“I’d agree with that. Well, if the princes have won the battle, we’ll find out soon enough.”
Gerran used this particular pause to change the positions of the escorts. He set five of them to ride rearguard, then called the rest up to ride just behind him. He sent Salamander and Clae back to ride in the middle of the line, the safest position, but kept Nicedd up to ride beside him.
“Some of the Horsekin might flee the battle and head south,” Gerran told his men. “Ride ready to fight.”
Along this particular stretch of road there was some chance of an ambush or attempt at one. Beyond the plowed fields of the last farm stood woodland, open and brushy from years of harvesting deadfall and the like, but providing some cover still. The terrain slowly rose, too, toward the northern hills just visible on the horizon. When his men unlaced their shields from the left side of their saddle peaks, Gerran tried to do the same. Reaching down made his shoulder ache, a throbbing pain that reached a little way down his back. Worse than the pain, he suddenly realized that something was gravely wrong with the wound. He’d been cut before in battle, but never before had a wound—and such a shallow one at that—felt as if it were spreading, increasing its severity with every day that passed. He got the shield free, but when he settled its weight on his left arm, the shoulder above stopped aching and flashed with honest pain. He felt the blood drain from his face, leaving it as cold as winter.
“My lord?” Nicedd. “You truly are hurt.”
“Ah, horseshit!” Gerran said. “I guess I am.”
“If we do see some stragglers, please, my lord, pull back and let the rest of us take care of them, like.”
“Depends on how many of them there are.” Yet Gerran felt his stomach turn over from the pain of straightening up again.
“Well and good, then,” Nicedd said cheerfully. “But if you get killed, who’s going to pay me my hire?”
At that Gerran could laugh, and Nicedd grinned at him.
In the event, no fleeing Horsekin came their way. They realized why when they at last reached the dun that had once been Lord Honelg’s. Made of dry stone patched randomly with mortar, the circular walls sat on top of a low artificial hill inside elaborate defenses. Ditches and earthworks wound around the hill and channeled would-be attackers into a narrow path to the gates. Apparently these defenses had served Gwerbret Ridvar’s fortguard well. At the base of the hill, blocking the road, lay an elaborate siege camp of tents guarded by another set of ditches and earthworks.
The tents, however, were burning when Gerran and his charges rode up. Greasy smoke plumed the air, and he could smell a horrible stink of burning cloth, hair, and flesh. The horses, particularly the cart horses, began to pull at their bits and dance in fear. Gerran halted the baggage train some hundreds of yards away from the smoldering flames. Salamander rode up to join him.
“The gates of the dun are open,” Salamander said, “but no one’s inside. I’d say the fortguard sallied when the battle went our way.”
“Here!” Nicedd snapped. “How can you know that?”
“Don’t ask,” Gerran said, grinning, “but take my word for it, he can.”
Nicedd again made the fist to ward off witchcraft.
“Where are the princes and the gwerbret?” Gerran asked Salamander.
“Around the other side of the hill.” Salamander rose in his stirrups to survey the smoldering camp in a more normal way. “Ah, here come some of our men now.”
Guiding nervous horses, Vantalaber and Calonderiel rode around the edge of the camp. Calonderiel hailed Gerran with a wave, then trotted his horse over with Vantalaber following.
“All the sport’s over, alas,” Cal said. “We killed most of them. Unfortunately, some squads broke through our line and headed north. Probably thirty men in all, as far as I could tell. They’d rallied around a banner with their wretched goddess’ bow and arrows on it. We tried to take it from them, but that’s when they bolted.”
“Is anyone following?” Gerran said.
“They’re not. Dar was worried that they might lead our men into a trap. There’s got to be a larger force off to the north somewhere.”
“What about their prisoners?” Salamander leaned forward in his saddle. “The ones they took for slaves, I mean.”
“We saved as many as we could.” Cal made a sour face. “When they realized they were beaten, they started killing the women.”
“What?” Salamander sat back, and he looked utterly stunned. “Alshandra worshipers, killing helpless women?”
Calonderiel shrugged. “All I know is what I saw.”
Salamander turned his horse out of line and trotted off, heading around the smoldering ruins.
“It was a cursed horrible thing to see, truly,” Calonderiel said. “No wonder he’s troubled. Here, Gerro, let’s get these wagons around to our camp. The chirurgeons need supplies.”
“We took losses?” Gerran said.
“The Deverry men did. None of them are Westfolk or our vassals. We’ve got wounded, though.”
Gerran turned the baggage train over to Calonderiel and went looking for Mirryn with Nicedd and Clae trailing after him. He found his foster brother eventually on the far side of the dun. Although the smoke hung thick in the air, some of the Red Wolf men were already setting up camp. Still in his mail, Mirryn was talking with Daumyr, who had a shallow cut down one side of his face. When Gerran started to dismount to join them, he briefly rested his left hand on his pommel. The pain in his shoulder flared up without warning, so badly that he swore aloud.
“You’re truly hurt,” Mirryn said. “And don’t tell me it’s just a bruise.”
“A bad bruise, then,” Gerran said. “Damo, what happened to you?”
“Just a scratch, my lord,” Daumyr said. “Close as I can tell, his blade bounced off the nasal of my helmet. Him being the Horsekin I was killing, I mean. The hairy bastards! Did you hear about the women?”
“I did, and it aches my heart.”
“Our captain here,” Daumyr went on with a grin Mirryn’s way, “distinguished himself on the field again. Prince Dar his very self commended him.”
“Oh, now here!” Mirryn stared at the ground. “It was but a small thing.”
“Oh, was it? I’ll want to hear about that tonight.” Gerran paused, looking around. “There’s Salamander. I need to have a word with him.”
Salamander had seen him. The gerthddyn waved, then waited for him to catch up.
“That woman you spoke of,” Gerran said, “did you find her?”
“I did, and alive, with her baby and daughters with her.” Salamander looked vastly relieved. “Mirryn saved her life, actually. One of the Horsekin was about to kill her, but Mirryn charged up behind him and cut his head half off his shoulders. Canna’s dress is dappled with his blood, as is the baby, in fact, a grim decoration for the pair of them. I’ve high-handedly promised her a place serving in your new dun. I hope you don’t mind.”
Gerran smiled, just because the gesture was so like Salamander. “Not in the least,” he said. “I’ll take her back to my wife when we return to the Red Wolf dun.”
“My humble thanks.” Salamander was studying his face. “Gerran, the shoulder’s bad, isn’t it? You could sit down somewhere.”
“Sitting only makes things worse, because then I’ll have to get up again.” Gerran tried swinging his arm, slowly and gingerly. Pain stopped him. “I wouldn’t mind some help taking this mail off, though. The weight of it’s beginning to vex me. The cursed bruise feels swollen or suchlike, and the mail rubs a bit.”
“A bit!” Salamander rolled his eyes heavenward. “Clae, get over here! Your lord needs you. Wait for me here, Gerro. I’m going to go to the Westfolk camp. I’ll wager my old friend Danalaurel’s brought mead with him, and a good long drink of that will do you good.”
With the mail off, and the mead drunk, the throbbing sensation receded, though again, it never entirely went away. Pain or no, Gerran still felt that he’d do
ne too little that day to justify his presence among men who’d fought two battles that he’d missed. When some of the servants asked for a guard to accompany them to a nearby coppice, just off to the west, to look for firewood, he took Nicedd along and went with them.
By then the sun hung low on the horizon, and the long shadows of the trees lay across the weed-choked field. Some distance to the north, mist rose from the river that once had watered fertile land, and that would again, no doubt, once the Mountain Folk took possession of the dun. The three menservants were chattering among themselves, and Gerran was thinking of very little, when Nicedd suddenly spoke.
“Hold!” he said. “There’s someone in those trees.”
Gerran shaded his eyes with his hand. “So there is.” He turned to the servants. “Wait here.”
Gerran drew his sword and stubbornly took the lead as he and Nicedd strode the remainder of the way across to the coppice. Their prey, such as he was, made no effort to escape but lay still among the second-growth saplings. At first Gerran thought he was dead, but when they approached him, the Horsekin sat up with a groan. Though he wore a mail hauberk, he lacked a falcata. He used his left hand to hold his right arm tight across his chest, because his right hand hung useless, covered with dried blood and, judging from the angles of his fingers, broken in more than one place.
“Disarmed with a good stroke, it looks like,” Nicedd said.
“It does,” Gerran said. “Nicedd, take a good look around. There might be another man hiding in here.” He turned back to the enemy. “As for you, get up!”
The Horsekin managed to rise to a kneel, swayed, and slumped back to sit on his heels. He used his good hand to pull off his helmet, revealing a brush of short dark hair, slick with sweat. Gerran knew enough about the Horsekin by then to realize that the length of his hair meant he was young, just barely a warrior, most like. The boy crouched, his gaze on Gerran’s drawn sword, his head tipped back, his eyes defiant, as he waited for the death stroke. The memory of the Horsekin warrior with the broken leg rose in Gerran’s mind and with it the old shame, like a taste of bile.
“Oh, horseshit and a pile of it!” Gerran lowered his sword. “You’re my prisoner.”
The Horsekin lad blinked, uncomprehending.
“Prisoner,” Gerran repeated. “Not kill you. Prisoner.”
“Ah! Slave.” Understanding dawned in his eyes. “Your slave now.”
“Not a slave, just a prisoner of war. A hostage.”
Again the uncomprehending stare. Gerran remembered the negotiations at Zakh Gral, and their early failure. The Horsekin didn’t take prisoners of war or hostages, nor did they want theirs back in return.
“Do you want to live?” Gerran said. “Or should I kill you quickly? Your choice.”
The Horsekin looked at his right hand, so badly broken in so many places, as if it belonged to someone else. The pain must have been winning the battle against the shock, Gerran figured, because the lad’s eyes filled with tears. He cradled the bleeding wrist with his good hand.
“Live or die?” Gerran said again.
The tears spilled and ran down, leaving trails in the dust and blood that allowed streaks of blue and red tattoos to show through.
“Live,” the lad whispered. “Your slave now.”
“Good,” Gerran said. “What’s your name?”
“Sharak.”
“Come with me, Sharak. The chirurgeon will bind that hand for you.”
Nicedd returned with the report that the woods were clear of enemies. Gerran told him to guard the menservants as they gathered fuel, then returned to camp, leading his prisoner. Although Raddyn the chirurgeon seemed surprised at Gerran’s request, he did agree to bind the lad’s hand for him.
“He’ll have information we need,” Gerran said. “Like how big the army was that his squad come from.”
“True spoken,” Raddyn said, then beckoned to Sharak. “All right, you! Hold out that paw!”
Sharak stared at him. The chirurgeon demonstrated by holding out his own hand, then pointed a finger at the Horsekin. The boy nodded docilely and followed the order. Gerran was just wondering if he should tie his prisoner up at night or suchlike when Salamander wandered over to join him.
“Nicedd told me you’d taken a prisoner,” Salamander said.
“That’s him.” Gerran jerked a thumb in Sharak’s direction. “You know somewhat about the Horsekin. He’s surrendered, but can we trust him? A Deverry man would know how to act when he was taken hostage, but what about the Horsekin? Do they understand honor?”
“About this, they do. If he thinks he’s your slave, he’ll be obedient. After all, they’d kill him if we sent him back.”
Sharak suddenly yelped in pain. Once again tears rolled down his dirty face. Raddyn was binding the wrist tight with wet linen.
“It’s not going to heal straight no matter what I do,” Raddyn remarked to Gerran. “And the fingers are hopeless. I’ve bound and splinted each one, but all he can do is keep them still and pray to his cursed goddess that they heal. When the linen dries, it’ll tighten. When we get back to Cengarn, I should be able to do a bit more for the wrist.”
Salamander turned to Sharak and spoke to him in the Horsekin tongue, eking out his small knowledge of the language with gestures. The boy nodded, then wiped his face on the sleeve of his good arm.
“Interesting,” Salamander said. “He knows some Deverrian.”
“A few words here and there,” Gerran said. “Like he’d just started learning it or suchlike.”
“In preparation for an invasion, I wonder?” Salamander raised both eyebrows high. “Or to handle slaves at least. Not a good omen, Gerro.”
“Ye gods!” Gerran felt suddenly cold. “I’d not thought of that.”
“Thinking isn’t your duty in life, though ’tis mine. Later, with your permission, I’ll want to question this lad.”
“Permission granted, of course.”
Raddyn made a sling out of a square of linen, settled the arm in, and tied the ends behind Sharak’s neck.
“He’s a brave lad,” Raddyn said to Gerran. “Most men would have screamed all the way through. One yelp—not bad, not bad.” He fixed Gerran with a grim look. “And now what about you, my lord? Let’s look at that shoulder.”
Salamander insisted, the chirurgeon swore at him, and Gerran reluctantly agreed. Taking off his padding and shirt set the shoulder throbbing, even with Salamander to help him. Raddyn looked, poked, and grunted. He turned around, surveyed the various objects on the wagon bed, and picked up a pottery stoup.
“This might sting a bit, but I’ve got to get some of the old blood off.” He slopped some of the liquid in the stoup onto the wound. “It’s mead.”
Fire exploded in Gerran’s shoulder, or so it seemed to him. For a moment he could barely breathe.
“I don’t like the way it’s swelling,” Raddyn said. “Sleep on your stomach tonight. Huh, maybe I should have stitched it after all.”
“A bit late now!” Salamander snapped. “Perhaps you should take a bit more care with uncommon wounds like this?”
“Listen, you, I’ve got dying men here to tend.” Raddyn set filthy hands on his hips. “I don’t have the patience to listen to insults from the likes of you.”
Salamander started to speak, then merely shrugged. The chirurgeon turned on his heel and stalked off among the wagons.
“Let’s go,” Gerran said. “I’ll put on the shirt once we’re away from here.”
Sharak followed them meekly as they walked off. Since he himself would have been running off into the dark to escape, Gerran began to think of the lad as contemptible, but he reminded himself that the Horsekin saw such things differently. Besides, considering that Sharak was injured, exhausted, and no doubt hungry, his lack of the will to escape made sense.
At a decent distance from the chirurgeon’s wagon, they stopped, and Gerran knelt to let Salamander get the shirt on over his head. Getting his left arm into the s
leeve took an effort of will.
“I have my doubts about that chirurgeon,” Salamander said, “deep and serious doubts.”
“Why?” Gerran stood up with the shirt on at last.
“You know, that’s a good question. He certainly seemed to do a decent job on your prisoner here.” Salamander nodded in Sharak’s direction. “It’s because of Neb’s low opinion of him, I suppose.”
“Neb? How would a scribe know the difference twixt one chirurgeon or another?”
Salamander hesitated, then shrugged. “Another good question. Let’s get back to your tent. I’m hungry enough to eat a wolf, pelt and all.”
Gerran led his prisoner—he refused to think of him as a slave— back to the campfire Clae had built near his tent. Nicedd sat cross-legged at some distance from the fire. A red-haired woman in a gray dress dappled rust-brown with dried blood sat nearby, nursing a baby, while a young daughter watched with hopeless eyes. An older lass, red-haired like her mother, knelt behind her and stared at the ground. The number of Gerran’s dependents had just grown considerably, he realized, thanks to Salamander, who, he supposed, was a dependent of his as well, at least for the duration of this campaign.
“Clae?” Gerran said. “Have the woman and her children been fed?”
“Not yet, my lord,” Clae said. “But I got rations for them and the prisoner, too.”
The woman looked up at him, then away. She must have been pretty once, Gerran realized, with her long red hair and green eyes, but now gray streaked the hair, she was missing half her teeth, her face was so thin that her bones looked sharp under her skin, and her despair hung around her like some foul perfume.
“My thanks, my lord,” she whispered. “For your protection.”
“You’re welcome.” Gerran made this banal remark only because he could think of nothing else.
“We’ll ride back to his wife soon,” Salamander said, “and she’ll have a place for you and your children.” He glanced at Gerran. “Her name’s Canna.”