moved between tents, walking among hundreds of empty, motionless cots. There was very little left behind. Most had taken what meager possessions they had with them on the march.
The captain’s tent, which he’d never been inside, was not much different; smaller, with a larger cot, but mostly empty. Beneath the captain’s cot, however, he discovered a small bundle wrapped in cloth the color of the dirt. The captain must have forgotten it. It contained a few dried biscuits, a plain but sharp-looking knife, and a tarnished medal embossed with a strange symbol: twin crescent moons each with one bulging eye and slivered grins facing each other.
These were things he might need to defend the camp, he decided. He strapped the knife to his belt. He pinned the medal to the front of his jacket. He stood and puffed his chest out experimentally. He grinned. He sat on the captain’s cot and ate the biscuits.
~
He set the rifle in the crook of his shoulder and aimed. He closed one eye and sighted down the barrel. He’d set three empty canteens he’d found lying around camp on a low-hanging branch and he aimed for the center one.
He pulled the trigger.
The rifle kicked, jolting his entire body. It made a sound like a large branch cracking in half, and the smell stung his nose and made his eyes water.
He lowered the rifle and blinked, his ears ringing. He looked at the three canteens sitting on the branch, undisturbed. Shooting was a lot harder than he’d thought it would be.
He hadn’t been practicing like he’d told the other soldiers, before they’d all left him alone, and so he’d come out here to make sure he could shoot like he thought he could shoot.
He lowered the rifle and began to load it again, just as he’d watched the other soldiers do, pouring the rust-colored powder down the barrel—not too much—then a few of the courser powder charge flakes, then sliding the bullet down, and packing it lightly with the rod. He knew to be careful. He knew to respect his rifle.
When he was done, he lifted the rifle again. He set it against his sore shoulder and aimed again.
He pulled the trigger.
Blinking through the smoke, he looked out at the canteens. He’d nicked one of them and knocked it from the branch.
“Yes!” he said, and decided that was enough shooting for the day.
~
“Brent? Pera?”
He approached the small hut built into the side of the hill. It was difficult to find. The branches from the trees hung over it, nearly obscuring it completely. The door was plain wood, the same color as the trunks of the trees. It was like a door into the underground, an entrance into the deep.
Ash walked up the door. He reached his hand out and tried to push it open. It wouldn’t budge, must have been locked from the inside. He rapped his knuckles on the course wood.
“Brent? You in there?”
“Nope.”
Ash jumped, whirled about.
Pera was standing in the clearing only a few feet away. “He’s not here.”
“Where is he?” Ash asked, his heart thudding in his chest.
Pera shrugged. She turned and darted by him and into the trees.
“Wait!”
Pera stopped and looked at him, leaning from a branch she’d grasped onto, her eyes bright.
“Where are you going?”
“Wanna see something?”
“Sure. What?”
“Come on,” Pera said, and slipped into the trees.
He ran after her.
They ran together, Ash stumbling to keep up with Pera’s light leaps and lithe movements. The trees passed around them, rushing, rustling.
Pera stopped suddenly, putting her hand out to signal Ash to a halt.
“What is it?” Ash asked.
“Hear that?”
A strange grinding sound was coming from the clearing ahead. It was a labored, sputtering machine sound.
Pera brushed a branch aside with her hand and he could see a machine of some sort, a buggy, but smaller. He came forward for a better look. It was smaller than the buggy that had carried him from Fallowvane to the soldier’s camp and it was close-topped
The captain’s tent, which he’d never been inside, was not much different; smaller, with a larger cot, but mostly empty. Beneath the captain’s cot, however, he discovered a small bundle wrapped in cloth the color of the dirt. The captain must have forgotten it. It contained a few dried biscuits, a plain but sharp-looking knife, and a tarnished medal embossed with a strange symbol: twin crescent moons each with one bulging eye and slivered grins facing each other.
These were things he might need to defend the camp, he decided. He strapped the knife to his belt. He pinned the medal to the front of his jacket. He stood and puffed his chest out experimentally. He grinned. He sat on the captain’s cot and ate the biscuits.
~
He set the rifle in the crook of his shoulder and aimed. He closed one eye and sighted down the barrel. He’d set three empty canteens he’d found lying around camp on a low-hanging branch and he aimed for the center one.
He pulled the trigger.
The rifle kicked, jolting his entire body. It made a sound like a large branch cracking in half, and the smell stung his nose and made his eyes water.
He lowered the rifle and blinked, his ears ringing. He looked at the three canteens sitting on the branch, undisturbed. Shooting was a lot harder than he’d thought it would be.
He hadn’t been practicing like he’d told the other soldiers, before they’d all left him alone, and so he’d come out here to make sure he could shoot like he thought he could shoot.
He lowered the rifle and began to load it again, just as he’d watched the other soldiers do, pouring the rust-colored powder down the barrel—not too much—then a few of the courser powder charge flakes, then sliding the bullet down, and packing it lightly with the rod. He knew to be careful. He knew to respect his rifle.
When he was done, he lifted the rifle again. He set it against his sore shoulder and aimed again.
He pulled the trigger.
Blinking through the smoke, he looked out at the canteens. He’d nicked one of them and knocked it from the branch.
“Yes!” he said, and decided that was enough shooting for the day.
~
“Brent? Pera?”
He approached the small hut built into the side of the hill. It was difficult to find. The branches from the trees hung over it, nearly obscuring it completely. The door was plain wood, the same color as the trunks of the trees. It was like a door into the underground, an entrance into the deep.
Ash walked up the door. He reached his hand out and tried to push it open. It wouldn’t budge, must have been locked from the inside. He rapped his knuckles on the course wood.
“Brent? You in there?”
“Nope.”
Ash jumped, whirled about.
Pera was standing in the clearing only a few feet away. “He’s not here.”
“Where is he?” Ash asked, his heart thudding in his chest.
Pera shrugged. She turned and darted by him and into the trees.
“Wait!”
Pera stopped and looked at him, leaning from a branch she’d grasped onto, her eyes bright.
“Where are you going?”
“Wanna see something?”
“Sure. What?”
“Come on,” Pera said, and slipped into the trees.
He ran after her.
They ran together, Ash stumbling to keep up with Pera’s light leaps and lithe movements. The trees passed around them, rushing, rustling.
Pera stopped suddenly, putting her hand out to signal Ash to a halt.
“What is it?” Ash asked.
“Hear that?”
A strange grinding sound was coming from the clearing ahead. It was a labored, sputtering machine sound.
Pera brushed a branch aside with her hand and he could see a machine of some sort, a buggy, but smaller. He came forward for a better look. It was smaller than the buggy that had carried him from Fallowvane to the soldier’s camp and it was close-topped
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