by Ulff Lehmann
“Ma said we’d find da here,” he finally said.
Rhea sampled the broth. Invigorating as it was, the worry about what she should tell the child who seemed younger than his sister soured the taste. The girl kept her resolve, and only for a moment did she show her own dread. “Where’s your ma?” Rhea finally asked.
“Tending the wounded near our house,” the lass replied. She reckoned that the clothes the children wore did not suggest they came from the Westgate slums. They were dressed in robust yet elegant cloth, meant to be both practical and warming. She wondered if they were a carpenter’s children. Not that it mattered.
“Why did she send you two here?”
“We wanted to help, and Aydan”—the girl nodded at her brother—“wants to become a warrior when he grows up, like da had been before we were born.” Rhea could guess the rest. The mother probably wanted to discourage her son from becoming infatuated with war. Judging by the look on little Aydan’s face, she had succeeded.
She took another mouthful of soup, and then dismissed the siblings who promptly went to the next one along the wall. Rhea continued to watch, wondering what the world was coming to. Before the two passed out of sight, their soup being drunk again and again, she saw the boy’s eyes acquire the same expression as his sister’s.
Fynbar lived; at least the Caretakers assured her he would not die. Of those who had led the insane charge with her, Gail, Edmonh, Kieran, and Kyleigh were still missing, most likely dead. They were trying to find all of their comrades, and Rhea wondered if there was even a point in reforming the Riders once this was done. Gail, Kyleigh, most of those who were casualties she had known for years, and there was nothing casual about the losses. Nothing at all.
The cot Fynbar was resting on was one of many, all located in a warehouse that had seen better days. Then again, most buildings near Westgate had seen better days. The place stank of tanning, but the stench suppressed the fresh stench—feces and urine and blood of the wounded and dying. Maybe that was why the healers had chosen this building. Courtesy of Eanaigh a patient did not have to be kept in a clean environment, the knives and saws and strings blessed by Caretakers sufficed to keep infection at bay. Those who lay here were the hopefuls, those who might live through the night. With so many Caretakers among the Riders it was hard not to pick up a thing or ten of Eanaigh’s philosophy. The Caretakers usually killed those too severely wounded on the spot: on the wall, the street, or wherever they had fallen. A merciful death, one strangely enough in tune with Lesganagh’s tenets, especially if one considered that the Lord of Sun and War’s faith had been banned for so long. Some things just carried on, no matter the dominant philosophy. The gong was struck thrice a day, and those unlikely to survive were released into Jainagath’s care.
Lliania sure had her hands full today, she thought with a sad smile, not only with the dead from this battle, but with the thousands of others all over the world. Lady Justice’s work was never truly done. Then again, neither was Jainagath’s. Even now the Deathmasks were preparing the funeral pyres.
More wounded were brought in, while the dead were carried out to make room for those who might make it. Caretakers performed surgery; arms and legs littered the floor, gathered on wheelbarrows to be brought out and burned along with the corpses. Worried mutterings arose when an apothecary apprentice loudly proclaimed there was no ophain left anywhere within the city. And sure enough, before the sun had touched the horizon the groans and shrieks rose in volume. Healers had to saw off maimed limbs without sedation.
Then, despite the tapestry painted by wails and blood and casually dropped old bandages, an excited mutter went through the warehouse. “They’re retreating,” someone exclaimed. “Buggers are running!” another added. Then the individual shouts bled into one another, and elation mixed with agony and weariness. She had taken her last look outside with the guarded knowledge that soon the fighting would begin anew, and although tired she knew sleep would elude her. Now, despite grogginess, she made her way past patched up men and women who had, luckily, escaped the Caretakers’ knives and saws. Some of those warriors looked worse than others, while a few had begun a grim game of knucklebones. Judging by the shape of their hands, and the pristine yet somewhat bloodied condition of the bones, Rhea choked down the bile when she realized this particular game was actually played with their own lost digits. She hurried on and soon stood outside, sucking in the fresh, crisp air. Only now did she realize how bad the air inside truly was. Thankfully the wind came from the east, and the pyres, which were already burning, were further to the west.
Had the Chanastardhians really given up? For weeks the enemy had been quite persistent, had almost taken the wall. Could it really be true? A snowflake spiraled down, landed on her cheek, and melted. Another followed. Then the sky seemed full of them. Winter had come at last. Was this the reason for the retreat? Already they had spent most of their time in the cold. Maybe.
Another stretcher was brought in, its occupant barely alive. Rhea glanced at the wounded warrior’s face. It was terribly cut and bruised, and in the last moment, as she was turning away, she saw the bracelet. “Gail!” she exclaimed and went to the Caretaker’s side. Gail looked horrible. Rhea wasn’t even sure she noticed her.
“You know her,” one of the bearers observed. The man had neither the trappings of a Caretaker nor those of a warrior. A lay follower, she suspected. “Good,” he continued. “Talk to her. No, don’t take her hand or anything, pretty banged up; if she’s to live, any unnecessary movement will do even more harm. She’s hanging in there, tough little lady.”
Rhea barely remembered her grandma’s passing, knew not how to act, what to say, so she just began talking. Nonsense, issues of horsemanship, that winter that had arrived on time, she reckoned it might just be enough that Gail heard her voice. She followed the bearers to an empty table, another laywoman wiped the worst of the blood off the soiled surface, and then Gail was laid upon it. A Caretaker, a woman she thought she recognized, stepped up and inspected Gail with weary eyes.
“She’s one of yours,” she said, whether it was to her friend or the healer she didn’t even know.
“Gail Caslin,” the woman muttered. “Bloody light’s fading,” she cursed. “Lamp!” A lantern was brought and now, with twilight dispersed, Rhea saw the extent of her friend’s injuries. Gail was torn to shreds, not a patch of skin had escaped intact.
“Can you do anything?”
The Caretaker wiped her brow with a bloody hand. “No idea. Looks pretty bad.” How the words pretty and bad went into the same statement was something Rhea would never understand. A shuddering breath went through Gail. Her body shook, violently. The female Caretaker put both her hands on her chest and prayed quietly, asking Eanaigh for guidance. Then, with a resigned nod of her head, she took a bloodied poker, saying, “I see you on the other side, Gail Caslin, may the Scales of Lliania judge you by who you are and what you did. I see you on the other side, sister.” Before Rhea realized what was happening, she plunged the poker into Gail’s heart. She let out a horrified scream of denial as Gail shuddered one final time and then lay still.
Seemingly uncaring, the healer addressed the bearers. “Take her outside, priestly burning for her, remind the Deathmasks.” As the two men unceremoniously returned Gail’s corpse to the stretcher, the Caretaker waved the next pair of laymen forward. “Put him here, maybe he has more luck.” She gave a sigh, and despite her renewed grief Rhea saw none of the deaths truly went by this healer unnoticed. There were just so many wounded and dying and so few healers. It was an impossible battle, and the Caretakers fought it anyway.
Gail had returned into her life from the dead, if only for a moment. Now the pain of knowing she was gone felt all the more acute. Dumbly, not noticing what went on around her, she stumbled outside and let the snowflakes wash away her tears. This loss felt far more intimate than the knowledge of her parents’ death.
CHAPTER 13
For most of the way Anne
had tried to figure out how to get rid of House Kirrich’s warband. Forty heavy Horse was a force to reckon with; she and hers knew mountain combat, not mounted combat. If these warriors somehow got wind of what was truly going on and had time to prepare, they would plow right through her warriors.
By the time Ondalan came into view, she had decided. “Captain,” she called to the Kirrich leader. With practiced ease the man nudged his mount to her side.
“Ma’am?”
“I want you to circle the village, get them from the east. Those Danastaerians will be caught between hammer and anvil,” she said. “Wait, and upon my signal, a single trumpet blast, you will charge. Do not attack until that note, understood?”
The look the warrior gave her spoke volumes, all of them filled with meaningless drivel of highland ignorance and lowland superiority. “Yes, ma’am!” the captain replied and prodded his horse into a canter.
A few breaths and barked commands later, and the two score of heavy cavalrymen detached from the numerically inferior House Cirrain force, heading southeast to circle around Ondalan. Seeing them leave, Anne let go a long breath of relief. Being able to meet the Danastaerians without initial interference of that stiff-necked, arrogant lowlander was nearly as important as getting away from Mireynh in the first place.
“That went smoothly,” Paddy said as his horse fell into pace with hers and Gwen’s. “What’s to be done about them?”
She hadn’t thought this far ahead. The Horse were supposed to assist them in capturing this Ralgon character; once they realized Ondalan was their staging ground for desertion they were bound to either interfere or report back, most likely both.
“Simple enough,” Gwennaith Keelan said. Obviously, the squire had given this far more consideration, which, given her experience with sailors and pirates, was very much in her nature. “We kill them.”
A quick glance at her cousin told Anne he had considered this option as well. In a way she balked at the prospect of fighting her countrymen then remembered there was no other option. House Cirrain was in open rebellion against the King; her father already was ordering fellow Chanastardhians to be killed. Had she truly believed their escape could have been accomplished without bloodshed? “Aye,” she said grimly, “kill them.”
They crossed the last hillock, and before them spread the ruined mining village. Somewhere, off to the eastern edge of the settlement a smoking fire burned. Given the climate and general state of matters here, it was a wonder anything flammable was left at all. From the look of it the Danastaerians cared little about subtlety. On a nearby wall sat a lookout, feet dangling lazily, the longbow unstrung on his thighs.
She searched the periphery and saw things were not as casual as they seemed. In the shadows of at least two doorways stood archers, arrows and bows ready. “Ribbons,” she ordered, dropped her left hand into the folds of her cloak and retrieved the same blue scrap of cloth she had used the night the walking dead had attacked. She let go of the reins entirely, and tied the rag to her arm. A sweeping glance confirmed the others were doing the same.
The ribbons had been a last moment addition to the plan, delivered by the bodiless voice of a young girl. It made sense, really, when one considered that anyone could carry House Cirrain’s banner, Anne was the last to dismiss the suspicion that might still linger in Mireynh’s mind. The High General could have ordered the Kirrich to keep a close eye on her. That the heavy Horse had followed her order at once told her this was not the case, but the cloth was an added, and welcome, precaution.
In the shadows, the archers relaxed visibly, yet they remained as they were, hidden, ready to attack should things turn sour. She didn’t mind. In fact, it told her something about the discipline of these Danastaerians, and the foresight of their leader.
As they rode closer, the man atop the wall leapt to the ground and vanished into the ruins, most likely to inform his master. She heard Dubhan clear his throat, muttering some curse under his breath. The aging warrior had voiced his concerns about entering Ondalan openly, thinking the entire thing a setup, a trap. She had dismissed the notion, but now, as the ruins loomed to their left and right like broken teeth, a hint of worry crept into her mind, and she shifted nervously in her saddle.
Nothing.
The thirty-two riders entered the village square, and for the first time since passing into Ondalan she had the chance to scrutinize their surroundings. Blood, maybe a day old, was splattered about the place, though no bodies could be seen. Somebody must have fought a vicious battle. One wall sported the gore-smeared silhouette of a person that had apparently been thrown against the brick and wood construction and left this image. Anne understood why Dubhan had expressed his discomfort in his own special way. Whoever had done this had left a frightening reminder of barely remembered tellings of the Demon War. She swallowed, half expecting a shadowy, feline monstrosity to jump them at any moment. Behind and beside her, the others must have come to the same conclusion. Leather and chain creaked as her comrades shifted uneasily in their saddles. A few whispered prayers to Eanaigh and Lesganagh reached her ears. She couldn’t blame them; the sight was eerie. Dubhan cleared his throat once again. Swords were loosened in their sheaths, the sound of steel detaching from leather unmistakable.
Anne checked her own right hand and found it clasping the hilt of her weapon. Another leader, she thought with scorn, might have attempted to hide her discomfort. Here among friends, however, the show of concern was viewed as prudence.
Then, from two different directions, three men entered the square. One of them, older, built like a true fighter and sporting the armor and pristine surcoat to prove it, scowled, not at her, but at the pair who joined him from the east. This knight surely had to be the Danastaerian’s leader. The other two stopped next to him, the lean one was almost bald. He scanned her band, his eyes opening in an expression that might have been surprise as well as worry and pulled up a hood to hide his features, while the other seemed to take a casual interest in them.
Beside her, Paddy whistled through his teeth. She was about to inquire what was on his mind, when she saw that the hooded man’s caergoult armor was almost in its entirety of a red-brown coloring that could stem from only one source. That his breeches were of the same dye only elevated the suspicion. “Damnation,” she whispered. If there had been a bloodbath in Ondalan, it had been this man doing the bathing.
“Guess Lord Kirrich wasn’t exaggerating,” Dubhan growled. “Bastard looks like he wallowed in it, too.”
“Ralgon?” Connar suggested. She heard the lump in his throat forming.
“From what Kirrich told Mireynh, I’d say so, aye,” she replied, still eyeing the unlikely trio. If this one man had truly caused such havoc alone, it was no wonder the nobleman had been a wreck. It also explained the scowl the older man had cast the blood-dyed warrior. Ralgon, if it was he, was certainly someone to worry about.
“Let’s go,” she said, letting her horse canter up to the threesome. From under his hood the man that she suspected was Drangar Ralgon seemed to be looking at nothing, not that she could truly tell, the cloth hid his eyes.
To her surprise it wasn’t the nobleman who greeted them, but the younger man beside him. He stepped forward, bobbing his head in a quick nod. “Anneijhan of House Cirrain?” he asked in a voice that promised quick death.
“Aye, I am she,” she replied. “And you are?”
“Kildanor, Chosen of Lesganagh and Advisor to the Baron Duasonh. This is Lord Úistan…” She barely heard the rest of the introductions. A Chosen! Here? She had trouble containing her excitement. The warriors of Lesganagh were considered a myth, even though Mireynh proclaimed they died just as easily as any man. Then she remembered the brief engagement in Harail, and the face of the whirr of a swordsman who had hewn his way through the Chanastardhian lines to reach his brethren. That same man was now standing before her.
“An honor,” she said.
She wanted to ask him about his duties, but Paddy i
nterfered before she could begin. “My lords,” he said, “Padraigh of House Cirrain.” He received acknowledging nods, and then continued, “We have time to speak later on; there is a force of forty heavy Horse coming this way from the east. Best prepare for their arrival.”
“Not yours?” the older man asked.
“Nay, milord,” Paddy answered. “They were forced on us by the High General. He thought it wise to send more than just us thirty to capture one Drangar Ralgon.”
The hooded man scoffed, confirming her suspicion that this was indeed the one person with whom Urgraith Mireynh had lost his temper.
“Very well then,” the noble said. Others must have observed the exchange, for he merely looked to a nearby ruin, nodded briefly, and a score or so people scuttled across the yard, heading eastward.
Then, turning to the other two, he said, “I think we’re able to handle them on our own.” To her he added, “But would you care to join us? After all, this is also in your best interest.”
Anne looked her companions in the eye, ignoring Gwen for the moment. Paddy and Dubhan shrugged their shoulders in a dismissive gesture, and the others seemed equally uncaring. “Sure, milord, we’ll fight.”
“After all,” Ralgon grumbled, “that’s what rebellion and desertion is all about, eh? Fighting.”
For a moment she was tempted to reply, and then thought better of it. The stranger’s mood seemed somber at best, and she wondered why anyone would keep company with him. “Let’s go, folks,” she told her troops, dismounted, and retrieved the short lance tied to her saddle. The others followed her example. Grunts of displeasure mingled on the square as they stretched the knots and kinks of the long ride out of their muscles. Gwen, she saw, had remained on her mare, glaring at her. The question whether she was to come along as false captive had never been truly answered, but with the intent of killing the Kirrich soldiers it became a moot point.