Arkady scrambled to his feet, reaching for his metal-studded leather brigandine, bending to reach the buckles under the arms. It was long enough that he had no need of the corselet, and for that he was grateful. He fumbled for his helmet and his boots, cursing as he shook the boots to dislodge anything that might have crawled into them during the night. He hopped as he pulled each boot on, hearing the tinned steel clink and jangle. “My swords! Where in the name of Saint Michael are my swords. And keep the maul handy—I may need it.”
“N’yeh, Arkady-immai,” Surata said, drawing the cover close around her.
“Take this and hide under it,” he ordered, kicking his shield in her direction, then pausing to show her how to do it. “And stay there until I tell you to come out. Keep the blanket tight around you. It will protect you a little where the shield does not.” He straightened up, a sword in each hand, turning slowly in a circle and listening with such concentration that he could hear the breathing of his horse.
It was not long before he heard the approach of muffled hooves and the soft slap of saddle leather. Whoever was coming was using stealth. The horses were pulled up just off the road in the low trees and brush that screened the glen from travellers.
“Hold steady, Surata,” Arkady said in an undervoice just before he moved to a more shadowed part of the glen. He knew he would require every advantage if the intruders were to be held off. His gauntlets, stiff from cold, did not yet afford him a firm grip on his sword hilts. The longer weapon, in his right hand, had been sharpened less than a week ago and would cut with ease; but the shorter had not been honed or sharpened for more than a month, and its edge was not as keen. Arkady shook his head at his own negligence. If he came through the night, he would have to do something about his short sword.
On the other side of the glen, two men emerged from the brush, both carrying axes and wearing short mail cuirasses, the standard gear of bandits. One of the two made a gesture, and three more men joined them, the last pointing to Arkady’s horse and gesturing his approval of the gelding.
Arkady glared at them. It was bad enough that these five wanted to rob, capture, perhaps kill them, but that they should also plan to take his horse infuriated him. He flexed his fingers in his gauntlets. He was entirely awake now and ready to fight.
The bandits were striding toward the fire, moving swiftly but with practiced silence. They fanned out, making a half-circle that would be closed quickly once they reached the dying fire.
As soon as the bandits were past his hiding place, Arkady stepped out behind them, matching his pace to theirs so that they would not hear him move. He kept with them for a dozen strides, then chose the man on the end of the crescent and moved behind him, raising his sword as he did.
The man on the end shrieked as Arkady’s sword bit deeply into his shoulder. He fell to his knees and then to his side, clutching the wound and howling from the pain.
“Ah!” Arkady burst out, spinning toward the next man in line, his long sword held low and straight. The blade caught the next man on the side of his thigh, lifting him up with the blow. As he pulled the long sword free, Arkady thrust out with his short sword, catching the man on the chest and knocking the air out of him.
The other three had recovered from this surprise attack and were bringing their axes up to the ready, the bandit in the steel helmet bellowing to the others as he began to swing his axe in a lethal pattern before him.
Arkady dropped back, working carefully. He was confident that he could defeat two men armed with axes, but three changed the odds too much. He moved quickly, not wanting to give one of the men the opportunity to get behind him, or to let two of them outflank him. He made two quick passes with his long sword, just enough to make the bandits keep their distance. “Not yet, not yet,” he breathed as he sought for the best footing.
The leader of the bandits began to press his advance, swinging his axe more quickly and forcing Arkady to give ground as he and his men closed on him.
The leader drew a poignard from his belt, making an unpleasant sound as he did. His two men followed suit, pressing closer to Arkady.
With a swift change of stance, Arkady lunged at the man on his right, nicking his leg before the bandit’s axe clanged down, deflecting the sword. Arkady moved quickly, driving his short sword at the belly of the man on his right. This time he had the satisfaction of seeing the bandit double over, retching violently. In the next instant, he almost dropped his short sword as the leader’s axe cut into his forearm.
There were two bandits still on their feet, and one of them was limping. That might be enough, Arkady thought, as he tested the grip on his left hand. It was weak but he could still hold the weapon for a little while. He had received worse and continued to fight. He hefted the short sword and lashed out with it, more to convince his opponents that he was not hurt than to do them any damage.
The leader slashed out with his axe, shouting loudly as he did, his words shrill with rage. He rushed at Arkady, still keeping his axe in motion. As Arkady fell back, he struck out with his poignard, which glanced off the metal studding of Arkady’s brigandine. He roared his outrage; his face, now close enough for Arkady to see his features, was distorted with ire. There were flecks of foam on his beard.
Near Arkady’s left leg, the man on the ground reached for his axe. He was still clutching himself and moaning, but he had recovered enough to be able to fight again.
Arkady saw the movement, and he responded quickly, bringing the heel of his boot down on the man’s wrist. He heard the snap and grind of broken bone and the miserable wail with a guarded confidence. He had been able to reduce his opponents to two, and if his left arm could hold out, he was fairly sure he could defeat them.
The man on his right shifted ground, looking for a way to get behind Arkady. He dragged his right leg, but not enough to make movement impossible. His axe swung ominously.
Sensing this maneuver more than seeing it, Arkady pivotted, slashing with his long sword. He felt the tip of it rake the limping man’s mail, and saw the sparks where steel scraped steel, but then he lost his footing and stumbled backward.
With an enraged shout, the leader was on him, bringing his axe high for the dispatching cut.
Arkady thrust with his short sword, holding it low enough to get under the mail cuirass. With the other sword, he lashed out at the limping man, hoping to keep him back. The force of the leader on Arkady’s short sword demanded all his strength and attention, for the bandit writhed like a gaffed fish as the point sank into his abdomen and drove upward under his ribs. Arkady felt blood on his hands and spatters of it on his face, and he dodged as the bandit leader’s flailing arm brought his axe close.
The limping man shouted, and his leg went out from under him. He thrashed, trying to reach the new, wide cut Arkady had given him. His axe lay on the ground, and he made no move to grasp it.
Arkady rolled away from the body of the leader of the bandits. He felt weakness rush through him now that the urgency of battle had ended. Tears stood in his eyes and his left arm trembled so badly that he had to release his hold on the hilt of his short sword. He felt that he was about to be sick.
The limping man wrapped a length of cloth torn from his sleeve around his leg, then struggled to his feet. He looked in silence at his fallen comrades, then stumbled off toward where the bandits had left their horses, gasping with every step he took.
Two of the others had recovered enough to shamble after the limping man, leaving their leader and the second man Arkady had wounded behind.
Arkady sat on the ground, his legs stretched out in front of him, his head lowered. He was panting and the cut in his arm ached abominably. He could not bring himself to turn his head and look at the bandit leader, though the dead man lay less than an arm’s length away; instead Arkady peered through the darkness to the other remaining man, who lay unconscious on the ground. He knew that he should go to the fallen bandit and cut his Achilles tendons, crippling him and punishing him
for his outlawry, but Arkady could not bring himself to create another beggar to sit by the side of the road with a bowl. Slowly he got to his feet and made his way back toward the faint glow of the dying campfire.
“Arkady-immai?” Surata asked tremulously as he approached, hearing his uneven steps.
“It’s all right, Surata,” he said in great fatigue. “They’re…gone, most of them. The two that are left won’t bother us.” He sank down beside the campfire, seeking what little warmth it offered, his thoughts dazed. He cradled his wounded arm against his chest and fixed his eyes on a place in the middle distance. He could not tell how much he was bleeding.
Surata shifted the blankets and the shield away from her and sat still and alert, trying to locate Arkady by his movements and the sound of his breathing.
“Over here,” he said after a brief silence. “I’ve got a cut on my arm and I’ll probably have some bruises tomorrow.” He had long since resigned himself to such hurts, for they were part of a soldier’s life, but he was uncertain he had assessed all the damage that had been done to him, and he held his thoughts and worries within himself even though Surata could not understand them if he spoke of them. It was his arm that concerned him the most, and for that reason, he hesitated to probe the cut, for fear it would be worse than it felt.
Surata made her way on hands and knees to where he sat, and there she paused, not yet convinced that she could come nearer without hurting him in some way. “Arkady-immai?”
He raised his head. “What.”
She wanted to ask him where he was wounded, but she had no words for it. She caught her lower lip between her teeth and wanted to shout with vexation. It was impossible to tell him that she had skills that would help. Finally she reached out and put her hand on his right arm. “Vaidatta,” she said, hoping that he would sense her intention from the tone of her voice.
Firmly but without any roughness, he held her off. “It’s nothing you can do anything about.” He wished he had a few strips of cotton to bind the cut, but there was nothing he owned that would lend itself to making bandages. He told himself he was a fool for that oversight.
This time Surata’s hands were more forceful, and she ran her hands over his arms and face expertly. “Dun’yatta,” she said as she touched his helmet. Carefully she unfastened the chin-guard and lifted the thing from his head, smoothing his rough-cut hair back from his brow. Once she put the helmet aside, she renewed her examination of his face. She found a knot of a scar over the arch of his right eyebrow and deep lines around his eyes and mouth, but she realized that his features, while not fine, were attractive and well-cut.
“Ouch,” he said as her fingers found a scrape on his cheekbone.
She drew back at once, murmuring a few apologies that he recognized by inflection rather than word. Her mind was still distracted as she reached out again, this time to his blood-spattered brigandine. She was deeply concerned until she realized that the blood was not his. “Shirad, immai,” she said in her relief.
Arkady nodded, though he had no idea what she had said other than it was intended to reassure him. “The arm’s the worst, I think. They didn’t hit me or cut me in the gut, that’s what counts.” That was a simplification but had enough truth in it to give him a little more hope. He winced as he tried to lift his left arm, and he felt the blood well around the edges of the wound. In spite of himself, he groaned.
Surata acted quickly, her hands moving knowledgeably over him until she found the cut. There was cloth and a bit of leather still embedded in his flesh, and it was bleeding sluggishly. She reached down to the hem of the robe she wore and strove to tear off a length of the fabric.
When Arkady realized what she was trying to do, he turned his thoughts to where he had left the cinquedea. “Under the saddle,” he said aloud and leaned to the side, reaching across her with his right hand.
She protested at once, scolding him for such lack of caution. She grabbed him, trying to restrain him, but in the next moment, she felt the hilt of the little knife placed in her hand, and she nodded her approval. At once she set to work cutting two very long strips of cloth from the hem of her robe. The fabric was tough, polished cotton in the warp, silk in the woof, and it made a kind of scream when it was rent. When she had the two strips, she began the much more difficult task of cutting his sleeve away from the wound. She found the V-shaped blade awkward to handle, and for that reason, she took more time than she wanted to keep from injuring Arkady any further. At last she slit the sleeve from elbow to wrist and exposed the whole of his lower arm.
Arkady felt himself grow cold, and to his chagrin, his teeth began to chatter. He clamped his mouth shut, but the cold still seeped through his veins and bones. The sensation was not a new one—he had experienced it when he had been wounded before—but he disliked it intensely and irrationally, and he could hardly contain his anger as the inner chill spread.
As she worked to clean his cut, Surata wanted to find a way to comfort Arkady. She knew that in the morning, she would have to fetch water to wash the hurts he had sustained, but she doubted he would be able to make it to the stream to bring water for them, and she was afraid that if she attempted to get it, she would fall or spill anything she was able to get for him. She brought her special concentration to bear on his arm, and decided that as soon as the bandage was in place, she would have to wrap him in the blanket close to her so that he would not grow colder. Already his skin was clammy to her touch, and she knew that this would be dangerous if it was allowed to continue much longer. “Arkady-immai,” she said, frustrated that she knew so few words he could comprehend.
“You’re doing fine, Surata,” he hissed, his wrath making his praise sound more like a condemnation.
She paid no heed to him but continued to bind his wound. When she was done, she finished her inspection of his arms and legs, and sighed when she realized that there seemed to be no other damage. She sat back on her heels and debated with herself briefly if she should bring the blanket to him, or take him to it, and decided on a compromise. “Vaidatta, Arkady-immai,” she said, taking his weapons from him and giving them a cursory cleaning on the torn hem of her robe. That done, she reached over and took Arkady by the shoulders, pulling him gently toward where the blankets lay. She kept up a soft, steady flow of words, most of them the same sorts of things she might say to a frightened child. Steadily she coaxed him to stretch out, and when he had, she brought the blanket and began to wrap the both of them in it.
At first Arkady accepted this treatment, but as he became aware of what she was doing, he resisted. “No, Surata,” he said, feeling her body pressing close to his. “This isn’t right. It wouldn’t work right now anyway. Surata…Surata, you’ve got to stop.”
She paid no heed to him, knowing that the chill that held him was more dangerous than the cut in his arm. Calmly, she continued her work, and when she at last drew the blanket close around both of them and nestled her head against his neck, most of his protests were stilled.
“Surata,” he said a bit later, “you don’t understand what this could do to me.” To his astonishment, he felt idiotic saying this to her. “You don’t…”
She put her free hand to his mouth, wishing he would go to sleep.
“I have to tell you this,” he said through her fingers. “And it doesn’t matter that you don’t understand what I’m saying. You have shown your worth to me, and I am in your debt. I won’t disgrace myself by refusing to acknowledge all you’ve done for me. Without your warning, I would be seriously wounded or dead now, and the Holy Saints alone know what might have happened to you.” He sighed, his strength going out of him more quickly than he wanted. “That’s all.” His head rolled back and he allowed himself to groan, now that he would not shame himself.
Surata brushed his hair back from his brow, letting her palm rest briefly on his forehead. She was not yet certain there would be fever, but she was content that he had got no colder. Before she started to drift toward sleep, she
took hold of the cinquedea, in case the unconscious bandit should trouble them later in the night.
When morning came, both the bandit who had fallen by the fire and the body of the leader were gone. Surata propped herself on her elbow and listened to Arkady as he fumbled to start the fire again. “You did well,” he said to her once again. Working with one hand, he felt incredibly clumsy. His head still ached and his arms and legs were stiff from hurt. “It will take me a little while to get this going,” he explained.
“Arkady-immai,” she reproached him, attempting to convince him to get back into his blanket. He resisted the tone of her voice and the gentle force of her arms.
“Leave off!” Arkady snapped, trying to shove her aside. But he knew that he was being foolishly stubborn. The night before, Surata had laid the fire and all that was needed was a spark from his flint and steel. When she urged him to lean back, he stopped fighting her. “All right, Surata. If you insist that I keep still, I guess I’ll have to.”
Surata wrapped the blanket around him and then set off to find more wood, walking with little steps and bending over to feel the ground in front of her. At first glance, it seemed a slow and inefficient method to find wood, blindness or no, but in far less time than Arkady would have thought possible, she had gathered up several dry branches and an assortment of kindling twigs and brought them back to their campfire. Then she set about laying the branches so they would burn well.
“You’re good at that,” Arkady admitted, doing his best to keep the grudging tone out of his voice. “I’m surprised at how well you manage.”
She continued her work without any response. When she was done, she moved back and waited for him to spark the kindling.
Reluctantly, Arkady left the warmth of the blanket. He liked its comfort more than he wanted to, and yet he found fault with himself for enjoying it. “I’m turning soft already,” he grumbled as he prepared to start the fire.
Surata came to his side and once again showed her skill in nursing a little red dot into a flame. As soon as there was enough kindling burning, she pointed in the general direction of the blanket, and for once Arkady obeyed her meekly.
To the High Redoubt Page 4
