Aftermath (427 words)

The evening sky to the north was a grey pink, the low-hanging overcast lit by the fires that were consuming Copper Forge Town. The color reminded him of spilled brains, of which Copper Forge no doubt had an abundance tonight. There hadn't been enough men on the walls after the disastrous battle at Chisel Well, and the Orgok warriors had gotten inside the town. The Orgok were running through the streets right now, raping and pillaging, killing and burning. Of course he'd seen Imperial and Pretender troops do that as well, although their general tried, usually, to control them; but the Orgok also ate the dead when they could, and they regarded brains as a delicacy. He'd seen them do it.
But the Orgok and their screaming victims were in Copper Forge and he was in some tiny village he didn't know the name of, halfway up into the hills. He hoped he was beyond the range of the Usurper's patrols. Sleeping in the woods would be safer, but he was as tired as he could remember ever being. From Starcleft to Chiseled Well was a three day march but the Starcleft Regiment had done it in one. Twelves hours march, two hours sleep, twelve hours march, and then a handful of bread and a mouthful of wine as they'd maneuvered into line. And then they'd stood, exhausted but still steady enough to stand firm when the Usurper horse charged, and to throw back the barbarian archers who'd tried to skirmish against them. But then something had happened off to the right of their line--some said magic, some said treachery, but no one was in a position to really know--and then the lowland regiments had fallen back, and they'd been unsupported, and then suddenly the Usurper horse were back and it was every man for himself and devil take the hindmost. He'd cut down his pike to spear length, something that might be good enough to fend off a horseman but that he could still run with, which you couldn't do with a pike. He had his sword and a pair of pistols. But he'd eaten all his food during the night's march and the day's battle; and a bullet had punctured his wine bag. He'd never noticed that until someone had asked him about the blood; and it had been quite a shock when he'd looked down to see his whole thigh and boot drenched red, and quite a relief when he'd realized what had happened. It was a pity about the wine, though.