Lance estimated the rebels’ numbers at barely over four hundred. Dismay gnawed at his stomach. Four hundred against the Republic’s legions was hopeless.
He reminded himself that it hardly mattered if the rebels were four hundred or four thousand. The Republic would inevitably win any sort of fair fight. That was where he came in.
It only took six saints to make the Red Mountains. Heartened, Lance followed Willem into camp, stopping to steady himself once against a tree. His dizziness was much reduced from the day before, though his ear still ached.
As soon as Willem and his men appeared, the other Gotians hailed them with glad cries and thumped them on the back.
“Welcome home!”
“Ought to have known you were too tough for the Legion to chew up!”
A straw-haired woman flung herself at Willem and Jenas, hugging then fiercely. Jenas slipped free after a moment, looking embarrassed, but Willem kept his arms around her as she bawled her eyes out. Lance guessed the wife had feared them both dead.
“Hush, Glenys,” Willem said gruffly.
After a moment she swiped her eyes and exclaimed, “You must be starving! I’ve got some stew simmering. I’ll just add some dumplings.”
“Good idea. I’ll be along in a moment.” Willem shooed her off before the next, harder, set of questions pelted him.
“Where’s the rest of your party? Were you separated?”
“Where’s Len?”
“Where’s Vallas?”
“Where’s One-Eye?”
Willem just shook his head. “We’re all that remains.”
Silence and grim faces.
“I need to report,” Willem said heavily. “Where’s Chief Fitch?”
“Here,” a strong voice said. The crowd opened up, allowing Lance his first glance at the rebel leader.
Fitch had blond hair and was clean-shaven like a legionnaire. He was of a height with Lance, but less wide in the chest. His tunic and plaid displayed muscular arms and legs; Lance surmised he’d be able to swing the heavy broadsword at his side with ease. Four Grassland warriors in buckskins with their hair drawn back into horsetails stood at his back.
“Willem, you’re back! We had begun to fear for you.” Fitch clasped Willem’s elbow and forearm and gave him a rough pound on the back. He looked around. “Where’s Edvard?”
“Edvard?” Willem repeated, startled. “He wasn’t with us.”
“He sneaked off. We thought he’d followed you.” Fitch frowned.
Willem shook his head. “We haven’t seen him.”
Fitch shook himself. “Could he be with the rest of your party? Where are they?”
“Dead,” Willem said steadily.
A beat of shock, then Fitch grabbed Willem by the collar of his tunic, forcing the shorter man to go on his tiptoes. “And how, exactly, did you lose half of your men?” Fitch growled. “I ordered you to raid, not get in a toe-to-toe fight.”
“We set up an ambush at the bog bridge, as planned,” Willem said steadily. “It worked. We shot the legionnaires working on the bridge full of arrows from the trees. They turned and ran. We pursued. But then a troop of cavalry happened upon us and rode us down.”
“Us?” Fitch asked derisively, dropping him. “If you’d been ridden down by cavalry, you’d be dead. Where were you? Hiding in your precious trees again?”
“It wasn’t like that!” Jenas cried, defending his father.
“It’s true we ought to be dead,” Willem said. Silently, he showed Fitch the copious reddish-brown bloodstains on his trousers, and the hole the arrow had punched in his shirt.
Jenas and the others followed their leader’s example.
The anger drained frown Fitch’s face. “By Nir’s sword, how is this possible?”
Willem pointed one stubby finger at Lance. “Ask him.”
Chapter Eleven
Lance stepped forward, holding Fitch’s gaze. “I’m Lance. The Kandrith, whom you would call the ruler of Slaveland, sent me to aid your rebellion.”
Fitch smiled and his whole expression brightened. Lance could suddenly see why men might follow him. He had charisma. “Well met, Lance of Kandrith!” Fitch clasped Lance’s hand and elbow in a strong two-hand grip.
Lance returned the armclasp, then took a deep breath. Best to get the worst over with. “I regret to tell you that your envoy, Bertramus, was killed during the journey.”
Fitch frowned. “What happened?”
“We encountered some legionnaires,” Lance said carefully. He didn’t think Fitch had a Listener, but just in case he didn’t want to be caught in a lie. “Bertramus was killed during our escape that night.” No need to mention who had killed him.
“A shame. He was useful to the cause,” Fitch said with regret, but showed no sign of grief for his “cousin.” “How many troops do you have with you?” He peered around as if expecting them to materialize out of the trees. “I hope they’re all brawny warriors of Nir like yourself.”
Sighing, Lance gently disabused Fitch of his fantasy. “Kandrith is a small country. We have no men to send. I’m alone except for two other members of my party that I’ve become separated from.” Should he mention Rhiain was a cat shandy? Later. “I’m a healer.”
“A physicker?”
“No. I don’t use potions. The Goddess of Mercy favours me.”
“We’d all be dead except for him,” Willem said.
But Fitch wasn’t listening. His nostrils flared. “You’re a priest. What use have I for a priest, especially one of some useless Goddess who grants her enemies mercy?” Without another word, he strode off.
Offended, Lance let him go. He could shrug off insults to himself, but to insult his Goddess...Lance clenched his fists, aware of a desire to pound on Fitch. Arrogant ass. From what Lance had seen of the camp, Fitch couldn’t afford to spurn anybody’s help, much less a healer’s.
Willem touched his sleeve. “He’s got a hot temper, does Fitch. I’ll talk to him once he’s calmed down. Explain. In the meantime you have me and the boys’ gratitude. I’ll get you set up in camp.”
Lance nodded stiffly and allowed himself to be drawn away.
In actuality it was Willem’s wife, she of the straw-hair and plump body, who saw to it that Lance had a place to sleep.
Lance eyed the hammock she found for him with a certain amount of dubiousness.
“Afraid of tipping out?” she asked, a glint of humour in her eye. “They’re more secure then they look.”
“Perhaps,” Lance said politely. “But I suffer from dizzy spells. Is there a spot somewhere on the ground?”
She looked amused at his admission, but secured him a pallet in a lean-to shared by three others, and a spare blanket-and if it smelled of horse Lance didn’t mind.
After depositing his rucksack, Lance wandered back outside, at a loss. He itched to search for Sara and Rhiain, but doubted the archers would allow him to leave camp.
Since he was stuck here, he should work on his mission, but he feared Wenda’s plan was doomed. When they’d talked of setting examples, they’d failed to realize that Fitch was a warrior, a follower of Nir, the God of War. And Fitch had never been a slave. Lance doubted Fitch was capable of making the kind of sacrifices used in slave magic.
But Lance hadn’t come this far to fail without trying. It rankled his pride, but in order to convince Fitch of the value of slave magic Lance would first
have to prove his own worth.
The best way to do that was to treat the rebel camp like any new village.
He found Glenys bent over a fire, stirring a pot of stew. When he approached, she slopped some in an iron bowl and handed it to him.
“My thanks,” Lance said, stomach growling. He unhooked his spoon from his belt and dug in. “Do you have sick here in camp?”
His own earache and dizziness had mostly passed. By tomorrow he’d have a new illness, which made it important to make the rounds of the sick now. Lance had learned long ago to accomplish as much as he could on days like today when his body was on the mend—in case tomorrow laid him low with a fever or worse.
For similar reasons, he started on the stew. It was more broth than meat, and the dumplings were chewy, but it was hot and filling for all that.
She wrinkled her brow, puzzled. “Ill, you mean? There’s lice going around, and Alina’s little ones have the sniffles.”
Lance smiled. “I’m afraid I can’t do anything about lice.” He took another spoonful. “So no life-threatening injuries then?”
“Only Spring Colt,” she said, off-hand. “He’s been dying for the last week. Every morning it’s a surprise to hear the God of Death hasn’t claimed him yet.”
Remorse sluiced through Lance. He should have asked before eating. “Take me to him.”
“Now? But you haven’t finished your stew.” Her plump face showed bewilderment.
Lance controlled his impatience. “Can you point me the way?”
“See the domed tent with the antlers above the door?” She pointed. “That’s Mek’s tent. The Grasslander barbarians put their wounded there.”
Lance slurped down the last of the stew, then left at a jog.
On the Gotian side of the camp-within-a-camp young warriors practiced at archery, dressed game, mended clothes, fashioned arrows and performed a dozen other small chores. On the Grasslander side, the young warriors did all the same things except instead of archery they worked with horses in the corral and cheered on two wrestlers. Fitch looked completely at home among the Grasslanders; he had stripped to the waist to grapple with his opponent.
Lance skirted around the edges of both camps, heading for the antlered tent, which was both smaller than the other domed tents and stood slightly apart, in under the towering trees.
He garnered a couple of glances, but most of the Grasslanders disdained to notice him.
Mek, whoever he was, had mounted the skull and antlers of a giant elk over the entrance at just the right height to poke someone’s eyes out. Lance ducked into the opening and peered into the dimness. “Hello?”
A second later the sweetish stench of rot hit his nostrils. Before a woman blocked his way, he glimpsed a young man with long hair sweating and moaning on a bed of dried grass. Like the dying man, she had high cheekbones, dark slanted eyes, and raven’s wing-black hair, though hers was drawn up into a horsetail.
“Why have you come here? This is Mek’s tent.” She wore a split skirt and a deerskin vest that revealed muscled forearms and two scars. A warrior maid, then.
Lance kept it simple. “I’m looking for a man named Spring Colt.”
“Spring Colt cannot be disturbed. He is battling Mek and has done so for ten sunrises,” she boasted.
What? Lance squinted in confusion before he noticed the slivers of bone piercing her earlobes. Sara had told him Grasslanders worshipped the God of Death. Mek wasn’t the owner of the tent; Mek was the God of Death. The Republicans had so many gods he had trouble keeping them straight.
“Your—brother?” he guessed; she nodded. “Your brother is strong, but Mek is winning?”
“Mek always wins,” she said, stone-faced.
Lance nodded. “Yes, death always wins in the end. But Mek needn’t take your brother today. I can heal him. Watch.” He slowly reached out and laid a finger over a scratch on her arm.
Her other hand flashed, drawing a stone knife, but she didn’t cut him. Her eyebrows lifted as she examined her healed arm. “You are...skilled, but he must win this battle alone.”
Lance blinked. That was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard. Didn’t she understand that her brother was dying? The smell of rot meant gangrene and a poisoning of the blood.
He dug in his heels. Not only did he need to prove himself to Fitch, but it pained him to be forbidden to heal. “May I see him?” All he need do was lay a hand on the man.
“No one is allowed inside.”
Lance groped for patience. “You’re inside.”
“I am his sister. It is the duty of his closest female relative to witness his battle.” Her voice trembled, and for a moment Lance saw the strain in her features, the hidden grief. Then her expression became stony again. “Leave.”
“How old is your brother?”
Another flicker of grief in those dark eyes. “Nineteen.”
Lance judged her age closer to thirty. This must be her beloved younger brother. Pity stirred, then hardened into determination. He wasn’t going to stand by and let the boy die an unnecessary death.
Not even if the healing had to be a secret.
“Did you know that Mek has a sister?” Lance asked her.
She frowned and shook her head.
“Her name is Loma,” Lance continued, “and she is the Goddess of Mercy. She wants to spare you grief. Will you let me enter the tent, in Her stead?”
A slow shake of the head. “It is not permitted.”
“Perhaps you are hungry or your bladder is full?” Lance suggested carefully. If she left, he could enter the tent and heal the boy before she returned.
She looked tempted, but shook her head again.
Lance dared not simply move her out of the way—even if she didn’t knife him, a single shout would rouse the camp.
“You said I’m not allowed to enter the tent. May I reach inside?” A fingertip laid on the boy’s toe would do the trick.
“No.”
Lance blew out an exasperated breath. “Well, what is permitted? What can you do for Spring Colt? Spoon broth in his mouth, bathe his forehead, sing to him?”
She frowned. “Yes. All of these.”
For the first time he wished he was a physicker, able to heal by dispensing potions. He needed touch, but, he suddenly wondered, did it have to be direct touch? “Let’s try this—you go hold your brother’s hand, but poke your foot outside.”
She studied him a moment longer. “You are a strange man.” A faint smile touched her lips. “It’s not usually my foot strange men want to touch.”
Lance blinked. Had she been flirting with him—?
Before he could decide, she vanished inside Mek’s tent. A rustling noise a moment later directed his attention to a spot where a moccasin-clad foot peeked out.
He had no idea if this would work, but he knelt on the forest floor and clasped her ankle. When Loma’s warmth enveloped his hands, healing a few scrapes, he prayed. “Goddess, I wish to heal this woman’s brother. Can you reach through me and her to him?”
“I will try, child.” Power poured into him, a river, but instead of flowing out, it began to build up and up, until the raw force made his hair stand on end. And yet more poured in. He began to burn from the inside and clenched his teeth on a plea for Her to stop.
Just a little more, and then surely the river would burst its banks and flow through him and Spring Colt’s sister into the dying barbarian.
Her
ankle twitched in his grip, and he realized he’d squeezed too hard.
The bruise healed before it fully formed, requiring only a drop of the Goddess’s power. The rest cycled back into him. The burn built higher until he thought he would combust.
The only other time he’d had trouble healing someone had been Sara after her beheading. That time the Goddess’s healing power had spilled out of him onto the floor instead of building up inside him, but he’d managed to forge a connection by breaking his finger and offering one more sacrifice to the Goddess.
The foot tugged in his grasp.
“Wait.” Lance tightened his grip, then smashed the little finger of his left hand into the ground. It bent the wrong way, bone breaking. His breath caught in a hiss as his nerves shrieked, and his eyes watered—but it worked.
Loma’s mercy poured through them both into the dying man.
With the Goddess’s vision overlapping his own, Lance saw the poison as a green tide creeping through blood vessels and collecting in muscle and tissue. But now the green melted back, replaced by Heart’s Blood red.
Inside the tent, Spring Colt gasped.
“Lie back down!” his sister ordered.
“Winter Grass? What are you doing here? I dreamt I was battling Mek...”
The Goddess flushed out the last speck of green hiding behind Spring Colt’s liver, leaving only health behind. Done, She retreated, leaving Lance alone in his body. Shaking, empty.
He released Winter Grass’s ankle and looked ruefully at his broken finger. It had already swollen to almost twice its size and throbbed in time with his pulse.
Soul of Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) Page 17