A Warrior's Path (The Castes and the OutCastes) (60 page)

“Nothing was going on between us,” Jaresh snapped.

Jessira’s eyebrows arched and she wore a look of disbelief.  Who did Jaresh think he was fooling?  “I’m not a Pureblood,” she reminded him.  “You don’t have to lie to me about your feelings for Mira.  Fall in love with her, get married, I don’t care.  In Stronghold, there would be no reason not to do any of it.”

“Your point being…?
” Jaresh asked curtly.

“You and Mira can come with me to Stronghold.  I’ve seen how miserable you are.  You think Mira is feeling any better?’

Jaresh settled back in his chair, his anger replaced by a look of startlement.  “Go with you to Stronghold?” he repeated.  “It’s an interesting offer, but…”

“Before you say ‘no’, just think it over.  I know it sounds ridiculous, but Rukh would be
with you, and so would Mira.”

“But my family is here.  Ashoka is my home.”

“And Mira is the woman you love.”

Jaresh merely nodded, confirming what Jessira had already suspected to be true.  “I’ll think about it,” he said.  “But don’t tell Mira.  If I say ‘yes’, I should be the one who asks her.”

“Just let me know as soon as you can,” Jessira said.  She left the library and closed the door on her way out, leaving Jaresh to consider her offer.

A few days later, she had her answer. 
She wasn’t surprised that it was ‘no’.

*****

I
n the tunnels and caves, it was chaos.  It smelled like an abattoir, with the stink of burned flesh and blood hanging in the air.  Bodies of dead Chims and far too many Ashokans were scattered throughout.  A few final battles raged briefly and violently before the last of the Fan Lor Kum were killed.  It had been as everyone had expected: the Chimeras of the breeding caverns had fought to the bloody end, never seeking to flee, and never seeking to surrender.

Eventually Rukh was able to reconnect with an Ashokan unit.  It wasn’t the one to which he had been assigned, but it was better than wandering the passages alone.  They seemed glad enough for his help, undermanned as they were.  They had taken horrific casualties, and all the warriors had the glassy-eyed look of utter fatigue
.  Many were injured with broken arms and ribs or worse.  All of them were drenched in blood, both fresh and dried, and crusted pieces of flesh clung to their skin and clothes.

Shortly after Rukh joined them, they finished cleaning out their section of the caverns, and trickled outside where they were soon joined by a number of
other squads.  It soon became clear just how many men had perished within the tunnels.  It was far too many, and those who had survived had all been injured in some way.  Many would die before the day was done.

Duty was harsher than
an icy winter gale, and Rukh knew his.  Despite his fatigue, despite his desire to just lie down and rest, despite how reed thin his
Jivatma
was, he knew what had to be done.  He had to Heal as many of these poor bastards as possible. While the demonstration of yet another Talent would only further widen the gulf that existed between himself and the other Ashokans, Rukh was indifferent to the possibility at this point.  He knew many of the warriors here.  He’d grown up with some of them, counted them as friends at one time.  Despite how they had treated him, he couldn’t ignore their suffering.  Mercy – a taskmaster no less harsh than duty – demanded it.

Rukh looked for and eventually found his lieutenant. 
Although Danslo was an ass, and Rukh didn’t respect or trust the man, he was still Rukh’s commanding officer.  Right now, the lieutenant was hip deep in injured men who were moaning in pain.

“Well miracles never cease,” Danslo said.  “You’re still alive.  I guess the Chims didn’t want to kill one of their own.”

The lieutenant paled as soon as the words were out of his mouth.  Those words couldn’t be taken back.  Those words demanded satisfaction.

Rukh had wanted to do what was right.  He had approached the lieutenant with charity in his heart. 
His generous spirit vanished, replaced by an all-consuming rage and need for vengeance.  A red haze filled Rukh’s vision.  All the other men had heard Danslo, and they quieted, sensing Rukh’s deadly menace.

“Pray now.  You have one minute to make your peace with this world before I send you to the next,” Rukh said, unsheathing his sword.

“Worry about your own,” Danslo said, drawing as well but looking far from happy at having to do so.

Captain Regus
, one of Marshall Tanhue’s subcommanders, must have seen the two of them facing off.  The captain stormed over and intercepted their impending duel, stepping between them.  He looked furious.  “What is the meaning of this?” he roared at Rukh and Danslo.  “You would dare draw swords on a brother with our dead not yet even cold?  Here and now?  You dishonor all they fought for!”

Rukh stepped back and tersely explained to the captain the words spoken by the lieutenant.  If the captain ordered them to cease and d
esist, Rukh would…for now.  But even then, this wouldn’t be over.  Danslo would answer for his insults.

Regus’ mouth gaped.  “Is this true?” he demanded of Danslo.

Danslo’s jaw clenched, and he nodded, short and curt.  “I’ve said nothing to this…person that I regret.”

The captain
looked disgusted.  “Then you are a Devesh damned fool.  Apologize and pray he accepts it and doesn’t gut you where you stand.”

“
Are you giving me an order?” Danslo growled.

“If that’s what it takes to keep your fragging head attached to your fragging body, then yes.”

Danslo scowled,
but in the end, he acquiesced, sheathing his sword.  “Please understand, my words were rash and inspired by the death and injury of the men entrusted to my care.  I am sorry if what I said offended you,” he said.  It was a weasel-worded unapologetic apology and everyone knew it. 

Rukh glared.  He was about to let Danslo know where he could shove his
worthless confession, but Regus gripped his arm, keeping him from attacking the lieutenant.

“It is the best you can expect,” the captain hissed in Rukh’s ear.  “
Or do you wish to spill the blood of your brother on a day when so many of our warriors have already died?  Death hovers over us.  There is no need for you to aid his swift sickle.”

Rukh jerked his arm free.  Danslo was definitely
not
his brother, but the captain was right.  They had lost enough warriors today, and so many more would likely perish from their wounds before the sun had set.  And hadn’t he sought the lieutenant in order to help save those men?  He gave a frustrated growl.  Danslo would live.

Rukh slammed his sword home and stepped forward, staring
the lieutenant in the eyes.  The man carried not a hint of remorse for his words.  Jackhole bastard.  Rukh fired a
Jivatma
powered liver shot, lifting Danslo off his feet and landing him on his ass.  It would be painful as hell, but not debilitating.  “You are a coward to hide behind your rank and your orders.  The men call me the Tainted One, but I know who I am and what I am worth.  I am a warrior of Ashoka, and I won’t kill you,
brother.
”

He turned to the captain.  “I can Heal, not as well as a Shiyen, but maybe enough to save some lives,” he said. 
Upon hearing his claim, the warriors sitting, squatting, or standing behind him began murmuring in fear and consternation.  “It’s another Talent I picked up on the Trial.  Give me a chance, and a few of the warriors who should otherwise die might actually live.”  The Ashokans wouldn’t appreciate his help, but what they thought of him didn’t matter to him any more.  He was a Kumma, a warrior and a supreme killer, but he was determined to be more than that, even if no one else saw or cared.

The captain stared at him, confused and appalled at the same time.  “What are you?” he whispered.

Rukh smirked.  It was the reaction he had expected, and one he’d see again and again on the faces of the other Ashokans.  “The only person who might be able to save many who have no hope.”

The captain nodd
ed.  “Come,” he ordered.  “The Marshall will need to hear this.”

Marshall Tanhue was hip deep in reports as captains reported their findings and passed on the lists of the dead and injured.  A hastily thrown up command tent marked his position.  Upon seeing Rukh,
the Marshall frowned in distaste.  “Whatever it is, I don’t have time for it,” he said.

Captain Regus quickly told the
Marshall what Rukh claimed he was able to do, and the scorn left the commander’s face, replaced by sudden hope.  “Is this true?”

Rukh suppressed a surge of resentment at
the Marshall’s words and tone.  “Like I told the captain, I’m not a Shiyen, but I might be able to do some good.”

“I’ll take help wherever I can get it,” the Marshall said.  He called for his aide.  “Get the injured
organized.  Arrange them least injured to worst.  Figure out who isn’t going to make it even if Gelan Criatus himself was present to help them.  Make those warriors as comfortable as you can.  The ones who can get by without immediate help will have to do for themselves.  There’s no helping them right now.  It’s the men in the middle, the ones who would make it if they had a physician looking out for them who we need to focus on.  This man…” he pointed at Rukh, “…may be able to Heal them.  And make sure he sees my nephew.”

Rukh followed the Marshall’s aide, who had already set up a triage center.  Injured men lay on blankets, moaning in pain, but it was those who made no sound at all who worried Rukh the most.  They were either dying or had suffered some kind of head injury.  Neither was a good sign.  The final tally in the assault on the caverns had left a
little over a thousand men dead and the rest injured in some way.  Very few had escaped unscathed.  Many had broken bones waiting to be set, or deep cuts that had already been bound and sutured.  There were also two hundred and fifty men, so severely injured, they would die before the day was done, and another two hundred who might live if a physician could see to their Healing.  It was these men to whom Rukh went first.  He had to keep them alive until they returned to Ashoka; once there, the Shiyens could take over.

Even though he was stone-cold tired,
Rukh got to work straight away. At first, he tried to Heal everything wrong with the men brought to him.  It was a mistake.  Working like that left him drained and hardly able to Heal anyone else.  It made more sense to do only the bare minimum to keep a man alive.  It meant those he sought to help remained on death’s door, but at least they still lived, which was better than the alternative.  The problem with Healing in this manner quickly became apparent: the warriors in his care never fully recovered, and they ended up needing his constant attention.  Some emergency would always crop up, maybe a new problem, or maybe one he’d already dealt with would suddenly get worse again, like a torn blood vessel ripping open once more.  It was a never-ending flood of injuries.  He pushed well past his limits on the day after the battle; well past the point where common sense told him to get some rest, but he couldn’t.  The warriors might die if he did.  Rukh wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep, but as day turned to night, he slogged on, working to keep alive as many as he could.

The expedition stayed near the caverns for three days, cleaning out the caves and setting their dead to rest on shared funeral pyres before heading home.  The passage from Ashoka had taken about four weeks, but the trip back took more than five.  It was a journey Rukh barely remembered.  He was exhausted all the time; lost in a fog of fatigue, hardly ever sleeping
.  He was awoken frequently on most nights, charged with caring for the sick and the dying.  His new mission was worth it, though.  Because of him, one hundred and nine men who might have otherwise died still lived. 

Since he was too busy to perform his p
revious tasks, such as scouting or preparing his own camp, the other warriors were asked to help him out.  They even brought him his meals while he worked on keeping their brothers alive.  He figured they resented having to do so much for him, but he didn’t much care what they thought.

“You push too hard, brother,” a warrior said.

Rukh stood with a groan, hardly hearing whoever it was who had brought him supper. He’d been crouched for too long and his back ached as if someone had been beating on it with a club.  He had been fixing the same fragging blood vessel in a warrior’s leg he’d already Healed five times now.  The damn thing kept coming undone.  Hopefully, the Shiyens would be able to fix it.  The expedition couldn’t be too far from Ashoka by now.  Surely, messages had been sent to the city requesting immediate help.  He hoped so.

He didn’t have much left to give.  He’d caught sight of his face a few days back in a mirror.  It wasn’t good.  He was haggard and had lost a
lot of weight.  He felt sick all the time, nauseated from sleep deprivation.  His
Jivatma
was a translucent wisp, flowing so slowly from his Well.  If he pushed any harder, he might rip his
Jivatma
to shreds and never regain it.  He’d only ever read of something like that happening on rare occasions – the Unliving Death was what it was called – but it was also a risk Rukh believed he had to take.  He would get his much needed rest when the brothers in his care didn’t need him.  Until then, he’d keep plugging away.