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Scene #99
It was an omen, the soldiers said. A violent thunderstorm the night
before a battle always brought victory to the British Army.
Captain Nicholas Torrington had little use for omens. Battles
were won by fighting. Today, the gory red sun glared through smoke
and dust to blind the enemy, and the roar of cannon deafened them
to the oncoming thunder of a thousand hoofbeats. The dragoons
galloping up the slope toward the French were riding into glory.
Nick raced hell-for-leather at the head of his squadron, blood
pounding in his veins like drums as they veered toward the fleeing
enemy to cut them off. Frantic French infantry rushed to form a
square. Their muskets rose in unison. They fired. With a
scream, Colonel Le Marchant lurched and pitched from his saddle. In
the flash of glances, Nick caught what was in the colonel's eyes.
Death. He shoved down his rising bile and raced on. The colonel
would have demanded it of him, as he did of himself. A ball
caught Nick in the hip, searing through him like tearing fire. The
saddle disappeared from beneath him. Even before he screamed,
another shot slammed into his skull. Brilliant light sheared
through his head . He floated in ,the air with the thick dust that
hung above its Mother Earth, his last thoughts oozing away like
blood. The Hero's Hero. . . The Drunken Poet-Warrior. . . Fitting
way to die. His father would be proud at last. . .
* * *
He
hears the round shot singing, feels it whistling by him, In the
rush of battle as the horses charge the square. Flash of steel
is gleaming. Guns spew forth their grapeshot. Screams of men
and horses rip the wind and split the air. On Azan's burning
slopes. . . God, no. He'd composed better verse roaring drunk,
in the officer's mess when they celebrated a battle by getting as
sotted as the ranks. He was good at it, they said. Composing verse.
He never remembered, though. He could only do it when he was dead
drunk. Now he was only dead. Ought to be a relationship there. Dead
drunk. . . Dead. . . What rhymes with slopes? Copes? Hopes?
Mopes? God, all poets should be consigned to Hell for the pain they
wreak on their victims. Which was probably where he wasB in Hell.
He had no form, no substance. Except dead men didn't write rhymes.
Or maybe only really bad ones. He sure couldn't be in Heaven. God
and all His angels knew no saint would tolerate his company. He
lingered in the nothingness above the battlefield, yet, no, he
wasn't floating. He lay on the ground, trapped in his body, a
prisoner waiting to be freed of pain, trouble, strife. Yet a
strangely comforting warmth washed around his neck and oozed into
his hair at the base of his scalp, the copper scent oddly like. . .
Blood. His own. Nick's eyes popped open. A ghoul stared
back at him. Not a manB its skin too gray, eyes pale as sheets.
Blood clung to the corners of its mouth beside great fangs tinged
pink from its feast. Nick was the feast. Bloody Hell. He really
was in Hell. The demon stiffened and blinked. "Oh. Terribly
sorry, old fellow. Thought you were dead." "What the devil?"
Nick tried to push himself up from the ground, but his arms, his
legs, seemed boneless. His senses gathered as he breathed dense,
acrid air. Moans of wounded and dying men and horses bombarded him
as they never had before. The ghoul dabbed a folded
handkerchief to his lips as his ashen flesh brightened to normal.
Red-rimmed white eyes brightened to gray and the fangs vanished
into a mouthful of straight, gleaming teeth. "Rankine!"
Lieutenant Harry Rankine of the 4th Dragoons! Nick willed his
hand to touch the prickling skin and oozing blood on his neck.
"What the devil is going on here?" Rankine winced as he dipped
his head. "Awfully sorry, really," he said. "Appallingly gauche of
me. I do try to stick to the dead, I assure you. Creates all sorts
of unwanted complications otherwise. And you did seem quite dead."
He licked his lips. "But now I think of it, you do taste rather
fresh." "Bloody hell! You were sucking out my blood!"
"Well, yes. Didn't think you'd miss it." Rage pumped through
Nick, but as he sat up, pain clanged in his head like the inside of
a bell. He clamped his head between his hands. Hell, wait a minute.
He'd been shotB his entire brain had exploded. He'd felt it. He
couldn't be alive, much less thinking. He forced himself to his
feet, and lightning pain stabbed through his hip, sending bile
rising in his throat. "Easy there, dear fellow," said Rankine.
"I'm going to kill you, Rankine." Rankine cocked his head.
His angelic smile curled up the corners of his mouth as he pointed
a finger at Nick. Lightning streaked through him. His muscles
froze. He could be stone, for all his futile efforts to move.
"Not bloody likely," said Rankine with a pleasant lilt.
"Actually if you'll give it some thought, you'll see I've done you
a bit of a favor. You would have been dead, you know. Merely a
slight miscalculation on my part. Happens now and then, although I
do my best to prevent it. Makes you my responsibility, sort of like
a son one didn't count on producing."
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