Emil Västerström had been a hired grenadier for longer than he wished to remember, but never had he run into such a dilemma as this.
Normally, a hired gun had colleagues rather than friends, since today’s ally could be tomorrow’s enemy, but Lalli had always been different. Ostensibly, they couldn’t have been more different: an explosives man and a knife fighter; a hothead and a cool customer. The similes and analogies went on and on, but somehow… none of it had mattered, nor did it matter now.
Thus was born Emil’s dilemma: Emil and Lalli were friends; Emil could no more kill Lalli than he could have killed himself. But Emil had pledged his honor to wipe out the farmstead; while others might turn craven or coldly renege on their commitments, to do either was as impossible for Emil… as it would be for him to kill Lalli.
If it were anyone else, Emil could call a quick truce, meet them in no man’s land, shake hands, go back to his side, and fulfill his commitment.
What could he do?
*
Lalli was torn in a way he’d never been before. Tuuri (and, by extension, Reynir) was family; there was no way he could let her and hers die.
Equally, there was no way Lalli could ever kill Emil.
Lalli had had to kill acquaintances before, of course; it was a hazard of his profession, and had been handled in a “nothing-personal-just-doing-my-job” way by both parties.
There was no way Lalli could ever kill Emil. Even the thought of having to mercy kill Emil twisted Lalli’s guts.
What could he do?
*
The siege let up at dawn; according to Tuuri and Reynir, it always did. Lalli’s stomach roiled regardless, for he knew that sunset would bring the moment of truth.
As soon as he decently could after breakfast, Lalli slipped away to the room he’d been given, eschewing the narrow bed for the floor beneath it, as was his wont. His lips twitched in an embryonic smile as he recalled all the times he’d slept beneath Emil’s bunk; Emil had a soft, buzzing snore that actually settled Lalli’s nerves, rather than jangling on them as most snores did.
Perhaps in a better world, Lalli and Emil and Tuuri and even Reynir could have gone gallivanting off on caper after caper; but they had to live in this world, not any other.
*
The doc who’d patched up Emil’s boss had sent an unpleasant tingle down Emil’s spine; Emil’s parents would have said, “Someone just walked over your grave”. Perhaps that “someone” had been Lalli.
Lalli. Emil still couldn’t figure a way out of his dilemma: his current boss wasn’t the kind to let any of his men walk away from a job, even if Emil could bring himself to ask to be released.
Back in his hotel room, Emil absently played with a few matches, hoping the little flames would send him to sleep. Not being a complete fool, his colleagues’ opinion of him notwithstanding, Emil held the lit matches out over a tin basin half filled with water, so that when he dropped the burnt-down match, it was harmlessly extinguished. Eventually, Emil’s eyes closed.
*
Emil coughed and coughed as he watched the hotel burn. Everyone was telling him how lucky he was to have escaped the conflagration, but Emil paid them no heed; his attention was caught by what he saw in the flames.
Emil could swear he saw a man standing in the middle of the inferno, laughing…
