by Jules Marks
At every opportunity, through the smoke, haze, dust, and physical chaos I strained my eyes in search of Hugh. Strangely enough, we literally backed into one another as we fought and killed two more of the Uplanders.
“Gael! How do you fare, old man?” he yelled above the din.
“I’ve been better,” I answered back. “What happened to your horse?”
He shook his head. “Killed by one of those damned spears. I shall miss that big fellow, that’s for certain.” He paused to gasp for breath. “By the saints, I am weary.” He frowned suddenly. “Where’s Larkin?”
I gestured towards the battlements with a nod of my head. “Up there. Safe for now.”
He smiled. “Good…that’s good.” He opened his mouth to say more, and then used his dagger as a pointer. “Look…look there to your right. Do you see them?”
It took a moment to focus through the haze, but then I saw them. The Uplanders’ commanders had finally seen fit to advance from their rear. There were seven that I could see. Unlike their troops, they were mounted upon huge warhorses. Though they bore shields and swords, they dressed as the other Uplanders in hide and fur. The obvious difference in their attire was their headgear: it was terrible to look upon…enough to strike fear in a man’s heart. Each commander wore a wolf head and pelt over his head and shoulders. It created an evil, nightmarish affect. Even worse, they soon proved themselves fierce, mighty warriors, and they began tearing through the field of men just as our own knights had done. Apparently, Akimba saw this immediately: he and three of his knights raced to meet the Upland commanders nearest them. I might have savored watching them battle if I’d had the opportunity, but such was not the case, for another of those fiends turned towards us.
To make matters worse, two other Upland warriors came running at us at the same time. Having that short breather had been beneficial, but I certainly wasn’t prepared for another encounter with a giant. Fortunately, my foe seemed an even match in both size and age. Each of us was bloodied and winded, and our encounter was brief: he came at me with an axe, but I’d sliced his belly open before he managed to strike.
Hugh had dispatched his opponent in similar fashion. We both turned to hear and see thundering hooves bearing down upon us. The wolf-commander was screaming a blood-curdling war cry. He held his sword high, ready to slice either one of us to bits. I gauged his approach; just as I prepared to move from the Upland commander’s path, I felt my ankle gripped by a firm hand. I looked down to see my previous foe clawing at my feet, trying to hold me fast or pull me down…I didn’t know which it might be. To engage him would leave me exposed to the monster racing to strike me down.
It happened in a heartbeat…faster than I thought possible. Hugh kicked at the fallen Uplander’s head to loosen his grip, and shoved me from the demon rider’s path. He leapt to one side, and with one mighty heave, he hauled the startled wolf-commander from his horse. The Uplander’s momentum carried them both in a mad tumble to the ground.
Neither man moved at first.
Hugh’s sword rose like a cross from the Uplander’s chest. The barbarian cried out once, raising his own broken sword for one brief moment, and then he collapsed and lay still.
I scrambled to reach Hugh’s side. He made as if to pull himself up, and then he collapsed once again to the ground. I could see the broken blade protruding from the chest-edge of his breastplate; the extreme force of the collision had allowed the blade to pierce his mail. A crimson flood spread all around. I knelt beside him, and raised Hugh in my arms. He groaned when I moved him, and then he coughed up a stream of rose-coloured foam.
“Gael?” he managed to choke out my name between strangling coughs.
“Yes, Sir Hugh, I am here.”
Hugh’s eyes kept rolling around, as if he couldn’t focus.
“Gael?” he whispered once more…as if he hadn’t heard me.
“I’m here…I’ve got you.”
He was turning his head from side to side, but then he stopped. His eyes seemed to focus, but he was looking past me, over my shoulder. Quite unexpectedly, he smiled.
“Demorah…” he sighed.
His eyes remained open, but I swear that I witnessed his soul leave through them.
My will to fight was broken; I simply sat there in the midst of the battlefield, even as men fought all around. I held Hugh’s body in my arms, and I cried like a little boy who’d been flogged.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The deaths of the Upland commanders seemed to break the spirits of their warriors. It wasn’t long before the enemy was in chaotic, full retreat. They ran around and through the slow-burning patches of flame, over still-smoldering grass. There was no order to their withdrawal; it looked as if every man among them was going his own way. Most of the knights who were still able pursued the Uplanders, as did a surprising number of the stouthearted foot soldiers of Castle Beckman.
People from the town and castle who hadn’t participated in the battle began pouring out the town’s great gates. They began the long, hard task of aiding the wounded, sorting the dead, and they didn’t stop there: any Upland warrior who had the bad luck to still breathe was brutally slaughtered by those vengeful folk. Acting a bit like barbarians themselves, some of the townspeople desecrated the enemy bodies.
Akimba remained behind to restore order to the field, and it was he who found us. He rode up on his charger, and then slowly, painfully, dismounted and stood towering over us.
The spear wound he’d received in our previous encounter with the Uplanders had broken open, and he had enough rents and blood on other parts of his person to make me wonder how he was still standing. At first I thought he was out of breath, for he inhaled and exhaled with great effort, but then I realized he was crying. He removed his helm and dropped it to the ground, and then, with much pain and effort, he knelt beside me. He reached out his hand, and with heartfelt tenderness he stroked Hugh’s cheek before closing his eyes.
We were both silent for a time. Akimba’s breathing slowly returned to normal.
He tipped his head in the direction of the body of the Upland commander.
“His handiwork?” he asked.
I nodded, afraid that if I tried to speak I would once again succumb to my grief.
Akimba pressed me to answer. “And Larkin? Where is she?”
“The battlements,” was my succinct reply. I had, after all, managed words.
“And you, Gael, how badly are you injured? Can you walk?” he asked in a surprisingly gentle voice.
I hadn’t actually considered it. In truth, I felt so wretched I could hardly imagine having to move. But I knew that I must. I wanted to see Larkin…though I felt certain that she was safe…and I wanted to find Ioan as well, for I hadn’t seen him leave the battlefield with the other knights in pursuit of the enemy.
My voice was hoarse from smoke and pain. “I believe that I can walk,” I murmured as I gently moved Hugh’s body back to the earth. “How is it with you, my Lord Akimba?”
“We have won a momentous victory, but at heavy cost,” he murmured as he stared down at Hugh’s body.
Akimba groaned as he stood, and he caught his breath and shut his eyes until he’d mastered his pain. He sighed with the weariness only a veteran could understand, and then turned and beckoned one of his attendants.
“Take Sir Hugh’s body to the holy brothers at the chapel…” He flashed the man a look of appeal. “Be certain he is shown the respect he deserves,” he added.
Akimba turned to me, and placed his hand around the back of my neck…just as Hugh had sometimes done. Once again I found speech difficult; I tried to look at Akimba, but I simply couldn’t, and instead I found myself looking up at the clouds.
I was surprised to see that they were dark, and threatening a storm. Even as I watched, a tiny raindrop spattered upon my cheek. Another soon followed it.
Akimba gave my neck an affectionate squeeze and then released me. “Let us find Ioan, shall we?” He cleare
d his throat, straightened his shoulders, and set himself to his next task. “Now…where did you last see him?”
First we found Ioan’s horse, and that find led us to him.
It seemed his last foe had also been one of the wolf/commanders, for their bodies lay, side-by-side, awash in a veritable sea of Upland dead.
Ioan looked as if he’d been dropped into a vat of blood. Where once his right eye had been, now there was a pool of gore; a broken arrow shaft protruded from the right side base of his neck, and his left hand was severed, sliced off at the wrist. (I knew it must lay somewhere nearby, but I had not the heart to look for it.) Raindrops were spattering on Ioan’s blood-sprayed face, making rivulets as they coursed down his cheeks.
With rough, strong hands, Akimba lifted the Uplander’s corpse and tossed it aside like a sack of grain. We then knelt together in a puddle of blood at Ioan’s side. In spite of an attempt at stoicism, Akimba began to sob.
“How can I tell Rebeccah he’s gone?” He swore under his breath as his gaze traveled the length of Ioan’s form. “We cannot let her to see him this way! We have to move him, to clean him up.” He bent his head low, put his hands over his face, and groaned. I put my arm around his broad shoulders, and tried to find words of comfort, but my heart was too full. I reached down and grasped Ioan’s sword hand…
…And I jerked away so abruptly that Akimba started as well.
“His hand twitched…I swear to you he moved!” I cried.
I leaned forward, closer to Ioan’s face, looking for more signs of life. “Ioan…we are here. Ioan, can you hear me?” I didn’t know what else to say. I felt for a pulse in his neck. It was nearly impossible to feel at first, yet there it was: a sluggish beat, but it was something! I lifted his intact eyelid a bit, and then wished I hadn’t: his iris was the colour of blood.
My mind was in turmoil; I knew there was but little hope…that we must move quickly. I pulled a strong leather strap from my quiver, and with great haste placed a tourniquet around Ioan’s arm. I yanked at the sleeve of my tunic as hard as I might, finally felt the stitching rip, and then I wrapped the bulky, padded fabric around the bloody stump and held firm pressure with my good hand.
Ioan whimpered. I’d never been so happy to hear such a pitiful sound.
Akimba had lurched up…in spite of his injuries…and was jumping, shouting and gesticulating for a litter to come immediately. When he saw a stretcher coming, he again turned his attention to us. He was acting as elated as a boy with his first bow.
“What may I do to help…what may I do?”
Weary beyond belief, I felt almost overwhelmed when we arrived at our rooms. The stretcher-bearers placed Ioan on the big table, and then asked my bidding. (Akimba had ordered them to obey any directive I gave.) I thought for a moment, and then told them I needed more light, a fire, several buckets of water and something to boil it in, and heaps of bandages, in that order. I rushed to retrieve my medical bundle, and grabbed Ioan’s as well.
Surprisingly, more aid came from an unexpected quarter. Nordz appeared in the doorway, and with him came a kindly faced woman who he introduced as Anya, ‘the best midwife in town…and a competent leech as well’.
I nodded a hurried greeting at the woman. “But should you be up?” I asked Nordz.
He guffawed. “I have just spent the longest day of my life sitting in my room, watching out my window, waiting for this battle to end. The least I may do is help organize the aftermath. I am fine…more than fine, and I am ready to do some work.” He gestured towards Anya, who was already busying herself pulling off Ioan’s boots. “I am needed below, but Anya will stay to help you.” The resilient little dwarf looked at Ioan—he was practically eye-level with him since Ioan lay insensible on the table—and he reached across to pass his hand over the injured warrior’s brow. “I cannot imagine the depths of the Lady Rebeccah’s despair if she loses this fine fellow,” he murmured. Nordz looked back up at me. “Take care of him.”
Ioan’s inventory of injuries practically read from head to toe: his right eye socket was a complete ruin, he had an arrow in his neck, a severed hand, several broken ribs from being clubbed, and an axe-wound to his left thigh. There were numerous other lacerations, but they were significant only in that they contributed to what seemed the gravest concern: the appalling amount of blood he’d lost. When we undressed him and washed off enough of the gore to find all wounds, Anya gasped in bewilderment.
“This is the whitest man I’ve seen in all my days! Is there a drop of blood left in him?”
We decided to remove the arrow first, reasoning that if that process killed him, at least he wouldn’t have to experience the misery of my cauterizing and sewing up the stump of his arm. We counted it our good fortune that Ioan remained unconscious as we laboured. Anya worked on Ioan’s right side; I worked on his left.
Just after we removed the arrow, Anya stepped back from the table, bowed her head, and sighed.
“He has left us; he’s not breathing.”
I felt for a pulse in his neck, and didn’t find one. Still, my hands were tired, almost numb; I couldn’t be sure. I leaned my head on his chest, and could sense nothing…no breath sounds, no heartbeat. I was within a moment of giving up, and then a memory flashed through my brain: I thought of the time back at Ioan’s home when he had just returned from his family’s graves. He’d spoken of heartache, and held a hand to his chest…to the right side.
Anya looked at me as if I was mad when I leaned across a bit more and listened once again for a heartbeat. Sure enough, there was a faint, sluggish beat. I nearly whooped for joy. Anya leaned over and listened as well, and then looked up at me in wonder.
“On the right side?…and why isn’t he taking breath more often?”
I waved her questions aside. “He is different from us; that’s enough said for now. Let’s get back to work, shall we?”
For my part, I knew that I needed to hurry. Weary and worn as I was, my hands were beginning to shake from fatigue. My right shoulder was stiffening, and movement was becoming difficult. My thumb and the first and second fingers of my left hand were still usable, but the pain of my severed fingers was causing me miserable discomfort. I needed attending to myself; still, for Ioan’s sake, I knew that I must hold on.
He began to revive when I started cauterizing the blood vessels at his wrist. He seemed too weak to scream or even to move; he quietly groaned from time to time, and as I worked, he stared at me like some miserable wounded animal. Now his iris had lost all colour; only the pupil and the edge showed dark, and it made him appear ghostly, almost frightening. He tried speaking once, and when his voice failed, Anya offered him water. He gulped eagerly then seemed satisfied. With the smallest nod of his head he offered Anya his thanks, and shortly thereafter he fainted…and we continued our work with greater speed and less concern for causing him pain.
It took some effort to pull muscle and skin over the worst of the stump, but I’d managed, and I was in the process of stitching some of this together when I heard Larkin’s clear voice advancing down the hallway.
“…I am not giving you orders again, my lord, I’m simply urging you to stop for a little! Your wounds need attending. Strong as you are, you are not indestructible, and no one here expects you to continue on until you collapse…” Her voice trailed away. It seemed Akimba was responding in a less impassioned manner; we could only hear a low rumble as he replied to Larkin’s affectionate harangue.
I couldn’t stop what I was doing, but I turned to watch the two of them pause in the doorway. My relief at seeing Larkin turned to alarm: her right arm was secured in a sling. I glanced up at her grime-covered face, saw the tracks of many a fallen tear, and felt certain Akimba had already told her of Hugh’s death.
She saw my gaze shift back to her sling, and immediately read my expression of concern:
“Don’t look so worried…I’ll be fine,” she reassured me as she came towards us. She seemed about to say more when she gasped
: she’d actually gotten a look at what I was cradling in my hands, and her gaze traveled up and down Ioan’s tortured body once, and then again.
She put her hand to her mouth and stifled a cry of despair. She looked up at Akimba, who was standing beside her. He, too, was staring at Ioan’s form with the same woeful expression Larkin wore on her face.
She clutched at Akimba’s sleeve. “Why didn’t you tell me he was this badly wounded? I would never have taken the time to get my arm tended!” Tears welled up in her eyes and ran down her face as she moved forward, and she sank to her knees beside the table, leaning her head upon the hard oak. “Oh, my poor, poor Ioan!” she sobbed.
So fixated were we all on Larkin’s woe, we didn’t notice that Ioan had become aware of it as well. He shifted his right hand enough to rest his fingers upon her curls. Everyone in the room became dead quiet when we realized he had moved. He tried to comfort Larkin, whispering, “Shhhh.”
