Desperation

Under the tranquil rise of light that fades the night sky before dawn, I set my jaw against the desire to vomit as I edged my way across the battlefield.

A handful of crows already enjoyed their own treasure trove, feasting on those slimy ropes that spilled from a belly or pecking at an eye that would never see again.

I felt most sorry for the horses who had not chosen this battle. One, which lay collapsed, gazed at me so pitifully that I changed course to have a closer look. The shattered foreleg from which the bone protruded made my stomach heave, but as I had not broken my fast, nothing erupted from my interior but a trickle of sour bile.

I knelt down and stroked the velvet nose, speaking soft words before I reluctantly unsheathed my knife to give the creature quietus.

Before getting up, I looked around, but nobody else had come to harvest except the crows and possibly some angels or demons to take away the souls from bodies no longer inhabited.

Anger burned in me for the waste of it, for the wives these warriors had changed into widows, their daughters a large step closer to becoming orphans, their sons perhaps dying here too. How many of those daughters would have to sell their bodies to put food in their mouths?

I told myself sternly to stop thinking and do what I came here to do. Desperation drove me and must be satisfied.

I crouched to cut away another sheathed dagger to add to my sack. Though I would have liked to gather swords, they would be heavier to carry and harder to sell.

When I stood, I saw a fallen warrior around whom lay several other corpses. Grimly, I thought that would have been a final battle worth watching if anyone had the leisure to do so in the middle of a war. His last opponent lay face down across his legs. Maybe they died moments apart, neither of them achieving the victory they desired.

Ignoring as best I could the helmed faces nearby lest I might recognise one of them, I stepped carefully over the tangle of limbs and shields. My breath caught when I saw the outspread wings of the black phoenix on his chest, which might signify something that I could sell to the highest bidder.

He still wore gauntlets so nobody had looted in the aftermath of the battle which fortunately had finished with the descent of night so the urgency of removing the wounded was uppermost. Besides, the battleground was far from any habitation this time.

Sidestepping a pool of blood, I knelt and looked briefly at his bloodied face as, even though he was an enemy, I would have closed his eyes if he was staring fixedly at the sky. But no need to do that as his eyelids were already shut, perhaps death had welcomed him pretending to be sleep. I eased the gauntlet off his left hand, hoping there might be more than one ring gleaming underneath.

There were two, a large silver ring on his middle finger that bore the sigil of the phoenix and a smaller gold promise ring beside it which put me on notice that he would be mourned by someone who had most likely kissed him before he rode out with all the others to fight this battle.

I hoped the rings would come off easily, but was prepared to remove the fingers if need be.

Then the lax hand gripped my wrist hard.

I startled, yelped and stared into stormy blue eyes altogether too lively for a corpse.

I tried to pull away from his cold grasp, twisting my arm, tugging, but he held fast and studied my face as though willing me to be someone he recognised.

He asked a question, but I wrinkled my nose as the syllables gathered no meaning in my mind. I would have spat on the muddy ground if my mouth was not so dry.

He frowned, obviously disappointed at my ignorance which betokened that I would be unlikely to be of any assistance to him.

“Who won?” he said in my own language, grating the words from a parched throat.

I shrugged and, when he seemed distracted, tried again to wrest my hand from his grip but he only seized it harder as though he would crush my wrist rather than let me escape.

He frowned again and demanded, “Who won the battle?”

“The gods know,” I answered with a shrug.

He glanced at the sky, beyond which the deities have their realm, as though he might find answer there.

Aware that the brightening day would bring others to this battlefield, I attempted to wrench myself bodily away, but failed to free my wrist from his stubborn grasp.

He murmured something that made my ears tingle and the hair on my neck rise.

A neigh came from the distance, then I saw the saddleless grey stallion drifting easily toward us. It seemed composed entirely of fog, showing no distress from the blood or the corpses strewn in the mud.

I could not help moaning as I realised who, or rather what, he was. Not merely a warrior.

His dark blue eyes held my gaze as the spellcaster spoke different words in a staccato rhythm that hurt my head. When he released my hand, my arm fell limply beside me. Completely motionless, I could not flee, not summon up a finger twitch. “Obey,” he said, though my body had obviously already received that message.

The grey horse approached, much too beautiful to be a real creature, moving as if it was floating though hooves seemed to touch ground. It did not leave hoofprints.

I expected him to give me orders, but it was much simpler than that. My body moved as though his puppet. First, I pushed over and dragged away the heavy corpse away that anchored his legs. I then manipulated his own arms and legs, my head aching worse as though maybe he was looking through my eyes to check for any immediate injury.

As I helped him stand, I furiously imagined pushing him back down and taking to my heels, running fast and far, but this intention yielded only more frustration.

About a head taller than me, he studied me with his chin raised, nodding at whatever conclusion he reached. He unstoppered a flask from a deep pocket and took a brief draught, the aromatic smell teasing my nostrils.

When I supported him to mount the horse which had a saddle now, hope flickered in my heart that he would then release me, but instead, I found myself accepting his offered hand and clambering up to squeeze in front of him.

The grey mane of the horse glimmered in an unearthly way, though its flanks felt solid enough under me.

I tongued my dry lips and, emboldened by that small independent movement, asked, “What do you want with me?”

He reached around me for the reins, his chin brushing the top of my head. I could hear the smile in his voice as he said, “You will have your uses, no doubt of that, Mouse.”

More than anything else, his knowledge of the name that my friends called me perturbed me the most. Then the conjured horse began to move, much like a normal mount, not southerly toward his encampment, but in the direction of the sun coming up over the horizon.

I screwed up my face, thinking of the half-full sack of loot left on the battlefield that some other scavenger would steal from me. How much I wished I could have added his two rings and had the profit of them.