Sann’s wing was broken. Though the narrow bones threading the membrane hadn’t pierced the skin, the lightning bolt formed by their jagged angles made it obvious that the wing fingers had splintered. So distressing was the sight of them that it took Leo several long seconds before he could tear his gaze away to inspect the rest of her injuries. Fortunately, if anything could truly be described as such under the circumstances, the remainder of Sann’s wounds appeared to be mostly superficial. One side of her body was badly bruised, the bluish-white of her scales darkening to indigo in several places, and she was completely unconscious, but her breathing was dry and steady.
“Oh, Sann,” Leo murmured, wincing. He knelt and gingerly stroked the drakonid’s cheek. “My brave girl. We’re going to look after you.”
He looked up at the sound of heavy footsteps and found Karran and Nyssa standing over him. The latter had retrieved Leo’s sword from the golem’s belly and laid it aside with a quick, purposeful nod. Karran, on the other hand, merely dropped to her knees and reached out to brush Sann’s ankle with a delicate claw.
“She’ll live,” Leo announced with a certainty he didn’t quite feel. Meeting Nyssa’s eye, he tried and failed to smile. “Go find one of the surgeons.”
“Leo,” she replied. Shifting uneasily, she indicated the front line, which had now reached the center of the camp, some hundred and fifty paces off. “This battle isn’t over yet. I don’t want to leave you until—”
“Nyssa,” he said softer, without breaking eye contact. “The surgeon. Please.”
She went.
Chapter Twenty
The surgeon was not the calm, middle-aged man that Leo had expected, but rather a wiry, blond-whiskered youth a year or two Leo’s junior. As he stooped to inspect Sann’s injuries, Leo turned to Nyssa. His skepticism must have been apparent for she shrugged apologetically and steered him aside with a hand across his back.
“Maybe the gods will bless Sann for being his first-ever patient,” Leo muttered, once they were safely out of earshot.
Nyssa’s ears twitched, and she lifted a hand as if to swat him. If they’d been alone, she doubtless would have. But, since they were not, she simply used it to wipe the sweat from her brow.
“He was the only one I could find,” she said quickly. “You should be glad there were any left. We’ve only got a couple dozen. If this were an even battle—”
“I know,” Leo interrupted with a soothing gesture. He nodded toward the receding battlefront. “Shouldn’t be long now.”
“Assuming the officers can keep their soldiers in line.” Expression hardening, Nyssa crossed her arms and followed his gaze. “It’s rather hard to take prisoners when every soldier in your army is drunk on revenge.”
“It doesn’t matter if we take prisoners or not,” he said. At Nyssa’s harsh, bewildered expression, he smiled softly and gestured a second time. “Really, it doesn’t. It’s not as though we could press them. It’s hard enough trying to keep elves and trow from fighting. Can you imagine if we added men from the counts’ armies to the mix? It’d be a disaster. The only thing that matters is whether or not we take the count alive.”
Nyssa grunted noncommittally and turned to survey the ruins about them. Though the fighting had moved on, its aftermath remained as far as the eye could see in three directions. Trampled tents, scattered coals and embers from the abandoned fires, and the mostly still forms of the hundreds of dead and dying stretched far into the gloom.
“Do you think we will?” she asked.
Leo shrugged and was about to respond when a running figure emerged from the darkness, hurrying their way. The sight would have been alarming if not for the immediately recognizable club the runner carried.
“I expect we’re about to find out,” Leo said. “Iresh, here.”
The Gwydon was already slowing by the time Leo spoke up, but he grinned broadly at the sound of his own name. Tucking the carven bone against his chest, he bowed deeply. And then, surprisingly, he repeated the obeisance to Nyssa as well.
“Sha’rath,” he said. “And Kui’an. I bring word from the primarch. The one you sought, the count, has surrendered. His army has broken as well—fled, fallen, or captured. The last few holdouts are being dealt with as we speak.”
“Thank you,” Leo said. It was hard to keep his voice steady for the emotions struggling to choke him. He ought to have felt triumphant. One of the counts was defeated in an almost bloodless victory—for his forces, at least. And yet, rather than celebrating, he wanted nothing more than to remain at Sann’s side until she woke.
He glanced at Nyssa and was surprised to find her scowling at Iresh. The elf, however, did not appear to have noticed yet. And so, rather hurriedly, Leo cleared his throat.
“Casualties?” he asked.
Iresh tapped his club thoughtfully against his collar. “Impossible to say yet,” he replied. “Minimal, certainly. We’ve lost a few hundred, perhaps, including those badly injured. Or was Your Excellency referring to the enemy?”
“I don’t care about the fucking enemy!” Leo snapped. The sudden flare of rage cooled the second the words escaped his lips. Sighing deeply, he rubbed his eyes and waited for his composure to return. “I apologize, Iresh. That was… undeserved. Tell Buchold that any man who surrenders is not to be harmed. Once the camp is secure, have him bring the count to me.”
“As you say, Sha’rath,” Iresh acknowledged, bowing again. And, once again, he followed it with an identical gesture in Nyssa’s direction. This time, however, Leo spotted his playful smirk. “Kui’an.”
“Kabalie,” Nyssa spat under her breath as the elf turned to go. And although the twitch of Iresh’s ear made it clear that he’d heard, he did not hesitate or glance back.
Leo watched him go, then sighed pointedly and fixed her with a firm stare. “Well?” he asked. “Care to explain?”
Nyssa grumbled, staring hotly in Iresh’s direction. Then, with a mouthed curse, she began to pace in a manner Leo found charmingly familiar.
“Kui’an,” she said, practically snarling the word. “It’s a trow concept, like anathki. Someone who uses their charm as a weapon.”
“It’s an insult?”
“A compliment, technically.” Nyssa’s eyes narrowed further as she began to gnaw her lower lip. “But coming from that one? I’d have preferred a more obvious insult.”
Leo wanted to sigh yet again. Instead, he simply shook his head and returned to Sann’s side. The surgeon, already visibly unnerved by Karran’s presence, glanced up at Leo’s arrival and started to rise.
“Don’t,” Leo said curtly. “How is she?”
The young man hesitated then shrugged helplessly.
“Afraid I’ve no idea, Your Excellency,” he said. “I’ve no experience with her kind. But, assuming her innards work like normal folk? She’ll have a long road to health. Look.” He cautiously nudged Sann’s wing, now wrapped in a tight layer of gauze. “This was broken in about a dozen spots. I’ve bound it tight as I dared for now. We’ll want to get egg plaster on it soon as we’re back to camp if she’s to have any chance of flying again. But, even with that…”
“Why hasn’t she woken?” Leo demanded.
The surgeon hesitated again, longer this time.
“She took a blow to the head, yes?” he asked, though his tone was hardly questioning. “Those sorts of injuries… they’re always tricky, Your Excellency. She might wake this very minute, an hour from now, or never. There’s just no way of knowing. I’m sorry.”
Leo was silent for a long moment. He stared at Sann’s closed eyes and unresponsive features. And then, with a slight flick of his fingers, he shooed the surgeon away. The young man rose, bowed nervously, and practically ran for the front.
He was still running when Buchold arrived with the count.
***
Intellectually, Leo had known that it would not be Count Grey that trudged toward him, shackled and glowering.
But the sight of Count Bordeau was disappointing, nevertheless. Almost as disappointing as it was amusing, in fact. The count appeared to have been caught just as unprepared as the rest of his army, if his lopsided breastplate and missing boot were to be believed.
The man glared at Leo for a long moment then slowly and grudgingly sank to one knee.
“Your Excellency,” Bordeau said. The man’s voice was thick with cloying mockery. “I must congratulate you on your… cunning strategy. Some might say that a nighttime attack is the work of a coward but surely your bravery will put—”
“How fare the soldiers?” Leo asked. He faced Buchold, fully conscious of the outrage that blossomed on Bordeau’s face as two of the primarch’s lieutenants hauled the kneeling count aside. To his credit, Buchold hardly seemed to notice the man’s sputtering.
“Tired but lively,” Buchold said. “They’re not happy about sparing so many of the rebels, but I don’t think they’ll disobey orders. Iresh is speaking to them so that should help.”
“Good,” Leo said softly. “How soon can we march? I don’t like leaving our supplies unguarded for so long.”
“That… depends,” Buchold said. He fidgeted, weighing his words for longer than Leo expected. “Most of the wounded will be well enough to march within the hour. A few will need carrying, but there are plenty of wagons and material for litters. It’s the dead that will be a problem. There aren’t that many but it will take time to gather wood for the pyres. To say nothing of the enemy’s wounded and dead.”
“You think we should remain here?” Leo asked. He lifted his brows, trying to make the question as innocent as possible. “I could send word to Cochran and have him join us. It would be a hell of a lot of work to clear the bodies in time but…”
“No, sir,” the elf said. “There’s too much risk of disease in staying here. With respect, would you consider leaving a funeral detail behind? It wouldn’t require more than three dozen and they could rejoin us by morning.”
“Three dozen?” Leo exclaimed, taken aback. He grinned cautiously and clapped the elf on the shoulder. “Is that all? I thought you’d ask for ten times that! Are you sure that’s all you need?”
“It will be sufficient.”
Leo studied Buchold for a moment and was reminded once again of just how competent the elf truly was. It was embarrassing to admit that he tended to think of Buchold and Sophe as little more than figureheads for their respective peoples, but being reminded to the contrary was a welcome surprise.
“Then you’ll have them,” Leo said. “See to the preparations, will you? If Buchanan or anyone else gives you trouble, just inform them that you’re executing my orders.”
Buchold nodded, then bowed and turned on his heel. So practiced and purposeful was the motion of it that Leo couldn’t help but grin slightly. It was hard to look at the elf and imagine that he had been shackled in one of Nicolo’s cages only a few months earlier.
His smile vanished as he turned back to the restrained Bordeau and found the count sneering.
“Well, aren’t you quite the abolitionist,” Bordeau said. “Gods, you’re worse than VanAllen. Though, I suppose it’s to be expected from a boy who prefers elves and monsters in his bed.”
Even without turning to look, Leo could read the indignation in Karran and Nyssa’s body language. He shook his head, as much for their benefit as the count’s, and took an idle step in the man’s direction.
“Grown tired of manners already, Your Grace?” Leo asked. He didn’t bother looking the man in the eye. “That didn’t take long.”
“I’ve no need to waste courtesy on the likes of you, Lord Pervert.”
“Duke Pervert,” Leo corrected. He gazed up at the sky, now a lightening blue streaked with gold and orange, and fingered the pommel of his sword. “And you may find that wasting courtesy saves your life.”
Bordeau snorted. “No, Your Excellency, I don’t imagine it will. Every man the Isles wide knows that you murder according to your aims, manners be damned. If you were going to string me up, an uncivil tongue would have nothing to do with it. Besides, you’re not going to kill me. Certainly not anytime soon.”
“I’m not?” Leo asked. The man’s arrogance was almost amusing, despite the nerve his words had struck. “And why, pray tell, might that be?”
Barking a laugh, Bordeau tried to rise then scowled at the elves who forced him back down to his knee.
“Because,” the man said. “There are still more armies marching this way. And you’re a moderately clever man, VanOrden, for all your damned treachery. You’re not one to discard a valuable chit before the hand’s been played.”
Leo smiled even as his eyes narrowed. It was frustrating to be so plainly known by a man whom he’d encountered only a half dozen times. Even more frustrating was the fact that Bordeau was correct. Leo was hardly the sort to waste an advantage, particularly when it cost him nothing to hold the card up his sleeve. But then, there was quite a difference between knowing about and knowing.
“You’re quite right, Count Bordeau,” he said, turning to meet the man’s eyes at last. “I’ve no plans to hang you. I have questions about your former allies, their numbers, and their movements. And, as you said, this is a war. I have no qualms about using the lash to obtain answers.”
Bordeau’s face paled somewhat but the man’s expression betrayed no such fear. Instead, the count’s eyes grew flinty and hard.
“You wouldn’t dare,” he spat.
“To protect Ansiri? To safeguard my rightful inheritance?” Leo said. He chuckled darkly. “I’d dare far more than that, Your Grace.”
“I am a count, boy!”
“And I am a Duke,” Leo countered. He leaned ever so slightly in Bordeau’s direction and shrugged. “Let’s see whose title the whip-sergeant respects more.”
For a few seconds, Bordeau simply glared at him. Then the man lunged, fighting unsuccessfully to wrench his arms free of the elves holding him. Upon finding he could not, he sank slowly back to his knees and averted his gaze. Then he froze.
“I remember that one,” the man declared. At first, Leo thought he was eyeing and referring to Karran, but the count’s harsh, wild laugh made it obvious he was not. Rather, the man beamed as he gazed at the motionless Sann. “She was with you in Ansiri. Gods be praised, those worthless peasants managed something after all! Did you see it happen? I hope you did. Gods, I’d give my title to have seen your face when—”
Leo kicked with all his might. His boot, overlaid with its weighty sabaton, caught the count in the chin and snapped his head back with such force that the man’s collapse ripped him from the arms of his captors. Not that Count Bordeau looked to be in any position to rise or flee. His mouth and nose were in ruins, torn, bleeding, and in the latter’s case, crooked.
The count did not attempt to rise.
“Take that somewhere else,” Leo growled, staring daggers at the unresponsive man. It took a great deal of self-control to keep from drawing his blade and burying it in the man’s chest. “And find it some irons.”
The elves carried out his orders with haste, gathering up their unconscious charge and dragging him away in a manner that, if he’d been awake, the count would doubtless have found quite beneath him. Leo didn’t bother watching them depart. He paced the small gap between two collapsed tents, nostrils flaring and fists clenching as he fought to regain his equilibrium. He hadn’t quite managed the feat but was fast approaching it when Nyssa spoke up.
“I’m surprised you didn’t kill him,” she said, voice laden with dry amusement.
“As am I,” he muttered. “What a damned fool. The mouth on him.”
“He raised a good point though,” she continued. “We still need to deal with the other counts. I doubt we’ll get the opportunity to catch them sleeping, especially after this.”
“I know,” Leo said. He couldn’t help but feel a tad defensive though he did his best to keep his words free of the
instinct. “I’m working on a plan to—”
A sudden commotion at the far end of the camp interrupted him. He turned, squinting to try and make out some detail of the cause. Unfortunately, it wasn’t hard.
Hundreds of men, elves, and trow raced toward him, panic written plainly across their faces. Interspersed among the frightened multitude, officers with raised, tremulous voices bellowed orders and dragged or flung the scattered members of their battalions into unsteady ranks. It was hardly the smooth, disciplined mustering Leo had witnessed dozens of times before. And even as the lines were formed, the backmost ranks continued to edge toward Leo—and away from whatever newly discovered threat had spooked them.
“Stay with her!” Leo bellowed, gesturing sharply at Karran. The ambrosian nodded, grimacing as she crouched by Sann’s side.
He took off at a run, Nyssa following close behind. In seconds, she had overtaken him and raced ahead, shouting demands for direction to Buchold and the other officers. Leo did his best to follow in her wake, though the thickening ranks of his army made it increasingly difficult to navigate swiftly. Even still, it took less than a minute for him to reach the front and find himself on the fringes of a murmuring cluster of officers.
Sophe was the first member of note to spot him and responded with a curt nod and an emphatic, “Sir.”
“What’s going on?” Leo demanded, shoving his way between a pair of startled lieutenants.
The trow primarch grimaced and indicated a thick tree line some three hundred paces north of the camp’s edge. In the halfhearted morning light, it was possible to make out dozens of hurrying figures. Most were cloaked in shadows like so many scurrying ants, but scattered throughout their number strode a handful of stern, implacable figures in gleaming, undisguised armor. And, as if any question remained as to the identity of the newcomers, the light of hundreds of torches filtered through the trees like the rising of a second sun. So numerous were they that the smoke wafted upward through the forest’s canopy until the wind stole away the innumerable tufts and streaked the brightening sky with streaks of soot gray.
Duke of Minds (Master of Monsters Book 4) Page 19
