Gird smacked the man nearest him with the flat of his hand. “We’ve got to get them now!” he bellowed. His people surrounded the horsemen several men deep, but were showing no more eagerness to face the frightened horses’ hooves than the horses were to face their poles. “Stand there and they’ll get you all!” he said, flinging himself past those in front to snatch at one horse’s bridle. Its rider aimed a vicious slash at him; Gird ducked, and thrust his belt-knife into the underside of the horse’s jaw. The horse reared, screaming and flailing; Gird caught a hard blow from one hoof, but lunged again. His men yelled; he saw another dart forward, and another. The bowmen could not hit them now without shooting through their own companions. Horses and men screamed; it smelled like a butchering. Gird grabbed for another bridle, and nearly fell; he had slipped in a gush of horse blood. Too bad, his mind said as if from a distance, that we have to kill the beasts for their riders’ sake. And where, his mind went on, are those others that made the dust cloud?
As if in answer to that question, an even louder uproar erupted somewhere behind him. Gird whirled, slipped to one knee in the carnage, and staggered back up. There—downstream a little—it sounded as if Fori’s group had engaged the enemy support without waiting for Gird’s call. Or had he called? He couldn’t remember. He was out of breath, and his leg hurt. When he looked down, he could see a rent in his trousers. The horse’s hoof, probably. He took a deep breath, and bellowed. Those who looked around, he waved toward the new noise. “Fori’s men,” he yelled. “Get in line, idiots, before—” his breath and voice failed together. Someone put a shoulder under his arm; he would have shoved help away, but for the moment he could not. He let himself be helped to the edge of the trampled ground.
Someone handed him a waterskin; he drank, wincing as someone else prodded the gash on his leg. Now he could breathe, and see: all the horsemen down, and half the horses, in a welter of blood. Some of his own dead this time, more wounded. Tending them were women he distinctly remembered from the refugee group… what were they doing down here? He had to get back to the fighting, he reminded himself. When he tried to get up (when had he slid to the ground against this tree?) his leg refused to take his weight.
“Your arm—” said someone behind him.
“It’s my leg,” he growled, but glanced at his arm anyway. A bloody gash had opened it from near his shoulder to his elbow; he stared at it, surprised. He didn’t remember that. A broad-faced woman with tangled reddish hair sluiced the blood off with water from a bucket, laid a compress of leaves on the gash, and wrapped it tightly with a strip of cloth. She touched his head; he winced and pulled back.
“Quite a lump,” she said cheerfully. “We might’s well call you Gird Hardhead as Gird Strongarm.”
“But Fori—” he said.
“Quiet. It’s all right.”
He wanted to say it was not all right, not until the fighting was done and they were safely away. But something with teeth had hold of his leg, and was trying to pull it off. He blinked, grunted, and resolved the monster into two people, one of them holding his leg still while the other cleaned out the ragged wound. It seemed to hurt a lot more than it had; he didn’t know if that was good or bad.
“Gird?” That was Fori’s voice; Gird fought his way through the haze of pain and exhaustion to focus on Fori’s face. Pale, but unmarked; he looked more worried than anything else.
“I’m fine,” said Gird. He would be fine; it was not all a lie.
Fori grinned. “It worked,” he said. “Just like you wanted: we took their reserves in the flank before they knew we were there. And then the others from here—from the first fight—came and got them between us. We lost a few—
“How many, each side?” Thinking about the fight might clear his head.
Fori’s hands flicked, counting it up. “Eight hands of reserves, afoot—our match. Then four hands of horsemen, and two hands in the gap itself: fourteen hands, seventy altogether. All dead. Of ours, eight dead, and four hands wounded, some bad.”
Cob’s head appeared beside Fori’s. “Gird—we’re going to move you now.”
“Move me! I can move myself!” He lunged up, but firm hands pushed him down.
“No. We aren’t going to lose you because you walked all your blood out.” Gird would have fought harder, but his body did not cooperate. He let himself relax onto the rough litter, and endured a miserable bouncy trip to whatever ridiculous site Cob or Felis had picked for a camp.
He woke to firelight, and listened to the voices around him before opening his eyes. He knew at once he was indoors, in some large, mostly bare room. It did not smell like he imagined a prison would smell, and the voices around him sounded tired, but satisfied, happy, quietly confident. Then, in a lower tone, someone said, “What about Gird—do you think—?”
“He’ll be fine,” said the voice of the red-headed woman who had tied up his arm. “If he hadn’t tried to fight the whole battle himself—”
“Did you ever see anything like it!” That was no question; the speaker’s voice carried raw emotion. “Throwing that horse down like a shepherd throws a lamb—”
Did I? wondered Gird. He could remember nothing but the first horse rearing over him, and the hoof raking his leg. Now he came to think of it, that had been the other leg, not the one with the bad gash.
“—Like something out of a tale,” the young voice was going on. Others chimed in, a confusion of details almost as chaotic as the battle itself. Gird felt himself flushing. They made it sound as if he’d waded single-handed into the entire Finaarean army.
“If he dies—” began someone else in a hushed voice.
Gird opened his eyes. “I am not going to die,” he said firmly, glad that his voice carried his intent.
Several men laughed. “I told you,” said Cob. “He’s too stubborn to die.” Under that confidence Gird could hear relief in his voice. He tried to hitch himself up and pain lanced through his head.
“Don’t move,” said the red-headed woman beside him.
“You could have said that before I did.” Gird cleared his throat. With the headache, his other pains awoke again, and he wished he’d stayed asleep.
The woman grinned down at him. “Cranky patients get well faster,” she said. “Soup?”
“Water.” She and another supported his shoulders as he drank, then propped him up. The various pains settled down to a steady but bearable level, and he realized he was hungry after all. And curious: what exactly had happened, and where were they, and who had taken over when he fell on his face? Someone handed the woman a bowl of soup, and she lifted Gird’s head so he could drink it.
He saw movement in the group around the fire. Then his most experienced fighters were around him. “You’re wondering what happened,” said Felis, almost smugly. Gird glared as best he could. Felis had become a good leader, but he could be unbearably smug.
“We were all standing around the riders, having poked and prodded them into a huddle, wondering what to do next, when you jumped out and—”
“I remember that,” Gird said. “It’s what comes after—”
Cob shrugged. “You grew about four hands taller, sprouted wings and horns, and started throwing horses around like sheep. No: you didn’t really get bigger, but you looked bigger. Yelling your head off and covered with blood, and you did throw at least one horse right on its side—I saw that, and so did everyone else. The rider that sliced your arm—you threw him, too, across one horse and into another. The riders panicked, even the bowmen. I think we could have stood there watching you finish them all off, but that was boring after awhile, so we tried it for ourselves.”
“What hit my head?”
“I didn’t see that. We heard the others coming, and Fori’s attack yell, and you told us to go help him. I ran off with my group; when I got back, you were sitting against a tree, not saying much of anything, while Elis here cleaned you up. It was hard to tell which blood was yours.”
Felis broke in. �
��The new formations work perfectly, Gird. Even in the trees—I admit I’d wondered if that practice going between trees was good for anything, but now I know it is.”
“Of course, we outnumbered them,” said Ivis. “Two to one.”
“More than that.” Gird shifted, testing the limits of his pain. “They were stupid enough to come to us in pieces. We had three to one on the first group, more like five to one against the horsemen.”
“But—oh.” Gird could see by their faces that they were working this out for themselves.
“Remember what I told you. What counts is how many against how many at the point of contact. If they’re not in the fight, they don’t count.”
Fori spoke up. “But we were even against their reinforcements, at first. And we were moving them—I think we could have won.”
“Probably. I hope so. But you’d have had more losses, and a harder fight. We’re good, lads, and better than before, but it never hurts to let them make it easy for us. If we can take them at good odds, why not? Now—where are we?”
They chuckled, slightly sheepish chuckles. Cob said. “You aren’t going to like this.”
“What?” He tried to roar, but it didn’t come out as a roar, more as a peevish growl.
“We’re in Overbridge. In the soldiers’ barracks.”
“You idiots!” That time it did come out as a roar, and faces turned to him. He struggled to sit all the way up, and nearly made it.
“Listen to me.” Cob had a hand on his chest, with weight behind it if he didn’t lie back. He lay back, simmering. “There are no more soldiers in Overbridge. The ones we killed were stationed here; the barton is sure none got away. The nearest beyond are past Burry, at a road crossing. We sent word to Burry—and you know the Burry yeomen.” He did know the Burry yeomen, as determined as any; if they swore no one would get through from Overbridge, no one would. “This village is delighted with us—those guards camped here all winter drinking up the ale and rolling the local girls, even a few with babies coming. We killed them without trampling the fields, or involving the local yeomen. They begged us to come in, offered us food, even the little ale the guards hadn’t found—”
“Ale—” said Gird meditatively. That should dull his headache. “But we can’t stay here,” he said, looking around to see if he could spot a likely jug.
“Of course not.” Cob reached back, and someone handed him a jug. He dangled it in front of Gird’s nose. “But for one night, while certain persons take their well-earned rest—”
“You do have sentries out?”
“Of course. Don’t we always do what you tell us?”
Gird heaved himself up on his uninjured elbow; someone behind him helped him up until he was braced against the wall. He got his hands around the jug, and sniffed it. Yes, just what he needed. He took a long swallow that warmed his throat on its way down. He offered the jug to Cob, who shook his head.
“I’ve had some. Now, about our wounded: three of them won’t be able to travel for days, maybe weeks—” Gird took another swallow, and felt the edge come off his aches and pains. Behind the throb in his head, his mind was beginning to work again. Wounded who could walk tomorrow—in two days—not for a long time. Members of the Overbridge barton who wanted to come along rather than stay home and farm. Villagers who wanted to meet the man who had thrown down a horse. Felis wanted to tell him about the weapons they’d taken from the dead soldiers and those found in the armory. Ivis had questions about food supplies for the next march, and Rahi—when had she appeared at his side?—Rahi had one of her herbal brews that puckered his mouth after the ale.
He woke next in the cool colorless light of dawn, his head pillowed on Rahi’s lap; he looked up to see her slumped gracelessly against the wall, snoring. His head throbbed; he could not tell if it was the ale or the lump. He tried to reach up to scratch his itching hair, but chose the wrong arm; his wince woke her, and she smiled at him with a look that turned his heart. He could not stand for her to be here, for her to be leaning over him as he had so often leaned over her.
“You put me to sleep,” he said quietly, holding her gaze. “You told them to give me ale, and then you had that brew—”
Rahi grinned. “You needed the rest, and you’d have stayed up all night, arguing and keeping everyone awake. Besides, we wanted to clean your wounds again. That hurts.”
“Not so badly now,” he said, moving arm and leg gingerly.
“You told us, clean makes fast healing. And we have two healers, now. From Overbridge.”
“We still need to move, leave here before someone comes.” Some large army they could not handle, a commander smarter than the one that had let Gird pit his entire force against three separate smaller ones.
But that day was spent reorganizing after the battles. Gird fretted less as he realized it was not entirely faked for his benefit, and less still when one of the healers had time to draw the pain from his head and lay it on the soldiers’ hearth. Where, she insisted cheerfully, it really belonged. He thought to ask about Selamis, who had been traveling with the noncombatants, since he could not hold a weapon.
“He looks bad,” said Ivis. “Sad, miserable—I suppose part of it’s the pain. But his wife and daughter—he can’t help thinking about them.” Ivis’s losses were far in his past, a young wife dead of fever, children never born alive. Gird thought he knew the anguish Selamis was feeling now (where was Girnis, his other daughter? She had married a lad from Fireoak, but neither of them had come to the wood when Fireoak village broke up. He had not asked Barin about her, not wanting to know.) He looked around but did not see him. Ivis interpreted the look correctly, and said “He’s explaining the accounts to Triga.”
Gird felt as if someone had poked him with a pin. “Accounts? He can read?”
“So he says.” Ivis could not, and was glad of it. “Says he can calculate, too. And write.”
“I’ll keep him busy,” Gird said. “We need someone who can keep track of what we have.”
Meanwhile, his army had gathered all the clothing and equipment the soldiers had had—those with no shoes or boots tried on the soldiers’ until they found some that fit or were comfortably large and could be stuffed with rags or tags of fleece. The soldiers’ clothes, washed in the stream and dried on bushes, became shirts and tunics for those with no clothes, and patch material for those whose clothes needed patching. In the soldiers’ kitchen were the huge cookpots he remembered, and longhandled utensils. The heavy storage jars would be impossible to carry along (and now, he thought, I know why their army needs wagons), but the food stored in the pantry would fit into sacks. They had fifty-nine swords now (some had broken during the fights), four bows gathered after the battle and another forty found in the armory. Gird spared a moment’s thanks that the soldiers had chosen to go after them with swords instead of carrying those bows along. Best of all, the armory had racks of pikes, eighty of them.
Gird limped over to the racks and touched one gleaming tip. He lifted it from the rack and felt the balance. Not that different from the sticks—the gnomes were right about that, too. And if they carried them for a few days, the new weapons would feel normal.
“That should go through a little easier,” Felis said behind him. Gird noted that Felis did not specify what it would go through easily. He knew that some of them were still shaken by their own violence, by the knowledge that they, too, were men who could kill.
“We have the gods to thank for this,” Gird said. He turned and looked at those who had followed him into the armory. They all nodded; eyes down. “We earned the victory this time. But it will not come so easily again.” They did not like hearing that, but it was the truth, and he could not lie to them. He had won at Norwalk Sheepfolds in spite of his own mistakes, because the enemy had not expected anything. He had won here, as easily as he had, because of the enemy’s mistakes. Some day he would face a commander who made no mistakes, and then—He shook his head. Time enough for that later. Now they must
thank the gods who had been with them, who had helped them.
His people had no rituals for celebrating victory in war, because they had not fought a war—at least not in living memory. Gird conferred with the oldest men and women he could find; none of them knew the right ritual. In the end, Gird combined the thanksgiving ceremonies for Alyanya’s permission to open the ground— which should hallow their use of the steel they carried—with the harvest prayers for those who had died in the past year. Sweating with both nervousness and pain, he limped from the soldiers’ barracks to the bridge over the stream, and threw in a ritual handful of grain, of flowers (gathered that day by village children), of mint leaves. The oldest granny laid a fire in the center of the village square; he led everyone in a slow dance around it. The fire burned bright, upright and clean: did that mean the gods were satisfied? He did not know. He felt both sadness and contentment, grief worn out with time, as the harvest lament always left him. The fire spurted up, suddenly, burning blue as the summer sky; Gird felt a wash of heat across him, as if he’d been dipped in it—but he was not burned, and the fire had fallen back to its wooden roots in an instant. All the hair stood up on his neck. They said something, he told himself. And I’d better figure out what it was…
It had looked simpler on the model in the gnomes hall. Gird wiped sweat off his forehead and scowled at the stragglers moving along the trail past him. Go north like this, they’d said, and capture this stronghold, they’d said, and then send part of your force over here to capture this other stronghold which controls… it had made perfect sense. There, with gnome soldiers. He could almost understand the gnomish disapproval of undisciplined humans.
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