DEVEN
A bang in the distance wakes me. I go from lying propped against the tree trunk to standing in half a breath. Daylight rests upon the woodland, severing my drowsiness.
I groan. “We overslept.”
Natesa opens her eyes from her place curled up against Yatin. I nudge him in the boot, and he jolts, thumping his head against their log. Rohan rouses, shedding sleep like the blanket of leaves that kept him dry last night. Sunup stole into the forest, and the day marched us well into morning, far past our planned departure at dawn.
Yatin scrubs the sleep from his eyes, and Natesa shoves strands of her fallen hair up underneath her turban. Tightness stretches all my sore, stiff muscles. I peer through the misty woods. The fallen leaves are saturated to a deep crimson from the passing rain. No tent peaks mark the army’s camp. We were completely gone from this world not to have heard the army pack up and leave. I should have anticipated our exhaustion after our taxing days of travel.
“They’re on the move.” I brush dirt from my trousers and grab my sword. The others rise alongside me, wide awake.
We hustle to the outskirts of camp. The area around the nearest outpost barrack is deserted. I race across the trampled field, my friends right behind me. Up ahead, a group of soldiers and their team of horses pulling a catapult wagon were delayed. The back wheels of the wagon have sunk into the rain-soaked ground. A commander riding on horseback shouts at the four men to heave the catapult. They try to push the heavy artillery free, but it is mired deep.
The commander notices us from a distance, our scarlet jackets visible in the morning mists. “You there! Give us a hand!”
I run to the catapult and lean my shoulder into the board above a rear wheel. The rest of my group does the same. Mud loosens my footing. I hunker down for better leverage. On the commander’s order, we push and the horse team pulls. The catapult wagon rocks forward, on the brim of escaping the muck, and then rolls back to its stuck position.
Stepping back, I search the area for something to wedge under the wheels. The commander continues to count, and the men push, but to no avail. I return with branches and lay them in front of the nearest wheel. The next time the men shove and the horses rally, the wheel rocks up onto the branches. But the other rear wheel drags the weight back into the mud.
“We need more branches,” I say.
Natesa collects more with me. We return, our arms laden, and set them in front of the second rear wheel and resume our place behind the catapult wagon.
The commander, who has dismounted and joined the group of men pushing, leans into the back of the wagon and shouts, “Go!”
We rock one wheel up onto the dry branches. My footing slips. I switch places on the wagon, shouldering the weight of the lagging wheel, and we muscle it up onto the other branches.
“Forward!” the commander orders.
We impel the wagon onward until the burden of our load transfers to the horse team, and they plod along the trail. I bend over to collect my breath. Yatin pats me on the shoulder, his own rapid breathing loud. Rohan fastens his attention to the other soldiers, and Natesa lowers her chin and tugs at her turban.
Light rain lays a thin vapor over the forestland. We trek on, and the commander mounts his horse and paces us. I am certain I do not recognize him. He was not in the military encampment in the sultanate. But Yatin and I have served with many soldiers, and he could identify either of us. Or even Natesa if he frequented the rajah’s courtesans’ wing.
In short order, we unite with a lumbering ammunition wagon, and our horse team slows to a plodding walk in the long line of wagons and soldiers.
The commander rides up to my side. I pretend the rain bothers my eyes and fixate on the muddy ridges on the ground. “Where did you and your men hail from?” he says.