“Better than wallowing in self-pity,” Sermas countered.
Khollo and Sermas were the last cadets through the gates of the fortress. Wilkes watched them go, glaring balefully. “Better catch up, cadets,” he called as they passed. “Or you’ll be missing breakfast.”
“Yes, sir, sorry sir!” Sermas and Khollo chorused. Wilkes harrumphed and began climbing the steps to the wall, from whence he would watch the cadets perform their morning exercises.
“Predictable, isn’t he?” Sermas muttered.
“Always,” Khollo agreed. They turned west, jogging down the hill the West Bank stood on. Ahead, a tight knot of six cadets was moving at a good pace, and beyond them, two smaller groups of two and three. One cadet was falling behind the largest group, but was still well ahead of Khollo and Sermas.
“Come on,” Khollo grunted between strides as he increased his pace. “We have some catching up to do.”
Fifteen minutes later, Khollo and Sermas were climbing the top of the largest hill at a steady pace, now in the front of a cluster of eight cadets. Ahead, Genal moved steadily along with four others, and a single cadet shambled along between the two groups, clearly flagging. Khollo was in nearly as bad a shape. But his whirling thoughts from the previous night were distracting him from the pain of the run.
Sermas was breathing evenly still, hardly tired, content to run all day if he had to. He led the way along the trail, Khollo a half step behind him. They crested the halfway hill and started down the other side, turning slowly towards the base of the hill on which the West Bank fortress stood. Above, the watch was changing, torches which had burnt through the night were being extinguished and thoroughly bored soldiers were stumbling off to their beds. The sun was still barely touching the horizon, not yet high enough in the sky to provide any warmth or comfort in the chill of winter.
Khollo and Sermas had opened some distance between themselves and the rear pack by the time they drew level with the back of the fortress. Ahead was the most treacherous part of the trail. Here, the path moved to hug the north cliff face, and the ground was littered with rocks and pitted with holes. Khollo and Sermas slowed their pace and took the section carefully. Ahead, Genal and his group had slowed as well.
But the cadet between the two groups sped up, perhaps thinking this was his chance to move to the front of the group. The first cadet back usually moved up in Wilkes’ favor. He was just passing Genal’s group on the edge of the trail when his foot disappeared into the ground and there was an audible snap.
The cadet cried out and collapsed on the side of the trail, clutching at his ankle. His pack burst open, scattering more rocks across the ground. Genal’s group kept moving, ignoring the downed cadet. Khollo looked on with distaste. Looking up at the battlements, high above, he saw Wilkes observing from afar.
“Hold up,” Khollo said to Sermas as they drew level with the cadet.
Sermas stopped and watched as Khollo knelt beside the injured cadet, a sixteen-year-old from the plains called Hern.
“Keep going,” Hern hissed between clenched teeth. “You know what Wilkes will do to you if you’re the last ones back.”
Khollo exchanged a glance with Sermas. The younger boy looked nervous. This is the right thing, Khollo decided. There is no other option.
“There are worse fates,” Khollo grunted. “And I refuse to leave a comrade behind,” he added, glaring at Genal’s retreating back.
Hern followed his gaze. “He saw what happened. Didn’t even hesitate.”
Khollo snorted. “Wouldn’t expect him to. Is it a break or just sprained?”
“It’s broken,” Hern replied.
Khollo considered this. “We’ll have to splint it.” He cast about for a suitable splint. His eyes fell on Sermas’ scabbarded sword. “Give me your scabbard,” he said quickly, reaching for his own as well.
Sermas wordlessly handed it over. “Keep the sword,” Khollo said quickly. “Just in case.” Sermas frowned and drew his blade, directing a searching gaze at Khollo.
Khollo set his own sword on the ground and arranged the two empty scabbards, made of hardened, shaped leather, on either side of Hern’s lower leg and prepared to set the limb. Then, the sounds of heavy feet pounding the earth reached his ears.
Ambush!
Khollo spun and stood raising his sword to defend himself and the fallen Hern. But it was just the rest of the cadets thundering past, none so much as sparing Hern a glance. Sermas raised an eyebrow at Khollo.
“Something wrong?”
Khollo lowered his blade, feeling foolish. “Keep watch, will you?”
Sermas frowned. “Why?”
“Just do it,” Khollo snapped, turning back to Hern.
“Someone’s jumpy today,” Sermas muttered. But he hefted his sword and scanned the surrounding area for threats dutifully.
Khollo looked down at Hern’s left foot, twisted at an odd angle, then back into the boy’s pain-filled eyes. “Ready?”
“Do it,” Hern grunted. “Quickly.”
Khollo nodded, took a deep breath, then twisted the foot back into the proper alignment.
Hern screamed in pain and pounded the ground with a clenched fist. Khollo pulled off his tunic and tore it into strips, then quickly bound the two scabbards so that they held the offending foot straight. By the time he had finished, Hern had stopped screaming. His face was pale, his jaw clenched, but he seemed to be in much less pain.
“Can you walk?” Khollo asked hopefully.
Hern struggled to his feet and tried to put weight on his foot. He winced and shook his head.
“What now?” Sermas asked Khollo.
“I have an idea,” Khollo replied. “But I don’t like it.”
Sermas shrugged. “Well, we’re not leaving him, so we’re carrying him.”
Khollo nodded. “Precisely.”
As one, they draped Hern’s arms around their shoulders and
