Bili groaned. “Pawl . . . somebody, Sun and Wind, get an archer or dartman up here! We can’t just allow the poor bastard to die like that.”
A number of Freefighters drew, hefted, then threw their dirks, but the blades all fell short. Only three feet from the officer, a section of the timber puffed a great blob of smoke, then small, bluish flames began to crackle over its surface.
Geros could never until his dying day explain his actions then. He had always harbored an intense fear of fire. Yet suddenly he found himself ripping at the laces of his armor, doffing both it and his helm, pushing resolutely through the men at the lip of the crater, and cautiously beginning to pick his way down the treacherous slope of almost fluid earth, loose stones and jagged pieces of lumber.
He heard the surprised shouts of his comrades, almost drowned by Raikuh’s roared command, “Damn your wormy guts, Geros! Come back here!”
Geros had never felt such heat. Above it came in waves, but here it was a solid wall which engulfed from all sides, searing exposed flesh and setting even his sweat-soaked gam-beson to smoldering. The oven atmosphere tortured both throat and lungs, so he breathed as shallowly as he could.
Through the wavering heat and rolling smoke, he saw his objective and gingerly made his way toward it, for all that the thick soles of his jackboots seemed hot as live coals, and beneath the leather and steel protecting his shins and knees, he felt his legs roasting.
Then the officer was within arm’s reach. Smiling! The teeth startingly white in that mask of dirt, blood and blisters.
“You . . . brave man . . . Freefighter,” the officer gasped. “Wish . . . could’ve known you. Give . . . your dirk now. Get out … here! Here . . . wait.” He fumbled a large signet from off his left thumb. “Take … my father. Ahrkeethoheeks Lehzlee . . . will reward you. Tell him . . . died in honor.”
“And that man,” remarked Bili to no one in particular, “was worrying a few hours agone that he’d pissed his breeks a few times in combat.”
“If I can raise the timber a little, my lord, can you pull yourself from beneath it?” Geros shouted above the roar of the flames and the crash and rumble of the still-settling stones and timbers.
“You . . . mad . . . man!” moaned the officer. “Dozen men . . . more . . . couldn’t. Give your dirk. Go back!”
To those above, it was like some fanciful tale of olden days when all men were as gods, when all men could work miracles and all nature served mankind unstintingly. They saw, through the heat waves, the sergeant burrow in the soft, steaming earth beneath the short end of the massive timber, get his hands beneath it and slowly, straining with legs, back and shoulders, heave at it. And it rose!
Not far, true, but rise it did. And scrabbling for leverage, the officer hastily worked himself from the hollow which his body and legs had imprinted in the torrid earth.
There was no dearth of willing hands to assist the injured officer and the thoroughly singed and utterly exhausted Geros •back up the side of the crater. Men bore the officer down to where the other wounded waited. But they only stood staring at Geros where he lay, wheezing and gasping on the ground. Finally, Pawl Raikuh pushed through and put a canteen in those torn, burned hands, but not even he could find words to speak. And what shone from his eyes was less admiration than awe.
EPILOGUE
Geros could have wished a return to the old days, when he was simply a color sergeant and apprentice weapons master. He found the business of being a hero most uncomfortable. By their very nature, Freefighters were an unruly, disrespectful and basically irreverent lot. Except in combat, they would argue with noncoms, officers, captains, and any grade of nobility, deferring only to those few who had earned respect.
At first shocked to the very core of his proper being by such blatantly improper conduct, Geros had, over the months, come to enjoy and appreciate his comrades’ rude behavior and even-on rare occasions-to copy it.