Never A Choice

Never a Choice Somewhere on the other side of the hill, an army waited for Lorn and his small company of rebels. “They‟re making too much noise.” Lorn looked to his left, at Fiora, his second-in-command. She stared back grimly. “Explain.” “They want us to know where they are so the attack to our flanks and rear will be masked.” She turned and spat into the dirt. “I suppose that‟s a fair tactic. It‟s what I might have done if the tables were turned.” Fiora chuckled. “No, you wouldn‟t have. You would have come over the hill while we were talking and destroyed us before we had time to think. You would have sacrificed the full third of your force it would take to quell a rebellion such as ours and you would have done it gladly.” “That,” Lorn said, “is very unfair. I would not have done it gladly.” “But you would have done it.” Lorn didn‟t bother to answer. Instead, he went back to studying the terrain between the army on the other side of the hill and his own force. The hill was sparsely decorated with wild grass and a few leafless shrubs. There was little water in the Summerland wastes—what they found themselves in might have been called an oasis in any other desert. Sunlight thrice supplied baked the ground and Lorn watched with some amusement as loose, dried leaves smoldered and caught fire occasionally. He smiled because he and the fifty men and twenty women behind him were defending this land. It‟s a good thing no one bothered to ask him why. He really had no idea. A rider crested the hill and made his way casually toward them. Fiora hissed and had knocked an arrow to her steel shortbow before Lorn could wave her to hold. The rider wore the blue and gold of the Kan Empire. It was hard to tell if the rider was male or female but Lorn would bet on the rider being a man. Kan usually held their women in a sort of contempt and would never allow them the responsibility of parley. However, beneath the gleaming steel breastplate of the rider‟s armor, the long silk cloak whipping in the wind, and the closed helm, it wouldn‟t have surprised Lorn to find the Kan had sent a woman to die. No rider who crested that hill would be expected to return. “What do you make of this, Fiora?” The woman blew her bangs out of her eyes. “I think another distraction.” Lorn turned to look behind him. He looked among the younger men standing at attention near the middle of his force. There were three who wore no armor at all; they wore only thin soled sandals and straps to keep them decently covered. The garb allowed them full range of movement. Fleets, they were called. Lorn whistled once—a sharp, high-pitched tone—and one of the men came forward. “Yes, my lord?”

“What is your name?” “Mikle, sir.” “Mine is Lorn. Do not call me „lord‟ again, understand?” Mikle hesitated but finally replied, “Yes, Lorn.” Then: “You have need of me?” “I do. I want you to intercept that rider coming toward us. I‟d like you to ask him why he‟s come and report the answer back to me. Understand?” Mikle nodded and took off at what Lorn knew was only half-speed. Still, he was at the rider in less time than it took Lorn to focus on the pair. The Fleet had crossed two-hundred measures in the time it would have taken Lorn to cross a tenth of that. The rider spoke to the youth who nodded once and came back to where Lorn and his rebels waited. Lorn was able this time to watch and appreciate the Fleet‟s gift. It was like watching an animal run for pleasure and indeed, the boy was smiling when he stopped in front of Lorn; he wasn‟t out of breath. Lorn asked, “What does he want?” Mikle hesitated for only a moment, seemingly unsure how to word the rider‟s message properly. When he did speak, it was with the slightest suggestion that he would prefer it if Lorn did not hit him. By the time he had finished, Lorn was sorely tempted to do just that. Lorn thought a long time after hearing the boy‟s message. He wasn‟t sure how to reply. If he said no, he would retain the respect of his small army and they wouldn‟t have thrown away all they had worked toward. There would be a battle and Lorn‟s rebels would lose. Some of them would be taken as hostages for there was likely to be a larger force of rebels to be smoked out (only Lorn and Fiora knew that not to be the case). All of the women would be killed as a matter of course. No Kan would want the temptation of bedding an insurgent lest her rebellious nature infect him. If Lorn said yes, every one of his men would live. He wished he knew another way. He gave his answer to the Fleet and the boy, after pausing for just a moment to share a sad moment with his commander, ran back to the rider. The rider immediately pulled his horse up to reign and galloped over the hill. The Fleet ran back to his place in Lorn‟s force, markedly refusing to speak to those around him. He simply stared at Lorn, waiting for what was to come. Silence stretched out and Lorn had time to doubt himself. He had brought this force with him, the last remnants of a rebellion begun before his time, because he thought he could accomplish something. He was arrogant to think that such a small force would stand against the Kan Empire. It wasn‟t arrogance that made him believe in his soldiers. He knew their strength as well as their weaknesses. He would not have ridden forth if not for the certainty that he led a capable and able-bodied force to war. But it was arrogance that let him think there would be no sacrifice along the way. No martyrs. Turning to Fiora, his wife and second in every way, he said, “You know I had no choice.” Fiora did not turn but nodded her head once.

Lorn stood and started walking up the hill. Fiora had been wrong when he said he could make sacrifices gladly. He was not glad to be doing so now. The Kan had given him a choice but Lorn laughed. Really, he had never had a choice at all.