Free The Scar by Marina Dyachenko, Sergey Dyachenko Page B

bending over him; their faces were all surprised, and those of the younger guards were still frightened.
    “He’s alive,” Ol noted with relief.
    “How did this happen to him?” Lagan asked stolidly. “Egert, are you drunk, or what?”
    “When we set off for the night, he was sober,” Karver retorted. “Unless, while we were riding, he somehow managed to…”
    “While on duty?” asked Lagan good-naturedly.
    “Well, he doesn’t smell of drink,” growled Bonifor.
    Egert was quite embarrassed to be lying on his back and serving as an object of general interest; besides, the pavement stones, which had waited for their chance, were sticking into his back. Fidgeting, he raised himself up onto his elbow, and at the same time a few hands immediately helped him stand up.
    “What’s wrong with you?” Karver asked finally.
    Egert did not know what was wrong with him, but he had no plans to give the other guards a detailed account of what had happened.
    “I don’t remember,” he lied, trying to make his voice sound as hoarse as possible. “I remember we were riding. Then everything went dark, obscure, and then I was lying on the ground.”
    The other guards exchanged looks.
    “That’s not good,” said Lagan. “You should go see a doctor.”
    Egert did not answer. Suppressing a shiver, he reluctantly climbed back on his horse. The night patrol continued, but until the early morning hours, Egert kept catching inquisitive glances thrown at him by his comrades, as if they were waiting for him to fall from his horse again.
    *   *   *
     
    A few days later, the regiment went out on maneuvers.
    Their send-off was accompanied by all sorts of pomp: as was customary, the maneuvers were preceded by a parade. Almost the entire population of Kavarren gathered on the embankments; moreover, the heads of the esteemed families appeared with miniature banners of their Houses, and their drawn swords, held up like the batons of bandleaders, served as banner poles. The mayor was robed in a mantle embroidered with heraldic animals. Boys whose names had been entered into the roster of the regiment but who had not yet reached manhood were formed into a column and marched back and forth several times. A fifteen-year-old youth marched at the head of the column while a three-year-old lad in a little uniform with a wooden knife stuck in his belt brought up the hind end. The difference in the length of the strides of these future guards was obvious; the tiny lad was panting heavily, and he foundered a number of times, getting tangled in his baldric. However, he never cried; he was well aware of the honor he had been favored with today.
    Finally, the heroes of the day appeared. Led by their captain, the guards solemnly trotted along the street, each on his own sleek, well-groomed horse, and in the right hand of each was his sword, held up in salutation. Bold girls from the crowd jumped out toward the nearest horses, throwing crowns of violets onto the blades of the guards: each of these wreaths signified a girl’s tender, friendly feeling for a guard. The majority of these wreaths fell to the captain, as was proper, but Egert, who was looking pale and not very healthy this morning, also received many. Throwing flowers and flinging up their hats, the crowd spun around them; they accompanied the guards as if the regiment were going to war, even though each knew that after three days it would quietly return, whole and unharmed, to the town.
    The citizens remained to celebrate, but the guards passed through the city gates and set out on the high road toward the place where a military encampment had been prepared the week before.
    Spring was finally displaying its true glory. Egert sat in his saddle with his back hunched, not at all heartened by the delightful, sunny landscape that stretched out to the right and left of the road. He had spent the night before without sleep; well before midnight, he had been visited by the usual nightmare.