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L” by 1
John Dale Renton
E.T.L.
Marat wheezed and coughed. The wind was gaining strength, biting at his ears,
numbing his lips. He looked down towards the frozen creek that wound its way through
the valley. He would have to try that way. The deer slung over his shoulders weighed
Half way down the slope, crusty snow gave way beneath him and he fell on his
back, banged his head against the carcass. Black circles danced at the edge of his vision.
The touch of snow flakes on his eyelashes stirred Marat awake. His head pounded
and he rolled onto his side, retching. The light had faded, leaving the valley in deep
shadow. Marat struggled to his feet, rubbing his left arm. Stabbing pains in his biceps
made him grunt but he forced them from his thoughts. Marat had outlived his sons. He
tired quickly, walked when once he would have run. His woman had to chew his meat.
But Marat could still hunt. The deer proved that. It would silence the young ones.
Marat stooped and caught the deer by the hooves. He heaved and a hammer blow
The hurt grew worse. Marat pulled at his furs and bared his chest. Ice cracked
beneath him and he felt himself sinking. His feet found the bottom of the creek but there
was no sensation of cold. Marat closed his eyes and lay down.
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The moaning changed to a scream. Muran Ji cursed. He walked away from the fire
and his brothers let him go. At the edge of the circle of tents he stopped and stared out
across the Steppe. Purples and golds at the horizon told him the sun had returned. Two
nights and a day, and still the child had not come.
Muran Ji started towards the horses, thinking a ride might clear his head. At least it
would take him away from the screams. He stood for a long time beside his horse, let the
His youngest brother, Kos, brought fermented goat’s milk. Muran Ji took the bowl
and drank. The sun climbed above the trees and he felt it warm his face. He returned to
his tent.
Li San’s screams had settled into a rhythm of whooping sighs. The tent flaps parted
“The child is coming,” she said and withdrew. There was no joy in her eyes.
Muran Ji pulled his shirt over his head, drew his sword.
In the clearing beside his tent, Muran Ji cut and turned, thrust and leapt. He worked
the blade until sweat blinded him, until his arms trembled and refused to obey. He fell to
A shadow. Muran Ji looked up. The midwife held a fur-wrapped bundle close to
The midwife held out the bundle. At Muran Ji’s touch, a faint cough emerged from
Muran Ji turned back the furs and lifted his son. The boy’s skin was blue as the
sky. Muran Ji pressed his ear against the baby’s chest. He heard the faint flutter of a
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Bartholomew Hoad felt his knee touch the edge of the bed and he brought the
dagger down, hard. He heard a muffled grunt as his wrist jarred. Hoad stabbed again and
again until the only sound was his own ragged breathing. He backed away, felt for the
door handle.
In the passageway he worked tinder to a flame and set it to the wick of a candle.
His fingers glistened, wet and red. He went back into Greely’s chamber and looked upon
his work.
Jacob Greely stared at the ceiling with startled hare’s eyes. His nightshirt was
shredded, soaked in blood. Hoad set the candle on the bedside table and slid his hand
into the mess. He felt the key, clasped it and jerked. Greely’s head flopped forward and
back, banged against the headboard, but the tarred sailor’s twine didn’t break. Hoad cut
the twine then wiped the key and his hands on the sheets. He limped out of the room.
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Chain shot from a Royal Navy barque had torn a piece the size of his fist from the
back of Bartholomew Hoad’s leg. Greely hadn’t even paid him a bonus. The old bastard
had grown rich on treason. He told Hoad how much worse it would be to betray his purse
than his King. He sold English muskets to the Frenchies, never gave a damn about what
Buonaparte would do with them. Well, now he’d learned his last lesson in betrayal.
Hoad slid the key into the lock and turned it. He pushed open the door and entered
the only room in Greely’s house he’d never been in. He held the candle high and his
breath caught in his throat. A single table and chair in the center, most of the floor
covered with draw-string bags. He reached for the nearest one, hefted it and smiled.
Hoad dropped the bag on the table, fumbled a moment with the string then slit it open
Sovereigns. Greely had always made them pay in good, English coin. Hoad looked
around again, saw candle-light reflect from a row of bottles on a shelf beside the boarded
window. He hobbled across the room and turned one of the bottles till he could read the
markings. French. But there was a word that Hoad recognized. Armagnac. Fit for the
Corsican, himself. Hoad tugged the cork free and limped back to the table.
He brought the bottle to his lips then hesitated. Greely’s a cunning old bastard…
Hoad shook his head and laughed. If he was that smart, he wouldn’t be burning in
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hope. They would be T34s. The Russians had been winning the race for weeks.
“Herr OberLeutnant?”
FeldWebel Eckert’s voice had a high-pitched edge. Fischer held up his hand and
needed orders. He had nothing else. Fischer looked down the length of what remained of
LisbetsHof, leveled much of Fischer’s home town, burned most of the rest.
Killed Elsa.
“One squad at the crossroad, one in the church. Anti-tank at the head of the street.
Make sure they have a clear field of fire.” As if it matters. They had only three
Fischer returned Eckert’s straight-armed salute then nodded towards his still-
Private Anatoly Rasnyetchov slid on his belly through the broken remnants of a
cemetery. The long barrel of his rifle bumped against a fallen gravestone, hidden by
overgrown grass. Rasnyetchov cursed under his breath. It didn’t take much of a knock to
A mortar shell screamed as it fell, exploded against the low, stone wall of the
graveyard. Rasnyetchov buried his face in the grass until the rain of debris ceased. His
undershirt was sweat-plastered to his back. It made no difference which side fired the
The door to the church tower hung at an angle across the outside wall, held there by
a single, twisted hinge. Rasnyetchov pressed close to the stonework and listened. The
T34s were closer now, the crump of mortar bombs almost continuous. The tearing-hemp
voice of a Schmeiser; but distant. He could hear nothing from inside the tower.
Rasnyetchov pulled the pin from a grenade and tossed it through the doorway. Better to
be sure.
A moment after the explosion, Rasnyetchov was inside. The long barrel of his rifle
moved from side to side, seeking. The place was empty. Breath hissed out through his
clenched teeth. He clambered over a fallen beam and moved towards the spiral of stone
Most of the ground floor of Fischer’s home was fire-gutted, barely recognizable.
The staircase took his weight and he made his way to his study, overlooking
AegiideStrasse. Smoke had blackened the walls and ceiling. His desk was littered with
dust and broken glass and the pictures that had stood on its polished oak surface were
torn, scattered about the floor. Looters had taken the silver frames. German looters.
FeldWebel Eckert stood in the center of the street. The left sleeve of his jacket
hung in bloody tatters. He was struggling with his right arm to aim his rifle at an unseen
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target near the crossroads. A machine gun chattered and the ground at Eckert’s feet split
OberLeutnant Fischer turned away from the window. His fingers found the leather
holster clip and unfastened it. He checked, from habit. Four rounds. Fischer slid the
muzzle of the Pistole-08 into his mouth, felt it press cold and hard against his palate.
Rasnyetchov rested his rifle on the rubble littering the window ledge. Fifty meters
up the street, a German soldier emerged from a doorway. The man was badly wounded,
staggering. He dragged his Mauser by the barrel, trailing the butt on the ground behind
him. The German stopped in the center of the street, tried to bring the rifle to his
A burst of machine gun fire and the German fell. Rasnyetchov lifted his head, not
really disappointed. Movement at a window, overlooking the street. He shifted his aim,
higher and to the right. A gray uniform at a first floor window. Rasnyetchov smiled. An
officer.
The bullet from the Pistole-08 collided with the Russian sniper’s bullet, inside
Fischer’s head.
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Harry Lassiter stepped down from the tour bus, turned and offered his hand to Lisa.
Not that she needs help. Lisa Martin was built like an athlete. She took his hand, though.
The tour guide, dressed in obligatory khaki pants and shirt and wrap-around
Polaroids, spoke to them for a while. Something to do with the history of the glacier.
Harry spent most of the time watching Lisa. The only part that got his attention was when
Cool. I’ll walk behind Lisa and stare at that beautiful butt…
“And we’ll be crossing the Cook River. It’s pretty spectacular,” the guide finished
The bridge took Harry by surprise. A single-span, rope suspension bridge, a long
way above the water. No one had stepped on it yet and already it was swaying in the
wind.
“Sure,” said Harry, “I’m fine. I just don’t have a good head for heights.”
But it was more than that. The doctors called it a mild form of epilepsy and it had
dogged Harry all through his life. Stress triggered it. His heart would race, he would
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break out in a sweat, he saw double. Harry was a good sportsman, probably should have
played college football but pressure situations got to him. He’d never made the team.
The tour guide made a joke about not losing anyone so far, and everybody laughed.
Harry felt dampness on his forehead and dragged the back of his sleeve across it, hoping
Lisa wouldn’t notice. The guide started across the bridge and people single-filed after
“I’ll be right behind you,” Lisa said. She was looking at him kind of funny.
Damn!
The plank walk-way was wide enough so you couldn’t reach both sides. Harry
hooked a thumb through the strap of his pack and slid his other hand along the rope. The
bridge swayed a lot with so many people on it. Harry felt a sweat drop hang from the tip
of his nose. He let go the rope to wipe it away. The Australian woman in front of him
Harry’s ankle snagged on a tie rope and he fell head-down. He saw milky-blue,
Harry’s ankle snagged on a tie rope and he fell head-down. Milky-blue glacial
Harry’s ankle snagged on a tie rope and he fell head-down. Milky-blue glacial
Harry’s ankle snagged on a tie rope and he fell head-down. Milky-blue glacial
Police announced today that the search for Canadian tourist Harold Albert Lassiter has
found no trace of the missing man. Mr. Lassiter, 27, from Toronto, fell from a suspension
bridge over the Cook River five days ago. He was a member of a guided tour group
visiting the Fox Glacier. Witnesses said that Mr. Lassiter lost his footing on the rope and
board walkway. Despite an intensive search involving emergency services volunteers and
police divers, Mr. Lassiter’s body has not been recovered. A scaled back search will
continue.
Marat stooped and caught the deer by the hooves. He heaved, and a hammer blow
The hurt grew worse. Marat pulled at his furs and bared his chest. Ice cracked
beneath him and he felt himself sinking. His feet found the bottom of the creek but there
was no sensation of cold. Marat closed his eyes and lay down.
END