The Bonemender

by Holly Bennett

  Just that afternoon, Fortin himself had lectured Tristan about the importance of control in battle and the dangers of rage. Tristan knew his men studied him uneasily when they thought he took no notice. But he was not looking for his own death in the coming battle. He was looking for an accounting.

  Tristan remained on the ridge long after the relief sentries arrived. He watched the sky deepen to indigo, watched the moon rise and spill its light down the road that lay like a river heading north. When the stars had defined themselves into cold white brilliance, Tristan headed back to camp. He would eat and rest, but he would take no pleasure in it.

  THE CLATTER OF HOOFBEATS caught their attention before the door of the Healing Lodge was thrown open. One look at the travel-worn Elf who stood panting before them was enough to make Gabrielle’s stomach clench: an envoy, and the word he brought was not good.

  He strode over to Towàs, who looked almost comically startled, and thrust a roll of parchment into his hand. Then he sprawled in a chair to catch his breath. Gabrielle fetched the envoy a drink of water, and then another, while Towàs read the note. His expression was first bewildered, then panicky. When the parchment drifted unnoticed from his hand, Nahele took it up. Scanning quickly, she translated for Gabrielle.

  “It says Haloan has taken ill with a high fever. They have brought him to Silverdeep, the nearest settlement. They ask that Towàs come now to replace him as the Gref Orisé army is already south of them and they expect to engage within the day.”

  The two women looked at Towàs. He was trying to rise to the occasion, but it was clear he felt ill-prepared for the summons. His voice was strained as he spoke to the messenger. Nahele murmured a translation in Gabrielle’s ear: “He says of course he will come, but that he has rarely even set a broken bone by himself. That he is still but an apprentice.” Towàs turned now to the two women, eyes almost pleading. “He is afraid of causing harm through lack of experience,” explained Nahele. “He asks your counsel.”

  Gabrielle looked at the young apprentice and saw herself at seventeen. However willing, he could not fill the place of a seasoned healer. Her path was clear. “Tell Towàs I will go,” she said quietly. “I cannot treat the people here properly. I do not know them or these medicines well enough. But I do have battle experience. It only makes sense that he should stay and I should go.” In less than an hour, she was mounted on Arda, ready to ride with the envoy. Thank the stars there was a horse here who would take a bridle, she thought, as she settled herself on nothing but a blanket. Towàs strapped a pack of extra supplies across Arda’s back. He touched palms with her, his eyes troubled.

  “Nahele,” said Gabrielle, her gaze still on the apprentice. “Tell Towàs he must have no shame in this. It is as Haloan taught me: A healer has to think first what is best for the patients. It takes courage to do that.” Towàs nodded, offered a reluctant smile. Gabrielle leaned down from Arda to embrace Nahele. “Will you tell Celani and Eleara that I’ve gone?”

  The messenger urged her on, and they left the little settlement at a canter. Gabrielle was surprised to find she was glad to be going. With no saddle, she just hoped she could keep her seat long enough to get there.

  FÉOLAN HAD BEEN dogging the Gref Orisé army since late morning. He had been placed at the head of the chain of advance scouts in the hope that he might overhear something of value. However, he had only been able to get within earshot a few times. Since the Elvish raid, the Gref Orisé had become more cautious travelers, and mounted spotters now eyed the forested margins of the road.

  The Elves would have been gratified to learn just how jumpy those spotters were. The Gref Orisé soldiers had been badly shaken to find that their powerful army, and even their feared commander, could be so vulnerable. Worse, somehow, was the fact that they had no inkling who their attackers were. One dis-oriented, rattled soldier had ventured the opinion that they were beset by the vengeful ghosts of their dead foes, and the notion had spread and taken root among the normally tough-minded Gref Orisé. Many in the army found the narrow road and thick woodlands of the Maronnais highlands brooding and oppressive and marched with hidden unease.

  Féolan, trailing behind the long column of men, did not at first take the meaning of the sudden shouting and jostling ahead. Only when the unit heads started hustling their men into position and soldiers went scrambling for their armor did he realize that they had made contact with the Basin forces. Silently he worked his way back to the closest scout to pass on the news. It was time.

  CHAPTER 29

  TRISTAN stood up in his stirrups to catch his bearings. Two hours into the battle, he still could not judge who had the advantage. With the Verdeau and the Maronnais troops combined, the Greffaires were only marginally greater in force. It would not be a quick victory, either way.

  There. He had been searching for a way through the sea of frightened conscripts in order to engage with the real soldiers who would decide this battle. Tristan shouted to his men and pointed. They formed up and charged, mowing a path through the conscripts toward the first wedge of armored men. Closing in, they abandoned their horses. They had found in the last engagement that fighting full-armored soldiers on horseback was not much use, except for those few who could use a bow effectively while riding. Mostly, it got the horses killed. Tristan’s men worked in teams of three, as they had practiced: two to single out and strip a warrior, one to watch their backs. Fortin would be proud of me, Tristan thought with grim amusement. He fought carefully, with cold determination. He cared about his men too much to give way to the recklessness that goaded him.

  They fought thus for an hour, making slow but definite headway, until Tristan found himself drawn against a sword blade as like unto his own as a twin. He checked his lunge and looked to his foe—and the eyes that stared back at him peered from a helmet bearing the green stripe of Verdeau, a helmet whose familiar crest pulled the breath from his body in a hiss of rage. With narrow, dangerous eyes Tristan examined the man who had picked over the King of Verdeau’s carcass like a carrion crow: Jerome’s sword in his hand, Jerome’s helm on his head—and jingling on a string of silver and gold trinkets slung over the heavy armor, the copper earring his father had worn for as long as Tristan could remember.

  With a howl of fury he fell upon the Greffaire. Tristan’s sword plunged under the collar of the helm and up, and the man fell back, spouting blood. In the red haze that descended over him there was no thought of self-control or strategy. There was only his sword, the lust to drive it deep into the enemy and the wrath that fed his strength.

  Tristan plunged into the Greffaire ranks like a madman, and none could withstand him. His sword rose and fell, cutting a swath through living men as though through a field of grain. His own men struggled to stay with him, both alarmed and stirred by the wild offensive.

  WHEN HIS HEAD finally cleared, it took Tristan only a moment to see that he had engineered his own death. He and the little band fighting their way through to him were deep into the Greffaire lines—and they were all alone. For himself he was content to have cost the enemy dear, but he reviled himself for playing so free with the lives of the men who followed his lead. “Go back!” he yelled to them as the sea of Greffaire soldiers closed in around him. “Get back to your lines!” He set his sword and prepared to die.

  The first soldier who came at him had more bravado than skill. Tristan easily sidestepped his headlong rush and sliced across the exposed back of the knee as the momentum carried the man past. The Greffaire crashed to the ground, the tendons severed.

  But four leaped in to take his place, and Tristan was hard beset just to keep his feet and parry their strikes. All that was left to him was this grim and hopeless defense, until the inevitable error—or simple exhaustion—claimed him. Already his breath came in labored gasps, and his strength began to waver under the rain of blows.

  The heavy arc of an ax swung in from his left. He caught it with his shield, but the angle was too extreme to meet it properly. Tr
istan’s arm crumpled with the impact; the rim of the shield slammed into his shoulder, knocking him sideways. Through waves of pain he fought to keep his footing, nearly regained it—then a powerful downward slice forced him to one knee as he threw up his arm to deflect it.

  The end was a matter of seconds now, no more. Tristan’s enemies paused, momentarily, as if savoring their victory as they raised their weapons for the kill.

  Damned if I will die a faceless death, Tristan thought. Let them look on the man they kill! He swept off his helmet, raised his sword defiantly, sucked in a final burning breath. “For Verdeau!” he yelled. They seemed as good last words as any.

  THE ELVES HAD WAITED until the commotion of battle was a terrible clamor in the sky to come out of cover and rank up. There would be no hiding in the forest this time, but they could at least come upon the enemy unawares. Without battle cry or drums, horns or heralds, they appeared, a stern and silent host behind an army that took no notice of their presence.

  Four volleys of arrows, loosed in quick succession, found their marks before the Gref Orisé realized their source. Several more stopped the first disordered counterattacks. By the time a commander was found to organize a concerted front against the Elves, Gref Orisé soldiers lay thick on the ground before them.

  Now it was close fighting against these men clad in metal, and Féolan remembered vividly the claustrophobic misery of those casings. To die trapped within them was as ugly a death as he could imagine, and he felt no disadvantage from his own exposed flesh. Neatly, almost surgically, he stepped in and slashed at the leather shoulder strap of the heavy soldier before him. Blocking the man’s powerful return stroke, he kicked out hard at the knee joint. His opponent staggered, flailed momentarily but did not fall as Féolan had hoped. His comrade, Islain, fighting on his right side, seized the opportunity and swung his blade in a ringing broadside to the head. Even through the helmet it brought the man down—and soon after he was dead.

  Féolan and his unit fought on, slowly making inroads into the enemy’s rear flank. He could summon no hatred for the men he killed, only bitter anger at the tyrant who had sent them here and the conviction that they must be stopped.

  Shouting, just a little ahead, caught his ear. He thought it was a Basin accent, though in the uproar it was hard to be sure. The scene before him unfolded in brief glimpses, snatched in the heartbeat pauses between thrust and block, feint and strike: a line of Gref Orisé soldiers, moving away from him; a lone Verdeau soldier, green stripe on his helm; the Gref Orisé on the attack, wolves after their prey.

  Féolan had his opening, thrust at an exposed underarm and shoved his opponent to the side. Now he was directly behind the line of soldiers. The Verdeau man had fallen to his knees, was just visible through a gap in the ring surrounding him. Feolan watched as the soldier suddenly reached up, ripped off his helmet and with a hoarse cry yelled, “For Verdeau!” The soldier’s thick blond hair fell free, his blue eyes blazed defiance. The Gref Orisé lifted their swords high.

  “Tristan!” cried Féolan and leaped at the nearest soldier, clubbing him to the ground. Islain was with him, the others close behind. A sword fell; Tristan parried. Two of the attacking Gref Orisé whirled away from Tristan to face this new threat. Soon Féolan stood back-to-back with Tristan, his head still ringing with alarm and relief.

  “Well met, my friend!” he shouted. He could see, now, Tristan’s men, only a few strides away, working steadily toward them. His own Stonewater Elves closed in, so that it was the Gref Orisé who now began to feel trapped.

  “Féolan! Never have I been so glad to see an unexpected friend,” returned Tristan. He took advantage of the sudden press of allies to catch his breath, and as his chest heaved for air his face darkened. Here, he thought, is another who will mourn my sister and must be told.

  “Tristan,” called Féolan over his shoulder, “your sister Gabrielle sends her love and says you should be more careful!”

  For one terrible moment, Féolan feared the shock of his words would be the death of his newly rescued friend. Tristan dropped his arms, turned and gaped at Féolan.

  “She’s alive? Is she safe? Where?”

  “Watch yourself!” Féolan roared. Tristan scrambled back into his defensive posture. However, it was not skill at arms but the beatific smile with which he greeted the attacking Greffaire soldier that saved him. In the midst of such wreckage, Tristan’s grin of relief completely unnerved the fellow, who checked his ax swing and ran off in search of a less maniacal foe.

  There was little chance for talk through the rest of that bloody afternoon. Tristan and Féolan fought side by side, as did their men, and though the work of war was as fearsome and terrible as before, each was bolstered by the other’s presence.

  When the tide finally turned in their favor, it gathered momentum quickly. By nightfall the invasion was over. The few hundred Gref Orisé who had broken through the thin ranks of Elves ran desperately for home. The conscripts who had had the sense to bolt early from the battlefield were not pursued. Few others were left alive.

  CHAPTER 30

  IN a protected hollow a few hundred yards behind the battle- field, a select group of men met in King Drolet’s tent. Present were the king himself and his First General, Roche, for La Maronne; Prince Tristan and First General Fortin for Verdeau; First General Moreau for Gamier; and for the Elves, Jalanil of the Elders’ Council, Haldoryn as chief military officer, and Féolan, first ambassador of Stonewater and translator.

  The gathering was brief, involving as it did only two items of business: introductions and mutual expressions of friendship and gratitude, and organizing the wretched aftermath of battle. The wounded must be found, treated and brought home. The dead, thousands of them, must be disposed of. King Drolet offered accommodation in Gaudette for anyone requiring it. More extensive discussions would wait.

  Féolan and Tristan sat down for the discussions. They had both seen heavy fighting from the first moments of battle and neither was inclined to stand on ceremony. Tristan’s left arm was tied up in a makeshift sling Féolan had made by ripping a foot of fabric from the bottom of his tunic. It was broken just above the wrist, and Féolan could tell by the way Tristan shifted restlessly in his seat that the pain of it was beginning to tell. As for himself, he suspected there were broken bones in his right hand, but he had escaped major injury. Even so, there seemed to be no place on his body that did not hurt. Few of today’s warriors would have a comfortable night’s sleep.

  As soon as they were dismissed, Féolan went to Tristan. “Let’s get you to a healer and have that arm set,” he said.

  Tristan shook his head. “Afraid not. Not yet, anyway. They have their hands full right now with worse injuries than mine.”

  Féolan didn’t like the white, strained look around Tristan’s lips and eyes. As royalty, Tristan could undoubtedly demand—and get—preferential treatment. But his judgement was sound. Another man’s life could hang in the delay caused by plastering a simple break. Féolan wouldn’t want that on his head, either.

  “Why don’t we see how busy our Elvish healers are?” he asked. “There are fewer of us to mend, after all.”

  The two men skirted the edge of the battlefield and walked up the road to the Elvish healing lodge. Féolan was limping now, only just realizing how badly he had wrenched his knee. Propping themselves against the trunk of a huge old cedar a stone’s throw away from the tents, they tried to take stock of the scene before them. The line of waiting patients was shorter than at the Human clinic tents, but it was impossible to tell how critical their injuries were. Everyone, including Tristan and Féolan, was so blood-spattered and streaked that all looked, from a distance, on the verge of death.

  “Can we sit while we wait?” suggested Tristan. “I pretty much have to, actually.” He eased down to the ground with a grimace. “Right. Now tell me about Gabi. Where did you see her, and how is she?”

  Féolan didn’t answer right away. He was staring at the che
stnut-brown braid hanging down one healer’s back. The square of her shoulders, their rise and fall as she wrapped bandaging around and around a patient’s bare chest, was familiar. So was the way she stretched out her back and neck when she was done.

  “I think,” he said, “that you can ask her yourself. Look there.”

  GABRIELLE TOOK A LAST appraising look at her bandaging. She tucked in a stray end and nodded approval. Helping her patient to his feet, she guided him over to the row of pallets behind the Healing Lodge, where he could rest and recover. She signaled to the healer overseeing the recovery area, who would dole out medicines and watch for fever or other complications.

  What a strange experience it was working with healers who shared her methods but not her language. Not that there had been time for talk. Up until this last hour she might have been in a recurring nightmare back at the Skyway Pass. One emergency after another. One hacked and bloody body after another. Elvish or Human, the suffering was the same.

  But there had been fewer. Now, at last, they were down to the less critical cases, at least until more survivors were brought in from the field. She cast her eyes along the row of waiting casualties, and then something made her look up.

  Two men, dark hair and fair, both as sorry-looking as she had ever seen them. Both alive.

  Gabrielle flew out of the tent and over to the great tree where they were propped like rag dolls. Dropping to her knees, she opened her arms and gathered them in—but tenderly, for her healer’s eyes had noted Tristan’s sling.

  EVEN HIS OWN SISTER couldn’t tend to him right away; Tristan had to settle for a cup of evil-tasting herbal tea, which he admitted after ten minutes or so did ease his pain. I should have asked for some too, Féolan thought ruefully; his hand and knee sang out now in time to his pulse. He passed the hour’s wait telling Tristan how he had unwittingly rescued Gabrielle from the Gref Orisé.