Chapter Forty-One: Courage

“Courage can come from the most unexpected of places.”

—Dalan Kelethar, Thirteenth General of the Legion

Jezelle was surprised when Bran accepted the job without complaint.

“Are you sure about this?” she asked, pinching her nose against the overpowering smell of horse manure. “I’d be happy to have you work some of the other tasks if you want. Gods know you’ll probably finish them in half the time.” The warden was surprisingly considerate this morning. Perhaps she’d finally decided she’d worked him hard enough.

“Yeah,” he said. “I mean, yes Warden. I’ve seen dead bodies before so I should be fine.”

Jezelle paused for a moment. “You?” She looked him up and down, from his patched trousers to the bits of hay sticking out of his hair. “Well I won’t pry any further, but if you insist. Those are some pretty mangled up corpses you’ll be handling. If you ever change your mind, just let me know.”

“Of course. I’ll get onto it right away.”

Bran dumped the shovelful of manure into the bucket and handed it to the runner boy who was taking over. He then climbed onto the wagon behind the warden as they rode out of the barracks to the city.

He’d only been working for three days, but it already felt like he’d been a runner boy for his entire life. He’d learned the names of everyone in his bunker—the bespectacled Kaev and Harren the Wall, Sagg Longlegs and Adit the dark-skinned boy from the east, Brian One-eye and the pervert Leon, and mild-mannered Sam with a voice like honey. Half of them were off running duties across the Keep while the other half had been conscripted into what the Legionnaires liked to call the ‘cleanup crew.’

Harren, Sam and Adit were with him now, stewing in anticipation as they rolled down the hill through Aldoran. It was just another day with the Soulforge chugging black smog into the air and the crimson red-leafs of the city swaying in the morning wind. There were two more wagons behind them with four runner boys each, totalling twelve in all. An unusually high number, but then again these were unusual circumstances.

After all, the relicts had finally made their move.

As the caravan drove past the gates, Sam took out his lute and began to sing. He had been a bard once, wandering from city to city with his parents before they’d been killed by bandits during the Great Winter. Having lost his wanderlust he’d decided to settle down in the safest place he could, even if it meant joining the Legion in one of the dirtiest, toughest and most underpaid jobs there was. His voice cast an eerie thrill across the landscape.

Red as roses do they lie,

Battered, broken, ‘neath the sky.

Wiggling, waggling, writhing worms

Wait in hunger for their turns.

Innards spilt across the floor

Black and blue, a gross decor

Why do ravens come and fly

To pluck these flowers as they die?

Sam drifted off into silence as they passed the war camp. It was a small gathering of tents and a large medical station by the side of a ford, where the Arrien began to widen into the sea. Tall, proud Aldoran was behind them, watching over copses of elderbark trees and acres of rippling grass.

The soldiers stared at the boys as they passed, nursing their wounds through blood-soaked bandages, guzzling down flasks of water. They had a haunting look about them, ash white faces staring into the distance, shadows under their eyes that spoke of no sleep. A battle had taken place here, one that many were still reliving.

At last, they reached the place where black met green—where the grass ended and the Blight began. There was a great pit in the dead soil lined with hot coals at the base, still smoking with sweltering heat. A beaten soldier met the Warden by its edge.

“We’ve burned them,” he said, and his voice oozed with nothing but hatred. “Burned them all, scorched their flesh, heated their bones until they cracked. They won’t be coming back any time soon.”

Jezelle nodded and looked out past the pit to where the bodies lay. “And how many were lost?”

The man closed his eyes. “Too many. They came at us in the dead of the night, the howling wolfmen riding their horned steeds. There were three lionmen with them, creatures of blood and blade, each the equal of ten men. We were not prepared.”

“I see.” She waved to the drivers of the second and third carriages. “Send the boys out! We have a lot of work to do.” And then back to the soldier: “The High King passes his condolences. A fresh unit will be here by the day’s end, and they will have a Kingsblade with them.”

As Bran and the others were ushered out to the battlefield, he couldn’t help but overhear the rest of the conversation.

“They cannot be stopped, Warden. Mark my words. We stand no chance, even if we hole up in the city and let them come to us. They are not bound by the laws of this world.”

“Gather your men and rest,” she said. “You have done well. It is not my place to comment, but I have complete faith in my King.”

The soldier shook his head and walked away, muttering to himself.

The group of Legionnaires had been stationed out by the ford to watch the enemy. Some time during the night the relicts had flanked them and launched a surprise attack, nearly wiping out the entire camp. The soldiers had won by the skin of their teeth.

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That was all Jezelle had told them. They didn’t need to know any more; their job as the ‘cleanup crew’ was to gather the bodies and help set up the camp for replacements.

Crows circled boldly above, diving into the bodies and digging into flesh. The first corpse Bran found was a man who’d been slashed through the abdomen. His insides spilled across the ground like lifeless snakes, his blood leaking out in a wide pool around him. Sam threw up. Even dark Adit had grown pale.

They really are like roses, Bran thought. The bits and pieces of rent armour were the thorns, the innards the roots, the blood the petals. There were blowflies flitting about the bodies like bees, pollinating them with their eggs, the hatched maggots teeming like a living carpet. The smell was dizzying, like that time his father had forgotten about an animal they’d slaughtered and left it in the basement until it began to rot. Bran knew he was supposed to be sick, pale, throwing up his breakfast like Sam, but he felt nothing.

After all, this wasn't anything new. He’d seen Bloodmanes kill. He’d seen Worgals cannibalize each other. He’d seen men fall to relicts, ripped to shreds, bones snapped, organs burst like overripe fruit.

“Come. Help move.” Harren was also unaffected. The big man looked like he’d lived through some hard times in his life. They didn’t call him the Wall because he was big, though that was part of the reason. They’d given him his name because they never knew what he was thinking, just like a brick wall.

Bran nodded, and together they began dragging the corpse back to the wagon.

Their work took them late into the afternoon, though they never ventured far into the Blight. The majority of the fighting had happened about a hundred paces from the border, where the canal widened towards the Arrien and the sea. The bodies tended to be in clusters of tens and twenties, men and the occasional woman in mangled piles of flesh and bones and steel. The others got over their initial shock soon enough. With the warden shouting at them from the camp and the bodies slowly festering away, it was in their best interest to get the job done as quickly as possible and return to the safety of the city walls. Bran and Harren did most of the work, prying apart disfigured limbs, tearing swords from bodies, finding identification tags when they could. At first it was unsettling, feeling the touch of cold flesh and dried blood, the way the bodies lolled their heads when they were moved, the various pops and cracks that came from their bones and bowels as gases erupted in vile spurts. However, Bran adapted quickly enough, and before long he was lost in the blissful embrace of mindless labour.

The last rays of the sun had just sunk beneath the horizon when they reached the final pile of corpses. It was the biggest one yet, with what Bran guessed to be more than two dozen in total lying stacked atop the Blighted soil. A Bloodmane had fought here, maybe even two. He recognized the savagery in which the bodies had been slashed up, left to bleed in a river of blood. Sam fell to his knees once more, retching, though nothing came out.

“Anturia watch over,” Harren murmured, patting him on the back. Bran circled around the pile to find a place to begin, and that was when the corpse moved.

It was the one directly beside Sam’s head, the shredded body of half a spearman. Sam screamed as it rolled off the pile and onto the ground, revealing a head underneath with a shaggy mane drenched in blood. Eyes blinked and saw. A scarred snout sniffed the air, cruel lips pulling back into a snarl.

The Bloodmane roared and clawed its way out from under the mountain of corpses, breathing heavily. Harren dragged the petrified Sam back, his brow lowered, his gaze unwavering.

“Blood,” the relict breathed. Bran realized his knees were knocking together. It was just like that time he’d been stuck in the burning building, when the relicts had attacked Felhaven. It was happening again. It was happening again, and Ein wasn’t here to save him.

The Bloodmane climbed out into the open air, treading over corpses with disregard. Its tawny fur was scarlet with blood, one of its arms severed at the elbow. Three spears pierced its chest and a longsword stuck out from its thigh, yet it continued to move with frightening purpose.

In its good hand was its boneblade, long and serrated, brown with crusted blood. It raised the blade and brought it down in a lazy motion. Harren yanked Sam backwards, a gasp escaping his teeth as the blade drew blood from his calf. A wave of dizziness passed through Bran at the sight of more red. He suddenly felt sick.

Gods, really? he thought. He’d felt nothing for all the dead soldiers he’d come across, yet at the first sign of danger he was ready to puke his guts out. Before he knew it, he was crying out for help.

The warden and the other soldiers must have heard him, for they’d suddenly burst into a flurry of activity. Shouts and cries rang across the edge of the camp as people armoured up and equipped themselves. Bran wasn’t the only one who was scared. The Legionnaires were too, looking around uncertainly at each other, none of them willing to be first into the fray.

Do something. Do something, god damn it!

He clawed at his thighs and felt his nails draw blood. The pain seemed to wake him up. Looking around, he grabbed the first thing he saw—the bow of a fallen soldier. It was a familiar sensation, a familiar weight in his hands.

Ahead of him Sam was scrambling away, sprinting for his across the bloody battlefield. Harren was wrestling with the relict, trying to pin it down with his enormous body, but the Bloodmane refused to submit. Blood trickled from the big man’s hands where the claws bit into him. His face was a mask of determination.

I can’t shoot, Bran thought, taking three arrows from a quiver on the ground. I’ll hit him.

Then, immediately, he realized something.

I’m fighting. I’m actually going to fight.

He felt strangely calm, even as he wet his pants. It was almost like a dream. Maybe it was a dream. Maybe he would blink and find himself fleeing, pelting at full speed across the Blight like Sam had before him.

All it takes is one decision to set you on the right path.

“Harren!” he cried, and he surprised himself with the loudness of his voice. There was a slight quiver to it, like a tall reed in a river, but it was strong. It was a reed that would not bend to any current.

Harren saw Bran, saw the bow. He loosed and almighty battlecry and threw the relict off him, diving under cover. Bran drew the string back in one quick motion and released.

There was a twang that deafened one ear and a distant thud that followed. An arrow sprouted from the Bloodmane’s forehead, emerging from the other end in a sprinkling of blood. The creature turned away from Harren, eyeing Bran hungrily. It brought a hand to the shaft and tried to pull it out, but it had embedded itself too deeply.

Bran loosed another arrow and this one pierced through its arm, pinning it in place. The relict roared in pain as blood began streaming down its face, blinding it. It ripped away its hand, leaving behind a chunk of flesh on its forehead and charged like a maddened bull.

Bran didn’t move from his spot. He was rooted; his feet refused to budge. All he could do was nock another arrow, draw, aim and fire.

The third arrow landed in the Bloodmane’s chest. Bran was surprised; all three arrows had hit their mark despite how hard he’d been shaking, despite how slippery his hands were with sweat. The creature staggered from the force of the blow, its movements growing more sluggish. The light in its eyes was dying. It fell to all fours, dropping its blade, still moving.

Then, it planted its face into the ground and stopped. Blood oozed across the ground, black as ink. No matter how resilient a relict was, it couldn’t live if all the blood had been drained from its body.

Bran exhaled, his arms falling to his side. His thighs stung from where his piss had leaked into the open wounds. All he could see was the Bloodmane lying dead on the ground and Harren limping towards him with tears in his eyes. He heard the roar of the wind in his ears, the sound of steel as soldiers raced to his position with burning torches and pouches of salt in their hands. He felt the warden shake him, but he didn’t hear what she said.

It took a while before he realized what he’d just done. By then the Bloodmane’s corpse was far away, in the flaming pit along with everyone else.

Alone on the empty battlefield, Bran pulled himself up from his knees and laughed. It was a laugh of relief, almost a sob.