Life and Limb by Jennifer Roberson

Author:Jennifer Roberson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: DAW
Published: 2019-11-04T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I woke up to the whistle of the wind, face-down, conspicuously asprawl, in grass wet with heavy dew. For a moment I was horribly disoriented, as if rousing up from a four-day bender: pounding head, mangled brain, dicey belly, shivers inside and out—and then the fragmented pieces began to coalesce.

I opened my eyes. Peered at what I could see of the world.

Grass. Tall. Brown. Dead.

I lay there a long moment, putting together the concussion protocol: name, birthday, date, mother’s maiden name, the whole password recovery bullshit. Except, well, no capital letter, number, or an oddball grammatical symbol, apparently not understood by computer coders. Were they just unaware of the ampersand, caret, and tilde? Okay. Yeah. Me. Among the living.

I dragged my elbows to my ribcage, took a queasy breath, pushed partially upright. Ducked my head and remained bowed down, elbows planted, skull clutched in my hands and ass stuck up in the air.

After a long moment of even longer dire mutterings, I pulled my knees under my belly, rocked backward, and pushed myself into a seated position, more or less, butt planted, and boot heels, knees bent upright. I was dew-soaked head to toe, hair loose, tangled, soggy. I wiped vaguely at my face to clear it.

My hand came away red.

Not dew. Blood.

Wet head to foot with blood.

The breath gusted out of me, followed immediately by the F-bomb. And three more, raspy and slurred save for the hard k at the end, as I shoved myself upward, stood unsteadily.

My t-shirt, beneath the open leather jacket, was wet and chill against my torso. I pulled it away from skin, felt at flesh, did a mental inventory, but other than a headache nothing hurt. Nothing suggested any part of me was bleeding at all, let alone enough to wet hair and clothing. I let the tee slop back.

The wind yet blew, whispering now. Otherwise the quiet was almost uncanny. No birds at all, no insects. Just—silence. Save for the breeze and the rustle of tall grass.

I smelled blood. I reeked of it, as did everything around me. And it’s a sharp, metallic taste, like copper, or iron, with a thick, throat-cloying fug. I pulled the loose flaps of my jacket aside, rattling metal buckles and studs. Noted that my black leather pants were smeared from belt to ankle.

I scrubbed the back of a hand against a cheek, though probably all I did was rearrange blood. My gag reflex engaged, then eased before I hurled, though bile burned partway up my esophagus. With effort I swallowed it back down, then finally took a good look around.

I wasn’t alone. Thousands of men were present. Before me, behind me, beside me. All lay sprawled upon the battlefield in attitudes of death: prone, supine, some limbs reaching skyward, others twisted, or hacked away. Eyes closed. Eyes open. Mouths agape in frozen grimaces, or features utterly slack. Long hair, braided hair, subtle plaid trousers and tunics of earth-born colors. Torcs glinted, as did brooches and wristlets. The wind caught at cloaks, fluttered cloth.

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