Chapter 13: Close to the Edge (Part 2)

It wasn't like the movies. There was no slow motion, no out-of-body experience-hardly enough time for Justin to think, let alone for his life to flash before his eyes. He raised his hands to surrender, but the man just smirked a little in amusement, then bared his teeth and lifted his broadsword like a butcher's cleaver. Justin tried to run, but he couldn't move.

It's... not a dream, he thought.

Suddenly, Justin saw Ahlund leap from his steed. He was too far away to make it to Justin in time, but he stabbed his sword forward in midair. The weapon flashed, and yellow and orange flames exploded from the blade.

Raging fire rolled over itself and flowed from Ahlund's sword in a blazing cloud. The man in front of Justin disappeared in the billowing flames without so much as a scream, and the wall of heat knocked Justin off his feet. He landed hard on his back.

For a long time, Justin did not move. He lay on his back, the wind knocked out of him, wheezing and staring up at the sky. Dark clouds were rolling in overhead. He was vaguely aware of some fighting still going on, but his head was somehow both hot and cold at once, his senses somehow heightened and dulled at the same time, and his body an empty, quivering husk.

The ringing of steel gradually ceased. The clomping of hooves faded. There were a few more painful, wet yells, but soon, the voices were silenced forever.

Zechariah approached and stood over Justin. There was a rip in his robes at the shoulder, and his sleeve was soaked reddish black. He offered Justin a hand. Justin did not take it. He sat up on his own, refusing to look at the old man. Zechariah walked away.

There were tears on Justin's face that he didn't remember crying. Riderless steeds milled about, munching the grass. A dead man was still slumped in the saddle of one of them. Bodies littered the ground. For some reason, all Justin could think about was how fast it had all been. So brief. A few short minutes was all it had taken for these people, brought from birth along decades-spanning, lifelong journeys, to die.

The napalm-like cloud of fire that Justin had almost dismissed as an illusion had apparently been real. Ash still floated in the air, and a sharp, pungent aroma stung his nostrils. The earth was scorched black. Smoke rose in ribbons from the grass. He tried not to look, but he couldn't avoid seeing the body. It was half intact. The part hit by Ahlund's fire was obliterated; there was no skin, only slippery-looking muscle charred jet-black. Half the face was gone. An empty eye socket stared at Justin.

Justin leaned away and emptied his stomach into the grass. His body trembled as he retched. When it was over, he closed his eyes, trying to shut everything out. Never had life seemed so cold. Never had he felt so alone. So lost.

***

Justin jammed the blade into the earth and threw another scoop over his shoulder. He paused to wipe the sweat from his brow. It was late afternoon, but dark clouds dimmed the sun. They carried the promise of rain.

The shovel in his hands had been procured from the supplies of dead men. Zechariah had told him they had probably brought it to dig lightning shelters in the event of a dangerous storm on the open grasslands. Presently, Justin used it for a very different purpose. Digging graves. Ahlund had said every man who fell in combat, friend or foe, deserved a proper burial. Zechariah had said smugly that it was good for the soil.

Justin, in shock over all that had happened, had said nothing. He just did as he was told, since he didn't know what else to do.

His arms burned. The wooden handle dug into his palms where loose skin was starting to rub with blisters. The ground was hard, and the roots of the grass were thick, making digging the first six inches surprisingly arduous work. After that, the soil was a silty loam he could push through furiously, easily clearing a trench the length and breadth of a man.

After the battle, Justin had found one of the enemy riders lying in the grass, still alive, clutching his side and trying to hold something in that shouldn't have been out. With every beat of his heart, rivulets of lifeblood had escaped through his fingers. This had been no man, but a teenager. A boy younger than Justin.

"Help," the boy had said. "I don't want to die."

Before Justin could say anything, Ahlund had stepped past him and was kneeling beside the boy.

"Bless you," the boy had said. "Thank-"

Then Justin had heard a crunch, and Ahlund had stood, wiping his knife clean. The dead boy's face was left frozen in his final emotion: agony-stricken hope.