Hoisting him on one shoulder, Macurdy took him back inside and dumped him heavily beside Ardonor. Then he kicked Belver in the ribs, hard, and Ardonor again, before looking around. The naked Maira was trying desperately to waken Zassfel, who wasn’t responding. Macurdy ignored them and headed for Kosek’s bed. Kosek wasn’t in it; he’d rolled off in his sleep. Macurdy knelt astraddle of him, held his head down by the hair, and began clubbing his face with a fist, shouting hoarsely now through broken teeth as he hit him. “When you”—sock, sock—“beat on someone”—sock, sock—“like this”—sock, sock—“you can’t get good leverage”—sock, sock—“so you’ve got to use technique.” When he stopped, Kosek’s eyes were glazed, his face a bloody smear.
By that time a dozen or more men were sitting up or standing, watching. Zassfel was on his feet now, Maira crouching behind him. Macurdy took Kosek’s ankles and dragged him toward Ardonor and Belver, pausing however near Zassfel. “Sergeant,” Macurdy said, “are you ready to fight again?”
Zassfel already looked pretty well beaten up. “I had enough last night,” he answered hoarsely. “Enough to know you’re ready for promotion to corporal.”
You’re not talking too well this morning either, Macurdy thought, and moved in on him. “You told those piles of shit to beat me up. Are you ready to get down on your knees and beg forgiveness?”
Zassfel looked around wildly. “Kill the slave son of a bitch!” he yelled. “That’s an order!”
No one moved except Macurdy. He slammed Zassfel right on his swollen, already broken nose, and again the blood flowed. The sergeant fell backward over the crouching Maira, to lie unmoving, tears flowing from the pain. Macurdy kicked him in the ribs then, hard enough to feel them give, leaving the man openmouthed and gasping. That done, he dragged Zassfel and Kosek, one after the other, to where he’d left the first two. There was another around somewhere, but he wasn’t sure who. Dieser, probably, but he’d let it go at that.
Instead he went to his bed, buckled on his belt with its Hero-issue saber and Arbel’s gift knife, and stuffed his few other personal possessions in his saddle bags. Then he rolled his blanket, slung his bow and quiver, grabbed his spear, and stalked from the building. All eyes followed him, but no one said anything or moved to interfere.
Melody had watched from the road as Macurdy had beaten up Belver, and from the door as he’d beaten Kosek and Zassfel. Now, as he came out, she stared half in awe, half in concern. “Come on,” she said, “you’ve got to get away from here,” and tugging on his sleeve, pulled him toward 2nd Platoon’s stable. Melody, I know that much, he thought. I’m not totally out of my skull.
“Hurry,” she said. “Saddle up and wait inside. I’ll be right back.” Then she left running.
Macurdy was cinching down the girth on his horse, when someone came into the stable. His head snapped around. It was Jeremid, also carrying his personal gear. The man said nothing, just grabbed a saddle blanket and began to saddle a horse.
“Saddle two, if you’re coming with me,” Macurdy said. Jeremid said nothing, working quickly. When each had a mount and spare ready, Macurdy stopped Jeremid inside the door. “We wait here.”
“What for?”
“Melody.”
Mouth open, Jeremid stared at him. The longhouse was still quiet, but there had to be activity inside. Presumably, Macurdy thought, no one had seen where he’d gone, but if any of them were thinking at all this morning, they’d surely guess. His heartbeats counted down two long minutes before he saw Melody riding toward them, a remount tethered behind. Seeing him, she beckoned. “Now,” he said, and leading his mount out the door, swung into the saddle.
Like the two men, Melody had her spear in its saddle boot. Together in the growing light, the three of them trotted their horses eastward out of town, Macurdy’s ribs, swollen face, sore haunches feeling every jar. He took the lead, setting the direction, though he knew nothing of the road eastward beyond the first hours’ ride.
Eastward. If the others wondered why, they didn’t ask.