Pawn's Gambit

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Escape From Sandakar

He rose through a gray chamber, an endless chamber walled with smoke. Faces peered out of those walls. Shapes moved. In the far distance someone screamed; the sound sharp and piercing, as if the screamer was at his elbow. He smelled pine. Pine mixed with blood. His skull exploded with pain. The gray chamber vanished, replaced by blackness -- night black rimmed with red. The scream sounded once more, intense and clear, yet far away.
Jubal groaned and tried to sit up. Pain ripped at his temples. He fell back, panting. For a moment the gray chamber reappeared, then slipped away. "Gods," he croaked. Memory began to leak past the curtain of agony. He lay still, listening.
Voices. Men's voices and not nearby. There were no pistol shots, no clangor of sword and shield. The battle was over. He knew damn well who'd won and it wasn't the Pretender, Prince Poonwalla. Rage colored the blackness. No, he thought, calming himself. Now is not the time.
Slowly, he reached up and touched his helmet. Fiend of the Pit! I'm not blind. I hope. The steel helm had been pushed forward and down, covering his eyes and pinching in at the temples. Digging at the front edge with his fingers did no good. In a frenzy he reached back to the metal skirt which extended down from the back of the helmet, protecting his neck. His probing fingers found a shallow dent extending from just behind the helmet crown down into the skirt. He had no memory of being hit on the back of the head. One quick pull with both hands and the helmet popped off. Pain flared and died away, receding to a bearable level.
Pine tree branches covered him. Jubal rolled to his bellyand crawled into the open. The ground was damp and smelled of blood. His nose throbbed and both cheeks were wet, so some of the blood was probably his. He listened for a moment, then looked around.
Two bodies lay a couple paces up the slope. Both wore Sandakar blue. He flashed a feral grin at his dead enemies and turned away. His assailant lay in a broken heap, trunk snapped off a short distance above the ground. The small pine tree had done what the bravos of Sandakar had not so far managed to do -- put Colonel Jubal Khan on the ground, unconscious.
Beyond the splintered tree stump lay the body of a horse. Jubal crawled to the downed animal.
"Pepin, my lad. Ah?Pepin." He touched the big bay's soft nose. A spear jutted from behind the horse's right front shoulder. A vague memory surfaced: he remembered an impact and the horse stumbling and then...nothing. Tears welled. Guilt clawed at his soul. He had failed Pepin ? failed his men. They deserved better, better than the death he'd given them. Jubal patted the horse once more. Voice cracking, he whispered, "May the gods smile on you, Pepin. Green pastures and mares in heat, lad."
Jubal ripped off a dangling fragment of surcoat and wiped at the blood on his face. What he managed to remove came off in flakes. The gods knew how long he'd lain senseless. He squinted into the drifting mist lying low over the battlefield. What he could see confirmed his worst fears. Prince Poonwalla's army would soon be spoken of in the past tense.
A carpet of dead and dying men intermingled with downed horses lay on the steep slope above his hiding place. Rivulets of blood coursed down the incline, pooling in and around heaps of carrion. The remnants of his regiment had begun the battle on the far side of the ridge. Other than the dead, no one in sight bore the Pretender's livery. All the mobile figures he could see wore dirty blue uniforms bearing the black lion of Rattan, king of Sandakar.
Why had he been spared? Was it some trick of the gods to strike him down to lie all unknowing while the cream of his regiment died? He turned and saw two men, far down the line of the ridge. Clad in the gray of King Rattan's Special Directorate, they moved among the dead, stopping now and again to examine a corpse. One appeared to be making marks on a tablet.
"Lists," muttered Jubal. "The bastards are making lists of the dead." He searched the ground near Pepin's body. His saber lay under one of the horse's front legs. In a moment he had it. Snarling, he gripped the blade and glared at the distant SD thugs. No way he was going to be taken alive. Grim tales were told about the chambers under SD Headquarters. In the years since Rattan took the throne, many prisoners had vanished into the dungeons, never to return. Fear galvanized him. He willed himself to lie still. "Not yet. Let the motherless scum get closer." Grinding his teeth, he settled in next to the dead horse.
Hoarse voices drifted down from above. Five blue-clad soldiers walked over the brow of the hill, moving in a rough line, seeking wounded men. If Sandak, the man's position was marked by driving a sword or spear into the ground nearby. Downed rebels received a sword thrust. Jubal ducked lower. These soldiers were not his prey. He turned his attention back to the SD men. They were no closer. Their search had taken them to the top of the ridge.
A harsh cry drew his gaze back toward the searching soldiers. A lone man lurched from the ground, stabbed the closest Sandak, ripped his sword free and attacked the next one downslope. Even from his vantage point thirty meters away, Jubal could see that the man was badly cut up. He had no helm. One arm hung useless. Shrieking imprecations, the rebel trooper beat at his foe, driving him back.
The drama could end only one way. Steel flashed. Dark shapes moved and struck. The pale-faced figure collapsed across a dead horse, still clutching his bloody saber. Jubal turned away, fist clenched in impotent fury.
His rage slowly subsided. "I couldn't have gotten up there quick enough to help." The truth of his words eased his conscience not at all. "He took one with him. I shall take two."
His intended victims were no longer in view. During the fight between the wounded rebel and the Sandak soldiers they had evidently crossed to the other side of the ridge. Above him the remaining enemy soldiers started back the way they had come, supporting one of their number.
Jubal cursed and glared around. Low clouds began to roll in from the east. Mist drifted along the ridge. The only men he could see now were litter bearers.
His rage ebbed and died away. The gods were not going to bring foes within reach of his saber. Though not a religious man, Jubal began to wonder if he was fated to live. A snarl twisted his face. "Fated? An excuse to escape, more like."
Suddenly he wondered if any of his troopers had gotten away. Some probably had. Could he rebuild the unit? Bitter laughter echoed in his head. Who would want to serve under Colonel Khan, fumbling killer of hundreds of his own men? Nevertheless, his thoughts turned from selling his life at a high price to the subject of escape.
No point sitting here like an idiot. He stabbed his notched and bloody sword into the turf and ripped off what little remained of his fine red and gold surcoat with Poonwalla's enigmatic hammer and tong symbol emblazoned front and back. Using the surcoat, he wiped his saber and sheathed it. His hat was nowhere in sight. A few steps away, he found an officer's field cap, a gray one with a stiff visor. The cap was of a style was worn by officers in both armies. His battledress was a pattern used by several regiments, Sandak and rebel alike. He straightened his tunic, snugged the cap down, and started toward the distant tree line.
He moved slowly and kept his head down, as if looking for someone. An idea began to take shape. What he needed was a horse and a suitable body.
The thickening mist reduced visibility to a hundred meters or less. The air smelled of mud -- mud mixed with raw blood, sweat and fear -- with only a trace of gun smoke. Both sides had used up most of their ready ammunition in the first two days of fighting. Neither was able to link up with their supply train after the second battle beside the Selwan River. In today's fight, other than a few rounds at the beginning and scattered shooting the first time his troopers clashed with Sandak cavalry, it had all been saber and spear, knife and fist.
Small clumps of horses dotted the meadow, drawn to their own kind in the midst of carnage. A few stood alone. The first one Jubal approached was a big black equipped with gray harness and saddle. The animal uttered a soft, plaintive call. Dark blood pulsed slow around the jutting stump of a spear.
"Gods." He touched the horse's muzzle, stroked its neck. Muscles trembled under his hand. He wanted to end the animal's suffering. Automatically, Jubal reached for his pistol. His holster gaped empty. In any event, he had no ammunition, which was just as well. A gunshot would draw attention. He stroked the animal's forehead and shook his head. "Sorry fella." The horse nudged him as he turned away, but made no other noise.
A ragged cough drew his attention. "Colonel Khan," murmured a man lying propped against a heap of dead. It was Coronet Feldspar, 5th Regiment, C-Troop sub-commander. Jubal stepped over the Coronet's booted feet and knelt at his side. Feldspar was battered and bloody; in place of his right hand he bore a bleeding stump. White bone glistened in the midst of torn muscle. A faint spark lit pale blue eyes.
"Colonel," he whispered. His face twitched.
"Coronet." Jubal didn't know what to say. Feldspar, like too many in the rebel army, had been an energetic, not very effective officer. A cub embarked on a wolf's mission.
"I..." Feldspar coughed. "My men..."
"Gone. Dead." Jubal's words were hard, unyielding. The foolish young Coronet wore slashed remnants of the flashy red and gold uniform favored by the rebel army's leader, the equally young and foolish Poonwalla, Pretender to the throne of Sandakar. Jubal had seen the Pretender break away from the fighting in attempted flight, only to die under the hooves of Sandak cavalry, his body smashed into the mud, blood and horseshit covering the battlefield.
Jubal's heart softened somewhat as tears streaked Feldspar's cheeks. At least this aristo had gone down fighting.
"Sorry...so sorry." gasped the Coronet.
"Some may have escaped," said Jubal. "I'll find 'em if I can."
Feldspar grunted in pain. The light in his eyes faded and he relaxed. A soft nose pushed at Jubal's shoulder.
He jerked to the side, nearly falling over the Coronet's legs. His assailant sniffed at the dead officer and considered the colonel with grave brown eyes. It was Dido, Feldspar's chestnut mare. Jubal took up the dangling reins and stroked her neck.
"How are you girl?" He muttered soothing words as he inspected the mare. She had a cut on her rump and a few nicks on both sides of her neck, but nothing that looked serious enough to make him pass her by. Besides, he was familiar with the animal and she with him. That was a strong argument in her favor. She was also large enough to carry him comfortably and he knew she had the stamina for long marches.
Now he needed a body.
Ten steps from poor Feldspar, Jubal found what he was looking for -- a youngish corpse in Sandak colors and accoutered in a manner suggesting relative wealth. Instead of sturdy issue battledress and harness with plain steel buckles, the dead man wore tailored trousers and a jacket fancied up with leather straps and silvered hardware. Whoever he was, the young man offered three other advantages. He was of slender build and below average height. He also had a revolver, which Jubal took for his own.
Grunting, Jubal hefted the body into position across the saddle and strapped it down. Dido glanced back at her burden and snorted, but made no further comment. She fell in step willingly as Jubal led her toward the trees, detouring now and again around the gory refuse of battle.
On the way, he spied a Sandak lion banner lying across the body of a man who had probably been its bearer. The body lacked a head.
"There's a clever blow, Dido. One of our lads, I'll warrant." It was a reasonable guess, since his was the only cavalry engaged with Sandak dragoons on this field. The survivors of the other Pretender cavalry regiment had vanished during the night march from the Selwan to the hell he was leaving behind. He probably should have decamped with his troopers as well.
Too late wisdom.