Surviving the Night

Writers Note: This short story was an experimentation with a number of things. I write in third person generally, but wanted to try some first person to see how it felt. I also wanted to attempt long-ish sections of pure dialogue to improve my dialogue writing. In many ways I think it reads like an experiment, but it is also the first short story I have written that I thought I might actually try to publish, before I decided to make this website for this and future short stories instead. It’s about 4,500 words and should take roughly a quarter of an hour to read. I hope you enjoy.

Surviving the Night

 The two of us stalked through the trees, our horses proceeding at a leisurely walk. We had dismounted them some hour or so ago, as the light left us, such that we could proceed ahead of them a few paces and check for hazards. The last thing we would want would be to find ourselves without a fast means of retreat and, besides, we were both quite attached to our present mounts, though neither of them had been with us at the beginning of the campaign.

                I heard a twig snap somewhere to the right and raised my pistol, which I had taken from my saddle in case we were engaged in the darkness of the night. No further sound followed and I lowered my weapon, assuming that the noise had come from some animal.

                Shivering from both the cold and from my nerves, I pulled my pelisse tight around me. Next time we stopped, I would take it from my shoulder and wear the thing as a jacket. Done up tight, ideally.

                The crack of a fired musket emanated from my right. Not an animal then. I felt the ball pass close by my head but, thankfully, it missed me. My horse was not so lucky and went down with a scream. Releasing the reigns, I dropped to one knee while my steed died behind me. A shame, that.

                Daniil followed my example, taking a carbine from his saddle. We waited. I saw movement but could not be sure of the shot. The carbine would be better placed to make it.

                ‘There!’ I shouted, pointing with my off hand while keeping my pistol raised in the other. If my comrade missed, I would try my luck.

                A crack came from besides me and the figure went down. Was he the only one? Daniil retreated back to retrieve a pistol from his saddle. Both similarly armed, we walked forwards, keeping low, towards where the man had gone down. We did not make it three paces before we saw another man, much closer than his fellow, hiding behind a tree.

                I fired, hitting nothing but bark, then charged, dropping my pistol and drawing my sabre as I ran. The man stepped out from behind the tree and levelled his musket. He fired and, for a moment, I assumed that I was dead. But the musket was not aiming at me, and instead I heard it thud into Daniil besides me. Enraged, I completed my charge and struck at the infantryman with my sabre.

                He managed to raise his musket to block but I drew back and attacked again. He blocked with the weapon a second time and tried to hit me with its butt. It was a mistake, exposing his side, into which I dug my sword. In his pain, the infantryman pulled back and I struck, cutting across his neck and exposing an artery to the world. He fell. Not dead yet, but no longer a concern.

                I fell. Pain. Agony. How had the man hit me? But no, the sound had come from behind. I clutched my leg, feeling wet blood that already covered the limb. Turning, I saw the man who had shot me. A third infantryman, with his musket in two hands. He dropped the thing and reached for a sword at his side. My own weapon lay next to me, where I had dropped it, but I was in no state for a duel.

                He charged and I was struck by an idea. I launched myself, whimpering at the pain in my leg, towards my fallen comrade and grasped desperately in the darkness. Where was it? My would-be killer was only a few paces away. I clutched sticks and leaves but could not find it. There! My hand grasped smooth wood – no stick or branch. I twisted, holding my arm up towards the charging man, and fired Daniil’s pistol.

                The shot took the man square in the stomach but he kept on running. He drew back his weapon, ready to swing at my head. I steadied myself for the finishing blow. It did not come. The man slumped over, lying face up next to me.

                I dropped the pistol and panted on my back. I had survived. But my leg was still on fire. Feeling it, I realised that the musket-ball had gone straight through. Well, at least it was not stuck in there. I needed to stop the bleeding. Finding my sabre next to me, I removed my pelisse from around my shoulder and cut off the sleeve, before wrapping it around my wound and tying it tightly. It might be enough.

                A little way away from me, I heard the dying gargles of the man I had slashed across the throat. There was nothing I could do for him. I had to drag myself to Daniil’s horse, collect his body if I could, and make my way back to the main army. Two leagues away, at least. It would be quite a ride.

                Looking around, I tried to find Daniil’s steed. Where was the thing? A sinking feeling settled in my stomach. Had she run off? She was new to army life, only half trained really. The musket-fire and death could well have spooked her. Would I even have heard, in the midst of battle, when the entire world shrunk to yourself and the man trying to kill you? I realised that I was dead. Not yet, but soon.

                A cough pierced the silence. Confused, I looked besides me. The man I had shot was clutching his stomach, not two yards from where I was myself lying, and most definitely alive. I had my sword. I could end him. But there seemed no reason to speed up the inevitable.

                ‘Sir,’ I said in my garbled Savarian, ‘I think we are soon to be dead.’

                My leg spasmed to remind me of the fact.

                ‘I agree,’ came the reply.

                We lay in silence for a while, punctuated by the occasional cough or cry of pain from either one of us.

                ‘I can end it,’ I said.

                ‘Hmm…? Oh no, thank you. I think I shall try to survive if I can.’

                ‘I consider it unlikely.’

                ‘I do quite concur, but I feel somewhat irrationally attached to living for the moment.’

                ‘You know, I think I find myself in a similar position,’ I replied.

                We did not speak for a few moments more. I broke the silence.

                ‘Here,’ I said, cutting off a strip of my already ruined pelisse and scrunching it up. ‘Try to stem the bleeding.’

                ‘Thank you,’ he replied.

                ‘Did the ball go through?’ I asked.

                ‘I do not know.’

                ‘Well, I suppose we shall have to find out. Hold tight to your stomach. I shall turn you slightly, to feel for an exit wound.’

                ‘Must I suffer further? Very well, do it,’ he said.

                I shuffled up closer to him, every movement of my leg filling me with new pain. The surgeons would surely take it off. I smiled. At least I was thinking of survival.

                Placing a hand on the man’s shoulder, I braced myself and lifted it up, gently rocking him onto his side. He grunted a few times and began breathing rapidly. With my other hand, I felt around his lower back. He grunted harder. I kept him on his side for longer than I should have, desperately searching for a wound I could not feel. Slowly, I let him return to his previous position, lying on his back.

                ‘I cannot find one,’ I said.

                ‘Ah. So, the thing is inside me, then.’

                ‘Afraid so.’

                A few more moments of silence.

                ‘Fusilier Alberto Juinorez. 17th Column of Foot,’ he said by way of introduction.

                ‘Hussar Lyubov Nazariev. 2nd Tonazan Regiment of Hussars,’ I replied.

                ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance.’

                ‘And I yours.’

                ‘Your Savarian is quite good.’

             ‘Thank you, but I disagree. I picked it up from a friend I once had. A nuisance, really: Savarian speakers get picked more often for scouting duty. Helps to be able to talk to any of you lot we take prisoner.’ I grimaced as I finished, grasping for my leg once more and finding that the pelisse sleeve had proven inadequate as a bandage. Warm blood covered my hands.

                ‘Do you require help?’ Alberto asked.

                ‘No, no. You focus on that stomach wound. I can do this, I think.’

                I took my pelisse and cut off a few more strips. Perhaps I could make a longer lasting bandage. I removed the sleeve-bandage, covered in blood that I could just about see as a dark patch staining the light-coloured fabric. It was yellow, in the light, but there was little of that to work with. Two strips got rolled up and placed over the entry and exit wounds. I tied another around my leg, to hold them in place. Perhaps that would keep me breathing until help arrived. I communicated the sentiment to the man lying next to me.

                ‘Good,’ he replied. ‘I do not suppose anyone will come for you tonight?’

                ‘Unlikely,’ I replied. ‘With any luck, scouts will come across us in the morning, though.’

                ‘Indeed. We shall just have to survive until then. I wonder if they shall be from your side or mine.’

                ‘I am already praying for salvation. Specifying the saviour would, I think, be pushing it a little.’

                Alberto laughed, which turned into another coughing fit. ‘It is a good thing we have both an Orthodox and a Vizectian, then. No matter who is right, Eynas Idarniso shall hear us.’

                It was my turn to laugh. ‘And if we die, we shall know that the Unitists were right all along.’

                ‘Oh, that would be an irony.’

                Our conversation died down, each of focusing on our own battle against our injuries.

                ‘I am sorry I shot you,’ I said.

                ‘Well, you were only returning the favour,’ Alberto said.

              ‘Ah, but you had the curtesy to hit me in the leg,’ I replied, before realising what I had said. ‘Not that… I mean, we can both survive this.’

                ‘That is my hope. But do not worry, I understand the extent of my injury. You need not pretend it is better than it is. And I take issue with that comment – you were further away, and I was trying not to hit Miguel.’

                ‘Trying not to… oh. The man I… I am sorry about that too.’

                ‘I cannot see why you would be. We are at war, after all. And we shot first.’

                ‘A friend of yours?’

                ‘Not really. But a good man.’

                I felt a sickness in my stomach.

                ‘We shall see them all properly cremated when we are found,’ I said.

                ‘A pleasant sentiment. Was your man a friend?’

                ‘Daniil? I suppose so – we are, or were, often on picquet together. And drank together. We never challenged each other to a duel and – amongst the hussars – that is the sign of a wonderful friendship. Well, there was the one time, but it was more in jest than anything else and we agreed to fire wide.’

                ‘Duelling is still permitted in the Vascasian army?’

                ‘Oh no, but amongst the hussars it is, shall we say, tolerated.’

                ‘And here I was thinking your reputation undeserved.’

                ‘No, no, every word you have heard is true. Bravery, prowess with our steeds and sabres, luck with the ladies of whatever land we visit, all of it.’

                ‘Really? Because I heard your reputation was for recklessness, arrogance, and drunkenness.’

                I laughed. ‘You wound me, Alberto.’

                ‘Indeed, and now I have insulted you too,’ he responded.

                We laughed all the harder.

                ‘I have some supplies in my saddlebags. Biscuits, a canteen, maybe something to cover us. I shall try to retrieve them,’ I said after our mirth had died down.

                ‘A fire would be nice.’

                ‘Well I shall ask the servants to get on that.’

                ‘Tell them I should like a glass of wine while they are at it,’ Alberto said as I began to raise myself into a sitting position.

                ‘I won’t let them forget it,’ I replied absentmindedly as I planned my route towards my fallen steed.

                It was only a few yards through the forest’s undergrowth. But crawling, with rocks and brambles abound, it would be like hiking for leagues. I had never particularly enjoyed hiking. Eynas Osisieno had created horses, after all, and it felt impious to waste his work. Well, horses were no longer an option.

                Those rocks and brambles tore at my flesh as I dragged myself over them towards my dead mount. I hardly noticed, however, as my attention was principally on my leg, the pain of which drowned out any other. Whether that was a blessing or not, I could not decide. Nor could I think much at all. My world was just the few feet in front of me and the prize at the end.

                After what felt like an hour, I pulled myself level with my horse. Shot clean through the neck, blood covered her flank but was already beginning to dry. I ignored the grisly sight and reached for my saddlebags. The bags on the other side of the saddle were quite unreachable, underneath the deceased animal, but from those that I could reach I was able to take my canteen, a few biscuits wrapped in paper, and a couple of apples that I had borrowed from an orchard we had passed earlier, and that I had promptly forgotten about.

              Retrieving my blanket was a more difficult task, as it was attached to the back of the saddle and required me to hoist myself onto the still warm body of my horse in order to get at it. Going around would have required far too much movement. Still, though it took some time, I managed to get it. I wrapped everything up in the blanket, which I held in the crook of one arm as I made the crawl back to Alberto. The return journey was no better.

              On reaching the Savarian, I took my canteen – only half filled – and trickled a little water into his mouth. He took it gratefully but I was scared to give it to him all at once, as it had to last and service us both.

              ‘How about an apple? They are a little small, but not all that bad if the one I ate earlier is any indication,’ I said.

               ‘I do not think I am quite up to it, yet. But don’t let me stop you.’

              ‘Oh, you couldn’t,’ I said as I took out the knife stuffed into my sash and cut off a slice for myself. ‘Are you quite sure you do not want a piece?’

               ‘Quite sure.’

               ‘Very well, but you will require the blanket.’

               ‘Will I?’

               ‘You will. I don’t want anyone saying I saved you from a bullet-wound only to have you die of exposure.’

             I shuffled over to the man, having put away the rest of the apple and my knife for future use, and threw the blanket over him. It was stout wool, and would do its job, but, lying on the ground, the forest floor could chill you as much as the air, so I tried my best to tuck the thing under him while not causing the man too much unnecessary pain. He still grunted and swore under his breath as I rocked him, but only a strictly necessary number of times. I added the rest of the ruined pelisse, rolled up, under his head as a makeshift pillow.

               ‘There, the height of comfort,’ I announced as I finished.

               ‘But those servants seem to have forgotten my wine.’

                ‘Ah, well isn’t that just the way with them.’

                ‘Do you have the hour?’ he asked.

                ‘No. Maybe midnight? Maybe a little earlier? I cannot tell if it has been ten minutes or two hours since… well…’

                ‘Since we shot each other,’ said Alberto.

                ‘Indeed.’

                We laughed. Alberto’s was more of a wheeze.

                ‘I find you quite an agreeable fellow,’ I said. ‘I shall have to look you up once this ghastly war business is over.’

              ‘I would like that,’ he replied. ‘When we part ways, I will give you an address you can call at. I would offer to travel to you, but I find myself quite tired of the frigid north.’

              ‘Frigid? Autumn in Herscia? It is a little chilly, I shall give you, but nothing on winter in my native Tonaza.’

            ‘You are quite failing to convince me to call on you. And I must confess my ignorance of Vascasian geography – is that a Vishold or a Petty Kingdom?’

             ‘Vishold. In truth one of the warmest parts of the empire, if you do deign to come knocking – in the summer perhaps.’

             ‘Very well. In the summer it is,’ Alberto resolved. His voice grew weaker, so I offered him a few more drops from the canteen.

             ‘What is it like there?’ he asked.

          ‘In Tonaza? It’s a wonderful country. Untamed, one might say, despite the attempts of the Holy Order, the Vascasians, and quite a few others in between. An old country, and a wild one. And, of course, it breeds the greatest of men and horses. I come from a little village tucked between mountains and forests – a beautiful part of a beautiful land. Yourself?’

              ‘From our illustrious capital,’ Alberto managed.

              ‘Cartanda?’

              ‘The very same. Have you ever…?’

              ‘No, all my travelling has been through the medium of the army. But I hear it is a marvellous city.’

              ‘That it is and, these days, so different every time I return. Ever growing. Though I spent much of my time in the forests around it.’

              ‘Oh? Keeping the law?’ I asked.

              Alberto smiled. ‘Quite the opposite. Eventually I decided that the army was less risky – the King doesn’t take kindly to poachers. I think the sergeants were a little suspicious of why a city-boy would be so proficient in tracking and shooting, but in the end I suppose they thought me a greater asset amongst the lights than on the end of a rope. And you? How did you end up joining the army?’

                I shrugged. ‘It’s a career. Got me out of the village – as nice as it is, it can be a little stifling – and paid me every now and again.’

                ‘Must be nice. I don’t think we’ve been paid since half a year ago.’

                ‘I said it was only now and again,’ I laughed. ‘No, we’ve barely been supplied for the past month.’

                ‘I’m not sure we’re doing much better. We assumed you had taken all these Herscian peasants had.’

           ‘We assumed you had. We were so undersupplied that our colonel decided to… appropriate some supplies. We came back to the regiment as heroes, with two full carts.’

                ‘Where’d you find them?’ asked Alberto.

               ‘Well that’s the thing. We found them in the camp of the Life Guard of Horse – or on their way to it, anyway. They were supplies for the army, is how we saw it, and we are the army too. The Guard saw it a little differently and now the colonel’s being court marshalled. Still, I never ate so well as I did that night. Not just biscuits, rice, and dried meat, but proper food. We all ate like officers.’

                ‘Oh don’t awaken my appetite. That’s the last thing I need. Hand us a slice of apple then.’

                I complied.

                ‘Not quite as good as “eating like an officer”, I must say,’ said Alberto once he had taken the piece that I cut off for him.

                ‘Well we take what we can.’

                ‘That’s a hussar saying, is it?’

                ‘Oh, and you lot are just so much better,’ I said with a tongue coated in sarcasm.

                ‘That we are,’ laughed Alberto.

                That laugh began yet another coughing fit. I pulled myself up to the Savarian, pushed aside the blanket, and peered around the soaked rags he was holding to his wound.

                ‘It would help if we could get that bullet out,’ I said.

                ‘Let’s focus on what we can do, rather than what we can’t.’

                ‘I’m serious, Alberto. I’m going to need to do something. Give you something dry to stem the bleeding, if nothing else’

                ‘By all means, try your luck. Well, my luck, I suppose.’

                There were not many clean items of clothing left, and the blanket itself already had a wet patch. I took what was left of my pelisse from under Alberto’s head and took from it a few more strips to press down on the Savarian’s wound. The bleeding still would not stop.

                ‘It feels as though it is getting worse,’ he said.

                It looks it, too, I thought, but I stopped myself from saying that.

                ‘No, no. It is just the excitement of battle wearing off – leaving you with the cold and the pain.’

                ‘Hardly a more comforting thought.’

                ‘No, I suppose not,’ I said.

                I stayed perched over him, cutting off ever more strips of pelisse to scrunch up and absorb the ever-flowing blood until I had no more pelisse left. The man’s coat was soaked. All the clothes under it were presumably worse. But, after minutes of applying pressure and changing rags, the bleeding did appear to slow down. I told him the good news.

                ‘Oh joy,’ he responded. ‘Or perhaps my body just has no more blood to give.’

                I flicked him lightly on the arm with my hand.

                ‘Are all your countrymen such pessimists? It is a wonder you are still fighting.’

                ‘I am not sure I am fighting it any more, Lyubov.’

                ‘That’s not what I meant and you know it,’ I shot back, angry at the man’s willingness to give up. ‘We shall survive this together.’

                ‘Then you shall have to fight enough for the both of us.’ Alberto sounded weaker than ever.

                ‘I will,’ I vowed.

                ‘Thank you. I don’t want to die – of that I am still sure. But resisting it. When it hurts so much…’ Alberto’s voice broke. I could not see the tears in the darkness, or I pretended I could not, but I could hear them.

                ‘Sleep, my friend. I shall stay awake and tend to you.’

                My command was unnecessary. The Savarian’s weeping had already evened out – just a little – into a fitful rest. He will not die. I told myself. Nor shall I. We survive together. We survive together. We survive…

I opened my eyes to light and voices. I had but a brief moment of post-rest bliss before the pain in my leg returned – a fire deep inside my limb that burnt brightly yet refused to run out of fuel. I was lying on something. Reaching my hand up, my head was crusty with something – something dried. Blood, I saw. Not mine, I hoped.

                When had I fallen asleep? I could not remember.

                Alberto! I cried out internally. It was upon him that I laid. Upon his slight chest, covered in dried blood. I reached a hand to his face to wake my friend. He did not stir. My hand lingered on his cheek. Something was wrong. He was cold. And no breath stirred in his body. I backed away from the corpse on instinct and stared at it, my eyes wide and my blood cold. Oh Alberto.

                I could not have survived if he had not. So I must be dead – it was the only explanation. But no, surely Eynas Reito would allow a respite from pain in death. He was, after all, a good god. The shooting evil in my lower limb, then, was proof that I still lived. I hoped Alberto was no longer in pain.

                ‘There he is!’ I heard a voice shout from far off – another world, I assumed. Yet, in no time at all, I felt a hand on my shoulder, and then another.

                ‘Is he alive?’ The second voice was different from the first. I recognised them from a past life. One that had involved marching and drinking and shooting and killing.

                ‘Just about,’ said the first voice, thick in my ear. ‘But we need to get him to a surgeon soon – I don’t like the look of that leg and he is pale as the dead.’

                ‘Is he awake?’

                I felt myself be turned towards the sky. It was a wonderful light blue. It reminded me of a lake I had once seen in Dreokzia, high up in the mountains and fed by a glacier. The calm waters were interrupted by a shape which resolved itself into a man.

                ‘I think so,’ said the man. ‘Lyubov? Praise Eynas Idarniso we found you – when you did not return, we knew something was wrong. We are one of half a dozen teams sent out to find you two. Are you there?’

                All in an instant, I returned to the world. I stared into the face of my corporal. I repeated what he had said to me in my head. Though still not fully sure that I was, I nodded.

                ‘They got Daniil, the bastards,’ said the other voice. A fellow hussar from my troop. I heard a dull thud as he kicked Alberto’s body in the side. At the impact, I winced and would have cried out if I had been able.

                ‘Aye, the bastards,’ the corporal agreed. He spat in Alberto’s face, ruining the peaceful visage with phlegm and saliva that pooled on one closed eye and ran down his nose.

                ‘That’s odd. He’s got your pelisse all torn up over his wound, Lyubov,’ said the junior hussar. ‘What happened?’

               I looked between the two soldiers. My comrades. My brothers in arms. They disgusted me. But they were family. The only family I had out here. Come all this way to save me. My brothers in arms.

                ‘It is all a blur. I suppose he took it off me.’

                ‘Why didn’t he kill you?’

                I shrugged. ‘Maybe he thought I was dead. I don’t know.’

                ‘Why didn’t you kill him?’

                My stare turned towards Alberto’s cold corpse. In the light of day, I could see the colours better. I had fought those colours for months. Killed those colours. Those and the colours of other Savarian columns. What was another dead Savarian?

                ‘No point. He was already dying.’ I felt a sob well up in my throat and my eyes grow wet, but I fought it all down.

                ‘Aye, that’s how to deal with them,’ the corporal said. ‘Let them bleed out slowly.’ He laughed.

                ‘Well, we can take you back now. And Daniil’s corpse for a proper cremation.’

                ‘I suppose we’ll also need to take back these bastard sons of goats, though I would prefer to let them rot,’ said the senior soldier.

                I tensed. ‘Take them back,’ I said. ‘Hussars are nothing if not honourable, right?’ My reasoning sounded weak even to my ears.

                ‘Aye, I suppose that’s true. On death’s door – pardon my candour, Lyubov – and still thinking of honour first. A true hussar you are.’

Later, many hours later, after they had returned to camp, and the surgeon had cut off his leg, Lyubov snuck out of the medical tend and towards some charred ashes. It was the site where the three Savarians had been burnt together without ceremony.

                He sat down awkwardly and looked into what had once been three people. He thought about what it would have been like to visit Cartanda with Alberto as his guide. To walk along its streets, hearing Savarian without expecting anyone speaking it to kill him. Or of taking Alberto back to his ma and pa in Tonaza. He wondered if the man had possessed any skill at riding. If not, Lyubov would have taught him, and they would have ridden together.

                Silently, alone, he wept.