“I accept,” said Ludwig, “but only until Sigwulf is recovered."
“Agreed.”
Ludwig turned to leave, but the captain wasn’t quite finished.
“Oh, and Ludwig?”
“Yes, Captain?”
“Put your mind to our present circumstances, will you?”
“To what end?”
“We need a new plan to assault the keep.”
“You want me to plan the next assault? Why?”
“You're an educated man, Sergeant, and I’m guessing you’re well-read?”
“I never really thought about it,” said Ludwig, “but my mother did encourage me to read.”
“Good. Then give some thought to our current problem, and see if you can’t come up with a better plan, will you?”
“I will,” promised Ludwig. “Though I cannot for the life of me imagine what that might be.”
17
Lessons
Spring 1095 SR
* * *
The sky, which had been threatening rain for days, finally let loose with a downpour, the likes of which was seldom seen in the Petty Kingdoms. The entire camp was drenched, turning the field into a sticky, muddy mess. To make matters worse, a cold front moved in from the north, bringing with it unnaturally bitter winds.
Ludwig had been a sergeant for three days now, and he began to wonder if the promotion had been worth it. It felt like all he did was run around looking after his men. Thankfully, the wounded had been moved westward to a slight rise that avoided the flooding of the field, and it didn’t take long for the rest of the company to follow.
He walked across the field, his boots ankle-deep in mud and water. Food was running low, and the captain had sent him into the village to seek what supplies he could. His clothes were thoroughly soaked, and his hands frozen despite the fact it was spring. For a brief moment, he wondered if they had somehow misplaced summer, but then common sense took hold. This weather would pass in time, but until then, it must be endured.
One of the perks of his new position was it allowed him into the village, and although he felt guilty, nothing cheered him like the thought of an ale before a roaring fire.
He stepped inside the tavern, taking a moment to shake off his sodden cloak. The customers were few this morning, so he made his way to a table, taking a seat. A young man soon approached, a soldier by the look of him. When they had arrived, the villagers had fled, but Lord Gebhard had assigned some of his men to run the tavern, a welcome respite to the inevitable siege.
“An ale,” said Ludwig, “if you please.”
“Certainly,” the man replied, heading towards the back room.
Ludwig stared at the fireplace, soaking in the heat of the flames. Suddenly overcome with weariness, he stretched out his legs, letting out a big yawn.
“May I join you?” a voice asked.
He looked up to see none other than Linden Herzog. “Of course.”
The mage sat. “I trust things are going well for you?”
“They are,” said Ludwig. “They made me a sergeant. You?”
“Lord Gebhard has put me on half pay to keep me around, but so far, he isn’t amenable to any of my suggestions.”
“You’d think after the failure of the first attack, he’d be a bit more sympathetic.”
“Barons can be stubborn folk on occasion,” replied Herzog, “particularly when their pride is at stake.”
Ludwig leaned forward, his interest piqued. “His pride, you say?”
“I can see no other explanation.”
“Then you know what this dispute is about?”
“No,” said Herzog. “I fear it is merely speculation on my part, but it seems clear, given his actions, that some grave insult occurred.”
“We may never know,” said Ludwig. “And in any case, it has little effect on you and me.”
“On the contrary. It's of vital interest.”
“It is?”
“Of course," said the mage. "The baron has brought us here because of some perceived slight. Whatever it is, it must be serious.”
“Yet not so serious as to warrant more troops.”
“Precisely. I, therefore, conclude it must be something he doesn’t want known, something personal.”
“Like what?”
“I have no idea, and I suspect we never shall. In the meantime, let it suffice for us to sit here, drink ale, and warm ourselves by the fire.”
“Easy for you to say,” said Ludwig. “Your men aren’t freezing in the rain.”
The server reappeared, carrying a tankard that he dropped on the table before looking at Herzog. “Something for you, sir?”
The mage pointed at the cup. “I’ll have one of those.”
Back to the kitchen went the server.
“Is it bad?” asked the mage. “The camp, I mean.”
“It’s the wounded I’m most concerned with. A good friend of mine took an arrow.”
“The large fellow?”
“Yes, Sigwulf.”
“Did you get it removed?”
“Yes,” said Ludwig, “but he’s developed a fever. I fear he won't last much longer, and this weather clearly isn’t helping.”
A nearby soldier stood, his chair scraping the floor.
“You need to submerge him in cold water,” suggested Herzog. “They say it helps.”
“I thought to give him numbleaf, but he insists he has no pain.”
“I suppose he’s in the Saints' hands now.”
“Excuse me,” came a voice.
They both looked up to see a heavily built soldier standing before their table.
“Did you say someone had a fever?”
“I did,” said Ludwig. “A friend of mine took an arrow. Why?”
“What you need is warriors moss.”
“And you are?”
“Sorry,” the man said, extending his hand. “Let me introduce myself. Name's Karl Dornhuffer. I’m one of the baron’s men.”
“So what’s this warriors moss you speak of?”
“It’s common enough in these parts. It typically grows in the shade of trees. Look for a green moss with blue flakes in it.”
“And that cures the fever?”
“Not precisely,” said Dornhuffer, “but it draws out the pus."
“And does he drink it?”
“No, you mix it into a paste and apply it as a poultice.”
“Mix it with what?” asked Ludwig.
“Pretty much anything will do. The point of the poultice is to hold the moss on the wound. You can use milk, water, even mud if you like.”
“And what’s the secret to finding this moss?”
“It’s typically just a matter of searching the woods. You’ll find it at the base of a tree, somewhere damp or shady.”
Ludwig looked at Linden. “Are you familiar with this?”
“I’ve heard of it,” replied the mage, “but never had to use it.”
“I shall start looking immediately,” said Ludwig. “What of you, Linden? Care to lend a hand?”
“And go traipsing off into the woods? No, thank you, but if you do find some, I'd be happy to assist in the application of the poultice.”
“Thank you,” said Ludwig, “and to you too, Karl.”
“Not at all,” remarked the soldier. “Just trying to help a fellow warrior.”
* * *
The edge of the woods had largely been cleared when they'd cut down the trees to make the ladders. Now Ludwig would have to go farther afield. He had returned to camp, roping in Dorkin to lend a hand, so it was that they meandered through the trees, looking for signs of the warriors moss. The air was still chilled, but at least the boughs gave some respite from the constant rain.
Ludwig found the woods oppressive as if the very trees themselves were crowding in on them. For his part, Dorkin looked unconcerned with such things and spent most of his time gathering herbs and plants. As the light of day started to wane, it began to look like
they had wasted their time. Dorkin, however, stopped, plucking some mushrooms from the soil.
“Look at this, will you?” he said. “I’ve never seen them of such size. This must be rich soil, indeed.”
Ludwig watched absently as the man placed his discovery inside a small sack.
“That’ll be dinner,” Dorkin announced.
“Is that all you can think about?” asked Ludwig, his frustration growing as the sun lowered.
“I can’t help it,” explained Dorkin. “I used to be a cook, you know.”
“A cook? For who?”
“A man by the name of Adler Bonn. Have you heard of him?”
“Can’t say I have,” said Ludwig. “Is he a noble?”
“No, although I’m sure he wouldn’t object if he were given a title. He was a wealthy merchant who made his living in spices.”
“How does one make a living with spices?”
“By shipping them in from the south. They say they grow in abundance on the southern continent.”
“But that’s mostly desert, isn’t it?”
Dorkin smiled. “Depends what you mean by desert. I'm told the areas near the coast are nothing but sand and stone but go farther inland, and you'll hit thick vegetation, much thicker than what we have here.”
Ludwig glanced around the area. “This is thick enough for me. I couldn’t imagine anything worse.”
“Then best not travel south.”
“So what happened?”
Dorkin looked up from his work, a puzzled look on his face. “With what?”
“How is it you’re no longer a cook?”
“Ah, well, that’s not entirely my fault.”
Ludwig watched the man, waiting expectantly.
“Well, you see,” Dorkin continued, “I was a great believer in fresh food in those days, so I used to go out each morning and gather what I needed from nature.”
“And?”
Dorkin blushed. “It was the mushrooms, you see. They turned out to be poisonous.”
“Tell me you didn’t kill your employer?”
“Of course not, but he did get pretty sick. After that, I was dismissed.”
“And so you found your way to the Grim Defenders?”
“Not quite. There was some wandering in the middle there. I’d been on the road for, oh, I don’t know, maybe six months? I happened to find myself in Anshlag while the Defenders were visiting.”
“What made you decide to become a mercenary? It’s a far cry from being a cook.”
“It is, but I was desperate. My funds had run out, and my clothes were a ruin. I only narrowly missed being arrested for vagrancy. The Defenders offered me a place of refuge.”
“Did they teach you to fight?”
“I’d spent some time in the town militia growing up, so I wasn’t completely useless. They’d recently returned from the south, down near Salzing, where they’d had a run-in with some noble. As a result, they had some spare equipment. They gave me a padded jacket, a hatchet, and a wooden shield. Later on, I managed to acquire a helmet, then I was all set.”
“And how does life in the Grim Defenders compare to your previous position?”
“Let’s just say it keeps me fed. Given a choice, I’d much prefer to be working in a kitchen, but I doubt anyone would hire me after what I’ve done.”
Ludwig looked down at the mushrooms. “Are you sure those aren’t poisonous?”
Dorkin laughed. “Yes. I’m not foolish enough that I would make the same mistake a second time.” He began gathering more of the fungi.
Ludwig sat on a fallen trunk, breathing in the musky scent of the woods. “You know, this place reminds me of home.”
“Oh? How so?”
“There are woods near Verfeld Keep much like this, though the trees are a little less dense. I would often ride there.”
“You had a horse? You must have been wealthy indeed.”
Ludwig suddenly realized he had said too much. He had already revealed his heritage to Cyn and Sigwulf. If he kept this up, the entire company would soon know of his background, and then word might get back to his father. He decided to change the subject.
“How did you become a cook?” Ludwig asked.
“I took after my mother.”
“What did your father do?”
“I never knew my father,” said Dorkin, “though I was told he was a soldier. Maybe that’s why I fit in so well with the company. What about your da? What did he do?”
Ludwig cursed his luck, for his attempt to distract had merely returned the discussion to his own past. “He was a soldier as well,” he replied. In fact, it was a partial truth, for Lord Frederick had seen battle under Ludwig’s cousin, King Otto, but that had been years before Ludwig came on to the scene.
“It sounds like we have something in common,” said Dorkin. He stood, placing the last few mushrooms into his sack, then let his eyes wander the forest floor one last time.
“I suppose we should be getting back to the camp,” said Ludwig.
“What did you say that moss looked like?”
“It’s green,” said Ludwig. “Then again, most moss is green, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but didn’t you say something about there being flecks of blue?”
Ludwig’s interest was piqued. “I did. Why?”
Dorkin pulled his knife, then crouched, pointing with it. “Look here.”
Ludwig came closer, mimicking the cook's actions. “Well, I’ll be,” he said. “Can that be it?”
In answer, Dorkin took the tip of his blade, scraping it along the top of the moss. Sure enough, they could see a faint blue sheen. “Do you think this will be enough?” he asked.
“It will have to,” said Ludwig. “I don’t see any more around here, do you?”
His companion started gently prying up the moss, working carefully to keep it as intact as possible. He then set it aside, digging through his bag to retrieve a small scrap of cloth, approximately the size of a kerchief. This he placed on the ground, then commenced the process of gently wrapping his prize. Ludwig watched as Dorkin lifted it, placing it carefully within the bag as if it were a Holy Relic.
“We’d best get going if we’re to help Sigwulf,” said the cook.
“Yes,” agreed Ludwig. “Let’s hope we’re not too late.”
* * *
Ludwig watched as Linden Herzog used the pommel of his dagger to grind up the warriors moss. Occasionally he would pause, test the consistency, and then add a bit more mud to the mix and continue working.
“How thick does it have to be?” asked Ludwig.
The mage frowned. “Thick enough it’ll stay in place. The idea is to make a compress or a poultice. Something that will cling to the wound if we are to draw out the pus.”
Ludwig looked down to where Sigwulf tossed and turned. His fever had worsened since last Ludwig saw him, and he worried for the man's life. Cyn, normally the tough one, was shattered, barely holding herself together as her Siggy lay dying.
Linden Herzog placed his knife aside and lifted the bowl, sniffing it and wrinkling his nose. “This stuff stinks, but let’s hope it works. Did you bring those linens?”
“Linens? You mean these scraps of cloth? Yes, I have them here.”
“Good. Now we have to pack the wound on both sides. I’ll smear on this stuff”—he held up the bowl—“and then you push the cloth up against it and hold it tight. Once both sides are done, we can start wrapping his torso to keep everything in place.”
“And that will cure him?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” warned the mage. “Neither one of us is exactly an expert in treating a wound of this nature. We shall have to trust in Karl’s advice.”
Ludwig looked at Cyn. “You should hold on to his hand. He might feel some discomfort with us moving him.”
She nodded, unable to speak, her cheeks tear-stained.
“Right,” said Herzog. “Let’s get to work, shall we?”
They
rolled Sigwulf onto his side, then gently cut away his shirt, revealing the wound. The mage used his fingers to scoop out the paste, then began liberally applying it to the patient's wound. When he was done, he nodded to Ludwig, who pressed a cloth into place.
“That went well,” said the mage. “Now let’s see to his back, shall we?”
He moved, getting into a better position, then examined the wound, but it was not looking good. Grey-green pus oozed out, and with it, a terrible stench. Herzog looked around, spotting the damp cloth Cyn had been using to mop Sigwulf’s brow. “Pass me that,” he said.
She handed it over, and he used it to wipe away the corruption as best he could. Sigwulf muttered something, obviously in pain, but his words were impossible to decipher.
Linden scooped out more of the mixture, then laid it over the wound, pressing it with a firm but gentle hand. He nodded to Ludwig, and then another cloth was pressed against the poultice.
The mage sat back, taking a breath. “There,” he said at last. “Everything’s in place. All we have left to do is bind him.” He lifted his knife and began cutting the spare cloth into strips.
Ludwig’s hands, which had been applying pressure to the wound, were beginning to ache, yet he dare not release them for fear the paste of warriors moss might come loose. Linden Herzog began threading the strips around Sigwulf’s chest and stomach, lifting the giant man as best he could to get beneath him.
The task was time-consuming, and Ludwig found himself looking at Cyn to distract him. She followed the entire ordeal with devout attention, but Siggy's illness had left a marked effect on the woman. Her eyes were sunken and her face devoid of emotion as if life itself had been sucked out of her. He was struck by the sudden realization that if Sigwulf’s fever did not abate, it might claim the both of them.
“You can let go now,” said the mage.
Ludwig withdrew his hands and sat back, his back cracking as he straightened.
Warrior Knight Page 18