“Happens to many the first time,” he grunted, just before dunking Yozef completely into the water. Then he jerked Yozef back, stood him upright, and left him there. Yozef was now wet everywhere, evidence of his weak bladder obscured.
The St. Sidryn’s medicants dropped their weapons, for all able bodies had been part of the defense, picked up their medical bags, and began tending the wounded. Considering the number of defender bodies, the casualties of the defenders were relatively few. That fact was of little consolation to those few. The dead themselves no longer cared, but their families either knew or would soon know. Injuries varied from abrasions and bruises that would heal on their own to wounds that required staunching and stitching, to a few truly hideous wounds. One man was missing half of his lower jaw. Several had deep slashes that might have reached internal organs. A man missing an arm below the elbow moaned, as medicants carried him inside. And others. Yozef wandered around, thinking to himself that he wanted to help, but mainly just moving and doing something, instead of thinking and recollecting what had just happened and how close he’d come to dying.
Yozef had dropped the old spear. His leg ached where the spent round had struck. His head spun. He was about to look for Denes and Carnigan, and when he turned, right under his feet sprawled the body of a young boy. A gash gaped across his chest, probably by a raider axe, since the wound cleaved halfway through the small chest. The boy’s eyes gazed wide, sightless at the sky, a surprised look on his face. It was Yonkel Miron. Yozef stared disbelieving, hoping somehow he was wrong. He sank to his knees, putting a hand on the boy’s bare leg already growing cold. Yonkel would never attend the abbey scholasticum for which Yozef thought he had potential. The boy’s curiosity, boundless energy, and potential were gone. Yozef’s mouth tasted bile at the pointlessness.
When once again aware of his surroundings, Yozef realized that other people knelt around Yonkel. Yozef had never sensed them come. It was Yonkel’s family. He recognized the parents, a sister, other children who must be siblings, cousins, and several adults—aunts, uncles, and grandparents. Most cried. They must have waited for Yozef to return to the world, for once he made eye contact, the father patted him on the shoulder, and weeping women wrapped Yonkel’s body in a cloak and laid it on a cloth. The men then picked up the corners, and the family walked out of the gate with their sad burden.
While Yozef knelt beside Yonkel, Denes, the abbot, and several other men climbed the rampart to look seaward. It had been half an hour since the last raider fled the courtyard. There were other raider groups, the one that had deployed for a possible assault on the abbey side wall, and the group that had first gone to the village. If they chose, the raiders could make another try at the abbey, but Denes didn’t think they would.
“Doubtful,” he told the abbot. “These are not Narthani, although I suspect they are in the employ of the Narthani. These are pirates, raiders, general free-booters. They aren’t out for conquest, only gold and slaves. They won’t shed blood if it’s not in their interest. The Narthani might try again after their losses, but not these people.”
He was right. The different raider groups gathered out of musket range and then headed toward the shore. Denes and the others watched, as they loaded onto their longboats and rowed to the waiting five ships.
Homeward Bound
Musfar Adalan watched the raid from the aftcastle of his flagship, using a powerful telescope made in Iraquinik. It had cost enough that he almost didn’t buy it, but it had proved its worth many a time. The edge of the village and the abbey complex were visible upslope from the beach. Although from a mile he couldn’t resolve details, he observed enough to know something had gone wrong. Instead of the assault on the abbey following Abel’s plan, a number of men had gone straight for the main gate—which even from this distance looked open. Something could have made Abel change the plan at the last moment, but Musfar doubted it. Abel was meticulous in planning and loath to change, unless necessary. More likely, Abel lost control of the Benhoudi.
As men poured through the abbey main gate, he saw a group of men headed toward the side wall of the complex, according to plan, then stop as Musfar heard faint musket fire—two volleys. There was no way the Benhoudi would be firing musket volleys in this situation; it had to be the islanders. Three or four minutes later, a small group ran from the abbey back toward the main body, far fewer than had entered the main gate. Obviously, most of his men were still inside, and the speed of the runners and the lack of new musket fire likely meant no more men would be coming out. The carefully planned raid had collapsed.
The group of men sweeping the village joined the remaining men nearer the abbey; then a few minutes later the entire mass headed to the beach. There was only one explanation. The attack on the abbey had cost so many men that Abel decided it was not worth continuing. Either there were more men inside the abbey complex than the Narthani had told them, or Abel believed the defenders too well positioned to be defeated without unacceptable loses.
Musfar turned to the grizzled man at his side, a veteran of many years and innumerable raids and a trusted clan member. “Memur, get two good men and find something here on the aftcastle they can appear to be doing.”
The man’s eyes narrowed, as he translated the meaning of Musfar’s words.
The three Narthani officers watched the action ashore with a lesser telescope and reacted when the raiding party started back to the beach. The leader, followed by the other two, stormed across the deck and climbed to where Musfar pretended to observe the shore.
“What’s the meaning of this!” raged the Narthani. “Your men are coming back without taking the abbey!”
“I can only assume the raid didn’t go as planned and the commander on shore decided to abort and return to the ships.”
“There’s still time to take the abbey as planned. You must go ashore yourself and order your men back!”
“I don’t ‘must’ have to do anything. We’re here to carry out raids that are supposed to be easy with the information you provide us. Mostly, it has worked well; this time it didn’t. I’m not in this to lose more men than the return justifies. You should be happy that this is only the second raid that has not gone well.” Memur returned with two crewmembers, and they busied themselves with redoing knots on ropes tied to the gunwale.
The Narthani leader turned red, gritted his teeth, and moved near Musfar so that he smelled the other’s breath. “You will do as you are told, or you will answer to General Akuyun when we return.”
Actually, Musfar knew Akuyun was smart and rational, not like this idiot. Who did he think he was to make such threats, with only three of them on a ship of Musfar’s men?
“My pardon, now that you’ve shown me the necessary action, I will carry it out immediately.” In one quick motion, Musfar pulled his dirk and drove it into the Narthani’s diaphragm. The man’s face registered shock. Musfar jerked the dirk back out and grabbed the man’s hair, turned his head, and slit his throat.
Before the other two Narthani reacted, one’s head was crushed under a belaying pin, and the other Narthani took another dirk into a kidney. The third wasn’t quite dead when all three were unceremoniously dumped overboard.
“Thank you,” Musfar complimented his men. He always believed in making sure efficient actions were appreciated. By this time, several of the ship’s crew had seen what happened and came running with weapons drawn. Musfar held up a hand to indicate all was well.
“What was that all about?” asked one sword wielder.
“It seems the raid today did not go well, and Abel is bringing the men back. Our Narthani employers thought we should continue the raid until taking the abbey, evidently no matter the cost. I respectfully disagreed.”
One officer spit over the side to indicate his opinion of the Narthani. “I assume this means we’ll not be staying in these waters?”
“No,” said Musfar with a humorless smile. “After due consideration, I think it’s time we returned
home.”
Fifteen minutes later, the first longboat rowed alongside, and Abel Adalan climbed to where Musfar waited on deck.
“Cursed Benhoudi got suckered into charging the open gate, instead of following the plan,” he reported. “It was a trap. Most of them were killed. It was such a total disaster, I decided that either there were more islanders than the Narthani had told us about, or the islanders somehow knew we were coming. Either way, I decided the risk to our men too great to continue.” Abel stopped his brief report and looked at his commander and cousin for signs of approval or reproach.
“What of our illustrious Benhoudi? How many of them are left? And is Abulli among them?”
“Maybe thirty. Unfortunately, no Abulli.”
“Unfortunate, indeed. I would have liked to hang him in front of his men for disobeying orders. Oh, well, one can’t have everything.”
Abel glanced around. “Am I missing something, or is there an absence of our Narthani friends?”
“They were so dismayed at today’s events that they decided to swim back to Preddi City. I hope they’ll arrive in due fashion. However, we won’t be able to confirm this, since as soon as all the men are aboard, we’ll go directly to our base camp at Rocklyn, pick up our other ship, load the remaining booty from previous raids and the provisions we set aside for just this eventuality, and set sail for Buldor.”
The Battle of St. Sidryn’s was over.
Chapter 33: Aftermath
Surveying the Damage
The courtyard fighting lasted minutes, and surprisingly, given the ferocity, there were few Keelan casualties: eleven dead and twenty-three seriously wounded.
“Well,” mused Yozef aloud, as his eyes followed the last wounded being taken inside the hospital, “at least this is the place to be wounded, if it has to happen to you. God. Imagine if the wounded were hours or even days away from the medicants.”
While many of the wounds were not immediately life threatening, gruesome results from musket and blade battles were inevitable. Ether was used to quiet victims, while gashes and stab wounds were cleaned, debrided, and sewn closed, and limbs too damaged, amputated. Yozef later learned the medicants used ether to end the suffering of three victims with terminal wounds.
He felt numb as he helped clean up the courtyard. Wagons were brought to the front gate and bodies of the Buldorians stacked onto wagon beds after being stripped of weapons and any useful armor. Yozef couldn’t bring himself to help with the bodies but tried to help gather equipment being saved. This effort lasted until he picked up a sword and found the handle coated with half-dried blood, presumably the owner’s, since the blade was unmarred. He dropped the sword and stared at reddish brownish globs and stains on his hand. His gorge rose, as he staggered to the water trough, then furiously shook his hand in the water and rubbed it against the trough wood, not wanting to touch it with his other hand. When he couldn’t see any more of the raider’s blood, he bolted from the courtyard and lurched out a side gate toward his house. Instead of following the worn and winding path, he aimed straight for home, cutting through brush and trees. Halfway there, his legs gave out, and he sat on a bed of dead leaves under the trees, gasping for breath and shaking.
The sun was up, the morning mist gone, and under the forest canopy he could feel the usual breeze off the ocean. The filtered sunlight made dancing spots on the dry leaves, as their living brethren quivered above. Time passed, while he calmed himself and processed the events. Now what should he do? The planned tasks of the day seemed so trivial. Go home? For what? And the people? What of the people here he knew? Were any of them among the casualties? Carnigan was okay. He saw Filtin helping the wounded. What about Cadwulf? Going down the list brought up the image of Yonkel. Yozef’s eyes watered, but this time he felt mad. Mad at whoever had so savagely taken the boy’s life, mad at the raider’s people, mad at the Caedelli for not protecting the weak, mad at the Watchers for putting him here, mad at the universe, and so mad at a rock he sat next to, he picked it up and hurled it into the brush.
He was unaware of time passing. Finally, he rose, walked back to the abbey complex, and reentered through the same side gate he’d used to flee the carnage site. Would anyone notice he’d left? Would anyone care? People scurried about, attending to various tasks. In the courtyard, the last of the bodies were still being gathered, the stacks of raider weapons and armor piled to one side, and Caedelli working to dismantle the barricade. Many horsemen milled outside the main gate, and a cluster of men huddled near the center of the courtyard. He recognized the abbot, Denes, and a man he thought was Longnor Vorwich, boyerman of this district.
He joined the others as they dismantled the barricade, not knowing where most of the parts originated and looking for something he recognized. A dozen or more men concentrated on the cathedral pews, and he found himself on one end of a pew with another man at the opposite end. About half of the pews were already back in place. Brother Fitham directed their placement, his left arm held to his side by a bloody cloth wrapping, his face pale but determined. Yozef hadn’t realized he was covered in sweat until the coolness inside the cathedral brought on a chill. When they set the pew down, the man on the other end turned. It was Cadwulf.
“Yozef!” the young man exclaimed. “I didn’t see you after the fight! I was worried.”
“I’ve been around. Helping where I could.” Peeing myself and almost puking.
“You’re all right, though? I saw you next to Carnigan, then lost sight of you.”
Yozef was quiet, as they walked back out for another pew. In the noon sunlight, Yozef’s chill faded. They pulled another pew off a line of hay bales.
“How many were killed?” he asked in a detached voice.
“Too many,” Cadwulf replied grimly. “It’s fortunate there weren’t more.” Cadwulf recited names, most of which Yozef didn’t recognize. He did know Yonkel, one of his kerosene lantern workers, and an abbey brother he knew of only by name and appearance, a short, balding man who worked with the livestock. The brother had always had given Yozef a friendly smile when they passed each other. The smile was gone forever, and Yozef wondered idly if the animals would notice they had a new attendant.
He frowned, angry at himself. What was the brother’s name? Christ! I don’t even know what his name was!
He shook himself. “How about the raiders?”
“Looked like at least eighty bodies. Damn their souls to eternal damnation!”
“Where are the bodies going? I saw them being put into wagons.”
“Out to the refuse pits. They’ll be burned down to ash and buried with the rest of the garbage.”
Yozef imaged what served as the garbage dump about a mile farther inland, a natural dry gully where locals dumped refuse, and which accounted for the relative lack of the general odors and decay he had expected from a seventeenth- or eighteenth-century-level settlement. The image of raider bodies being dumped into the gully and then set afire brought up images of World War II concentration camps, though in this case the image was accompanied by satisfaction.
“Did Denes question any wounded raiders? Who are they, and why did they do this?”
“Buldorians,” spat Cadwulf. Yozef’s expression was blank. “Buldorians,” repeated Cadwulf. “From a small country on the Ganolar continent. Pirates, slavers, and anything else you can image. One of them confirmed the Narthani were behind it.”
“Any more information from them?”
“That was all we needed.”
There must have more information. Maybe the Caedelli didn’t recognize the value of any small pieces of information. “Where are the prisoners now?” he asked.
“Dumped with the others, of course.”
Yozef swallowed. So much for further interrogations.
“Yozef, what’s wrong with your leg?”
“My leg?”
“You’re limping, and that’s blood on your pants.”
Yozef looked down. His clothes had dried after Carniga
n’s dunking, but now something soaked the right leg of the pants below his knee. “I don’t . . . ” He didn’t finish before a pain washed over him and he collapsed to the ground. “Agh! What’s goin’ on?”
Cadwulf helped roll up the pants leg. Yozef’s fingers poked through two holes in the cloth, and he almost fainted when his shin was exposed. A two-inch furrow gouged across his white skin, blood caked across half of the lower leg, more blood seeping from the wound.
“You’re shot!”
“Oh, fuck!” Yozef slipped into English, then back to Caedelli. “It was a ricochet off Carnigan’s shield. I thought it just hit me and bounced off.”
“You didn’t feel this?”
“No. Not till just now.”
“Well, it needs to be cleaned and sewn up. I’ll help you into the hospital. Doesn’t look serious, but you’ll have a good scar.”
Report to Boyerman Vorwich
The rider Denes Vegga dispatched for help nearly killed his horse in getting to Clengoth. Boyerman Vorwich himself and fifty men were on the road back to the abbey within fifteen minutes. Another hundred men followed thirty minutes later. They had no way to know the fighting at St. Sidryn’s Abbey was over before the first group left Clengoth. When they arrived at the abbey, it had been only three hours since the first sighting of the Buldorian ships and two hours since the raiders were back aboard and gone.
Vorwich shook his head at the pile of Buldorian weapons. “I still can hardly believe the miracle that you fought them off with so few men.”
Sistian took a deep breath and turned his head skyward. “A miracle it may well be, Longnor. If it was, then I will need to pray thanksgiving for many an hour. When it was all happening, everything was a blur.”
“What on Anyar’s name made you think to let them into the complex, instead of defending the walls? It worked, but it’s insane,” queried a grizzled, burly man in the boyerman’s party.
Cast Under an Alien Sun (Destiny's Crucible) Page 36
