Chapter 33
“You’re hurt,” said Parthenal.
“Not badly.” Huldarion removed the cloth from his left arm and checked it. “It looks worse than it is. Come to the tent with me, and you can stitch it up while we talk.”
“You want me to stitch it?”
“Rothir says you do a good neat job. And I need to speak to you and the other captains without delay. Where’s Sashel? He’s not wounded, is he?”
“He’s safe. I saw him with his company over there. He doesn’t know yet… Gordal died.”
“Ah.” Huldarion let out a brief exhalation of regret. “How?”
“Darkburn.”
“Any others in your company lost?”
Parthenal shook his head. “All standing. But not all unscathed. Let me leave you for a moment and talk to Rigal.”
He went to check the number of casualties with Rigal, his second in command now that Gordal was gone. But he knew that Maeneb would see that everything necessary was done in any case. Really she should have been his second, if not a captain on her own account.
Returning, he accompanied Huldarion to the tent. It had been hastily thrown up and was really no more than a long canvas awning. At one end medics were assessing the injured and handing out bandages. At the other end, the captains gathered – all except Sashel, who had now heard the news and knelt outside with head bowed by his brother. Inside, the captains also bowed their heads to Gordal and the other fallen soldiers for a moment.
As they raised their heads again Huldarion held out his arm for stitching. “Make it quick, Parthenal. It doesn’t need to be neat. That arm’s hardly beautiful in any case.” The gash ran through the scar tissue on his forearm; the tightness of the skin there pulled it open.
Parthenal compressed his lips as he dipped the fine curved needle and thread in spirit, and after mopping away the blood, gently wiped the gash with spirit too. Huldarion did not flinch.
“Don’t worry, there’s little feeling in that area,” he said; probably untruthfully. Then, as Parthenal bent to his task, Huldarion addressed the other captains. “Kelvha will want to lead the next attack on the stonemen. That’s already been made clear.”
“Why didn’t they ride out to help us sooner?” queried Uld.
“Testing us, I imagine.”
“So they’ll join in now that we’ve got rid of all the darkburns for them,” grunted Solon.
“I don’t think we’ve done that,” said Huldarion. “I have no doubt that there will be more darkburns waiting for us; though I don’t think the Kelvhans will bother with those metal nets of theirs again. They just melted in the heat, apparently.”
“On the other hand,” said Parthenal, “perhaps the stonemen will also think twice about using that trick with the chains again.”
“How did you fare with those?”
Parthenal described how Maeneb had used the chain against the stonemen. It turned out that Ikelder had made a similar use of one, while Rothir had somehow managed to wrap his darkburn and both its stoneman riders up in their own chain.
“Wouldn’t want to try that again, though,” he said. “The darkburn just happened to run the right way. We were lucky to get away with it.”
Huldarion nodded. “It may deter the enemy from using chains next time,” he said. “But these stonemen are proving more adaptable than previous ones that we’ve encountered.”
“Maybe they’re learning,” suggested Ikelder.
“Then we should be too. I need a plan to put before the Kelvhan Arch-Lord.”
“Shargun? He won’t do any fighting,” said Parthenal. “He’ll sit in his carriage and issue orders.”
“Then we need to make sure they are orders that will work for us. Yes? What is it?” Somebody had just entered the tent: Parthenal glanced up and saw an Ioben man in ripped fur clothing, with a bow slung over his shoulder.
The Ioben bowed and said in rough Standard, “A message from Veron. The big army of new stonemen is nearly at the fort number fifteen.” He held up fingers to make sure they understood. “There almost now. Veron says three thousand extra stonemen. Hundred darkburns.”
“A hundred,” said Huldarion; not in shock, thought Parthenal, but as if he were simply weighing up the number. Yet Parthenal himself was shocked. A hundred?
“Where is Veron now?” asked Huldarion.
“Two, three miles from fort number fifteen. Out of sight. Veron says he will get more helpers from the north to fight with him. Then will come down to hit the stonemen at fort number fifteen.” Again he held up his hands to emphasise the number.
“Helpers? What do you mean?” asked Solon.
“I don’t know. Veron knows. Veron has also the wizard, Leor: Lioli? The red hair.” The man drew his hands dramatically down his own shaggy locks to demonstrate. He was enjoying this theatre, thought Parthenal. “Leori will help.”
“How?”
“Veron says, look to the north. Not tonight, but tomorrow afternoon, under the moon.” He pointed to the sky.
“And what will we see?” asked Thoronal, who had been unusually quiet until then.
“Helpers,” said the man. He grinned. “That’s all Veron says. Any message? I have another errand now.”
“No message, except that all goes so far much as expected.”
The man nodded by way of a salute, and left the tent.
“Helpers?” repeated Solon. “Just helpers? That’s not helpful at all.”
“Can we trust him?” asked Ikelder.
“Who: the messenger, or Veron?” said Rothir.
“Well… both.”
“We can trust Veron,” said Huldarion. “If he says he’ll come up with something, then he will.”
“The question is, what?” said Parthenal, looking up from his stitching.
“Is that done now?”
“Almost. Keep still while I put a dressing on it.”
Parthenal knotted and cut the thread carefully. As he placed a star-moss dressing on the tight-stitched skin, and began to apply a bandage, he felt more moved by pity for this injury than any of the much worse ones being cared for at the far end of the tent. Those others barely stirred him. But in the midst of battle, it seemed both strange and wonderful to be so close to Huldarion: to touch his arm in almost a caress. He was careful to make little of it, and did not allow his hands to linger.
Meanwhile Uld asked the group, “Does anybody know what Veron may have meant by helpers? Because I am aware of no settlement of any size within fifty miles.”
“Further than that,” said Rothir, “if you mean of size enough to supply a battalion.”
“I doubt if Veron means a town at all,” replied Huldarion.
Parthenal finished tying the bandage and neatened the ends. “There. You’re done. But then what did Veron mean?”
“I think I may have some idea,” said Huldarion slowly. “But I have no certainty about it. We’ll just have to wait and see what happens.”
“And what might happen?” he asked.
Huldarion looked at him, unreadable. “Like I said, we’ll wait and see. But that’s tomorrow. We need to hold out until then. The fighting may not resume tonight, but it surely will at dawn, or even earlier. So, meanwhile: our plan?”
“If Kelvha wants to lead the charge,” said Rothir, “we ought at least to guard their flanks. We should set there all the archers that we have. I notice the Kelvhans don’t use their bows half as much as they might.”
“Then we will. Make sure that every archer is supplied with arrows. Parthenal?”
“We should advise the Kelvhans to immediately cut down any horsemen carrying chains. I don’t believe the stonemen will abandon that tactic all at once – especially if Veron is right, and they still have a hundred darkburns to use up.”
“Stakes?” Ikelder said, a little hesitantly. “If we have time to set a row of long stakes in the ground, they will catch any chains held out between the enemy horses. Hinder them at least.”
Huldarion nodded. “Good.”
“Some of the Kelvhans carry lances,” Ikelder went on, encouraged. “They’re unwieldy, but against an opposing cavalry lances may have a use – if the Kelvhans can use them properly. Many of those stonemen didn’t look too secure on horseback.”
“I observed that also,” said Huldarion. “Kelvha’s lancers should be skilled enough.”
“Will Kelvha want to ride out to the enemy, or wait for them to come?” asked Solon.
“They’ll ride out. I’ll suggest to them we make for the fifteenth fort as soon as possible, since that is where the enemy are mustering, according to Veron. We should have time to get there before battle resumes: certainly before tomorrow morning. And then it will be with us on the flanks, Melmet bringing up the rear. We’ll use the Baron’s archers to reinforce our own.”
At this Rothir stirred. “Over by the fifteenth fort the ground will be swampier than here. It shouldn’t be too soft for the foremost horses, but those at the back may struggle. I’d suggest Melmet ride out initially, but be prepared to go on foot as soon as their horses start to get bogged down. Because they will. And if Shargun’s thinking of his carriage, he can forget it.”
Huldarion smiled. “I’ll tell him that,” he said, “though perhaps not in those words. Thoronal?”
“I have nothing to add,” said Thoronal heavily. And he took no part in the brief debate that followed. At the end he bowed and walked out with the rest, having said no more.
“Parthenal,” said Huldarion, motioning him back. “Stay a moment.”
He stopped. Once the two men were alone, Huldarion asked,
“What’s wrong with Thoronal? I thought I knew him well enough, but you’re his cousin too. You might understand this glumness of his better than I do. Is it simply that he found himself worsted by the firedrake in the south? I thought him more resilient than that.”
“He’s resilient as long as he believes he’s in the right,” said Parthenal. “He finds it hard to admit to a mistake.”
“Don’t we all? But he admitted his mistake to me as we rode over here,” said Huldarion, “and I told him that it didn’t matter. We learn, and we move on.”
“Thoronal is not an adaptable man. He finds change difficult – especially changing his ideas about himself. He’s proud.”
“Again, aren’t we all? You’re proud, yet you accept rebuke for your mistakes.”
“Do I?” Parthenal raised an eyebrow. “I’m not sure that I make any.”
Huldarion laughed, and clapped him on the shoulder. Then he winced.
“I thought it didn’t hurt?” said Parthenal.
“I don’t mind telling you, since you’re a medic, of a sort. I must admit, mobility is a problem. Not just that arm; the whole side. I do my exercises but it’s not the same as battle.”
“So it hurts?”
“Yes.”
“Take ethlon.”
“No. Nor will I take belvane, in case it dulls my judgement.”
“Pain will dull your judgement,” Parthenal pointed out.
“Maybe; but I know how much. That’s the difference.”
Parthenal shook his head. “Then just keep using the ointment. You still do?”
“When there’s time.”
“Make time.”
“Easy for you to say.”
I would apply it myself, thought Parthenal, gladly, how gladly. The idea made him tingle. And it was absurd. Why can’t I stop thinking this way, even in the most inappropriate moments? Why can’t I stop myself from wanting him when I know that it’s impossible? And when he’s stern it’s even worse. I could fall on my knees before him… Oh, no, no, stop it.
“One more thing,” said Huldarion, and his tone instantly sobered Parthenal.
“What is it?”
“Sashel. Should he remain a captain?”
“It would be cruel to take it from him now. But…”
Huldarion nodded. “Yes. We’ll go and talk to him,” he said. “Kelvha can wait a little longer.” He clapped Parthenal on the shoulder once again before walking to the doorway. And Parthenal, in a flood of shame, turned his mind from men’s living, breathing bodies to that black and withered corpse outside.