Page 77 of Of Empires and Dust
Trusil whinniedas Rist ran the hard brush over the horse’s flank. Trusil had been well cared for at the imperial stables while Rist had journeyed to the Burnt Lands, but the guilt of leaving him still gnawed at Rist a little. He’d never considered himself a lover of animals, but the horse was changing that. Rist had amassed a total of six brushes and combs for the horse, which was, as he thought about it, more variations of the same thing than anything else he’d owned in his life.
One of the books he’d brought with him from Berona, after they’d last stopped there before the Burnt Lands, had beenOf Horses and Men, and Why the Former is Better Than the Latter,by Olga Unimi. The title was a bit long-winded so he abbreviated it in his mind to ‘Of Horses and Men’.
The book had spoken at length of the importance of keeping a horse well maintained and cared for and had outlined the specific needs for each brush. It might have seemed excessive to some, but Rist enjoyed the specificity of it. Each tool had a purpose and a place, each uniquely crafted to fulfil that purpose. Not only that, but he enjoyed the routine, the methodical repetition. And the fact that Trusil’s hair was soft as silk only added to that enjoyment.
“Shhh,” he whispered, running the thumb of his free hand across the horse’s cheek as he brushed. “I’ve heard we’re being given leave to spend the day and night in the city before marching east. I’ll bring you back apples.”
The horse nickered, shaking his head side to side and stamping his front foot.
“And carrots too, yes.” Rist rubbed Trusil’s cheek again with his spare hand as he brushed a particularly stubborn piece of caked mud from the horse’s shoulder.
“I don’t like carrots. Bring me pastries and cheese.” The voice came from behind, high-pitched and mocking.
Rist smiled, turning his head just a little to see Neera approaching, Lena at her side. He doubted that if horses could speak, they would produce a tone and pitch even remotely similar to that voice, but he’d learned enough to say nothing.
“If Trusil doesn’t want the pastries, I’ll have them. And the cheese.” Neera brushed Rist’s shoulder with her hand before scratching at Trusil’s muzzle affectionately. “If we work together, we can get pastriesandapples. Viara will share them with you. Fair deal?”
Rist stepped back, watching with a smile on his face. Tharn Pimm had once told him that how a person treats an animal is a fine judge of their heart. Even those who are scared of animals could still be tender.
“Do the horses ever answer you when you talk?” Lena folded her arms, green robes falling just short of her ankles. She’d not been in Ilnaen during the fighting. Her, Brother Halmak, and the other consuls had remained at a rear camp some ten miles north, along with many of the Healers, infirmerers, and apprentices.
“Only if you speak horse,” Rist said with a smile.
“Was that a joke, Rist? You’re getting better at those. Tommin will…” Her voice trailed off. “Tomminwouldhave liked that one.”
Rist gave Lena an awkward smile. He had a feeling that even if he knew what words to say, they wouldn’t have helped. Words were pretty but often ineffectual when it came to loss.
An elbow prodded him in the ribs and he looked to see Neera standing beside him and inclining her head towards Lena, who had grown silent and was now staring off towards the city.
He’d lost his focus again.
“Tomminwouldhave liked it.” Neera linked arms with Lena, then stroked Trusil’s muzzle. “In fact, I think Trusil bears a striking resemblance to Tommin.”
Lena let out a soft laugh, squeezing Neera’s arm closer to her ribs, then scratched under Trusil’s cheek.
“Why the long face?” she whispered, and both her and Neera burst out in hysterics.
“Don’t try and understand it, lad.” Rist hadn’t heard Magnus approach. “Women are a different species. They’re smarter, stronger, and they feed off our confusion like mosquitoes do blood. If anyone tells you any different, they’re lying.”
Rist looked up to see Garramon and Magnus, the latter attempting to fold his arm across his chest, only to frown when he realised the other arm wasn’t there to leverage against.
Magnus looked at Rist then shrugged. “Like I said, still feels like it’s there. Anyway, you lot, gather what you need and pissoff into the city. You’ve been given relief for the night, along with the Fourth Army. The Eighteenth and the Seventh will hold watch before they march east in the morning.” A look of visible irritation crept onto his face. “Taya Tambrel has instructed the First and the Fourth to remain at Berona for a while longer.”
As Neera and Lena made for the tents, Garramon grabbed Rist’s arm. “Not you. We have other plans.”
Dilapidated tentsand hastily constructed wooden shanties sprawled outside Berona’s white walls, creeping for miles like tendrils of fog. Dark smoke pumped upwards from shoddy chimneys and a discordant din of hacking coughs, stamping feet, and clashing voices filled the air.
The people who occupied this makeshift city outside a city – and there must have been tens of thousands – looked as beaten and bruised as the soldiers who’d fought at Ilnaen. Some of them wouldn’t have been out of place in the triage tents.
A child no older than ten passed with bloodied bandages wrapped around the stump of his right leg, a crutch made of tree branches keeping him upright. A woman stumbled across the street from one tent, her entire face scarred and blistered, her eyes nothing but knotted flesh, and what looked to be her two daughters guiding her path.
Rist could have gone on listing the injuries in his mind, but he would have stood there for months. It would have been quicker for him to list those who appeared unharmed. Whatever state they were in, whatever limbs remained, every last one of them looked to be firmly in exhaustion’s grasp, their skin caked with dirt, their eyes sunken.
Imperial soldiers and cavalry marched through the wide main street in groups of eight, swords belted at their hips, the crowd parting before them. At first, Rist had thought the showof force too much, but the more he watched, the more he understood: Berona was a tinderbox ready to ignite.
These people had lost everything and most had marched hundreds or thousands of miles. They were tired, broken, hungry, and in pain. He counted at least six brawls within the space of two hundred feet. One man had thrown a rock at a mounted rider, resulting in him vanishing beneath a swarm of black and red leather.
“If you’re ever wondering why we fight,” Garramon said, leaning in, “this would go some way towards explaining it. It’s been months since the elves destroyed the cities on the eastern coast, and still the refugees pour in, their lives razed to the ground, their loved ones left to burn in piles.”
