The Bonemender

by Holly Bennett

  He came back to the chestnut, laid his hand on her forehead, and asked her simply: Will you carry me? When he settled on her back, she tossed her head a bit at the unfamiliar feeling, then steadied. With the black in tow, they followed the twisting path leading into the clouds.

  CHAPTER 17

  THEIR departure was not how Gabrielle had pictured it. She had imagined the brave Verdeau troops, rank on rank, charging out of town at full gallop. And they had, eventually, marched out of town in ordered ranks, but only after a long, noisy, crowded gathering in the fields outside of the castle. The army was three thousand men strong, one-third on horseback, followed by endless carts of food, weaponry, medical and other supplies. It takes a very long time to get three thousand men all en route along a road wide enough for three horses, Gabrielle discovered. The bonemenders, among the last in line, stood in the field for over half the day before they finally got underway.

  She had been right about the need for leadership. The bone-menders did not all consider themselves to be under military command. During the long wait, some became frustrated and angry, as if their time were being wasted deliberately. Some had decided to wander into town for a last pint while they waited. It was Gabrielle’s diplomatic insistence that kept them in their places, ready to move out when their turn came.

  They marched until dark, then set up their camps strung out along both sides of the road. Without the bottleneck effect they had experienced on first setting out, their departure the next morning was swift.

  After three more days, traveling north on the River Road from dawn until dark, the army had passed Ratigouche and crossed over the border of La Maronne. By then Gabrielle, like everyone else, was weary and footsore. That evening she sent the bonemenders throughout the camp, treating blisters and pulled muscles, knowing these small complaints could lead to serious problems if ignored.

  At Gaudette, the royal city of La Maronne, they learned that the bulk of the Maronnais army, some twenty-five hundred men, had marched out two days previous to take up position at the Eastern Gateway. On the sixth day they crossed the Smoky River, and Gabrielle felt a thrill of recognition. The Smoky, and Otter Lake beyond it, had been among the landmarks mentioned in Féolan’s note. Foolish though it was, she couldn’t shake the feeling that at any moment he might wander out of the woods and step onto the road before her eyes.

  The land grew rough and the road narrower. They were entering the Maronnais highlands, leading up to the Krylian Mountains. Still, they made the approach to the pass before noon on the eighth day. The troops were given leave to rest where they were while Jerome and his general took stock of the terrain and developed their battle plan. Gabrielle and her bonemenders took shifts, leaving one on duty for the steady trickle of patients with blisters, sprains, cuts or colds. She forced herself to roll in a blanket and rest, though her instinct was to see to these men herself. She did leave word that any serious sprains should be sent to her for healing. Sprains could take days to resolve on their own, and the soldiers needed to be fit for active combat.

  By suppertime, officers were making their way to all units, instructing them to set up camp behind the ridge of hills they were now sprawled along. Gabrielle braced herself. If she were to encounter Jerome, it would be now, as he toured the area to ensure the men were all placed as he wished. Instead, a happy surprise: Tristan himself appeared just as the last peg for the medic tent was hammered into place. Gabrielle was rummaging in a crate of medical supplies when she heard his voice. She stood, flipped back her long braid and grinned a welcome. “Come to have your blistered feet treated, my lord? Surely not, when you ride such a fine steed!”

  “Blistered rear, more like,” returned Tristan. He jumped off his horse and slung an arm around her shoulders. “How are you holding up, Gabi? Make the journey all right?”

  “Fine, Tris. I’m fine.” Gabrielle looked around her in mock despair. “It’s going to take a while to get this set-up organized, though. It seems bonemenders aren’t so skilled at pitching tents and lugging crates.”

  “We should have a couple of days, maybe more, before anything happens,” he replied. “At least you’ve set up in the assigned place. That’s better than some managed.” The clinic area was at the back of the camp, beside the road. “Will this spot do, Gabi?” Tristan asked. “It’s a bit of a ways to carry a wounded man, but you can’t have the bonemenders trying to work in the midst of battle.”

  “I don’t really know where we should be,” Gabrielle confessed. “This seems as good a place as any.” In truth, she couldn’t picture an actual battle in her mind at all. Presumably, their soldiers would be positioned along the ridge, and the armies would engage in the valley below them. But it didn’t seem real. Right now, the camp was full of purposeful bustle and the smell of cookfires, with no hint of an enemy anywhere. The scene felt more like a giant picnic than a prelude to war.

  THE HEIGHTS OF the pass were treacherous, the rocky path buried in places by deep snow, rushing with snowmelt in others and buffeted by fierce winds always. Féolan had kept the black gelding with him overnight, then sent him home, but he still traveled with the chestnut mare. She had saved him travel time in the lower stretches, but these high narrow cuts were difficult for any horse, and their progress was slow. Still Arda—he had named her Arda—kept him warm on the coldest nights, trusted him to lead her along the most perilous paths and stood beside him, snorting defiance when the timber wolves howled their hunting song. He did not once consider leaving her behind. The generous heart he had sensed within her had blossomed day by day, and the ties of affection and loyalty between them were already strong.

  For three days they struggled, picking their way around fallen boulders and sheets of ice slick with a layer of meltwater. Féolan grew gaunt with hunger, having subsisted only on the light rations he had found packed in his pursuers’ saddlebags. Arda too had found little to eat in that bleak landscape. But late on the fourth day, he noticed that the walking was easier. Their way now sloped downhill. Sparse vegetation returned, and with it signs of animal life. That night, for the first time, the snares he set before sleeping caught a hare. By the end of the fifth day, he was able to ride most of the time. I may not be out of the mountains yet, but I’m out of the woods, he thought. Remembering his harrowing stay in Gref Oris, he was thankful to be returning in one piece.

  He still had to decide where he was headed. Straight to Stone-water, to urge military action? Or was there time to find and alert the Humans first? Surely they would be moving into place by now, and he would find someone, if only a sentry force, at the entrance to the pass.

  HE FOUND SOMEONE, all right. He found some very nervous sentries who almost shot him before he could identify himself.

  “Hold!” he shouted as arrows whistled past his ears. He stooped low over Arda, realizing that only the murky light of dusk had kept him from death. Berating himself for wandering unprotected into a battle zone, he bellowed the names that would proclaim him a friend. “I seek King Jerome DesChênes’ forces! I am a friend of the Verdeau people! I have news of the Gref Orisé!” Idiot. You’re not in Verdeau, and they don’t call them Gref Orisé, his mind babbled. What in eternal night was the Maronnais king’s name? He couldn’t remember.

  It didn’t matter. It was Jerome’s own sentries who had spotted him. After some rather excited demands that he identify himself further, throw down his weapons and dismount from his horse, he found himself face to face with the Verdeau soldiers. Within an hour, having told the sentries all he knew, he was on his way again, galloping east toward the Smoky River.

  CHAPTER 18

  IT was a waiting game now: waiting for the runners to reach the Eastern Gateway and summon help; waiting for the Maronnais army to arrive; waiting for the Greffaires to strike. No main road led from the Eastern Gateway to their own location at the Skyway Pass, though shepherd paths and cart tracks did meander along the edge of the foothills. A couple of runners could make good speed through that country
, if they did not mistake their way, but not a full army. It was difficult to guess what route their reinforcements would choose and how long they might take.

  Tristan brought the news to the clinic station, bursting in with his usual lack of preamble. “Gabi, there’s news! You won’t believe it; it’s from Féolan.”

  Gabrielle’s face flushed red before she could stop it. That rushing in her ears when she heard his name—would it never stop?

  Tristan noticed. “Damn the gods, Gabi, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking ... “

  “Forget about it,” said Gabrielle, overlooking his crude language as well. She had become used to far worse in recent days. “What’s happened?”

  Quickly Tristan filled her in.

  “Do we have enough men?” she asked.

  “Not if Féolan’s numbers are right. Not unless the Maronnais get here in time. They’ve sent runners. You know,” he went on, “I would think the mountains are just barely passable now. Féolan must have gone over there weeks ago. I wonder how he got through.”

  Gabrielle just shook her head. The Greffaires were coming. Now it was real.

  The days passed. The men grew jumpy and tense; training drills were apt to erupt into angry scuffles. Tristan proved his worth ten times over in those days, keeping his men alert and focused while smoothing over the rough edges of tension. Gabrielle and her bonemenders fine-tuned their makeshift clinic, setting up a workspace well stocked with supplies for each bonemender and a waiting area for the injured. They prepared poultices that would need only to be steeped in hot water before use, and Gabrielle herself boiled up the precise mix of mandragora and henbane that would be used—poured onto a cloth and held over the patient’s nostrils if he was unable to drink—to allay the pain of the most terrible wounds. She gathered together the military medics and reviewed their training. And then she too waited.

  The runners returned, horses and riders stumbling with exhaustion. The Maronnais were coming, but they would be at least three more days. They would cross the Smoky River at the ford at Loutre and make their way up the main road from there.

  IT WAS JUST PAST noon when the sentries flew into camp, and the alarms started blaring. The Greffaires were moving through the foothills, maybe an hour away, not much more. The Verdeau army prepared hurriedly, cookfires abandoned in a rush for helmets, weaponry and horses. They were massed on the ridge in orderly ranks, looking north into the wide valley General Fortin had chosen for the battle, before any sign of the enemy could be seen. Brave and bold they stood, row on row of silver helms and resolute faces. The sight stirred even Gabrielle’s heart with wild hope. She and a few of the other noncombatants climbed a hill behind the ridge so that they too could gaze north, waiting for the first figures to appear on the other side.

  The vista was beautiful, were they in a mood to see it. The valley spread out below them, open and green, between dark walls of forest. It narrowed to a finger on the far side where it swept up toward the mountains. And behind rose the dark Krylians, forested hills stacked like massed soldiers before the soaring, bare peaks of the highest summits.

  When they came it was like a river spilling down the hillside and flooding the plain. The Verdeau men fell silent, the brave jokes and boasts dried up in their throats as the huge army spread out to face them. Gabrielle reminded herself that many of these Greffaires were untrained and unwilling serfs. Still, her heart sank. The sheer advantage of their numbers was crushing.

  “They are three to our one,” the mess boy beside her muttered. His face was gray with fear.

  “Battles are not won by numbers alone. And the Maronnais ride to our aid,” she told him. But she had to force the words out. This battle, she knew, would not be won.

  A sudden, desperate thought came to her. She ran back to the clinic, rummaged in boxes until she found ink and a scrap of parchment, and scribbled a note. Then pulling a much-folded paper from her inside pocket, she thrust both in an empty medicine bag.

  “Here, Pascal, is it? How would you like to get out of here and help Verdeau while you’re at it? Can you read a map?” She pulled out Féolan’s paper and went over the directions with the youth, who was all too happy to volunteer. Soon he was on one of the older horses that had been tethered behind the clinic tent. “Ask the villagers and shepherds to help you find the landmarks. When you are near the place, call out. There will be hidden sentries. Let them know whom you seek and from whom you are sent. All luck be with you.” She smacked the horse on the rear, sending him cantering down the road.

  IN FACT, THE Greffaire army had not expected to meet resistance this close to the border. Commander Col had been confident that his invasion would surprise the people of the Krylian Basin. He had not expected significant fighting before Gaudette; he had even allowed himself to hope they might advance into Verdeau before any sizeable force could be mustered against him. The first sight of the massed ranks gathered along the ridge, obviously well prepared and waiting, had given Col some unpleasant moments.

  If General Fortin had known Col’s thoughts, he would have also known that the Greffaire soldiers had not taken the precaution of donning their battle armor before entering enemy territory. But he was not sure, and he could not see past the thick ranks of the conscripts, who had been driven ahead of the regular troops right through the mountain pass. So, instead of calling for an immediate charge across the valley and striking while the Greffaire army was still in some confusion, he had waited, opting instead to make them come across to more favorable ground. He thus lost an important advantage, but he preserved the position of his archers, now hidden in the corridors of scrubby woodland that bordered the plain to east and west. And, perhaps more important, he kept open the line of retreat.

  Looking across the valley as his troops scrambled to suit up for battle, Col decided that he had little to worry about, except perhaps the dark clouds massing along the eastern horizon. The opposing force was almost laughably small. Why, he had nearly as many conscripts as their entire army! And he did not think he was mistaken that their warriors were poorly protected: he could make out helmets, but the mid-day sun would have glinted off full armor. They would be no match for his full-suited elite. Col grinned. It would be good for the men to taste victory so early in the campaign.

  THE STONEWATER COUNCIL had been disturbed enough by Féolan’s description of the Gref Orisé regime to call together a Council of Elders. Féolan chafed against the delay, but knew this was the only way to effect a full-scale Elvish resistance. His own community was too small to mount a significant force.

  It was only days, though it seemed like weeks, before he found himself addressing the leaders of the Elvish people, many unknown to him, all at least a century his senior. He knew that his youth, not to mention the impulsive foolishness of his foray across the mountains, hardly recommended him. Still, many in the room held personal memories of the last Gref Orisé invasion, and though they might not be anxious to repeat the losses of that struggle, they ought at least to recognize the truth of his story.

  In detail, he laid out what he had seen and heard. His conclusion was passionate: “I cannot describe to you the oppression endured by these people. Even their own citizens know no freedom. If the Gref Orisé prevail in this land, never again will we wander at will across the countryside. Our settlements are secret now because we wish it so—but they will become secret of necessity, for our very survival. If we become known, we will be hunted. We will be prisoners in our own homeland.”

  The silence dragged on as the Elders considered his words. Féolan stood patiently, knowing this could not be rushed. At last there followed several clarifying questions of a tactical nature—details of the Gref Orisé weaponry, fighting style, body armor—which encouraged Féolan hugely. Finally, a senior Elder, her eyes deep wells of age, rose to speak.

  “It appears to me,” she said, “that we would be most effective striking at this army not on the battlefield but while they are en route or encamped, hitting suddenly and
by surprise and then fading away. That uses our strengths against their weaknesses, does it not? I do not discount that there might also arise a reason to join our force of arms with the Humans in a direct encounter, but as a general strategy we might hamper their progress significantly through progressive ambushes. What think you, Féolan?”

  Startled at being asked a further opinion, Féolan gathered his thoughts. “One thing I did not mention is that Gref Oris—at least the part I saw—is an open country, full of wide plains and few trees. They are unused to woodlands. I suspect this type of warfare is unknown to them.”

  The atmosphere in the room sharpened as many unspoken thoughts were exchanged. The Council was moving toward a decision.

  Another spoke. “The Humans oppose these Gref Orisé already. They may succeed. Why not watch their progress and stand ready to send our own people should they falter?”

  Féolan could not keep silent. “Will we send the Humans to die on our behalf?” he demanded. “Does the short season of their lives make them worth less than our own? This seems to me a shameful proposal.”

  The head of Féolan’s own Council, Tilumar, narrowed his eyes.