expected.
“Why?” the hermit soldier asked.
Luka stiffened. “Three nights ago.”
“Where?”
“ Ingushetia. It's a refugee camp.” Breathe. Breathe. Maybe he won't ask why again.
“Where's that?”
Maybe he was about to earn the word written across his chest. “Outside of Alkhazurovo.”
“That's a hundred kilometers away. How'd you get here?”
“They drove me.”
“And your wrists?”
“They tied me to a tree.”
“Where?”
“Not far. Maybe fifteen kilometers from here.”
“How long were you out there?”
“Two days.”
“What did you see?”
“See?”
“Did you see any troop movement?”
“No.”
“Any soldiers? Any people?”
“No soldiers. Just an old man on a horse.”
“How'd you get loose?”
“The old man.”
The soldier looked at Luka's jacket, with the word traitor written across it, just above his insignia. “Why'd he help you?”
“I don't know.”
Still holding the knife at Luka's throat, the soldier rummaged through the sack. “He freed you. And you took his food.”
“He gave it to me.”
The soldier laughed. “You killed him. Didn't you?”
“No. No I didn't. I've never killed anyone in my life.”
“You tied him to that tree he freed you from, and left him to die.”
More tears spilled down Luka's cheeks, and a knot of shame twisted his guts. “He gave it to me. A little food and a jug of water. Then he got back on his horse and left. I swear.” The man would kill him, either way. He had no idea why he cared so much that his captor believe him. That he not die with this Eršban soldier thinking he'd murdered the man who'd helped him.
“Was he Eršban? Or Bokan?”
“The old man? I don't know.”
“He didn't ask you about this,” The soldier dragged his knife across the epithet on Luka's chest, “before he cut you loose?”
“No. He didn't ask me anything. He just said he was sorry he couldn't take me with him, and he got on his horse and went on his way.”
The soldier stared into his eyes. “So. You lied to me. About the accident.”
“I'm sorry.”
“These days, moving from place to place, I come across things. Something looks like it might be useful, now or later, I pick it up and I keep it with me until I need it, or until it's more of a hassle than it's worth. Lying to me is the opposite of being useful. Don't lie to me again.”
“Okay.”
The blade stopped digging into his skin. The soldier grabbed the empty jug from the sack and disappeared in the black depths of the cave. When he returned, the jug was full. He cut Luka loose and handed him the jug. “Drink as much as you can. We leave in ten.”
Luka snatched the jug and drank, gulping the water down but careful not to spill a drop. Just because the source was right there didn't mean the soldier—Kosos was the name on his uniform—would give him more.
When the soldier decided ten minutes were up, he got to his feet, grabbed his rucksack, and told Luka to do the same.
“Please. Just leave me here.”
Kosos turned and leveled a grave look at Luka.
“I'm injured. I won't be able to keep up.”
“I'm not leaving you here alive. So quit whining and get up.”
They topped off the three containers with water, and headed out. Kosos set a brisk pace over the difficult terrain. Weak from the beating, the hunger and lack of decent rest, his ribs still hurting, Luka struggled to keep up, terrified Kosos would be as likely to kill him and leave him slumped among the outcroppings of rock as he was to waste his breath telling him to move faster. When the sun was at its zenith and it felt like they'd been walking for three or four hours without a break, he tried asking where they were going.
“If you have breath to spare for a chat, I can stop worrying I'm making you walk too fast.” Kosos picked up the pace, and Luka regretted opening his stupid mouth. Even if he hadn't been a wreck, how did the soldier expect him to be able to match the stride of his long legs?
“Why?” the hermit soldier asked.
Luka stiffened. “Three nights ago.”
“Where?”
“ Ingushetia. It's a refugee camp.” Breathe. Breathe. Maybe he won't ask why again.
“Where's that?”
Maybe he was about to earn the word written across his chest. “Outside of Alkhazurovo.”
“That's a hundred kilometers away. How'd you get here?”
“They drove me.”
“And your wrists?”
“They tied me to a tree.”
“Where?”
“Not far. Maybe fifteen kilometers from here.”
“How long were you out there?”
“Two days.”
“What did you see?”
“See?”
“Did you see any troop movement?”
“No.”
“Any soldiers? Any people?”
“No soldiers. Just an old man on a horse.”
“How'd you get loose?”
“The old man.”
The soldier looked at Luka's jacket, with the word traitor written across it, just above his insignia. “Why'd he help you?”
“I don't know.”
Still holding the knife at Luka's throat, the soldier rummaged through the sack. “He freed you. And you took his food.”
“He gave it to me.”
The soldier laughed. “You killed him. Didn't you?”
“No. No I didn't. I've never killed anyone in my life.”
“You tied him to that tree he freed you from, and left him to die.”
More tears spilled down Luka's cheeks, and a knot of shame twisted his guts. “He gave it to me. A little food and a jug of water. Then he got back on his horse and left. I swear.” The man would kill him, either way. He had no idea why he cared so much that his captor believe him. That he not die with this Eršban soldier thinking he'd murdered the man who'd helped him.
“Was he Eršban? Or Bokan?”
“The old man? I don't know.”
“He didn't ask you about this,” The soldier dragged his knife across the epithet on Luka's chest, “before he cut you loose?”
“No. He didn't ask me anything. He just said he was sorry he couldn't take me with him, and he got on his horse and went on his way.”
The soldier stared into his eyes. “So. You lied to me. About the accident.”
“I'm sorry.”
“These days, moving from place to place, I come across things. Something looks like it might be useful, now or later, I pick it up and I keep it with me until I need it, or until it's more of a hassle than it's worth. Lying to me is the opposite of being useful. Don't lie to me again.”
“Okay.”
The blade stopped digging into his skin. The soldier grabbed the empty jug from the sack and disappeared in the black depths of the cave. When he returned, the jug was full. He cut Luka loose and handed him the jug. “Drink as much as you can. We leave in ten.”
Luka snatched the jug and drank, gulping the water down but careful not to spill a drop. Just because the source was right there didn't mean the soldier—Kosos was the name on his uniform—would give him more.
When the soldier decided ten minutes were up, he got to his feet, grabbed his rucksack, and told Luka to do the same.
“Please. Just leave me here.”
Kosos turned and leveled a grave look at Luka.
“I'm injured. I won't be able to keep up.”
“I'm not leaving you here alive. So quit whining and get up.”
They topped off the three containers with water, and headed out. Kosos set a brisk pace over the difficult terrain. Weak from the beating, the hunger and lack of decent rest, his ribs still hurting, Luka struggled to keep up, terrified Kosos would be as likely to kill him and leave him slumped among the outcroppings of rock as he was to waste his breath telling him to move faster. When the sun was at its zenith and it felt like they'd been walking for three or four hours without a break, he tried asking where they were going.
“If you have breath to spare for a chat, I can stop worrying I'm making you walk too fast.” Kosos picked up the pace, and Luka regretted opening his stupid mouth. Even if he hadn't been a wreck, how did the soldier expect him to be able to match the stride of his long legs?
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