Chapter 14: No Going Back

"You killed him!" Justin had yelled-almost screamed. "We could have helped him!"

"He was dead," Ahlund had growled.

"No, he wasn't!"

"He was."

"You son of a-"

"Nothing could have saved him," Ahlund had said. "Out here, a mortally wounded man and a dead man are one and the same."

"That wasn't a man," Justin had growled through clenched teeth. "That was a kid!"

Ahlund had walked away.

At present, Justin blinked against tears and squeezed his fingers tightly around the shovel's handle. His anger overrode his other emotions for a moment, so he embraced it. He twisted his hands against the grain of the wood just to force his blisters to break. At least anger made sense. It was pure and easy. But no amount of wrath could block out the way those men had gargled as they died. The way they had writhed in pain. The way the boy had asked for help, only to receive his final reward.

Justin squeezed his eyes shut. It didn't make sense that someone's entire existence-their past, their present, and all the potential futures that might have been-could be snuffed out so quickly just for being on the losing side of one small conflict. No motive, prize, or purpose could justify what these men had done to each other here.

"Good enough," said Zechariah.

Justin turned to scowl at the old man, angry at being interrupted, angry for being brought here, angry for everything.

Zechariah tossed him a canteen. While Justin grudgingly took a drink, Zechariah dragged four bodies across the grass one by one and dropped them into the trench. Try as he might to hide it, Justin felt his whole body flinch each time a corpse thudded home. When they lay piled to the surface, Zechariah nodded.

"Filling it up is easier," he said, almost cheerfully.

Justin wanted to tell the old man to do it himself, but he couldn't look away from the grave. The teenaged soldier was on top. His eyes were still open, and the expression on his pale, dead face had gone slack. He looked bored.

"He would have died all the same, you know," Zechariah said. "If anything, Ahlund showed mercy."

Justin pursed his lips. "He was defenseless, and Ahlund killed him. That's not mercy. It's called murder."

"If your roles had been reversed," said Zechariah, "and you had been the one lying wounded, that boy would have killed you instead."

"That's for him to decide," Justin said. "I wouldn't. The fight was over. He wasn't a threat anymore. And Ahlund wasn't even sorry. He had no remorse for executing a helpless kid."

Zechariah sighed. "Sometimes, wounds can be healed. But some things just cannot be undone. A wounded person may live for days, or even weeks, enduring a living hell of agony, infection, disease, horror, and madness. Then he dies. Warriors like Ahlund know the sight of a wound that is beyond healing. Better to show mercy than to condemn a man to unnecessary suffering. Do not doubt that he would have done the same to me-or you. I am sure he has had to before."

Justin's voice was a mutter. "That's terrible."

"That's war," said Zechariah. "And it is terrible. And some people choose to live through it so that others may enjoy lives free from it."

Silence settled over them for a time. The talk of wounds reminded Justin that Zechariah's shoulder had been cut in battle. He must have treated it, though, because his sleeve was mostly washed clean, and he showed no discomfort.

The freed prisoner was cleaning a gash across Ahlund's back, who, judging by the abundance of long-healed scars coating his torso like tattoos, had chosen to live through quite a bit of war in his time. The woman-a princess, if Zechariah was to be believed-took a roll of dressings from a pack to bandage the wound. Justin had yet to see her face clearly, but her hands, red with Ahlund's drying blood, worked with the expeditious mastery of seasoned practice.

"Better keep at it," said Zechariah, "before these clouds let loose."

"What's her name?" said Justin.

"Of all the questions you could ask, why that one?"

Justin shrugged.

"Leah Anavion," Zechariah said. "You should feel proud for helping her."

"Proud," said Justin sickly. "Right."

The old man gave him a strange look. He started to turn away, but, at that moment, Justin lost control, and everything spilled out.

"I'm lost, Zechariah," Justin blurted. "Really lost. The place I'm from doesn't have princesses or swords or even steeds. We worry about things like politics and bills and football scores, not kidnappers. It's a whole different world, and I'm... I'm just some kid. I have to get home! I have to-"

He paused, choking on his words, hating the way his lower lip quivered. He was seventeen. Almost a man. But suddenly, he was nine years old again and had just struck out in Little League-old enough that he didn't want to cry, old enough to know he wasn't supposed to cry, but not old enough not to.

"My dad," Justin said. "He needs me. I have to get home to him. He can't take care of himself."

Zechariah squinted, chewing on his tongue a bit. "What's the matter with him?"

"He just... he needs help with everyday things, and Mom-" The words caught in Justin's throat again, and he shook his head. "Mom's dead. That means it's up to me. Dad was in an accident, and he needs me. I can't be here-I can't leave him alone. I have to get home. He doesn't have anyone else to...!"

But Justin was breathing too quickly for his words to keep up, and the only sound his mouth could make after that was a wet, bubbly sort of moan as he tried not to cry and failed miserably. The tears slipped past his nose and mingled with leaking snot. He wanted to wipe his face, but to do so would have been to acknowledge and therefore admit that he was crying, so he just looked at the ground and let it dribble.

"It's all right, Justin," he heard Zechariah say softly. "Why don't you take a break? We'll finish digging after dinner. You'll feel better with a full stomach. Come on."

Zechariah walked away, but Justin didn't follow. He took his phone out of his pocket. With a sense of detachment, he realized he must have landed on it when he'd fallen off his steed. It was smashed.

Justin tossed it. He didn't even bother watching to see where it landed in the tall grass.