The Rigel Chronicles, part 3

Guaranteed Black Friday free post!

Happy Thanksgiving to my American readers. I’m sharing another piece of flash fiction for you to enjoy in your post-turkey stupor.

I’m about ready to tackle my third novel, The Letter, again after a much-needed break. I was explaining to my friend, Rob, while walking across the Blackdowns last Sunday, how writing a novel was hard work. It’s such a huge task that it takes a lot of energy and concentration to do it properly (at least as properly as I am currently capable).

I find that in life overall, many people can do superficial work and gain a superficial understanding, but to do deep, thorough and meaningful work is a rare thing. Anyone who does leave the shallow puddle and wade into deeper waters is taking a risk. But the rewards are greater too: I’m not talking financial rewards, just the satisfaction of doing things well.

A.I. can’t give you that. Nor can binge-watching Netflix’s latest low-brow content, designed for people ‘double-screening.’

What do you do that takes full concentration and challenges you? Does it leave you satisfied, fulfilled and wanting to do more? I hope so.

Following on from part 2, Ricardo, the captain of the duke’s lancer squadron, has been captured by the rebels. He sees them eating horse meat…

Ricardo spun around to look in the direction the woman was pointing, but he couldn’t see anything past the fires.

‘How do I know that’s true?’ He knew there was no reason for the woman to lie, but frustration was driving his actions. He’d been outfought, outmanoeuvred and was now outnumbered: there was no point lashing out because he would be struck down in seconds.

The woman held out her hands in a conciliatory gesture. ‘I’ll take you to see her, Captain.’ She nodded at the guards who stepped closer to Ricardo. ‘You can go back to your meal, Orryn,’ she added. ‘And Halline.’

Orryn nodded and disappeared into the shadows.

Ricardo blinked. The woman was softly spoken, but men were responding to her gestures and commands without hesitation. There appeared to be absolute dedication amongst the rebels.

The woman held out her right hand. ‘I am Nasyra.’

Ricardo looked at the long muscles in her forearm: a bowman’s arm. ‘I’m not shaking hands with a traitor.’

‘Still on ceremony, Captain?’ Nasyra lowered her hand. ‘Fair enough, but there’s no one to parade past here.’ She gestured around the camp. ‘Fancy plumes and gold braids are all just target practice for us.’

Ricardo winced. It was as if she had read his mind or knew about the parades. She might have been the one shooting arrows that killed his first horse.

‘Come.’ Nasyra strode out of the firelight.

A shove on his elbows from the guards pushed Ricardo forward. He heard the horses before his eyes could adjust to the night. The moons were yet to rise; only starlight allowed him to see the picket fence at the southern edge of the camp.

‘One, two, three…’ Ricardo counted thirteen horses: two were missing. He saw Asphila’s silhouette, the tallest of all the horses, and bent down to pluck a tuft of grass. He held the grass in his palm. ‘Good girl, have they harmed you?’

Asphila pulled back her lips, her white and yellow teeth visible, and chomped the grass in Ricardo’s hand.

Nasyra patted Asphila’s shoulder. ‘I told you, Captain, we’re not savages. The two horses we butchered were lame and in distress. It would have been cruel to let them live, and we cannot afford to let good meat go to waste. Our people are hungry.’

‘Waste?’ Ricardo snapped. ‘They were only lame because you shot them and speared them!’ Asphila reared back at Ricardo’s change of tone.

‘There, there.’ Ricardo reached up and patted Asphila’s neck. ‘I’m not cross with you, girl.’ He looked around his horse but could not see any guards posted behind her. Maybe the rebels were complacent now that his squadron was defeated. He didn’t know where the rest of his regiment was, but he expected they were pursuing other bands. Rescue was unlikely, and there was no point trying to escape this far from water.

‘She needs water,’ he said.

The only source of water big enough for all the horses was west, at the foothills where the melted snow flowed down from the mountains. More people would be there, forced to migrate away from their homes and failed crops.

Ricardo picked up another tuft of grass: this one was slightly damp with dew. Asphila snickered with pleasure at the moisture in her mouth. ‘I’ll get you out of here, girl,’ Ricardo whispered.