A Dead Man's War

Chapter One

In his eyes, I saw the face of every man I had ever killed. His smile was tight and compact like the graves of all the soldiers I had buried. In the pepper gray hair, I saw the smoking villages and the mud form the trenches. His voice was the clash of sabers and the gurgle of blood from a slit throat, and yet, when he finished his speech, the entire ballroom applauded.

To any civilian, it was clear that I accepted the medal with utmost decorum and the deadpan intensity befitting any well-trained soldier. But, as I puffed out my chest and ignored the pinprick of the medal, I actually stood shaking in my boots.

It wasn't terribly courageous, but contrary to the songs and stories they tell about me, I will be the first to admit: I am not a brave man. I am merely the last one standing.

To meet the general was to meet a god. Even as he thanked me, I waited in horror at the sound of his voice. I waited for the thunder of it to strike me back to the front lines. I waited for the fire of it to burn my lungs like the gas of the trench. I waited for the voice that had commanded two of my closest friends – brothers, even – to their deaths.

That voice did not come out of General Marris' mouth. Instead, I was asked to kindly enjoy the ball that the king was hosting in my honor. I, the well-trained soldier, saluted the general before turning and bowing deeply to the king.

As I walked away, I felt the world roll off of my shoulders for a moment. It was a relief to be hidden in the curtains that held back the hall of admirers and noise. For a moment, I was allowed to breathe. But then the door closed behind me and I was wrapped in the darkness. With the darkness came the terrors, and I felt a sweat break out under my collar. In the darkness, I was back in the trenches. I was burying my friends. I was on the front lines, staring down the wrong end of a bayonet.

I scrambled to find the door, and only breathed easily when the light struck a line of gold across the dark curtained room. I stared at the fraction of light for a moment and tried to find the peace in the sudden color, but with the light came the noise. It amazed me still that laughter could sound so much like screaming.

"Gallagher, I'm here."

To some, the voice in the dark would have only frightened them more, but to me, it offered the brightest relief and a kind of numbness to the noise.

"Anson," I responded, and my voice was surprisingly sure. A warm hand grasped my elbow and pulled me toward the light.

"Come now," Anson chided. "Out of the dark."

With that prompting, Anson and I stepped into the hallway, which was as crowded as I thought it might be, despite the fact that the General had only just finished his speech. I glanced back at my friend for reassurance, and he smiled at me; not the way he used to, when there were six of us instead of just two, but he did smile, a small, tight, gray kind of smile. He was ever the lion in the wake of disaster.

" Gervas! Colonel!" Sweet, birdlike voices reverberated around me, and I could see the dainty lace gloves and brightly colored ball gowns of the women around me. Men, too, looked at me enthusiastically. Some saluted, even though they weren't soldiers. They didn't know what it meant to so casually throw that symbol up across their foreheads. They didn't know the names of the seventeen different men and women who died in my arms, smiling, and throwing the same salute over their bloodied foreheads.

I did not salute them back. I stared at the floor just ahead of my feet and rested my palm on the hilt of my sword, tasting a sour bitterness crawl up the back of my throat. Anson still gripped my elbow, and he led me along as I tried to concentrate on not storming back and slapping the soldiers' salute off of their smug little faces.