A Charge of Valor

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Night fell cold and black, and Kendrick hung on the cross, in and out of consciousness, plagued by troubled dreams. He saw his father, King MacGil, surrounded by white light, smiling down at him; he saw his sister, Gwendolyn, being dragged away; he saw his little brother, Reece, on a small boat drifting out to sea. And he saw King’s Court roaring in flames.

Kendrick opened his eyes slowly, wincing from pain and exhaustion. He was disoriented and could not tell if he was asleep or awake. He blinked and made out before him, lit by sporadic torches, the inner courtyard of Silesia, what was once a shining, proud city, now a heap of rubble, littered with corpses, its citizens turned into slaves. With most people asleep, the activity was not as frenzied as it had been during the day, yet still Kendrick could hear the distant sound of his people being whipped by Andronicus’ men, some of them driven to work even so late into the night.

The occupying soldiers sat around the courtyard in small circles, around bonfires that punctuated the night; they leaned over, rubbed their hands, shared wine sacks and laughed with each other as they tried to get warm. They wore expensive furs, furs they had looted from Silesians; as Kendrick hung there on the cross, bracing himself against another cold gust of wind, it made him acutely aware that he was wearing just a light shirt and pants. He, like the others, had been stripped of his best armor and furs, left to freeze to death, if the pain did not get him first. His teeth chattered, and his hands were blue—but none of that mattered anymore. He would be dead soon enough.

Kendrick mustered enough energy to turn, and he saw beside him the stiff figure of Kolk, now a corpse, eyes open in his death pang, his body still pierced with that spear. It inflamed Kendrick. It was disgraceful, the act of an enemy without honor. They should have had the decency to take down his body and give him a proper burial. Instead, they let him hang there, this fine warrior, like a common criminal, for all to gawk at. Kendrick knew he would be next, tomorrow, but he didn’t care about that; what he cared about were his other friends up there, especially Atme, who hung just a few feet away and who he was helpless to do anything about. Kendrick looked over at them, but in the dim light he could not tell whether they were alive or dead.

Kendrick closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on making the pain go away. The pain would not listen. Sometimes it shifted in and out, so that he forgot for a few moments how much his limbs hurt. But mostly it was intense and ever-present. He had had small bouts of sleep, yet even in the sleep he had felt the pain. As he closed his eyes, he tried to will himself to go back to sleep, to shut out the horrors of the world, to numb the pain, even if for just a little while.

As he closed his eyes, Kendrick’s mind raced with images. He saw himself as a boy, with his best friend Atme, the two of them sparring in the Legion; he saw himself with a girl he had loved, he could no longer remember her name, on a rowboat when he was younger; he saw his first battle, his first victory, his own surprise at his skills; he saw himself sitting around the table with his father, King MacGil, Gwendolyn, Godfrey, Reece, and even Gareth, all of them young, all of them happy. He saw King’s court shining, majestic, impregnable.

And then Kendrick saw his father, standing before him, surrounded by white light. His father reached out a hand. He looked young and healthy, a bold and brave warrior, as Kendrick had remembered him. He smiled down.

“My son,” he said, proudly.

The words filled Kendrick’s heart with warmth. Kendrick had always, more than anything, wanted to be thought of MacGil’s son.

“You are my firstborn,” he said. “My true son.”

Kendrick reached out to touch his dad’s hand, but his fingers were just out of reach.

“We’ll be together again soon,” MacGil said. “But your time is not now. You must fight. You are a warrior. Do not give up. Never give up. Fight. Fight for me!”

Kendrick felt a hand on his wrist, and at first he thought it was MacGil’s.

But then he opened his eyes and looked down, and saw that indeed there was a hand on his wrist. He was surprised to see a young, beautiful woman standing there, perhaps in her early twenties, laying a gentle palm on his wrist. She was studying Kendrick’s pulse, and closing her eyes as if listening. She then opened her eyes and looked up at him. She had the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen. Almond shaped, they were a light shade of hazel and they complemented her face. Her skin was light brown, the coloring of the Empire race.

An Empire woman, he realized. He wondered what she was doing. Had Andronicus sent her? Was she about to kill him? From her smile and her kind touch, he could not imagine that she was. But what was she doing here, standing beside him, holding his wrist? He wondered if he were still dreaming.

“You’re alive,” she said to him, sounding surprised. She had the sweetest voice he’d ever heard; he ached to hear that voice again. He wanted her to keep speaking, and to never stop.

“Who are you?” he tried to ask, but the words came jumbled, his voice cracked, his throat dry.

“Sandara,” she replied.

She looked up at him with hope, as if happy to see him alive. She reached up, and in her hand she held a black, fur cloak. She managed to climb up on the cross and drape it over his shaking shoulders. It was the smoothest, most luxurious fur he’d ever felt, and he had never cherished a piece of clothing more. He felt immediately warmed around his shoulders and chest.

“Why are you helping me?” he asked.

“Healing the sick is my calling,” she said.

“But you work for the Empire,” he said.

She looked around warily.

“I do,” she said. “But not at night. They don’t see all that I do. I do not like to see anyone sick. Empire or not. Regardless of whether their skin is the same color as mine.”

Kendrick looked down at her, his heart melting with gratitude and appreciation. She extracted a sack filled with liquid, raised it to his lips, and he drank greedily as he felt water filling his mouth. He drank and drank, like a man crossing a desert who hadn’t seen water in ages. He realized how dehydrated he was.

Finally, she pulled it away.

“Not too much at once,” she said, “your body must get used to it.”

Then she pulled out another small sack, put it to his mouth, and he tasted sweet wine. It was stronger than any wine he’d had, and it went right to his head. He felt lighter, tingly, and his pain lessened.

“It is not the best remedy,” she said, “but it will do for now, to take your pain away.”

“I don’t know how to thank you,” he said, feeling renewed for the first time in days. With the pain lessened, he was finally able to think clearly. “I owe you a great debt.”

She looked down to the ground, sad.

“I fear you will not live to repay that debt,” she said. “I hear the Great Andronicus will have you all executed tomorrow.”

Kendrick felt a pit in his stomach, yet he sensed that it was true.

“Then why bother helping me?” he asked.

“Everyone is worth helping,” she answered. “Every moment of life is precious.”

She looked up at him, her eyes wet with tears, and he was touched to see how much she cared for him, a stranger. He felt a connection to her stronger than he could express, and he wished more than anything that he was free from this cross, to embrace her. He was sad to think that, in but hours, he wouldn’t be alive to see her face again.

“Your kindness means a great deal to me,” he said. “From these rags you can’t tell, but I was once an important person,” he said. “It is a shame you do not know me for who I am.”

She smiled up at him.

“I don’t care who you are,” she said. “You are an important person to me now.”

Kendrick looked at her and wondered.

“Why did you choose me to help?” he asked. “You gave me your only fur cloak.”

She reddened in the night. She looked down and did not reply.

“I do not know,” she answered.

“What would Andronicus’s men do to you if they caught you healing the enemy?”

Sandara turned and looked warily over her shoulder; luckily, the Empire soldiers were distracted, huddled around bonfires, not paying attention to her.

“Death,” she answered.

Kendrick’s heart swelled.

“If I ever get free from here, I will find you. I will repay you.”

“There is nothing to repay,” she said.

She turned to go. Kendrick could not stand to see her go; he had to think quick to keep her here, and he blurted out the first thing that popped into his mind.

“Are you married?” he asked.

She looked at him, then looked down, and even in the dim light, he could sense her blushing.

Kendrick hated to be so forward, so tactless. But he knew these might be his last moments on earth, and he had no time for proper etiquette. He had to know.

“I am not, my Lord,” she finally answered. She looked up at him meaningfully. “But even if you were a free man, it would be forbidden for someone of my race to marry someone of yours. It would result in death.”

“I care for rules and penalties,” Kendrick said. “My lady, if I am ever free from here, I will find you. Do not go far. Stay in the Ring.”

She lowered her head.

“I must go wherever the Great Andronicus commands me,” she said.

She suddenly turned and hurried, back into the darkness.

Kendrick watched her go until she disappeared, then he closed his eyes, seeing her face, her eyes, the color of her skin, the curve of her lips.

Sandara. Sandara. Sandara.

He repeated her name over and over in his mind, like a mantra. It gave him a reason to survive.

He would survive, he decided. No matter what, he would survive.