Shem watched the two men in what seemed to be an earnest and hushed argument, and wondered what he could do. Then it came to him—a clear image in his mind of what needed to happen—and his stomach lurched at the idea.
But before he could think his way out of it, before he could list all his arguments as to why he shouldn’t be doing it, he suddenly was.
He ran down the hallway faster than during the Strongest Soldier race. The two men—each holding their long knives, and one of them with his hand on the guest bedroom door—couldn’t comprehend what was rushing at them until it was right on top of them.
“You!” Lieutenant Heth whispered.
Corporal Zenos saw the glint of the blade rising up as he caught the man’s arm. Instantly he twisted Heth’s arm and shoved the knife into his throat before he could speak again. Zenos then spun, caught Lieutenant Xat’s thrusting knife, and forced it into his chest, silencing him.
In less than five seconds both men were on the floor, long knives protruding from their bodies, right outside of the High General and Mrs. Shin’s door.
Shem gasped and fell to his knees. “Dear Creator, what have I done?!”
His stomach churned violently as he stared at the still bodies. Only give them something to remember him by, right? That’s what the major told him. They could still be . . .
In the clammy dark, he looked closely at the lieutenants.
He scrambled to his feet and took off running down the hall and back to the main corridor. He ran blindly, trying to keep the need to retch down in his belly, but knowing it was going to come up. He turned down another hall, and then another, and burst through the door of the surgery wing. There he vomited all over the floor of the reception area.
The surgeon’s assistant on duty scowled. “We have buckets for that, Corporal!”
Shem crumpled to the floor terrified, exhausted, and still nauseated. The assistant brought over a bucket and dropped it with an annoyed thud next to Shem, then retrieved cleaning supplies from a closet. Shem was only vaguely aware of another man in bedclothes coming up to him as he emptied he stomach again in the bucket.
“Corporal Zenos, that doesn’t look pleasant,” the surgeon said in a slightly bored manner. “Let’s get you to a cot.”
Shem nodded weakly as he struggled to his feet, the surgeon helping to pull him up. With his free hand the surgeon picked up the bucket and led Shem to the large treatment room lined with thirty beds. None in the room dimly lit by a handful of lanterns were occupied tonight.
“Certainly hope this isn’t the beginnings of an outbreak,” the surgeon said as he lowered Shem on to a cot, and placed the bucket on the floor strategically by his head. “This room will be overflowing with all kinds of unpleasantness by morning if it’s the cook’s fault again” he murmured. “May need to find more buckets.”
Shem shook his head. “I ate in the village today,” was all he could mumble. He did eat dinner at the fort, but everything in his mouth tasted of rancid peaches, and he knew he’d never again be able to stomach peach pie. And he certainly couldn’t tell the fort surgeon he was ill because he just stabbed Guarders in disguise. Instead he flopped his arm over his eyes and tried to calm his stomach, but it wouldn’t calm.
He had just stabbed two Guarders in disguise!
He could still see their bodies, patches of blood growing around them on the floor that some still-rational brain part of his brain steered him to carefully avoid as he inspected them—
They might only be injured.
As the rush of his horribly successful moment dissolved in his body, terror replaced it. Someone would figure it out soon. It was only a matter of minutes, surely. The other guards would arrive and . . .
The thought made his stomach convulse again, but there was nothing left for the bucket. There were always the two guards stationed before the High General and Mrs. Shin’s guest room, and two additional guards making a wide sweep through the area. That Shem didn’t run into the other two guards as he dashed through the halls was extraordinary. But they’d be back in front of the guest quarters soon.
And then what happened—what he did—would be known. He thrashed wearily to his side, tears of regret slipping out of his eyes. This isn’t what he wanted to do.
Trained to do, yes.
But wanted? Never.
He always believed there were alternatives—no matter the person—that while blood may occasionally be shed, it didn’t have to be wasted. They’d told him that wouldn’t always be the case, that he had to be prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice of ending a life and living with that knowledge. He’d said that he would, but he was lying. But by then he’d already been trained to lie so well that he was sure everyone believed him when he made the vow.