“Took an ax in the fight this morning. It split the mail.”
She crossed to where he knelt to work and knelt in front of him. She pulled back the surcoat and pulled the dirty rag out of the cut in the chain where Gonwyn had pressed it back in. Blood streaked the chainmail links and stained the linen undertunic.
Her expression told him what she thought of his efforts. “No, no no” she said. “This just won’t do. That wound may need to be stitched.”
Gonwyn felt his stomach drop. “Stitched? Don’t I need a Healer for that?”
She glanced around. “Do you see any Healers? My dad raised cattle, and I’ve stitched lots of bulls after they’d gored each other.”
Gonwyn did not find this reassuring. Nonetheless, he slid out of the dirty remains of his White surcoat, then winced as he moved his arm back to unlace the hauberk. She moved to help him.
“Oh, that’s interesting. The footloops here allow the laces to be drawn with one hand and tied off. One person can do it one handed, and while the metal doesn’t overlap, it does let you loosen it to let in some air if you have to.”
She took the weight of the hauberk as he slid out of it, then felt the heavy weight drop onto his blanket. The armor was already dirty and would need a good scouring in the sand barrel, but more grime wouldn’t do it any favors.
Gonwyn was surprised and more than a little concerned at the amount of blood that soaked his undertunic. The wound had not seemed that bad.
She looked at the blood on his side, then at his face, which he kept carefully expressionless.
“I need to see it.”
He started to unlace the tunic, then gave it up as his arm wouldn’t reach.
“I’ll need your help.”
She smiled at him. “Don’t get any ideas.”
They both laughed at the joke, however thin.
She helped him out the tunic when he couldn’t raise his arm above his shoulder. Now that they’d stopped moving, the shoulder was stiffening quickly, and the movements threatened to cause the pain he’d banked away to break through.
“Gods, Gonwyn,” she said, as the undertunic came away.
His entire right shoulder was a single massive black bruise, where the chain had taken the force and spread it across the links. Broken links had scored the skin when they had been driven through the undertunic. The ax wound itself was about two inches long and looked deep enough to have cut into muscle. A large, black, crusted scab covered the entire wound and oozed blood. He moved his left hand to press on the skin, and she smacked it away. He did not tell her that while he’d been hurt before, he’d badly underestimated this one.
“Bastard knew what he was about. Got me longwise instead of chopping down, just where the mail splices together. He cut right through.”
“Those hands are filthy. Keep them away from the wound.”
She moved to the stream and, with that innate facility that women have, produced a cake of soap. She washed her hands thoroughly and returned to him with her healing kit.
She carefully cleaned the wound, while Gonwyn pretended this was all routine. He did swear when she doused it with the astringent wine, but just the once. The sun was nearly down before she finished probing the wound, extracting a small sliver of metal that had entered, stitched it . . . bigger stitches than the Healers used, as cattle call for different threads . . . and dressed it in linen. She set his undertunic to soak in the stream for a time and hung it to dry, as he had no other. For his part, he tested the arm and made several practice swings with his sword. It hurt like blazes, but he thought he could still fight if it came to it.
“Don’t do that. You’ll pick them free.”
She came over to him as he moved the chainmail and settled the blanket around his shoulders.
“Let’s see that mouth.”
He leaned away and spat out a gob of bloody phlegm.
“Nice,” she said. “Now turn into the light so I can see.”
They were nearly of a height. He angled his head this way and that and opened his mouth.
“I can’t see much, but it looks like you you’re going to have to get those back two extracted before they get infected and abscess.”
Gonwyn nodded. That was about what he thought.
She looked at him, perplexed. “Why didn’t you go to the Healers?”
He shrugged, embarrassed. “My friend was dying from a stab wound and was still doing his duty, right up to the last seconds of his life. I couldn’t go the Healers for a toothache, not after that.” He did not admit that he’d thought about doing exactly that. “I didn’t know the shoulder was that bad.”
She gave him a very long look, then swallowed whatever she was about to say. “Well, I don’t want your dirty fingers in my dinner, so you sit over there.” She looked down at where he had been cutting the rabbit. “How were you figuring on eating?”
“Boiling the meat into a broth. See if I could boil the meat soft enough to chew, and sip down the broth.”
She nodded one time, an economical gesture. “We’ll do that.”
She set to finishing the task he had started, cutting the rabbit into bits to boil and then spitting hers to roast. The cook fire brought the heat directly under the pot and spit, so the food cooked quickly and evenly. There was little enough left for them, but this fire was about eating, not comfort.
The sun faded before the rabbits cooked, leaving them sitting ravenous underneath a purple-black darkness decorated with a skyful of bright-blazing stars. The evening brought a chill, enough that he sought his one not-as-dirty shirt from his field pack. He managed some cupfuls of soup, along with a few bits of rabbit. He shared the jouney bread he’d taken from the Tedrels, his well-soaked with broth to soften.
By unspoken agreement, the mission had ended.
Tomorrow they would abandon the search and return to the assembly area.
Gonwyn felt a voice in his head, from a Mindspeaker powerful enough to punch through his head-blindness. Danilla and Enara’s heads came up. :Any units still fighting are to cease operations and return to start lines. All regiments’ and militia are to do a muster count and report by the numbers. All Heralds not assigned to military Mindspeaking duties are to report to command tent in fighting kit for briefing.:
“Who the hell was that?” asked Gonwyn.
“I think that’s Myste,” Danilla replied.
“What’s a Myste?” asked Gonwyn, still impressed by the strength. His head-blindness had been described as a wall fifty feet high and a hundred wide.
“Herald Chronicler.” She replied.
“Herald Chronicler?” Gonwyn realized he was starting to sound rather dumb.
“Don’t you ever get to Haven?” she asked him in turn.
“No,” he replied, relieved to be on the granting end of the conversation, “it gives me hives. I try to avoid any kind of headquarters.”
“Myste was in my year at the Collegium and an utter despair. No real friends. No one would partner with her for Trials, and we dreaded having to train with her. Couldn’t see, needs um . . . spectacles. Can’t fight to save her life. Nearly cut off her Companion’s ear the first time she tried it mounted. Can’t run Circuit.”
“She can Mindspeak, though,” replied Gonwyn.
“So, it would seem,” answered Danilla, just a little primly. He was ready to ask her what that meant, when Myste’s voice broke through again. :Pending instruction from the Queen, all actions against the Tedrels, except in strictest self-defense, are to cease. By Order of the Lord Marshal.:
“What? Why?” asked Danilla.
Gonwyn turned toward her. “I’m guessing it’s because the commissary is running out. We don’t have the time or rations to scour these hills, and the Queen has to think about the harvest. We took a lot of farmers out of fields to fill out this army, and she needs them there, or we don’t eat next year. I’d wager she’ll leave just enough down here to keep the Tedrels in check, and only in numbers that she can easily feed.
”
Rath broke in. :Something is up . . . I’m hearing that there’s going to be a raid into Karse to get some prisoners, so everyone is tied up with that.: She paused. :Daners made contact. Our report has been “noted.” We’re to pull back, and bring out Lady Danilla, and stop hunting Tedrels. I’ve explained what Adreal sent us on, but he died before his message could get passed through, so they’re going off of your reputation.:
“Lady Danilla?” he asked the Herald. “You said your father herded cattle.”
Even in the dark, he could feel her embarrassment.
“It was a lot of cattle,” she replied.
He exhaled loudly. “All right, we’ll stay on plan. Once the moon comes up and gives us some light, we’ll backtrack to where that big valley runs north and south. We should pick up the roadstead there and be back in the camp before moonset. The creeks are more direct, but they’ll all look the same at night, and the map is worthless.”
He slipped his damp hauberk back on, then the chainmail. The pain flared when it settled over the wound, as did the spots where the second-hand mail had galled his shoulders. He made no effort to put the surcoat back on. It was too torn and dirty for even his low standards. He and Danilla then packed the camp in the dark, loading the saddlebags and field packs. Both pits were carefully covered. They could not conceal that they had been there, but they didn’t have to make it easy.
Once they were done and ready to ride, there was nothing for it but to wait for moonrise. The Companions stood watch, trading guard while he and Danilla dozed. Sleeping in armor proved nearly impossible, as it just wasn’t possible to get comfortable. Gonwyn had done it enough to have a leg up, but his multiple hurts kept him from doing more than dozing fitfully. The time passed in short naps, measured by stiffness and metal digging into tender places.
The moon had just risen when Gonwyn snapped awake.
:How many, Rath?: He sent, struggling to make the sending.
:Some thirty, Chosen. They are close and coming this way.:
“Danilla?” he whispered.
“I’ve heard from Enara,” she replied. “Can we get out?”
:They’re astride our path out,: Rath answered to him. :There is another body moving east of us, where I think the draw comes up.:
“Damn,” said Gonwyn. “Good water, good campsite, escape route . . . we might be camping on one of their rally points.”
“What do we do?” Danilla asked.
He ran the options, all bad. “We hide. Wait them out. Rath, show us the draw.”
They quickly mounted and made for the narrow watercourse. It looked intermittent and fell in a sharp vee, barely wide enough for the two Companions. The vee fell out of the moonlight, and while there was no concealment, they might just be safe in the shadow. They had just settled in and froze as the first group of Tedrels poured in.
Gonwyn quickly assessed them. They looked whipped. Many bore light wounds, but they were still armed. In the moonlight he saw Tedrels with crossbows, spears, and some better equipped with swords, shields, and some armor. A second group followed in better order, their leader haranguing them in the pidgin tongue that passed for the Tedrel language.
Few carried more than their war gear. They took out what food they had, some better provisioned than others. The stronger took from the weaker where they could, and the main body split into fragments as they moved to camp in mutual distrust.
One largish group made directly for the draw where Gonwyn and the others hid. He heard the soft creak, as Danilla drew her light bow from its case and strung it. There was a soft tap as she nocked an arrow.
He drew his sword from its saddle scabbard. The weapon slid free in his hand, a shorter blade than most, thicker and double edged. The sword was an infantry weapon, honed for killing, with none of the daintiness of the cavalry saber. He held it back against his leg, where it was least likely to reflect some stray bit of moonlight.
“If it comes to it,” he whispered, “stay in the draw. I will draw them away, and we will link up later.”
“I will NOT,” she whispered back. “I am a Herald, and I will fight.”
There was no point to an argument, and the Tedrels were too close.
The group stopped to camp, barely thirty feet from the draw. There was some argument, then one began to desultorily make a pile for a fire. The others spread out to gnaw on what food they had. One made directly for the draw. Gonwyn heard the soft, collective inhalation from the group in the draw as the Tedrel came to the mouth of the vee, adjusted his crude cloth armor, and began to relieve himself.
Gonwyn held himself ready, a bare dozen feet from the Tedrel. He could visualize the Tedrel standing there, staring into the darkness, seeing white shapes begin to resolve against the deeper black until . . .
The man’s mouth opened in a soundless O.
:NOW!:
Rath launched herself, powerful withers throwing them a body’s length forward. Gonwyn whipped the sword across the man’s face, slashing brutally as he passed. The Tedrel screamed as Rath exploded into the moonlight.
Rath broke left, staying in the well-spread trees, in order to make a harder crossbow shot. The Companion took the distance to the sprawled Tedrels in a couple of strides, riding a second down and whirling between two thick oaks. Gonwyn pressed low against her flank, more for protection from low branches than from the Tedrel. He held the blade flat back against his boot, his left hand wrapped around the saddle-bow.
Rath whipped around the larger oak, changing direction to throw off the crossbowman who stumbled toward them. Gonwyn needed no force, only aim to slash the blade outward, taking the crossbowman in the throat. Rath took another, shattering his spine with a single kick as the man tried to flee back. Four dead in as many seconds. As Rath dodged back between the pair of trees, Gonwyn killed another with a stab backed by half a ton of charging equine. Five, quickly now.
Time slowed for Gonwyn. He felt the simple fierce joy, the power that coursed through him as his enemies seemed to slow and his senses sped. He felt the man to his right grasp the claw from his belt to load his crossbow. Gonwyn killed him with a leaning slash that took his throat. Another Tedrel bent to grab his spear, and Rath, in the same parlous state, smashed his chest with a kick that stove in his ribs. Other Tedrels, armed with spears and crossbows, emerged from behind trees as the Companion stormed among them. Gonwyn slipped from Rath’s back, and in perfect dance passed under her legs to stab a spearman as she lashed out with her rear hooves to dash out another’s brains.
He rushed two on foot. The rightmost raised a battered sword. Gonwyn lopped his sword hand at the wrist, whirled to stab the left-side Tedrel, who was still raising his short spear, and disabled the first with single backhanded slash to the face. He sprang back up and remounted, in perfect choreography as Rath turned again to strike out with forehooves.
A single odd image stood out afterward to Gonwyn . . . the dropped-pot sound as the Companion’s iron-hard hooves shattered a skull and destroyed a life.
The moment frozen flashed into action again. Another crossbowman emerged ahead, fumbling to bring the weapon to bear. Gonwyn hurled his sword. It struck hilt first, smashing the man’s nose and knocking him backward. Gonwyn drew his saddle-ax, a wicked single blade with a reverse spike.
He chopped down on another Tedrel, killing the last standing in this group with the spike, driven deep into his shoulder along the neck. Rath charged forward to where the man lay screaming as he clutched his face. Rath trampled him. Gonwyn leaned down, both palms brushing the dirt as he recovered his sword and rolled back into his saddle.
He turned the blowing mare toward the next group, dropping the bloody ax back into its sheath. A second quick grab, this time at a small shield leaning against a tree. He pulled it free and armed himself with it as Rath danced back, using the trees as cover against crossbows. Rath gathered herself to charge again as Gonwyn finished his arming.
He glanced quickly to the right and saw Danilla just
emerging from the draw, with bow in hand. A string of dead or dying Tedrals lay behind him. One he had missed scrambled from between two trees and fled across the open area of the valley floor.
Danilla whipped her bow up, tracked him, and coolly released. The arrow glowed red and burst into flame as it crossed halfway to the Tedrel. It caught the man in the back as he fled. He fell to his knees, the fire spreading across him as he burned and screamed. Danilla’s second arrow took him as he writhed on the ground, ending his life.
There was a moment’s perfect silence, then Danilla’s shout of exultation.
And Rath charged. Together, they slew, as Danilla rode about the fringes burning down those who escaped iron hoof and wicked blade.
It was done when the last Tedrel lay dead. Gonwyn, spattered with blood and exhausted, slumped as he waited for Danilla to join him. Rath stood, her legs splayed out, blowing heavily. Somewhere in the fight the stitches had broken open, but that was of little concern.
Dannila and Enara rode slowly to them. She looked around the carnage. Over thirty Tedrals had entered the campsite. None survived.
“I think you do have a Talent, Gonwyn,” she said in voice that shook only a little, “and may the gods have mercy on you.”
Chapter 12 - Heart’s Peril - Kate Paulk
Ree stretched and sighed, feeling comfortable and lazy on the roof of the barn belonging to the farm where he’d lived for the last ten years. His family farm, in a way. Certainly the place where his family lived.
With the summer sun warm against his back, the warm roof shingles beneath him and the air full of the scent of growing things and farm animals, it was difficult to concentrate on something as painstaking as checking the barn roof for rotting shingles, much less the careful effort needed for replacing them.
His rattail twitched in his breeches, and his claws wanted to relax all the way out. But he must work. It had to be done before winter came, and Ree was the best person to do it—a hobgoblin who was part rat and part cat as well as part human, he had better balance than humans, and keener eyesight. That the wild part of him longed to take a nap right here or to head out, exploring the cool shade of the forest, was something he’d grown used to over the years.
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