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Mercenary of Lastia - BtLH - Ch 40
🕑 Added 2024-06-12 18:31:34 +0000 UTCLys trudged back to her group’s tents. Everything was a blur as exhaustion pulled at her. The sight that greeted her was one of devastation.
Her tent lay trampled, its canvas torn and muddied. Others had fared even worse, reduced to charred remnants or torn beyond recognition. Arrows littered the ground, leaving behind a sea of splintered shafts and sharp points stuck into everything.
Peder was there, already busy gathering the scattered debris. Lys joined him, picking up arrows as she went. The silence between them felt oppressive, and she couldn’t help but voice the question that had been gnawing at her.
“What about the others?” she asked, her voice strained.
Peder’s blank stare was the only response she received, and Lys frowned, a sense of unease settling in her gut as she continued to clean the area as best she could. Eventually, she gave up and found a seat and lay down her head.
The brief period of unconsciousness was interrupted by the arrival of Woodrow and Stormwell. They brought a momentary sense of relief, but it was short-lived. Stormwell’s arm was bandaged, a stark reminder of the wounded.
She greeted them, but their despondent expressions didn’t change.
“I should go check on Garrett,” she said, eyeing Stormwell’s injury.
Woodrow clenched his fists and then looked away. “He... he didn’t make it,” he stammered, words barely audible.
Lys blinked, struggling to process the information. She grabbed his arm. “What do you mean? I carried him to the medical tent myself!”
“I’m sorry, Lys. I know you two were friends, but Garrett went into shock after losing too much blood.” Stormwell’s voice was gentle, but the weight of his words hit her like a physical blow.
Lys let go and sank to the ground, her legs no longer able to support her. She looked around, her eyes searching. “What about Orin? He was hit by an arrow.”
“They removed it, and he’s recovering,” Stormwell replied.
Lys stood up, her movements mechanical as she made her way towards the medical tents. The others called after her, but she didn’t stop and they didn’t follow.
She needed to see Orin, to reassure herself that at least one of her friends was okay.
It didn’t take her that long to reach her destination, but that didn’t make the search easy. There were a lot more medical tents now, and each one was filled with wounded soldiers on cots and bedrolls. The stench of blood and other things was heavy in the air, mingling with groans of pain.
She clenched her jaw as she passed stacks of stripped bodies, their lifeless forms piled carelessly like discarded dolls.
“How can they treat our comrades like that?” she muttered, anger and annoyance bubbling up inside her.
The sight of wood being stacked nearby made her stomach churn as she realized the bodies were destined for the funeral pyres.
Biting her lip, she pressed on, searching through more tents until she finally found him. She grabbed a stool and sat by the cot.
Orin stirred, his eyes fluttering open as he noticed her presence. “How are you?” he asked, his voice weak but laced with concern.
“That’s what I should be asking you,” Lys replied, forcing a small smile. “I’m fine.”
“Good, good,” Orin nodded. “The others?”
Lys swallowed hard, her throat tightening. “Garrett... he isn’t with us anymore.”
“Oh.” Orin leaned back, his expression somber. Silence stretched between them.
Lys fought back the emotions that threatened to spill over. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“For what?” Orin asked, his brow furrowed. “You did your best. Nothing to be sorry for.”
“If I had done better...” Lys started, but Orin cut her off.
“Shut up,” he said firmly. “We all knew the risks when signing up. We just didn’t know they would happen so soon.”
Orin winced as he sat up and gripped Lys’s shoulder, looking her directly in the eye. “We all did our best. We just weren’t ready yet.”
Lys nodded weakly, her vision blurring with unshed tears.
They talked for a little longer before Orin leaned back on the bed. “I’m tired. Going to sleep some more. You should get back before you get yelled at for being here.”
Standing up, Lys nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll be back to check on you later.”
She walked back to her unit’s tent area. This time, organized chaos greeted her.
Swift stood amidst the remnants, directing the cleanup efforts with a stern expression. Peder, Woodrow, Stormwell, and Plainfield were already hard at work, gathering debris and sorting through the wreckage.
As she approached, Swift’s gaze landed on her. “Where have you been, Trekhill?”
“I went to check on Orin, Sergeant,” Lys replied, meeting his eyes.
To her surprise, Swift’s expression softened slightly. “How’s the lad doing?”
“He’s recovering from the arrow wound, Sergeant. The medics say he’ll pull through,” she replied.
Swift nodded, then turned to address the group. “Line up, recruits!”
The five of them quickly formed a single line, a reminder of their diminished numbers. Lys felt a pang of grief as she realized they were all that remained of the original twenty.
“You’re on camp cleanup duty,” Swift announced. “We need to clear the burnt tents and damaged equipment with the other recruits. Get to work.”
They set about their task with grim determination. She worked alongside Peder, hauling charred canvas and splintered poles to the designated waste area. The acrid smell of smoke clung to everything.
As they worked, they came across remnants of their fallen comrades’ belongings.
“I found Garrett’s lucky coin,” Woodrow said quietly, holding up a tarnished copper piece.
Stormwell placed a hand on his shoulder and then they both looked at Lys. Woodrow proffered it to her. “Keep it. He’d want you to have it.”
She accepted the bent coin, her throat tight with emotion. She turned back to her work, focusing on the task at hand to keep her mind from wandering to darker thoughts.
The other recruits worked nearby, their faces somber as they cleared the debris. Occasionally, someone would call out a find. Locating the belongings just made the mood worse.
As the day wore on, the camp slowly began to take shape once more. The burnt tents were cleared away, the damaged equipment sorted and repaired where possible.
Lys trudged alongside her fellow recruits toward the mess area, her body aching with exhaustion. The once lively chatter among the group had been replaced by a somber silence, broken only by the clinking of bowls as they received their portions of stew.
They settled onto the benches and she stirred the contents of her bowl absentmindedly, her thoughts drifting to the faces of those who would never again share a meal with them.
Swift’s voice cut through the silence. “I have some news for you all,” he said, his tone uncharacteristically gentle. “The other fourteen recruits, they didn’t make it. It’s just Orin and the five of you left.”
Lys’s spoon stilled, the weight of Swift’s words settling like a lead weight in her stomach. She glanced around at the others, their expressions mirroring her own shock.
“Those Irongian bastards,” Stormwell muttered, his fist clenching around his spoon. “They’ll pay for what they’ve done.”
Peder shook his head. “I can’t believe they’re all gone. Just like that.”
Woodrow stared into his bowl, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “We were just training with them yesterday. Laughing, joking... and now...”
Lys swallowed past the lump in her throat, her appetite vanishing entirely. She pushed her bowl away.
Plainfield was silent, but his clenched fists were unmistakable.
The others talked quietly, and she listened to the exchange, her own emotions a tangled knot in her chest. Anger, grief, shock—they all swirled together, leaving her feeling numb and disconnected.
Swift watched them, his eyes shadowed. He had lost men before, she realized. This time, they were young recruits. Her friends.
The meal was over quickly. Lys stood and followed the others out of the mess area. They lined up for their Sergeant.
“You’ll be clearing the dead out of the ditches,” Swift said, his tone devoid of anything.
No one spoke. No groans of protest or muttered complaints. Just a heavy silence that hung over them like a shroud as they made their way to the wall where the battle had raged just hours earlier.
The ditch was full of carnage. Blood caked the dirt, the coppery scent mingling with the acrid smoke that still lingered in the air. Dozens of men were already at work, their faces grim as they hauled the lifeless bodies of friend and foe alike.
Lys turned to Swift, her brow furrowed. “What if the Irongians attack again while we’re out here?”
“Unlikely,” Swift replied, his gaze sweeping over the battlefield. “They took heavy losses. But if they do, we’ll get back inside before they reach us and repel them again.”
Lys nodded, her throat tight as she watched the carts being loaded with the dead. She moved forward, her hands trembling as she reached for the first body.
She just wanted to go to sleep. It wasn’t clear why pulling the bodies out immediately was important. Maybe they didn’t want them to collapse into a depression? Still, it was miserable work on top of everything else.
Beside her, Stormwell’s face was a mask of anger. He kicked one of the fallen Irongians, his boot connecting with a sickening thud.
“None of that,” Swift barked, his voice sharp.
Stormwell stepped back, his fists clenched at his sides. For a second she thought he’d lash out at the Sergeant. Thankfully, he turned and went back to work. She wasn’t sure what the reaction would have bene, but it wouldn’t have been good.
They worked in silence, the only sound being the grunts of exertion and the creaking of the carts as they were filled.
Occasionally, someone would mutter a direction or a request for help, but the words were muted, as if even speech was too much effort. Others came and hauled away what they pulled out. The smell of burning intensified, and Lys realized everything was going into the fire.
The demoralized atmosphere seeped into her bones.
She glanced at her companions, their faces etched with the same grief and exhaustion that she felt.
How were they ever going to get over this?
Comments
Alasdair Macmillan
Perhaps the most brutal part is that none of the recruits have been paid yet...
Thomas Corbin
Tough chapter.
