Orphan's Triumph (Jason Wander) (33 page)

And, as always, to Mary Beth for anniversaries past and better ones to come.

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Meet the Author

ROBERT BUETTNER is a former Military Intelligence Officer and a National Science Foundation Fellow in Paleontology, and he has published in the field of natural resources law. He lives in Georgia. His Web site is
www.RobertBuettner.com
.

introducing

If you enjoyed
ORPHAN’S TRIUMPH,

look out for

THE COMPANY

by K. J. Parker

Hoping for a better life, five war veterans colonize an abandoned island. They take with them
everything they could possibly need—food, clothes, tools, weapons, even wives.
But an unanticipated discovery shatters their dream and replaces it with a very different one.
The colonists feel sure that their friendship will keep them together. Only then do they begin to
realize that they’ve brought with them rather more than they bargained for.
For one of them, it seems, has been hiding a terrible secret from the rest of the company. And
when the truth begins to emerge, it soon becomes clear that the war is far from over.
Teuche’s father knew the soldiers were somewhere in the parish. He’d met Tolly Epersen as he was driving the herd back to the sheds for evening milking, and Tolly reckoned he’d seen them, a dark gray blur on the slopes of Farmoor. Teuche’s father was worried, naturally enough. His sheep were on Big Moor, a hopelessly tempting prize for a large body of hungry men. He considered the risks and options: if Tolly had seen them on Farmoor an hour ago, even if they were coming straight down the combe, it’d still take them four hours to reach the pasture where the sheep were. There should be plenty of time, therefore, to get up to Big Moor and drive the flock into Redwater combe, where with any luck they wouldn’t be noticed. Normally he’d have gone himself and left the milking to Teuche, but as luck would have it, he’d put his foot in a rabbit hole and turned over his ankle two days earlier and was still limping badly. He didn’t like the thought of sending the boy out where there might be stray soldiers, but he couldn’t risk anything happening to the sheep. He called Teuche out of the barn, where he’d been mending hurdles, and told him what to do.

Teuche clearly wasn’t wild about the idea, but he could see that it had to be done and that his father was in no fit state to do it. He whistled up the dogs, put some rope in his pocket just in case he did meet any soldiers (if the dogs ran ahead, they’d give him away; once he got up on the top he’d put them on the lead, just in case), and set off up the course of the dried-up stream. It wasn’t the shortest way, but he figured he could keep out of sight behind the high banks on that side if there turned out to be soldiers on the moor.

The streambed ran down the steepest side of the hill, but Teuche was young, fit, and in a hurry. Because he was keeping well over to the lower side, in the shade of the ninety-year-old copper beeches his great-grandfather had planted along the top of the bank to act as a windbreak, he could neither see nor be seen, and the wind in the branches made enough noise to mask any sound he made, though of course going quietly had long since been second nature to him. It took him no more than an hour to reach the gate in the bank that led from Pit Mead into Big Moor. There he paused, pulled himself together, and peered over the gate to see what he could see.

To begin with, he had no idea what they could be. They were far too dark to be sheep, too big to be rooks or crows. If he’d been a stranger to the neighborhood he might well have taken them for rocks and large stones, not an unusual sight on the top of the moor, where the soil was so thin and the wind scoured more of it away every year. But, thanks to his great-grandfather’s windbreak, Big Moor was good pasture with relatively deep, firm soil; there were one or two outcrops down on the southern side, but none at all in the middle, and these things, whatever they were, were everywhere. His best guess was that they were some kind of very large birds—geese, perhaps.

At first, they only puzzled him; he was too preoccupied by what wasn’t there, namely the sheep. He curbed the impulse to run out into the field and look for them. If they weren’t there, it might well mean that the soldiers had got there first and were down out of sight in the dip on the eastern side. By the same token, the sheep might be down there, too, though they tended to crowd in down there only when they needed to shelter from the rain. He couldn’t decide what to do for the best, and as he tried to make up his mind, he considered the unidentified things scattered all over the field, not sheep or rooks, not stones, and there had to be hundreds of them. Thousands.

He stayed in the gateway for a long while, until he realized that time was getting on and he still didn’t know where the sheep were. Very cautiously, he climbed the gate and dropped down as close as he could to the bank, where he’d be harder to see. His idea was to work his way along the bank as far as the boggy patch, where he could use the cover of the reeds to get far enough out into the field to spy down into the hidden dip. It was a good plan of action. In spite of his anxiety, he felt moderately proud of himself for keeping his head in a difficult situation.

The first one he found was lying in the bottom of the narrow drainage rhine that went under the bank about a hundred yards down from the gate. Because of the clumps of couch grass that edged the rhine, he didn’t see him until he was no more than five feet away. He stopped dead, as though he’d walked into a wall in the dark.

The man was lying on his face, his arms by his sides, and Teuche’s first thought was that he was drunk, passed out and sleeping it off in a ditch, like old Hetori Laon from Blueside. He noticed that the man had what looked like a steel shell that covered his top half, from his neck down to his waist, and under that a shirt apparently made out of thousands of small, linked steel rings. Then he realized that the man’s face was submerged in the black, filthy water that ran in the rhine. He ran forward to see if he could help but stopped before he got much closer.

He’d never seen a dead man before. When Grandfather died, his mother had made him stay out in the barn; when he was allowed back inside there was no body to be seen, just a long plank box with the lid already nailed down. Maybe as a result of that, he’d always imagined that a dead body would be a horrifying, scary sight; in the event, it was no such thing. It looked just like a man lying down—a man lying down drunk, even, which was comedy, not tragedy—but he could tell just by looking at it that it wasn’t human anymore; it wasn’t a person, just a thing. Teuche wasn’t afraid of things. He went closer. He knew the man must be a soldier because of the steel shell and the ring shirt. From the available facts, he worked out a theory. The soldier had been drinking; he’d wandered away from the rest of the army, fallen asleep sitting against the bank, somehow slid over and ended up facedown in the rhine, where he’d drowned without ever waking up. It struck him as a sad thing to have happened, sad and stupid but understandable. Something of the sort had happened to a tinker last year out over in Spessi, and the general opinion had been that it had served him right.

But he didn’t have time for any of that now, he reminded himself; he had to find the sheep and get them down into the combe. It occurred to him that the soldier’s friends might be out looking for him, so he carried on down the bank toward the reeds, keeping his head below the skyline. He’d nearly reached the outskirts of the wet patch when he made the connection in his mind between the dead man and the things he’d seen lying in the field.

Once the idea had occurred to him, he felt stunned, as though he’d just stood up under a low branch and cracked his head. If the gray things lying in the field were all dead men… but that couldn’t be possible, because several thousand human beings don’t just suddenly die like that, all together at the same time, out in the open fields.

But, he thought, they do, if they’re soldiers, in a war. That’s precisely what happens. He knew all about the war, and wars in general. He’d always liked hearing stories, both the old ones about the heroes of long ago and the more up-to-date ones about how our lads were slaughtering thousands of the enemy every day, in victory after victory. It was almost impossible to believe, but maybe that was what had happened right here, on Big Moor; General Oionoisin had managed to catch up with the enemy and cut them to pieces, right here, on our top pasture…

He tried to think about the sheep, but he couldn’t. He wanted to go farther out into the field, to look at the bodies, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it, in case some of them were still alive, wounded, dying. Shouldn’t he try to do something for them, in that case? But the thought made him feel sick and terrified; the last thing he wanted to do was actually go near them, dying, as if fatal injury was something contagious you could pick up by touch. Nevertheless, he crept out from the fringe of the reed bed and walked quickly and nervously, as though he was trespassing, up the slope toward a clump of the things clustered ’round a gorse bush.

There were five of them. They all had the same steel shells and shirts; one of them had a steel hat with ear flaps. It hadn’t done him much good: there was a wide red gash in his neck, through the windpipe. The blood was beginning to cake and blacken, and the last of the summer’s flies were crawling in it, weaving patterns with their bodies. The man’s eyes were wide open—he had a rather gormless expression, as if someone had asked him a perfectly simple question and he didn’t know the answer. There was another gash on his knee. His right hand was still clutching a long wooden pole, splintered in the middle. The other four men were face-down, lying in patches of brown, sticky blood. Teuche noticed that the soles of their boots were worn almost through. A little farther on, he saw a dead horse, with a man’s body trapped under it. There was something very wrong about it, but it took him quite some time to realize that the body had no head. He looked ’round for it but he couldn’t see it anywhere. He tried to think what he should do. His first duty was to see if there was anybody he could help; but there were so many of them, and besides, what could he do? Suppose there were two or three, or five or six or ten or twenty or a hundred men lying here still alive, capable of being saved, if only someone came to help them. That made it too difficult. One man, one stranger, and he’d feel obliged to get him down the hill, somehow or other, back to the house, where Mother and the other women would know what to do. Just possibly he could manage one, but not two; and if there were two, or more than two, how the hell was he supposed to know how to choose between them? Besides, he told himself, these people are the enemy. They came here to kill and rob us and take our land. They deserved it. More to the point, he had to find the sheep.

He reverted to his original plan of action, though he knew it had been largely overtaken by events: down to the dip, where he found no live enemy soldiers and no sheep. That more or less exhausted his reserve of ideas, and he felt too dazed and stupid to think what to do next. After a minute or so wasted in dithering, he climbed up on the bank beside the southern gateway, where he knew he could get a good view of the whole of the river valley, from Stoneyard down to Quarry Pit. Of course, that wasn’t Kunessin land; it belonged to the Gaeons, Kudei’s family, but he knew they wouldn’t mind if he went onto it to get his sheep back.

But there were no sheep, no white dots, only a scattering of the gray ones, stretching down the valley until they were too small to make out. That’s it, then, he thought: the sheep have gone, the soldiers must’ve taken them, after all. He knew without having to think about it that that was really bad, about as bad as it could possibly get. He tried to feel angry—bastard enemy coming here, stealing our sheep—but he couldn’t. After all, the enemy had been punished enough, General Oionoisin had seen to that, and what good had it done? Thirty-five acres of dead meat wouldn’t make up for losing the sheep. Then he told himself that the government would probably pay compensation, sooner or later; it stood to reason that they must, because otherwise it wouldn’t be fair. You can’t have armies come onto your land and kill thousands of people and steal a valuable flock of sheep and not expect to pay for it. The world wouldn’t work if people could behave like that.