The Fire In His Hands

enforced. Rumor said Hawkwind believed the recruits had done well, considering the terrain and concentrated resistance they had faced.

The veterans were less understanding. Their General’s record had been sullied. Hundreds of comrades were dead. They didn’t care that the briny water had been thigh deep, nor that the recruits had borne the brunt of the fury of El Murid’s army. They saw more recruits surviving than members of any other company, and they were not pleased.

Radetic reached the youths. He paused between them, leaned on a merlon. Below, el Nadim’s men were hard at work. “Confident as ants, aren’t they?”

“Maybe they got reasons,” Haaken grumbled.

Bragi did not respond. He did not know how to take the older man. Radetic was important here, yet seldom acted it. He did ask, “How’s Haroun?”

“Mending. The Wahlig sends his regards. He’ll thank you personally when he has a free moment.”

“Okay.”

“So enthusiastic! He’s a generous man. Haroun is his favorite son.”

“The only thing I could get enthusiastic about is getting out of here.”

Radetic made a thoughtful “Hmm?” sound.

“It’s hot and dry and there’s nothing out there but miles and miles of nothing.”

“My patrimony for a decent tree. I feel the same sometimes.” Radetic patted Bragi’s shoulder. “Homesick, lad?”

Bragi blustered — then poured out his story. Radetic looked interested, and encouraged him whenever he faltered.

He was homesick. Much as he pretended otherwise, he was just a boy forced into a man’s role. He missed his people.

Bragi related his feelings about the defeat. Radetic patted his shoulder again. “No need to feel shame there. The General was surprised you held up so well. If there’s any blame due, it belongs to him and the Wahlig. They got cocky. And you soldiers paid the price. I’d better move along.”

Bragi did not understand what the old scholar had done, but he did feel better. And Haaken didn’t look half as glum.

Sergeant Trubacik arrived moments later. “The Lieutenant wants you, Ragnarson. Get your butt down there.”

“But —”

“Go.”

Bragi went. He shivered all the way, though the day was a scorcher. Now it begins, he thought. Now the repercussions set in.

Sanguinet was set up in a storeroom off the stables. It was a dark, musty room, badly lighted by a single lantern. Bragi knocked on the doorframe. “Ragnarson, sir.”

“Come in. Close the door.”

Bragi did as he was told, wishing he were elsewhere. He could tell himself it didn’t matter what these people thought, that he knew he had done his best, but it did matter. It mattered very much.

Sanguinet stared for fifteen seconds. Then, “Birdsong died this morning.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“So am I. He was a good man. Not much imagination, but he could hold a squad together.”

“Yes sir.”

“I’m preparing the report. You were there. Tell me how it happened.”

“We was slogging through that salt water. A stone knicked his elbow. He dropped his shield. Before he got it up again a javelin hit right at the edge of his breastplate. Went in under his arm and got his lung, I guess.”

“You took over?”

“Yes sir. The guys were kind of used to me telling them what to do. From training.”

“You had only one other casualty?”

“Kildragon, sir.” Reskird had gotten excited, broken formation to get at a particular enemy, and had paid the price of indiscipline.

“Corporal Stone commanded the squad on your left. He says you held your ground.”

“I tried... We tried, sir. But we couldn’t stand fast when everybody else was pulling back.”

“No. You couldn’t. All right, Ragnarson. You may have the makings. I’m entering the promotion in the record. Pay and a half from the day Birdsong was wounded.”

“Sir?” He thought he had missed something.

“You’re taking over. Permanent promotion. Subject to the General’s approval. Go back to your men, Corporal.”

For half a minute Bragi stood there, dazed, wanting to argue, to protest, or something. This was not what he had expected.