The Sand Sea: The Rubric of Conquest Book One by Michael McClellan

Author:Michael McClellan [McClellan, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-64501-022-7
Published: 2023-02-10T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Forty-Five

Stranded on the Sand Sea

Plain of Gamurian

Western Sand Sea

Anglian Calendar: January 28th, 1879

Peter stared northward into the dusk with despair in his eyes. The camels were gone, all of them. Nine men lay dead. Not counting him or Stanwich, another four were wounded. They had their medicines still, and the rifles, and their crates of food. But they had lost all means of carrying any of it. Behind Peter, tent flaps rustled in the wind. Above their camp, the flags of the Spatanian Emperor, the Anglian Imperium, and the New Anglian Republic extended to the north, blown by the breeze as if taunting them, pointing in the direction of their stolen camels.

Hersen bandaged Stanwich’s mangled hand as well as he was able. He had learned a thing or two about treating wounds in his years in the legion. Peter entrusted his half-severed finger to Mrs. Smith, who cleaned it with alcohol.

It burned terribly when she did it. Then she wrapped it in a bandage. So long as he could keep the nub that remained and avoid the actual flames for the burning treatment, Peter would suffer the lesser pain of the alcohol. He did not know if he had the courage to let them burn him.

“You should burn it,” said Hersen, looking at Peter across the small fire pit.

“Do not listen to him,” said Mrs. Smith. “Your wound is clean.”

“Your drink will not clean his wound, woman. The man bit him. Only the flames will ensure the rot does not grow.”

“You will not burn me,” said Peter. “Nor will you burn Stanwich.”

Peter was edgy.

He had slept little. He had hardly eaten. When the adrenaline wore off, the fatigue advanced. The sense that they had all failed weighed heavily upon his shoulders, and he suspected the beginning of their hardship was only just being revealed to them.

“If I save you from the rot, you will thank me,” said Hersen.

Hersen held a log into the fire, watching the far end take flame. “Come and be done with it, Anglian. Be a man. Every boy in the legion becomes a man not on his first fight, but on the burning of his first wound.” Hersen lifted his shirt to reveal a large, old burn, the size of a small handprint on his abdomen. He was in the early stages of drunkenness, and he slurred his words.

“It will not be better tomorrow, Anglian, or the day after tomorrow,” he said, looking at Peter. His smile was taunting. “With each passing day, you will make me burn you deeper and longer if you wish to kill all of the rot. Be a man, and have it done with.”

“Stay silent with your madness,” said Mrs. Smith, sitting at the midway point between Peter Harmon and Hersen Expey.

“Oh, and how many wounds have you treated, woman?” asked Hersen, his slurred LaFrentian accent making him sound all the more indignant.

Hannah Huntington, sitting next to Mrs. Smith, stood up, “More than you, LaFrentian.”

Peter looked up at her. Even in his pain, the look of her face and body was a feast for his eyes.

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