Catastrophe Jones

This is Issue #52 of DeathWatch, Book II: tentatively called Heart Of Ilona, an ongoing Serial. Click that link to go find DeathWatch, the first in the series, or start from the beginning of Book II!

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He imagined if he had not already, he was pissing himself — he had never thought himself too brave, nor too much a coward, but had thought that if he were to die for Ilona, fighting for his nation, that it would be glorious enough, that he would fall, bloodied, having slain a number of his enemies, and his body would be borne back to the inner city, where Nixus would lay a hand on his chest one last time, and whisper a private farewell, and remember him fondly, with pride.

He had not thought he might simply wither of hunger, paralyzed and ruined, or be eaten alive by scavengers as he floundered in a field of blood and shit and flies.

The dog sniffed at his torn sword arm, stiff-legged still.

A realization began to dawn, slowly at first, and then with a sort of relentless acceleration that stole the meager breath he still had.

Panic crawled closer, reached out cold fingers, and began to sink them into his eyes.

He felt a low cry of horror building in his throat, choking him more than the blood he felt thickening in his lungs.

He would die, yes, but it could take hours yet. It could take… days.

Days of lying in the mud, drowning hairsbreadth by hairsbreadth, feeling himself sink ever so slowly into a river of blood and darkness.

“Adiuvo,” he whispered, lying there pinned by both his mount and fallen enemies. “Adiuvo me,” he pled, seeing the rest of his miserable life stretched out before him as an agonizing slog from moment to helpless moment.

No one answered.

The dog watched him warily, and lowered its muzzle to his flesh.

“Adiuvo me!” he cried, and then began to cough in earnest, squeezing his eyes shut.

At first, no one.

But then —

“Sollerti!”

His eyes snapped wide. He knew that voice. Somehow. It spoke his name with a Westlander’s accent, but somehow there was a familiarity. He could picture the face, all at once sharp and soft, with pale eyes and pale skin and a frizz of ridiculous curls.

He’d never in his life seen such a thing — how could he know it?

But know it, he did.

“This way!” it called.

The dog tensed, whining, and there was the report of a gun. The dog fell, tongue lolling.

Legatus Sollerti sobbed aloud. “Huc! Sum huc!”

Suddenly, he was surrounded by a flurry of activity; soldiers masked to keep away the flies were all around him, pulling away the dog, the Krieg, the horse. His shattered body was revealed; he ground his teeth against the agony that was his remaining arm. At least he could feel it.

At least —

And then a soldier was kneeling next to him, pulling off his mask — her mask.

Sollerti stared up into the wild, pale eyes of a milkskinned, redheaded Westlander.

She put her hands on either side of his face, and wept over him, stroking his cheek.

A dizzying fear crept over him as she pulled a knife from her belt. He realized what it was for, and for a moment, panic returned. He could not die. Not yet. Not before he’d told her. Not before he’d given better last words than ‘yes, sir’ to the one person to whom he’d been completely devoted. “Nondum,” he breathed.

He would have fought, if he could.

“Nondum. Ubi est Nixus?” he begged. “Nondum!”

She looked down at him, the knife in her hand working between the edges of his armor, pulling aside a plate. She rested the point of it over his heart, wiped her eyes and said through gritted teeth. “She’s not coming.”

“Is she safe?” The rough tongue felt familiar. Right.

The expression on the woman’s face was almost scorn, but it twisted to honest tenderness. “You know she is.”

He laughed, choking again, and wheezed, tasting the blood he knew had been coming. “I know she is.”

“Any last words, Legatus Sollerti?” Juliana Vernon O’Malley wondered, tenderly stroking the cheek of the man she’d died with only days before.

“Tell her we fought well,” he said softly. “That we made them bleed,” he said, a chill creeping over him. “Tell her not to wait. Tell her she is too glorious to wait–” His eyes widened as his breath faltered. “Tell her –” Panic struck him; he could no longer speak.

Jules leaned down close, and kissed his forehead — and then she leaned into the dagger, and plunged it between his ribs. “Tell her you were honored to be at her side. I know, Sollerti. I will.”

He looked up at her in surprise, and managed to smile, faintly. His lips parted–

–thank you. I want to say thank you. I want you to tell her… the sun rose and set in her eyes. Tell her she is strong. Thank you. I want to say it. Tell her I know she didn’t need me but I was glad to be near her–

Blood ran from his lips.

–and tell her I died well. Tell her I wasn’t afraid. Tell her I admired her brother. Thank you. I want to say I loved that she could not cook. Tell her I loved that she could not sing. Tell her that I loved her for her ferocity. Tell her. Tell her that when death dares to come for her, I will be waiting for her. Tell her I would have followed her into the Westlands. Tell her the whole army would follow her into the Westlands–

There was one last moment of clarity in his eyes. He smiled, blood on his lips, and Jules watched him, intent. He focused on her, as though even though he could not move, could not speak, could no longer breathe, he would hold her still, and make sure she understood the gravity of his message.

–Tell her thank you. Tell her thank–

–but then they were glassy, and his jaw was slack; death had finally been granted to them both.

“Tibi gratus sunt,” Jules whispered, and lifted her hand to close his eyes.

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This is Issue #51 of DeathWatch, Book II: tentatively called Heart Of Ilona, an ongoing Serial. Click that link to go find DeathWatch, the first in the series, or start from the beginning of Book II!

Happy Reading!

PREVIOUS

* * *

When he woke again, the pain in his head more blinding, he cursed aloud around a thick tongue, and through a throat so raw he began to cough.

“Ego vivere,” he finally choked. “Ego vivere?” He wept again, but this time, not in relief, instead, in fear. This was not living. This was not death. This was not glory. This was torture.

Hunger came, a strange feeling of gnawing, of aching emptiness that he knew was only in his mind — he could not feel his own belly, or how empty it was. Hunger came so sharply, he caught the scents of burning flesh on the wind, aetheric fires and regular flame, scorching human and beast alike, and it only stoked his desire, made him salivate, and then gag at the thought.

Eventually, the world darkened, and there was actual nightfall.

Over the field, he heard others cry out in pain and fear, more than once heard the faraway report of a pistol as a soldier managed to end his or her — or someone else’s — suffering.

He envied them, and then knew fury at himself for thinking such a thing.

Daylight came, but still there was no release.

How long would this continue?

There were less groans, less downed horses whinnying in pain and fear. The smells of blood and earth were just as thick, and even worse. He closed his eyes and quietly began to pray to the Guardian, begging that his life might be over, that his death might come quickly now, now that he had served, now that he had given of himself, now that he had fallen.

Nothing happened.

He did not die.

A part of him imagined that perhaps he would be found, and be lifted from the battlefield into a medship, that he would be attended by chiurgeons of great reknown, for having delivered so many Kriegs unto their death. Perhaps the Guardian and Queen themselves would bless him, and he would be healed enough to have pride. Scarred, but healed. He would make an excellent strategic general. He would be able to give good counsel. His body would not be able to keep up with combat, but there was nothing wrong with his mind.

Nothing wrong with his mind, save for how it was currently held within a prison of ruined flesh and blood and bone.

Time ticked onward, and the idea that he could be saved slipped further and further away.

The desolation of the battlefield was such that if there were other survivors beyond fellow soldiers or enemies in the same state he was, he couldn’t hear them. There were still fires burning, still horses occasionally groaning and kicking, still the occasional last gasp, and then a growing silence.

Night fell again.

He did not know he’d fallen asleep until he woke in the harsh glare of day; when a flutter of movement made him flinch into consciousness.

The first thing he noticed was the smell assaulting him. The stench of death was heavy, now, and flies had already come.

The clouds had parted for a time, and the sun illuminated his predicament even more clearly. He could see how his legs had become trapped beneath the bloating body of his mount; he remembered, then, with clarity, how it had fallen, screaming, when a Kriegsman drove an axe into its leg, and then simply kept swinging, and lodged the blade into the beast’s chest.

The horse had managed its own revenge; in its dying throes, it not only flung him against the ground and then rolled to crush him, it flailed with its good legs and one lucky hoof caved in the skull of the very Krieg who’d delivered the killing blow. That Krieg dropped like a sack of stones down on him, as he already lay half beneath the mount, and in doing so, crushed his arm, breaking his wrist. It throbbed and shrieked beneath the dead man, ruined.

His other arm, his sword arm, already lay useless; he could not even feel it.

But what was the fluttering? What woke him?

A harsh cawing would have made him quite still, had he been able to move to begin with. He turned his head the little he could, and found himself face to beak with a massive corvid. The thing hopped about on his sword arm.

He hadn’t felt it.

It stared down at his flesh, and he stared at it, in fascination and horror. It cawed, rustling its wings, and cocked its head this way and that, strutting and examining. He watched the talons pinch his flesh. He watched them pierce it, clutch it.

He could not feel it. It was like watching it happen to someone else.

When it finally began to peck, to tear into him, he tried to shout at it, but taking any sort of deep breath simply made him gag — he could do nothing but watch.

Dimly, he imagined it could get no worse. A strange sort of laughter began to choke him; he chuffed at the bird, coughed. It flew away.

He watched it disappear beyond the horizon of dead bodies surrounding his field of vision — and then that was filled with the panting, slavering muzzle of a wild dog, come to see what the birds had found.

Its coat was a mass of scabs and scars — it too had been in a battle. The only difference between the two was that the dog had managed to be a survivor. It must have thought itself so very lucky to have happened upon such a feast.

He stared at it, wondering blankly how long it would take the thing to get close enough for the freshest meat it could taste, blood still running, body still hot.

The wild thing edged closer, a growl low in its canine throat, and its scarred lips pulled back tight over its muzzle, revealing scores of sharp white teeth.

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