Only as the heavily bleeding scalp wound mended did Lance register a familiar visage underneath. His patients were the luckless Spring Colt and his sister.
Spring Colt gasped and began to struggle.
“Hold him,” Lance ordered Sara.
Spring Colt batted at her hands. “Get away! I must fight Mek alone.”
“Your battle is won,” Lance told him. A small lie. Spring Colt’s wound would close within seconds. “But your sister took two wounds, probably defending you when you fell.” A flash of guilt on Spring Colt’s face confirmed his guess. “You must call her name to give her the heart to keep fighting.”
Spring Colt glared at him, but allowed Sara to push him back down. “Winter Grass,” he said urgently. “You must fight.”
“A moment more to patch her heart, a vessel is torn,” the Goddess murmured.
Clang.
Swords clashed almost over Lance’s head. “Out of the way,” Fitch gasped. Droplets of sweat flew from his body as he and his opponent pushed at each other’s blades with more brute force than finesse. Doubtless hoping his opponent would trip, the ex-legionnaire chopped harder, almost causing Fitch to step on Spring Colt. “They’re dead, priest,” Fitch gritted out. “You accomplish nothing—”
Done.
Lance moved aside and Spring Colt rolled to his feet, yipping a war cry.
The grizzled ex-legionnaire was so startled by the Grasslander’s resurrection that he hesitated in mid-stroke. Fitch slipped under his guard and drove his sword into the gap between the guard’s breastplate and armpit.
The ex-legionnaire sank to his knees, a look of blank surprise on his face. Fitch looked almost as nonplussed.
“Don’t worry,” Lance told Fitch. “I won’t waste my time.”
A wild look in his eye, Spring Colt snatched up his curved sword and threw himself back into battle.
Winter Grass sat up and blinked. She nodded acknowledgement to Lance, picked up her spear and loped after her brother.
Fitch, too, didn’t spare a word in thanks. “On to the villa!” He raised his sword and charged.
Ingrate. Lance didn’t bother getting angry at Fitch, but began looking for his next patient. He had Loma’s work to do.
* * *
When the Legion stockade came into sight, a forest of sharpened stakes stabbing the blue sky, Rhiain made one last effort to catch the horse and her rider, bounding forward.
She gained a few strides, but fatigue added weight to her legs, and the cut on her paw stung. She could feel herself slowing. The mare pulled away, maintaining her two-hundred-yard lead.
Dust coated Rhiain’s tongue as she gulped in air. So this is the taste of despair.
Her ears flattened at the thought of not only failing Fitch, but causing his death. Once Tall told his tale the fresh legionnaires in the stockade would ride down Fitch and his rebels and slaughter them to a man.
The legionnaire in the watchtower spotted them. She could hear distant shouting as he raised the alarm. She’d be within crossbow range soon.
Left with no choice, Rhiain broke off the pursuit. A crushing load of guilt and anger and despair rolled onto her shoulders. She vented her frustration in a full-throated roar that seemed to shake the sky.
The mare shied in fright. She reared up, hooves pawing the air, and her rider slid off.
New strength flooded Rhiain’s muscles. She bounded forward. One hundred yards now...
Tall called for his borrowed steed, but the mare galloped away. Cursing, Tall glanced behind, saw her only sixty yards away and stumbled into a run.
Rhiain chuffed a laugh. This prey she could run down with ease.
He realized it at the same moment and turned. The whip in his hand opened up a stripe of raw flesh on her shoulder.
Rhiain shrugged off the sting and pounced.
ZZZZzzztt!
Rhiain ignored the sound in the pleasure of finally taking down her prey. A neat snap of her jaws broke Tall’s neck.
The taste of his blood flooded her mouth with saliva and her belly rumbled. Ashamed, she spit the blood out. Shandies didn’t eat men.
ZZZzztt!
A barbed arrow sank into her back haunch. Rhiain screamed in fury and pain. She twisted her head, trying to pull out the shaft, but it was embedded just out of reach.
Two more bolts struck the ground, one only inches from her right paw.
Hastily, Rhiain retreated. Every stride hurt, paw and haunch, and she was almost trembling with fatigue. She’d saved the rebels, but from the yelling behind her, the legionnaires meant to pursue her. Which meant she couldn’t go back to the villa, or she’d lead the legionnaires straight to Fitch.
Wounded and bleeding, she limped into the forest, praying it would hide her.
* * *
Sara walked by the screaming man with the stomach wound.
Already in the aftermath of the battle, she’d learned two rules. The first was to ignore screamers. Not only could Lance find them without any help from her, but those fallen unconscious were usually closer to death.
Lance didn’t like it when someone died before he could heal that person, so Sara had resolved to ensure he saved as many as possible.
After Fitch and his followers defeated the garrison, the estate fell to Fitch like a ripe plum. The rebels had moved on to plunder the villa, but she and Lance remained outside. Methodically, she moved among the last clump of the fallen, checking for signs of life.
One Grasslander sprawled on his back, an axe buried in his skull, brains spilling out. Dead. Two plaid-wearing Gotians, one with a slit throat. Dead. Sara carefully rolled over the second man, who looked as if he’d collapsed while crawling away. Intestines trailing, face cold and pale. Dead.
She moved on, the smell of blood and excrement filling her nostrils. Next were three dead, and one dying, Republican soldiers. Bubbles of blood frothed at the dying man’s lips.
Her foot slipped on the bloody grass, and she nudged one of the facedown figures. He groaned, fingers moving weakly. Two dying, then.
The second rule was to ignore the Republicans. If Lance healed them, the rebels would only kill them again.
Except, Sara paused, the facedown Republican wore a yellow toga instead of a uniform and was smaller than the others. She peered closer and saw it was a black-haired boy of about twelve. A sword lay near his hand.
Indecision gripped her. He had a sword and was a Republican, but he was also a child. Which rule came into play?
Because there was a third rule: children first. Sara didn’t understand why Lance valued their lives more, but she knew Lance cursed whenever he saw a child injured. He hurried to their side and raised his voice in fervent prayer. His touch would be gentle, like the way he stroked Sara’s hair when they slept together by the fire.
Sara rolled the boy onto his side. His blue-gray eyes opened, but stared past her, unfocussed. “Hurts,” he moaned.
She opened her mouth to call Lance over from where he was healing a broken bone twenty yards upslope from her, but just then the boy gave a little shudder and stopped breathing. Died.
Without thinking, she started to move onto the next body, then hesitated. She returned and closed the boy’s eyes as she had seen Lance do.
The impulse puzzled her. She’d found four dead slaves who also shouldn’t have taken part in the battle. She hadn’t closed their eyes or felt this tightness in her throat or curl of anger over their deaths.
There had been no need to kill the boy, even if he had carried a sword. He would’ve been clumsy with it, easily disarmed like—
A memory slammed into her, of another boy with brown hair and blue eyes. A boy who’d wanted to be a legionnaire and loved his lessons in swordplay.
Sylvanus. Her younger brother.
The dead boy wasn’t Sylvanus. She shouldn’t care that he lay dead trying to defend his home, but somehow she did.
She wondered who had killed him. Fitch? A Grasslander? Her gaze fixed on the rebel at her feet. Him? His body was still warm, though blood caked his head and blond hair.
Bending, she grasped his armpits and dragged him toward the spot where Lance was now healing the screamer. She made no effort to stop his head from flopping, and she dropped him instead of lying him down gently on the trampled grass. Lance sent her a chiding look.
Lance put out a hand to heal the man she’d brought, his expression abstracted and withdrawn. Sara took the opportunity to watch him. If she looked closely, she thought she could see the Goddess faintly shining through, not just in the red outline around his hands.
In some odd inversion, the screamer quieted, but the unconscious possible boy-killer startled awake and cried out at the sight of his own blood. Lance soothed them both with practiced words about the Goddess of Mercy and released them whole and healthy. They came to their feet uncertainly, then scurried away.
Sara felt soothed, too, the memory of her brother fading.
Lance rubbed his eyes, the Goddess glow gone. “Is that the last of them?”
“Yes.”
He smiled at her, a small movement of his lips. “You did very well, Sara. Thank you for your help.” His brown eyes met hers, kindling a glow of warmth in her chest. A feeling of...contentedness? No, more. Happiness.
She wondered what caused the feeling. It wasn’t just being useful. Hauling water was useful, but it had never made her feel this way. It wasn’t just the expression on his face. Lance frequently smiled at her. What was different this time? She had helped Lance—and lightened his burdens.
And Lance was important.
For the first time she wondered why he was more important than other people, other men. Her conviction remained as strong as ever, but she had no answer.
* * *
Lance stretched, unkinking his back, and surveyed the battle’s aftermath.
The yard roiled with confusion. Both wagons had been driven through the gate and were stopped in front of the granaries. Willem and the archers had arrived from the fields, herding a group of osseons ahead of them. More slaves milled around, some looking bewildered, others frightened. A few smarter ones were grabbing food stores for themselves.
A wild-eyed woman rushed up to the field slaves. “Have you seen Tulio? He was out scything grain.” Her face became strained and desperate at the headshakes she received.
“He’s probably hiding in the field,” Lance said. “We’re not here to hurt slaves.” But she’d stopped listening and had picked up her skirts and headed for the open gate.
Lance scanned the crowd.
Sara brushed his shoulder. “What are you looking for?”
“Someone like my mother.” A pang of grief tore through him. Though four weeks had passed since she’d given her Lifegift, he still had trouble believing such a strong personality could be gone. He struggled to explain to Sara. “Even before she became Protector, my mother always knew what was going on with everybody. She was the one everyone turned to for advice. We need to find someone like that, a natural leader.”
Two blonde girls, sisters, clinging to each other...A disheveled mother with an iron grip on her toddler, searching for some family member...An older man standing protectively in front of his wife...
“There.” Sara pointed.
“Who, Willem?” He was a natural leader, as shown by the fact that he’d organized men to help bag and load grain sacks into the wagons instead of rushing off to plunder the villa with Fitch.
“No, her.”
Lance saw a middle-aged woman marching toward Willem, purpose writ on her broad face and the teardrop brand of a sanguelle on her forearm. A slavechain belted her waist.
By the time Lance arrived, she’d started haranguing Willem. “—going to pay for this slaughter? We will. The slaves.”
The tips of Willem’s ears turned red. “I have my orders,” he said stubbornly. “Chief Fitch wants every man, woman and child to assemble outside. If he finds people hiding, it will go badly for them.”
She crossed her arms. “What about the ones who can’t walk?”
“I can help you with those,” Lance said mildly.
She frowned suspiciously, but Willem’s face brightened. “Good idea. Talk to Lance.” He resumed distributing the weight of the sacks of grain, which his helpers had dumped in willy-nilly.
The woman looked him over from head to toe, then turned to Sara. “Is your man worth spit?”
“He is worth much more than spit,” Sara said.
The woman studied Sara’s placid expression, then nodded. “I’m Relena. Come this way.” She led them away from the granaries, through the open arches of the portico and into the villa’s inner courtyard.
The two-story main house formed one side of the outer square. The baths, the stables and barn, and a long, low building, which turned out to be the slave quarters, made up the other sides. All four were roofed in the same red tile.
Lance hesitated for a moment before ducking through the dark doorway. The cramped rows of wooden pallets brought back his own time as an osseon vividly, as did the smell of sweat.
In one corner were several occupied beds. A brown-haired man lay facedown on the nearest. His back had been cut to shreds with a whip.
Lance could see that an effort had been made to keep the wound clean, and a small boy, probably the man’s son, sat by the pallet with a whisk for keeping flies away.
“If he’s moved, he’ll die,” Relena said angrily.
Lance didn’t take offense. He knew it was the man’s condition that made her angry, not himself.
Without a word, Lance crouched beside the wounded man and let the Goddess work through him. After one exclamation, Relena fell silent.
When the skin was smooth again, Lance opened his eyes. “Who’s next?”
Wonder touched Relena’s expression, but she didn’t waste time with exclamations or demanding explanations. “Cevan.”
Lance healed Cevan of his festering wound, two graybeards of their crippling arthritis, and five others down with the ague.
The Goddess had just retreated, leaving behind Her customary breath of springtime, when one of Willem’s men, Minast, poked his head inside. “Everybody out! Assemble in front of the main house.”
Relena’s lips tightened at this order, but she started people moving.
Lance offered a reassuring smile, but hurried after Minast. “Why does Fitch want everyone to assemble?” he asked. Surely the freed slaves’ time would be better spent packing?
Minast beamed in excitement, showing stained teeth. “Before we left, Chief Fitch promised every man two pieces of plunder!”
“Plunder?” Lance repeated. Willem was already plundering the grain store, and Fitch would have searched the main house for gold. “Surely Fitch doesn’t believe the slaves own anything of value?”
“Slaves are plunder,” Sara volunteered. Her eyes held neither pity nor horror. “According to Nir, a man’s slaves and belongings are spoils of war. Even his wife may be taken, and he and his children chained, though the rules vary if the enemy is judged to have fought ‘honourably.’”
“I need to talk to Fitch,” Lance said grimly.
“He’s still in the main house,” Minast said, eyeing him nervously.
Lance strode up to the main house, Sara at his side.
He’d been expecting chaos, so the unnatural silence inside made Lance’s hackles rise. Even their sandals on the floor tiles sounded horribly loud.
Turning a corner he saw why. A row of clerks and other non-slave servants knelt in the hall while Fitch paced up and down the line with a drawn sword. A
new gold-and-ruby cuff hugged his biceps.
Lance tensed. He would not stand by if Fitch decided to execute them all—most were elderly men with a few youths and women mixed in. He also saw a Qiph with white streaks in his braids and a serene expression. The slave Esam had spoken of?
Fitch stopped in front of a plain woman with scraped back hair and lifted her chin with the flat of his blade. “Where is your master hiding? I know he’s on the estate.”
The woman’s gaze darted to and fro. She licked her lips. “Please, I don’t—”
“Don’t what? Want to live?” Fitch asked.
She was spared from answering when a Grasslander carried a four-year-old child, kicking and screaming, into the room. The curly-haired girl wore the silk dress of a noble.
“Excellent. Put her with the other usurpers,” Fitch ordered.
For the first time, Lance noticed the three Republicans cowering under guard in one corner. Both men bore bruises and cuts; the younger, fitter one had been battered unconscious. The woman—from the family resemblance, more likely a sister than a wife—had a cut lip, and her dress had been torn half off. Her stare was vacant; she’d almost certainly been raped.
While Lance and the Goddess had been healing the fallen, Fitch and his Grasslanders had apparently been having “fun.”
The Grasslander put his hand over the little girl’s mouth to stifle her, and she bit him. Startled, he dropped her on the floor.
She shrieked again, but got up in a flash and barreled down the hallway. “Pah!”
Fitch laughed as the Grasslander, who was liberally bedecked with gold necklaces, cursed and started after her.
“Nalimis. Here.” The plain-faced servant woman, probably the child’s nursemaid, motioned desperately.
You’re here to save the slaves, not the slave-masters, Lance reminded himself, but he found himself stepping forward nonetheless. He scooped the girl up and, before she could give more than a surprised whoop, deposited her in front of the nursemaid. The woman shot him a grateful look, then gathered the child to her, careful to hide her face.
Fitch frowned at him.
Soul of Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) Page 22