The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3) (71 page)

She was panting by her tenth step, wheezing by her twentieth. Soon, she found herself lagging behind, her heart drumming noisily, the world spinning ever so slightly. Her limbs felt light, uncoordinated, and her muscles spasmed with fatigue. She felt her stomach harden in protest, but she could not stop now, even if she soiled herself.

I am mad
, she thought and raised her sword. The blade fell slowly, but it still bit deep in the pasty shoulder of the nomad soldier in front of her. He wailed, then fell backward, dropping his vest. The pond water became turgid with kicked-up bottom mud and fresh blood.

Another nomad looked at her stupidly, then stumbled back and tripped on a clot of wet grass. Her blade caught him across the shins. Then, she lost balance and staggered toward him. Mali had not intended to impale him, but the sword slithered into his groin. He just moaned weakly. Her grip slipped, and she landed on top of him. But he just kept moaning, a thin, fetid breath of stale vomit on his lips.

She rolled over and rose to her knees, cold water dripping from her soaked leathers. Now, she had to bear that extra weight, too. There was a huddle of Eracian soldiers behind her, waiting, half protecting her. She grinned weakly and stood up, faint and woozy.

“Keep killing those nomad bastards,” she offered. Her sword came out with a sucking sound. Mali did not look. She stepped over the body and began inching forward, searching for new prey.

The din of the battle was oddly muted and sporadic. There were screams and gurgles and bloodcurdling shrieks, but the solid din of a large clash was missing. She was used to that heavy noise pressing on her eardrums, the living beat of marching feet, the salty heat of a thousand bodies pressed together, jostling, groaning. None of that here.

She could hear feet sploshing through shallow puddles; she could hear the mosquitoes whining all around. There was an odd clang of steel, the muddy sigh of earth and grass, the thud of bodies landing on soft ground. Her women streamed around her, the initial formation lost and broken. They pushed and clawed deeper into the enemy ranks, cut the men down, and marched toward their main camp.

Mali half led, half followed, searching for nomads to kill, trying to vent out the two and a half months of cold and frustration and blisters, the cracked, bloody lips, the taste of stale potatoes, the lashing of the wind on her cheeks. She remembered the endless march, the failed ambushes, the deserted villages.

The Namsue were coming to their senses, but they behaved like drunken men. The few survivors in the rushes were fighting bare-handed or trying to find a sword dropped by one of their comrades. But few had come to clean their clothes armed with anything but coarse brushes and lumps of soap.

Mali bowled into a large nomad, but he went down like a soldier half his size. She pierced him through the side, and syrup-like blood bubbled around her sword. A freckled woman with a sharp aquiline nose elbowed another man in the face,
then slit his throat with a knife. To the left, another soldier of the Third Independent Battalion was checking her latest kill, poking the still body with her spear.

One of the tribesmen came forward holding a hatchet. He swung wide and lost his footing. The freckled woman stabbed him in the chest, once, twice in quick succession. She spat at his limp form even before it hit the muddy soil.

Then, they joined Alexa’s girls in the charge against the main force. The ground turned solid, less slippery; the thigh-high rushes became wild spring grass, moist and fragrant, but her nostrils were full of different smells.

There was more shouting and cheering and cursing now. The Namsue were trying to mount a counterattack, but they were reacting slowly, as she had predicted. The nearby lines were reaching for their spears and bows, clustering into defensive knots, but farther down the road, men still sprawled sick; others walked stupidly, confused by the noise.

Meagan’s troops crashed into the enemy flank, driving a wedge like a greedy orphan’s hand swiping off a fat slice of cake. The air was full of mud, and the enemy unit melted back, bloodied. The horses nickered, restless around so many ill, uncoordinated warriors.

Mali stepped over a groaning Namsue, finished off a wounded one. Some of Gordon’s men were there, and it took her a moment to spot the differences between friend and foe.

“Watch out, girls. Mind our boys,” she croaked, but she was not sure if anyone had heard her.

A javelin flew, quivering as it rotated. Then it slammed into the chest of a nomad soldier, breaking his rib cage with a loud snap. Another was in the air, but it landed in the grass. Several more, and the skirmishers retreated, trotting farther down the road to harry another group.

Dying was not restricted to the nomads only. Mali saw her women falter and fall, wounded, spent, making silly mistakes that healthy, rested soldiers never would. But she was pleased to see most of the dead were the invaders.

She hamstrung a nomad facing the other way, then left him for the troops in her wake. She saw an enemy archer taking aim, kneeling, forgotten in the chaos. She stepped toward him, almost calmly, and poked him in the skull. The sword jarred against the bone, then sunk in.

And then she felt bile rising in her throat, and she knew she had to retch. Only a string of orange spit came out, but she found herself kneeling by the dead archer, panting, her stomach heaving dryly. She could have died in that moment, completely helpless. Luckily, her girls watched over her.

Mali took a moment to rest, then moved on. There were a lot of Namsue left to kill.

Later, she found herself nibbling on a cracker, her third since that morning. The food felt wonderful, and her belly was blessedly calm. Maybe she had healed. Or maybe she was just too dazed to notice. Her heart was fluttering, the beat pounding in her ears, refusing to settle down.

Well, the battle was over, and they had won.

To the best of her understanding, no nomad soldier had escaped. They had gotten them all and killed them all, to the very last. No one had even considered taking any prisoners.

Three hundred girls had died, but they had butchered almost ten times as many. The stuff of legends, the fabric of wild, heroic stories, the weave of songs. She had no doubt the tale of today’s battle would spread, strengthened by a hundred epithets. She wondered if the flux part would endure.

There were already verses flying.

Other than coarsely singing, the healthy women were busy piling enemy corpses in neat lines in the marshes, birds watching them curiously, probably wondering if the dead bodies were worth a nibble. They would be burying their own, though, and it would take a lot of time. Well, they had time. Mali had ordered a whole day of rest. Camping on the same blood-drenched ground where they had just fought seemed crazy, but it was the only decent spot for her force, and no one had any strength to travel another pace.

She was wondering what Colonel Finley would think when his division arrived the next day. At the back of her mind, there was a bud of fear. The remainder of the enemy army was still out there, and they just might backtrack, seeking their missing rear force. Mali was not sure the Third Battalion would manage to win another battle so easily. She had pushed them hard, and now they were spent. There was nothing left.

Lydia came over with a large, steaming pewter cup in her hands. She handed it over. “Sir, drink.”

Mali did not argue. She carefully sipped the potion. It was bitter, with just a trace of honey. One of those teas that were supposed to make her feel better, but she usually retched afterward. Still, she tried to set an example, knowing her soldiers would refuse the drinks if she did.

Alexa came over nursing a bruised shoulder. Meagan was limping, having fallen off her horse from sheer exhaustion. The fight had lasted almost four hours. Mali realized she was looking for Gordon and felt a pang of silly girlishness; her captain was busy keeping a watch higher up the road to make sure there would be no enemy surprises. Someone had to do it. His men would rest much later.

Straggling units were still trickling into the camp when night fell. The sudden chill reminded her that winter might be
dying, but it still managed to kick a few last throes. Perhaps it was not that cold really, but she was hungry, frazzled, with too little sleep, her clothes soaked with water, sweat, and blood and cooling fast against her feverish skin. There were fires burning, large and beautiful, but their heat did not penetrate her bones. They also so warmly invited the remaining Namsue to come over, but Mali could not let her women be without fire this night. They deserved it.

“We did well today,” Alexa said, her gaze distant.

Mali fished another biscuit from her pouch, soggy now, soft, but she could swallow without sharp pain rolling down her gullet. “Yes, we did. We did great.” They had killed a quarter of the enemy, facing impossible odds. Underneath her weariness, she felt immense pride at her decision to lead the surprise attack.

The nomads seemed to have been in much worse shape than her women. This rear force had been probably one of necessity rather than choice, men who could not keep up with the rest and just lagged behind. Killing soldiers who were too busy soiling themselves did not take much skill. Then again, it was heroism when you faced so many.

A field cook approached, carrying wooden bowls in her right hand, a bucket of barley soup slung over her left forearm. She handed the officers their dishes and ladled the broth. Mali sniffed hers, but she was not sure she dared taste it yet. Perhaps she should risk it. Her muscles screamed for energy.

Alexa ate dutifully in big, loud mouthfuls. Soon thereafter, Gordon appeared, looking spent.

“All quiet,” he muttered and dropped down on the grass, thunking his head against stacked crates. He reached weakly for his own portion and began slurping.

Mali considered going over to him, but she refrained. She had to focus on her duty. The fight was over, but the war was
not. As far as she was concerned, a large enemy body with superior strength was still out there, unaccounted for. She could not afford to relax until she knew its location and intentions. That meant a furious, sleepless night for so many of her girls. They all deserved sleep and praise and good food, but she could only offer them more hardship.

In the morning, hopefully, the Third Division would join them, and then the risk of being overwhelmed by the Namsue would vanish. That would give her troops time to heal, to mend their weapons and armor, to recuperate and form up. Then, they would continue their pursuit, till the end of the world if needed.

“Tell Theresa to keep the night watch,” she told one of the clerks. “I want fifty girls with swords and another fifty with bows positioned around the camp, in platoon formation, with one bugle per unit. And I want them well hidden, so if anyone tries to sneak upon us, they get a vicious surprise.”

“Yes, sir,” the girl said and disappeared into the dun, quiet chaos, pierced by the crackling of fires and faint moans of the wounded. Now and then, a shape would stumble through the bloom of orange light, looking emaciated, bent over, like a ghost.

There was a rumble in Mali’s stomach, and for a moment, she thought she might have to find a bush again, but the tremor settled quickly, and she sighed in relief. She was getting better. It was amazing how much hope simple things could bring. It was amazing how people took their health for granted, even soldiers who faced death every day. They ignored their bodies until the moment they started hurting.

Mali wanted to stay awake, but she knew she could not. So, she watched her girls endure their illness for a short while before her eyes snapped shut as if glued together and unable to part. Darkness enveloped her, and it smelled of warm ashes, wet spring, and maybe a trace of feces.

Late in the morning, Finley’s van found them languishing in the killing field, most of the women still asleep or just resting. The colonel met Mali as she sat in a chair in front of her tent, basking in the sunlight, enjoying the warm touch on her face. Her fever had finally broken, and she had woken up feeling strong. There was no agony in her guts, just slight discomfort, a void that demanded filling. She had even dared eat boiled eggs, and her belly seemed to comply.

“Colonel Mali,” he said, surrounded by his majors. They looked suspicious.

“I present you with two thousand nomad dead,” she offered. There was anticipation around her, women perking up their ears to listen. They wanted to witness this exchange.

He pursed his lips and nodded in sincere appreciation. “I’ve heard a report. I just could not believe it myself. Job most well done. Daring, audacious, perhaps suicidal, but quite effective. I was thinking of assigning several more battalions to your own. If you do not mind?”

Mali opened her eyes and squinted at the sun. Mind? No, she did not. She had once led huge armies. This was a step in the right direction of gaining her old command. “Not at all, Colonel.”

Finley waved his hand. “I was thinking,” he continued, as if he had not heard her answer, but she knew he had, “there are some six or seven thousand nomads left in that force. You will need the extra troops to go after them.”

Mali stared at him, hard, feeling somewhat amused. In that moment, she decided she liked this officer, after all. Few men dared openly admit her superiority in combat and command, and he had just done that. A ballsy one, Finley.

“It will be an honor. I wondered if we might do it together?”

He smiled. “Of course. Now tell me about this…Crap Charge?”

Mali frowned.
Did I say that out loud yesterday? I must have
. She laughed and then began retelling her version of the most unhygienic battle in Eracian history.