked men struggled to stay upright as they trudged barefoot through the mud, splattering their naked flesh with it and stumbling often as the horsemen pulled them along.
Disquiet passed over the camp as the column marched through. Gideon guessed from the assortment of pale and dark skins, and their physiques, that the naked men had been Forelian soldiers before being enslaved.
Gideon's teeth began to grind as he watched the column. The humiliation of being paraded naked and mud covered in front of their enemies was clear enough, but what was still in store for them would undoubtedly be much worse. If they were lucky they would be worked to death, or perhaps forced to kill each other in Kenan’s grand arena for the amusement of the Kenanites. If they weren't lucky they’d be subjected to fates worse than death. The Kenanites were infamous for their zeal for slavery, and for their extreme mistreatment of slaves.
As the column streamed past, Gideon’s anger continued to gorw until he could no longer bear it. He tore his gaze away from the marching slaves and continued down the gangway, stepping around a group of Kenanite soldiers who had also come to a stop to watch. As he passed, he caught a snippet of their conversation.
“Guess we humble nothings are too lowly to be given any of themlike.”
Abruptly, Gideon stopped mid-step and stood very still. His right hand curled into a fist, and he felt his teeth grinding painfully as he turned to glare at the men.
The soldiers noticed and turned to look back at him.
“What’s his problem?”
With the same abruptness, Gideon turned away from the soldiers and stormed off, his right hand still curled tight.
The Singing Blades had been quartered in the dead center of the camp, along with several other mercenary bands the king of Kenan had hired for the campaign against the Forelians. Gideon turned onto the narrow muddy alleyway that led to the Singing Blade’s barracks and immediately saw that the flap to their tent had been left open. He stepped inside, but instead of the neat and orderly rows of cots he expected to find, he was greeted with a gigantic mess. Someone had already ransacked the tent, upending the small chests each man had kept beneath their cot. Clothing, boots, and other random items had been dumped onto the cots in large piles that had partially spilled onto the floor.
Gideon frowned with dismay as he took in the sight of all his belongings dumped out over his cot on the far end of the tent. With a loud, frustrated sigh he turned about and stepped back outside, closing the tent flap behind him.
He walked back to the gangway, taking a long look at the activity around him. As he did, the surprising realization occurred to him that some part of him had actually hoped to see other survivors, despite the fact he didn't have any friends among the Blades. He’d never been popular in the band, despite his father being its captain, and it was doubtful any of them would be pleased to see him again even under the circumstances.
Everywhere Gideon looked, Kenanite soldiers and mercenaries from other bands went about their usual business. For them, the day had most likely brought no major changes. They'd woken up early in the morning, eaten whatever terrible breakfast slop the kitchen had produced, then gone to whatever boring, pointless duties they'd been assigned for the day. He imagined how any one of them might react if he stopped them to break the news.
One of the mercenary bands happened across some Lake Men on a patrol and met a gruesome end? Well, so what? Better them than me.
Gideon shook his head, sighing. What am I going to do now?
It was just then that he finally spotted a pair of familiar looking men walking alongside one another on the far side of the road. He studied them, trying to remember who they were, and soon their names came to him. Romus and Julian, two of the Blade's shield-bearer sergeants.
Julian was a gaunt and gangly Losoan, and roughly as tall as Gideon. His scruffy, uncombed black hair was the most immediately noticeable thing about him, followed by his prominent nose and high cheekbones. His companion, Romus, had a round head and a flat nose, with a thick beard of curly red hair that merged imperceptibly with the curly hair on his head, as was the case with most Levidians. Romus stood four inches shorter than Julian, but was noticeably more muscular. Both had pale skin, just like Gideon and most of the band. He might have recognized them at once but for the fact they seemed to be missing their swords and shields.
The two men entered a saloon directly across the road, a spot that had been popular among the Blades for its proximity to the tent in spite of the incredibly low quality alchohol it offered at atrocious prices. Gideon crossed the road in a hurry and entered the saloon after them.
The saloon was little more than four flimsy wooden walls and a thick linen tarp stretched over the top to act as a ceiling. A few tables, obviously cannibalized from a wagon's wheels, had been scattered about the place, with empty grog barrels acting as seats. The saloon's bar had clearly served as the sidewall of a wagon before taking on its current duty. Romus and Julian were already standing at it when Gideon entered, ordering drinks from the elderly Kenanite man who owned the place.
Gideon walked up to the bar and tapped on it with his fingers to get the old man's attention.
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"Hey, water and whiskey. Water first."
Romus and Julian were both visibly shocked when they realized who had just walked up next to them. Romus found his voice first.
“Gideon! Yer alive!”
The old man silently brought over Gideon's drinks. Gideon grabbed the offered mug of water, nodding to Romus as he greedily gulped from it, and set down the empty mug with a satisfied sigh.
“...Just barely.”
Julian and Romus shared a surprised look, then looked back to Gideon with worried frowns.
“Where’s Dance?” Julian asked.
Gideon blinked before reaching out for the shot of whiskey.
“Dead," he said flatly after swallowing it. "Stabbed in the gut. Bled out.”
The pair seemed crestfallen at the news, though with mercenaries one could never be completely sure if that type of display was genuine.
“Sorry to hear that, kid.” Julian said. "Dance was one of the better captains I've had."
Gideon simply shrugged. He couldn't tell if the feeling behind Julian's statement was honest, but he quickly realized he didn't care either way. Dance hadn't been a father worthy of mourning, and for Gideon that was what had mattered.
“ 'n there ain’t no more work to be found ‘round here,” said Romus. “Cryin’ shame the old man couldn’ get us into the city durin’ the sack. Don’ suppose he ever told you the real reason fer that?”
Gideon shook his head and looked down at his two empty glasses. The Blades had been outraged that after four months of siege they’d been excluded from the sack. Dance had claimed that the order came from above, but the band had been absolutely furious with him nonetheless. Many refused to believe him, saying that no such order had ever come, that he was punishing the band for any number of reasons. The men had come about as close to mutiny as Gideon had ever seen. But the battle with the Lake Men that morning had settled the issue forever.
He asked for another shot and swallowed it the instant it found its way to his hand. Rapine was expected to be the most exciting moment of a soldier’s life, the grandest opportunity in the profession. The Blades had been cruelly denied their right to rape everything on two legs and steal anything that wasn’t nailed down—the victorious soldier’s time honored tradition. The band had participated in sacks before, but Gideon had refused to join each time, staying well away as it happened. He couldn’t understand how they could stomach the guilt. It was one of many reasons why he'd never made any friends amongst them.
Julian leaned on his side against the bar and studied Gideon’s face.
“We just saw the paymaster. They won’t pay up since our officers are all dead.”
“Shit-eatin’ pig fuckers,” Romus drawled, playing absentmindedly with an empty glass.
“They might shell out if you tell them you’ve inherited the band,” Julian continued.
Frowning, Gideon's eyes roamed across Julian's face. He wasn’t just asking for help in getting them paid, he wanted to know if Gideon intended to claim leadership over whatever was left of the Singing Blades.
“The fuck would I want with a band that has only three men?” Gideon asked.
Julian responded with a light shrug and looked away. Romus sounded testy.
“I wouldn’ follow you into a fight anyhow.”
An awkward silence fell over them, each lost in their own thoughts. In the silence the old man came by and filled up their glasses once again.
Julian sounded solemn as he thanked him. He swallowed his shot, then looked to Romus.
“Well, I think I’ll head back to Loso. There’s always work for men like me back home.”
Romus didn’t miss a beat. “What you mean is you’ve lost yer taste fer danger 'n yer settlin’ fer doin' nothin' but lookin’ scary on behalf of some fat wealthy prick. Man of yer skills is completely wasted as such.”
“Well, so what?" Julian replied, annoyed. "Little enough money ever stayed in my pockets during this gig, or any other as a matter of fact. If it’s my fate to be poor, well then by Kali I’d at least like to spend my nights in a warm bed instead of a rainy mud puddle in the middle of buttfuck nowhere.”
“Ah, yer bein’ stupid. Less pay fer nothin’…heh! S’why I’m headin’ fer the tourney. No one’s like to match up to me in the furball. 'n the prize! A thousand denars...jus’ imagine all the whores 'n liquor, Jules….”
“If I’m stupid, then you’re fucking crazy. Kenanite tournaments aren't real tournaments, they're more like...ritual sacrifices. And so what if you’re a better swordsman than most? Alone against a group? Well, one bad move is all it takes to—” He made a cutting motion across his throat with his thumb and added a scratching sound for good measure.
“The only group I’ve heard ‘bout is the one takin’ turns lickin’ yer momma’s salty asshole.”
Julian rolled his eyes. “Besides, that's two fucking months from now, and I’m not going to be around in the meantime to keep your soaked ass from getting enslaved.”
They carried on, bantering back and forth at length until Gideon realized he had been excluded from the conversation. Socializing always seemed to come naturally to others, but rarely for him. Not in the same ways other men seemed to take for granted.
He pulled a few denars out of his pocket and put them on the counter. As he turned to leave, Julian called out to him.
“Wait…Gideon? You’re leaving already?”
Gideon turned back around, giving him a tired shrug. Romus peered at Gideon with a slowly deepening frown as Julian questioned him.
“Well…where are you going? What’s your plan?”
“Don't have one," Gideon replied. "Other than to get drunk everyday for the rest of my life.”
Romus snorted. “Wouldja look at that, we have somethin’ in common after all. Bless yer heart.”
For his part, Julian looked troubled.
“...See you around, Gideon.”
Gideon looked between them. It didn’t need to be said that if they ever met again it would likely be as enemies. That was the life they'd each chosen.
“See you.”
As he left the saloon he felt their eyes boring into his back. He felt fairly sure they were relieved to see him go, even if they wouldn’t openly admit it.
The stars had come out by the time Gideon exited the saloon. Across the street, he saw a pair of Kenanite soldiers moving along the gangway, lighting up the unlit torches that had been staked into the ground by every tent's entrance. The exhaustion of the day’s events finally hit him in full force as he watched them go about their work. Once they had passed him, Gideon crossed the road, doing his best not to lose his footing in the dim torchlight, heading for the Blades’ tent.
With only a few steps left before he would reach the tent's door, Gideon noticed a dim yellow glow coming from inside. He halted in place to listen, and after only a few seconds he heard loud whispering coming from inside. Quietly, he reached over his shoulder and unbuttoned the lock strap on his claymore’s sheathe. He inched forward toward the flap, and violently flung it open when he was finally close enough.
Inside he found two Kenanite soldiers, one holding a lantern, bent over at the waist as they searched through the mess. Sheathed sabers hung from their belts. The moment Gideon threw back the tent's door they jolted to attention, staring at him with wide eyes.
“Get the fuck out," Gideon barked. "Now!”
The threat within his words was unmistakable, and it had a dramatic effect on the Kenanites. The face of the Kenanite closest to Gideon twisted with rage, and he took a few steps forward, grabbing the handle of his saber.
“Who’re you to tell us what to do, fuckin’ merc?”
Gideon was just about to reach up for his claymore when the Kenanite holding the lamp rested his free hand on the other’s shoulder.
“Hey, leave off. There's nothing here worth it.”
The angry Kenanite continued to glare at Gideon. But after a few seconds, his eyes darted towards the hilt of Gideon’s claymore, and he turned to give his companion a quick nod. Gideon stood aside, allowing the men to walk out of the tent past him.
He firmly tied the tent flap shut behind them, then felt his way through the pitch black mess towards his cot. When he finally found it he began to strip out of his filthy armor and clothing, carelessly flinging it in random directions. Once down to his briefs, he set his claymore down within easy reach of the cot and laid back with an exhausted sigh, feeling so tired that the stiff and uncomfortable cot felt welcoming for once.
He closed his eyes, eager for sleep, but restlessness soon caused him to open them again. His mind began to race as he stared into the darkness.
I promise this'll be you someday.
For ten years, Dance had only been cruel to Gideon when he'd bothered to spare him any attention at all. What he'd said as he lay dying underneath the tree hadn't been a spontaneous statement spawned from fear—it had been his true feelings. Dance had always been a negative force in Gideon's life, hovering silently on the periphery of his awareness like an angry ghost even when he was alive. The only remotely positive thing Dance had ever done for Gideon had been to allow the other Blades to train him, to give him a place in the band.
At the beginning of the training, he'd been driven by feelings of heroism and justice, eager to use his growing strength and skill for good, to punish evil. But after his first kill, every high minded ideal he'd held had been shattered. The reality of his new life as a mercenary had finally come crashing down, along with terrible, unbearable guilt. But he’d stayed with the band despite it, continuing to kill for Dance and the others despite his guilty conscience. The more he did it, the more it changed him into someone completely different then he’d originally hoped to become. Along the way he'd become accustomed to death, and gleaned a savage joy from killing.
But now Dance and the Singing Blades were gone. Gideon understood that his only obligations had died with Dance, that with his death he'd been freed to do whatever he wanted, pursue any kind of life he wished, but in truth he had never once considered leaving the Blades. Despite the friction he had with the band, despite the killing, all the wrongness he saw and sometimes participated in, the guilt, he had always chosen to stay. The Blades had given him the only sense of belonging he'd ever known. With them gone, Gideon realized that he didn't feel free at all. He felt defenseless, vulnerable in every possible way as the world crowded in around him.
How do I deal with this?
He nearly jumped off his cot in order to run back to the saloon and finish getting drunk, until he remembered something that Romus had mentioned. A tournament in Kenan, one with a cash prize large enough to live the rest of his life at the bottom of a whiskey bottle. He knew it would be dangerous, knew he would probably just die instead of winning the prize. But as he considered it, he realized that both outcomes, success or death, seemed just fine, and he quickly accepted what that probably meant about his willingness to continue living.
Relieved beyond measure to have a goal, Gideon closed his eyes and, at long last, fell asleep.