He said, “Grayne.”
His officer stepped up behind him. “Sir.”
“Have you set up a burial detail?”
“Yes, sir. We’ve designated the eastern perimeter for graves. They’re digging now.”
The eastern perimeter ran along the edge of the Wood. As good a place as any, Marthen thought; if they had to retreat, they wouldn’t be running through their newly buried dead. He nodded.
“And latrines?”
Grayne hesitated, and Marthen turned to look at him.
Grayne raised his chin. “Burial first, sir, I thought. Better to get the dead underground and new trenches next.”
Marthen waited for his fury to settle. He forgot sometimes that Grayne’s northern beliefs were deeply ingrained; like his countrymen, he believed that battlefield flux was caused by the ghosts of dead soldiers.
“Well. Since I don’t intend to shit out my bowels from the bloody flux,” he said, “I suggest you put a detail on it, or you will be digging latrines by yourself.”
Grayne nodded, bowed, and took himself off.
Terrick limped up to him, his stocky form clothed in thick, warm clothing. He had been favoring his leg since the battle. “Have the scouts returned?” he said in his brusque way.
Marthen turned to him, a bit surprised. Usually Terrick hid his worry over his son better than that. He shook his head. “Nothing yet.”
Terrick grunted, scanning the camp, the wrinkles at his eyes deepening as he squinted through the rain.
“Damn Tharp,” he muttered. “All this over a dead wife and hurt pride.”
If he expected Marthen to comment on that, he was entirely mistaken. The general said instead, “Will Kenery join us?”
Terrick threw him a quick glance. “He’s made it clear; he’s neutral in this.”
Marthen snorted.
“Then he has effectively thrown in his lot with Tharp.”
“Neutrality is still respected, General. We are a land governed by law.”
“And how much respect did Tharp show Kenery, I wonder? Perhaps a demonstration of those weapons, with a promise of a few if he stayed out of it?”
Marthen knew he stepped over the line, but damned if the man couldn’t be a stubborn, honest fool. Sure enough, Terrick grimaced.
“I will not win at the expense of losing all that we stand for.”
“Then you will not win.” Marthen said it flatly. It must have hit home, judging by the way Terrick stared at him. “He has us at an impasse, my lord. We have the advantage in men, but Tharp’s is the advantage of weaponry. We need Kenery’s thousands if we are to break his defenses.”
Terrick remained silent, thinking. Marthen pressed his advantage. “This isn’t the end, you know. If Tharp wins, what happens to your convocation? What of your rule of law then, my lord? Back to the days of a high king and lands owned in tenancy, like a commoner?” Like me?
Perhaps Terrick picked up on his unspoken comment, because the older man rounded on him, his expression savage. “And what is that to you, General?”
“I want to win.”
He surprised himself with the vehemence of his answer. Terrick laughed humorlessly.
“Well. We engaged you for that, after all. I will call a Council, General, and we will give you our answer.”
Marthen bowed, then watched Terrick walk away with one hand pressing down on his leg.
Kate spent the morning among the ostlers, feeding and tending the horses and helping mount up the scouts. Even as the horses reminded her of Mojo, the work soothed her sorrow. The ostlers worked quietly around her, accepting her presence without complaint. Poor Torm took one look at her and shouted something, then cringed as if he remembered her socking him in the jaw. Kate patted his shoulder in passing and went on hauling hay. “It’s okay, Torm,” she told him, and he beamed. He stuck close to her after that, his agitation settling down. The ostlers looked at each other, and then Mykal nodded and said brusquely, “You’ve a kind heart.”
Kate lifted her shoulders. Whatever, she wanted to say. Instead, she started in on feeding, the rich smell and warmth of the wet horses easing some of her sadness, though the lump in her throat thickened. It rained in fits and starts, and her hands were stiff and raw with cold. Her belly cramped at intervals, leaving her faintly queasy. Finally all the animals were fed and her work was done. On the pretense of storing the wheel-barrow, Kate gave Torm the slip and went around to the wagon where the saddles were kept. Mojo’s little saddle sat by itself off in the corner, dwarfed by the big, boxy saddles used by the army. Kate put her hands on the cool leather, letting tears spill without noise.
It took a moment before she heard the soldier’s calm plea. Kate wiped her face and looked around. The voice came from outside the wagon. Kate ducked out.
“Help me,” the soldier said again. He lay back under the rain, leaning against the wagon wheel. His whole body shook, but his voice was calm. Kate didn’t even think he was aware of her; he spoke as if he addressed someone invisible. He cupped his hand against his side, blood seeping through his fingers, and looked up at the sky, the rain dripping off his black hair and beard.
“Okay,” she said faintly. “But I don’t know what to do.” The soldier didn’t say anything, and after a moment she looked at him again and saw that he was dead.
Kate didn’t fully understand the impulse that brought her to the surgeon’s tent, but she was done second-guessing herself. She put her sleeve over her nose to ward off the smell and ducked inside. The smell of infection and blood, combined with the musty canvas, was thicker inside than out. She could barely make out the figure of the tall surgeon in the gloom; the small lamp hanging from the center pole was barely bright enough to light the wooden table beneath it, the man lying on the table, or the rest of the men surrounding him. The surgeon took no notice of her until one of the men nudged him and jerked his head at Kate. “Talios.”
The surgeon looked up. “What is it?” he snapped.
“I want to help,” Kate said.
Even in the dimness she felt him assessing her. “All right,” he said at last. He jerked his head, beckoning her. “Come here.”
In the dim cone of light the man on the table moaned and thrashed. Two of his comrades held him down, one gripping his rough hand in his own. The surgeon eyed her with interest.
“So, Kett, the stranger girl,” he murmured. “I’ve heard about you. Show me your hands.”
Confused, she held out her hands, wincing as she took a good look herself. They were red and raw, her fingernails rimmed with black. She had resorted to washing them in cold water; if there was soap in the camp, she didn’t know where to find it. The doctor grabbed them roughly and looked at them top and bottom. “You’ll do,” he said. “I need someone with quick, clever hands.” He looked at her with keen eyes. “Can you stand blood?”
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I’ll try.”
“Good.” He took Kate’s hand and pushed it on top of the bandage. The man cried out. “Here. Feel that lump? That’s the metal bit. It has to come out.”
She bit back the nausea and pulled her hand away. “You want me to put my fingers in there?” she said, her voice rising.
He nodded. “Oh yes. Small, quick hands.” He began to unwrap the bandage.
“Wait!” Kate said. She held up a hand and took a breath. “How—I mean, I need to wash my hands.”
She knew it sounded lame, but the surgeon eyed her. “Interesting, ” he murmured. “You’ve had the eastern training. Who did you apprentice with?”
Kate laughed nervously. What could she say? “No one. But look; I’m not sure about fingers. Do you have, well, forceps, or anything?”
He raised his hand and put his finger and thumb together in a snapping motion. “Small fingers.”
She had wanted to help. Kate took another breath. “All right. But I need to wash first.”
Talios turned to one of the men. “You heard her. Go.” With a relucta
nt look he went off.
The surgeon went back to unwrapping the soaked bandage. The man stirred, gasping in pain, and his friend muttered something to him. When the other soldier came back with a bucket of water and some grainy soap, Kate rolled up her sleeves. She plunged her hands in the water and rubbed well with the soap. It hardly lathered but she worked it grimly under her fingernails. Immediately she had to scratch her nose but held back the impulse. The man’s thigh was bare now, the wound a ragged hole. Oh God. I can’t.
Talios picked up one of the knives on the table and doused it in a small basin on the table. Kate could smell alcoholic fumes. He held the narrow knife over the candle, and the knife flared. When it cooled, he took a breath, muttered something, and nodded to the soldiers. Immediately they pinned their friend with all their strength. Talios began to cut, and the soldier screamed. Someone put a glove between his teeth. The knife cut lengthened the bullet hole, and fresh blood oozed out of the wound. Kate whimpered. Talios nodded to her. “Can you see it?”
She looked in. The crumpled lump was embedded in the leg, surrounded by shards where it had smashed the bone. I can’t. I can’t. Trembling, she reached into the leg and began to pull. The man screamed hard, and she lost her grip. Then, steeling herself, she held on to the leg with her other hand for leverage and pulled.
The man’s screams sounded eternal. Her fingers slipped over and over again, slick with blood and tissue. She finally had to pry it out with her fingernail until it loosened small millimeters at a time.
The man was still screaming when the little lump lay next to him on the table. Kate crumpled and had to catch the edge of the table to keep from falling. Her fingers smeared bloodily on the table. She wasn’t the only one crying; one of the soldiers was, too. Only Talios was unmoved. He grinned, and in the lamplight it looked like he bared his teeth.
“Now let’s see how fine your needlework is, my lady.”
She wanted to protest. Instead, she watched him sterilize the needle, then thread it. Under his instruction, she poked the needle through the soldier’s skin, feeling it resist until she had to push harder. She knotted and snipped the thread as methodically as she could, Talios holding the ragged edges of the wound together. The man cried almost soundlessly, as if he had given up.
Finally she finished, ragged thread poking out of the battered leg. Talios bandaged it, and one of the soldiers patted the wounded man on the shoulder.
“They’re done, Sev. It’s done. You’ll heal fine.”
The soldier listlessly pulled the glove from his mouth and groped for her hand. His fingers had no strength to them. “Girl. Pray . . . for . . . me,” he whispered.
Kate looked at Talios. He nodded at her to go ahead. The other soldiers waited expectantly.
What should she say? Her family was irreligious; what she knew of God was vague and unfocused. Plus, they had gods here, plural. Should she ask the soldier’s god?
For a moment she thought of a wild, grand prayer; O great god of soldiers, you who are the mightiest of all . . .
Don’t be an ass, Kate.
Feeling inadequate, she said: “Help him, please. He’s a good soldier, a strong fighter. A good man.”
The wounded man breathed a sigh of relief, and his hand slipped from hers. With confused relief she saw that he slept, his chest rising and falling steadily. What did I do? What did I do?
His comrades hoisted him up, and Kate’s legs gave way for good.
Talios let her recuperate in the fresh air, and the cold, wet rain felt good on her fevered face. Kate let the water that splashed from the corner of the tent pour over her trembling hands until it ran pink and then clear. Galloping hoofbeats caught her attention, and she looked up. Scouts, carrying one of their own. The riders were shouting, drawing attention from the soldiers and the officers. Even the crows looked up from their tight, insular groups, eyeing the scouts with cold expressions.
They rode straight up to the surgeon’s tent. The captain rode double behind Skayler, his leg hanging at a funny angle. He was very pale, his fist clenched tight on the back of Skayler’s shirt. “Where’s the surgeon? Where’s Talios?” Skayler shouted.
The doctor ducked out of the tent. He took in the situation at a glance.
“Get me the blanket from the table. Hurry!” He barked at her. She darted back into the tent and grabbed the bloody blanket off the operating table. When she got back, Artor was out of the saddle and supported by his men. For a moment she and Colar exchanged glances. The young scout looked stunned.
It took Jayce to bring her back to reality.
“Soldier’s god, what are you doing here?” the hostile scout said, waving her off. He was covered with blood and rain and gripped a bloody sword. Talios ignored him.
“Lay it on the ground. Don’t mind the mud; we don’t have a choice.”
She put down the blanket as smoothly as possible, and they laid Artor on it. Then, with everyone’s help, they hoisted it up and carried the injured man into the tent, Kate alongside the others.
“Another one of those metal lumps?” Talios asked, as they placed Artor on the table. Mindful of the soldiers earlier, Kate held Artor’s hand. She didn’t know if the captain was aware of who she was, but he curved his big fingers around hers.
Skayler shook his head. “No. His horse fell on him.”
“Too bad.” Everyone looked at him, and the surgeon jerked his chin at Kate. “She and I, we know how to handle these metal lumps now. But a broken leg, well, that might be tough.” He grinned in their astonished faces.
This time everyone looked at Kate, but Talios had already moved on, probing at Artor’s wounded leg. He looked up once, his gaze flicking over Jayce. “Any of that your blood?” he asked.
Jayce looked startled but shook his head.
“Then get out. And don’t talk to my apprentice like that again.”
Colar sat on the edge of his low camp bed, trying to put back the edge to his sword, the stone scraping in long, even strokes. The point was hopeless; the armorer would have to restore it, if it could be restored. He hoped it could. When he showed it to his father, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, his father had only grumped in that way he had.
He would need it on the morrow. Marthen had heard out their reports of the cracks in Red Gold Bridge, and he gave a rare smile. He turned to his silent lieutenant. “Grayne. Bring the siege engines to the front and move them out.”
The lieutenant had saluted and ducked out, and the scouts could hear him giving the order. The rest of the army, able to move much faster than the unwieldy catapults, would ride out in the morning and catch up.
Colar knew he wouldn’t be dispatching messages in this battle, and his stomach clenched again. Tharp had to know that the secret of his crumbling walls was out and would do everything he could to stop their advance. He would be needed to fight.
He had told his father he killed a man that day, but Lord Terrick had only nodded. Colar wasn’t sure if he even wanted his father to say anything. What could he say? He glanced over at his father, writing his quick birdlike script to Colar’s mother. When the messenger rode to Lord Kenery, he would carry this letter as well.
“Would you add something for me?” Colar said, breaking the silence. His father’s hand paused. Colar took that as a yes. “Please let her know I am well and in good spirits.”
A long silence. Then, “That is well thought of.”
So. Colar’s stomach eased, and he went back to his sword. His father surprised him by speaking next.
“What did Talios want with the girl?”
“She helped him in the surgery. She helped him take bullets out of men.” He’d heard the stories from soldiers who had watched their comrade undergo her clever fingers. She had helped Talios straighten the captain’s leg, splinting it and bandaging it. Colar overheard her telling him that she thought she knew a way to keep the broken leg from healing shorter or crooked, as bad breaks did. Talios, clearly delighted, asked a lot of que
stions. Colar added, “Talios wants her for his apprentice, but I think he’s hoping to learn more from her.”
His father snorted. “Trust General Marthen to overlook the maid’s real value. He had hoped that she would help him win this war, never giving a thought that she could help us survive it.”
Colar caught his breath and stared at his father. He had never thought—never once given it a thought—that they might not win. That’s why he is sending for Lord Kenery, he thought. If Tharp won, their lands and all they produced would be forfeit to him. Since the majority of the Council pitched their tents in Marthen’s camp, they would not endorse his demands, but as the lords said among themselves, there was nothing stopping Tharp from thumbing his nose at the Council and making an example of one of them. No one wanted to see the effects of those weapons on their people. Colar remembered Heckon’s cry and the crack of the weapon that silenced it.
His father looked at him quizzically, and Colar’s cheeks heated. He went back to honing his sword.
“Leave off, Colar,” his father said. “You’ll scrape the blade to nothing. Bring it to the armorer tomorrow, and use my second sword until it’s repaired.”
Colar nodded and wiped down the sword, then carefully sheathed it. Emboldened by his father’s near chattiness, he said, “Sir. If Lord Kenery says no, will Lord Tharp win this war?”
“Hmm.” His father put down his pen and folded the letter. “Do you remember the convocation two summers ago?”
Colar had gone with his father and mother to Trieve, which had hosted the great meeting, at which Lord Tharp had requested to have his Lady Sarita declared dead and his marriage over. Colar had been overwhelmed by so many lords and their ladies. Lady Jessamy in particular had unnerved him. She had taken one look at him, then demanded of his father whether he were betrothed. In front of all of Aeritan, it seemed like. He nodded.
“Do you remember who stood with Lord Tharp?”
Gordath Wood Page 18
