Personal choice (Bernard Durand-1)

Personal Choice (Bernard Durand 1).

"Sometimes doing nothing is enough." That thought had been running through Bernard's mind for the last few days. Whenever he stopped to think about something else, it was there. As the soldier walked through the forest, his two-handed sword on his shoulder, a disembodied voice whispered to him to just stop. Stop, wait a while, and you'll get what you've been looking for. The sun is already setting, it's only a short wait.....

Bernard Durand, former espadon in the royal army, former soldier of the militant Order of St Lucrezia, growled softly through clenched teeth, shook his head, and quickened his step, though his feet were humming and his boots felt as heavy as steel sabatons. He couldn't explain why he was pushing the thought away from him. Perhaps because it was so tempting — and he was used to denying himself what he desired.

Something flashed ahead, and the soldier froze. He took his huge sword from his shoulder, the "boar's fangs" above the ricasso clinking against the shoulder pad of his cuirass. A moment later, a figure in a baggy green cloak appeared in front of him as if from the ground.

— Earless. — Bernard lowered his blade. — Don't scare me like that.

The figure threw back the hood, opened the flaps of her cloak. The tall elven woman put her long leather gloved hands on her weapon belt and nodded to the soldier. Beneath the cloak she wore a tight-fitting black jumpsuit and boots, the shins of which covered her knees in the front. Her gloves, sword and dagger scabbards, and weapon harness were all the same colour as her jumpsuit. The only thing that stood out was a round medallion on a silver chain, made of two stones — a white one representing a crescent moon, a blue one with sparks — a fragment of a starry sky.

— What is it, pagan? — Durand rested the point of his sword on the ground, furtively taking a breath. Thought maybe that was the reason for him to keep walking — he wasn't alone yet. Not yet.

The elf looked at him expressionlessly, made an inviting gesture, and strode quickly away from their intended route. Bernard hummed and followed her, slinging his two-handed weapon back on his shoulder.

The Earless was strange. For a start, she wasn't earless, though she only responded to that name. In the last war, ten years ago, the young elven yeager had been an Imperial prisoner. The Imperial company that had captured her must have had excellent discipline, for she had returned from captivity alive, with fingers on her hands and eyes in her eye sockets, only her tongue cut out and her ears halved. Earless did not seem to be embarrassed by this, as she gathered her long blonde hair into a ponytail, leaving the stumps of her ears open. Then, she was a pagan — and served zealously in the squadron of the Church Order, becoming the closest aide to the Living Saint herself. Finally, the elfess carried a bow and used it skilfully. Bernard had seen a lot of elves, including army yaegers like Earless — and none of them had ever picked up a bow when they could have used a crossbow or a gun.

Unnecessary thoughts began to climb into his head again from the monotonous walking. So Durand asked — knowing he would get no answer:

— Did you find something?

The Earless didn't even look back. She walked lightly and bouncy, as if she hadn't been walking with Bernard all day, and she was always running ahead to reconnoitre.

It was getting dark. Dusk comes early in the forest, and the clouds that had covered the sky the night the world burned had made the days even shorter. Besides, autumn was in full swing, and the sun was setting earlier and earlier. The trees rustled in the wind, the first dry leaves falling from them, crunching underfoot. It seemed that there would be no end to the forest — you could go on and on until you reached the ocean shore, and the whole way would be under the dense crowns. Burning cities, pillars of flame piercing through the clouds, roads with columns of soldiers marching along and lines of refugees, hordes of twisted creatures and demons spitting out of fresh ruins — all this is a dream. There is only the forest where the branches creak and the leaves whisper. Maybe the past life, the past war where the Earless lost her voice and Bernard lost his soul, is also a dream....

The illusion crumbled after a few minutes. The elfess led Durand to a narrow clearing and stopped. At the edge of the clearing, leaning sideways against the roots of an old oak tree, lay a beast. It had once been a wolf, judging by its tail and hind legs. Or maybe a dog. It was hard to tell, for the beast's head now resembled a bare-skinned skull with spikes of bone growing out of it, and its forelegs were so swollen that the muscles had torn through some of the skin. A broken arrow shaft protruded from the monster's eye socket. Even so, the beast did not die instantly, but rolled around on the ground, breaking the arrow, and then calmed down.

Bernard glanced at the elfess. Earless nodded. Her amber-yellow eyes seemed to glow in the coming dusk, like a cat's.

— So they're here already," Bernard grimaced. — Before we did. These ones don't fear the light. Or did they come from the other side? There don't seem to be any big cities for days ahead. The Imperials wouldn't burn forests and villages, would they?

Earless blinked slowly. She turned sideways to the soldier, touched the quiver behind her back with her fingers. Durand realised what she meant — there were only two arrows left in the quiver.

— Time to prepare for the night. — Bernard pulled his beret off his head, wiped away the sweat on his forehead. — What are you going to do tonight? Shall we climb a tree again, or dig holes? Since you didn't let me die then, keep helping me out.

You can't get lost in the woods with an elf ranger, even when it's the end of the world. Durand had always known this, but in the last few days he had become even more convinced of the validity of the statement. Since fleeing the field of a lost battle, Earless had pulled them both out of Death's fangs every night — by cunning, by cleverness, by experience. It would have been much easier without the clumsy soldier, but the girl stubbornly continued to drag Durand along with her, not even afraid to slap him on the first day when the swordsman decided to return to the place where the rest of the squad had perished. Earless was strange.

Now, instead of looking round for shelter for the night, she led Bernard again. Where to, it became clear soon enough. The forest parted, forming a round clearing, and in the middle of it the soldier saw... a house. A long, squat building larger than a peasant's hut, next to it — a tall barn, a stable, a paddock fenced with poles.

— Creator One... a farmhouse. — Durand swallowed involuntarily. A farm is people, and people have food, fire, a bed. He and the elfess had been running light since the horses had fallen. They slept wherever they could, ate what Earless found in the thicket — sometimes even some tree bark. And the nights grew cold. But of course Bernard did not rush forward and call out to the owners of the farm. He squinted his eyes and sniffed. There was no smell of smoke, and there was nothing above the stovepipe. No people, dogs, chickens, cattle were seen or heard. The farm looked dead.

— I'll go first, — he said softly, taking his sword from his shoulder. Earless nodded, drew the second-to-last arrow from the quiver, and put it on the bowstring.

The door of the living house was not even broken, but rather pushed inwards. Its remains dangled on a single hinge. The good furniture was overturned, as if someone large and clumsy had been tossing and turning in the rooms. It looked as if the family had been well-to-do; the furnishings were well-made by a skilled carpenter, the floor was carpeted with imported steppe carpet of felt, and the walls had wide windows covered with bubble wrap. Leaning his two-handed weapon against the wall, Durand drew a broad soldier's cleaver, much more suitable for fighting in tight quarters, and went inside. There was mayhem everywhere, but the picture of what had happened here was unclear. Someone huge had broken into the dwelling and turned it upside down. That's all Bernard realised. He found blood spatters on the white stove and some more soaked into the carpet. The most curious discovery was in the pantry — the hatch of the small pickle cellar had been smashed to splinters. The pickles themselves were lying in the corners of the pantry, and the cellar was literally smeared with dried blood — not so old. There was no way an adult could fit in that cramped earthen niche, except for a child of five at most. The child was probably hiding there. But he was found.

Bernard returned to the entrance. Remembering how he'd had to bend himself in half to get in, he examined the pillar. A few dark hairs, short and stiff, were stuck to it. The soldier showed them to Earless, who was waiting outside the door. The girl squinted, nodded. Without removing her bow, she walked round the clearing at a brisk pace and pointed out several places to Bernard. Broken pitchforks near the stable door, an axe with traces of blood on the axe-head. Inside the stable, bloodstains on the straw, the head of a goat torn off and crushed into mush.

— It's been two days, I think, — said Bernard, again armed with his two-handed sword, stroking his overgrown beard. — It's rained since then, remember? There's no trace of it, is there?

Earless went into the stable, knelt down and turned the straw. Durand sat down beside her. Yeah, well, under the roof, the tracks would be safe from the rain. The ground here was dry and treaded, but a body that could crush a sturdy boarded door would leave footprints anywhere but the paving stones.

— Does it look like a bear? — Bernard suggested uncertainly. The print Earless had found belonged to someone large and clawed. Duran would make a tracker about as well as Earless would make a preacher.

Nevertheless, the elfess nodded, looking the soldier in the eye.

— Bears don't behave like that, — Bernard said more confidently.

Earless tilted her head to her shoulder, not averting her gaze.

— Behave?

The girl shrugged her shoulders.

— You're a ranger, — Durand rebuked her. The answer was a glassy stare from yellow eyes. Earless stood up, looked around. She pointed to the scarlet streak of sunset above the treetops.

— Yeah, yeah, yeah. — The soldier stood up too. — If that thing's still here, it's a bad idea to spend the night in the woods. Whether it's gone or not, we'll find no better place than home.

A nod of agreement.

They'd made preparations. The doorway was closed with the heaviest table, supported by another smaller one. The windows, on the other hand, were freed from their frames, widened, and only then covered from the inside with board sliders. In front of the door Bernard laid out a semicircle of brushwood at such a distance from the threshold that it would not be scattered by the collapsed barricade in case of emergency. The soldier sprinkled the wood generously with the oil he had found in the pantry. He piled several smaller piles under the windows. He made a couple of torches out of chair legs and oiled cloth. Earless, meanwhile, had prepared a supper of dried bread and dried meat that had not spoilt. Having fired up the stove, they heated a pot of herbal tea, and for the first time in a long time they had a hot drink. They finished when it was finally dark. Bernard sat down on the floor in front of the stove, leaned his back against the wall, put his sword on the floor and his broad cleaver on his knees. He was to guard first, so Earless wrapped herself in her cloak, sat down beside him, laid her head on the soldier's shoulder, and fell asleep instantly. That childlike trustfulness surprised Durand more than anything else about the elf. She had no reason to treat him well. Yes, they had been fighting together for years, but what were those years to an elf? Bernard didn't know what the Imperials had done to the captive girl, but he could easily guess that it was not just a matter of cutting out her tongue. Many women were afraid of any man after such a thing, even more so of soldiers. But... what can be said — Earless was strange. After her captivity she did not return to her native forest principality, and for several years she wandered alone in the forests, terrorising the camps of brigands, bringing game to poor villages, accompanying travellers on dangerous roads. One day she was found by a squad of the Living Saint, wounded after another skirmish, and as a result of an almost one-sided conversation with the Saint herself, the pagan elven woman remained in the squad. She did not, however, change her faith.

Bernard sat almost motionless, stroking the blade of his cleaver with his fingertips, listening to the night and watching the fire dancing in the stove. If men are chasing you, fire is your enemy. It will betray you and lead to your death. But if you are being chased by a beast or a creature of the dark, fire is your best ally. The beast doesn't need light to find you. If something happens that night, fire will almost certainly be the only salvation for two exhausted fugitives.

The soldier's instincts told Bernard better than any clock when his watch was up. Durand gave Earless a light nudge on the shoulder, and she woke as easily as she had fallen asleep. She opened her cloak and placed her palms on the hilt of a thin sword with an old-fashioned crossguard and a long dagger, nodded to the soldier. He tossed some wood into the stove, sat down, pulled his beret over his eyes, and after a couple of minutes breathed evenly.

He was having a dream. One of those that had recurred many times since the day, ten years ago, when he had lost his soul. Statues of saints, marble and wooden, painted in bright colours, one after another came towards him — and Bernard burned out their eyes with a red-hot iron rod....

* * *

Don't lose count. One in ten leave one eye. Nine and one. Nine and one. One after another. There'll be 4,000 of them, even more. Yes, Bernard wasn't the only one. But in the dream, all four thousand go through him. Nine and one. Nine and one...

He was awakened by a push on his shoulder. Durand flinched, blinked, not yet realising where he was. He saw a face painted yellow and scarlet before him, incredibly beautiful, with features as perfect as those of a figure of a saint in a capital city temple. The soldier raised his hand, about to burn out the statue's eyes — and only then he woke up completely. He was sitting on the floor of an abandoned house, with Earless leaning over him, her face illuminated by the fire from the stove. Instead of an iron bar, Duran's hand held a soldier's cleaver, which he had just used to stab the girl in the eye. The elven girl pulled back a little, head pressed into her shoulders like a frightened cat. She looked at him warily for a second, then pressed her finger to her lips. Bernard, who had opened his mouth to apologise, froze. Listened.