Chapter 38
Rothir felt no joy at the victory. Relief, certainly; or he expected that he would feel relief, at some point, later on. But as yet, there was no happiness.
He and Theol, his second in command, looked at each other without speaking. Theol’s wry half-smile and shake of the head said it all. Not much to be happy about. They had lost three of his company: two men, one woman, and many more were wounded. Rothir himself had a few knocks and cuts, but nothing that he considered major.
“Other companies have done worse,” said Theol. A level-headed man in his forties, he often understood what Rothir was thinking without him needing to say.
“I know.” It wasn’t any comfort.
“We couldn’t have avoided some losses. We did as well as possible, in the circumstances.” Theol never criticised Rothir’s decisions despite the age gap: a quizzical head-tilt was the furthest that it ever went. But he was a man of long experience and that comment, from him, was worth something.
Rothir nodded. Were the battle to be fought again – which stars above forbid – there was nothing he would do differently. The outcome would always have brought grief.
After wiping his sword on the grass, he sheathed it carefully at last. It had survived undamaged. I forged it better than I knew, he thought, with only the dullest sense of satisfaction.
“All right. We need to get the company organised and moving back to the Watch Forts before nightfall,” he said. The wounded were already being ferried towards the back of the field where the carts were waiting.
“Night is slow to fall this far up north,” Theol remarked. “And the light’s misleading. Where was the sun hiding before? It’s much brighter now than it was earlier.”
“True.” He glanced up at the sky. The light had been playing tricks towards the end of the battle; he could not account for it, but he had not had any time to think about the weather. Maybe it was down to Leor. It had been strange.
But that whole conclusion to the conflict had been strange. The ethereal moonlit period when wolves and lions over-ran the field seemed almost dreamlike, now that the setting sun was hurling its thick red cloak across the battle plain.
The wolves must have been the helpers that Veron had promised; they’d certainly helped to sow confusion in the stonemen’s ranks. When Rothir had noticed the tall woman at some distance on the battlefield, he’d wondered who she was. But then a series of assaults had taken all his attention, until he realised that the enemy ranks had disintegrated and the stonemen were being chased back to the fifteenth fort.
By that time there had not been many left to chase. He thought he’d seen a great white cat leap after the last few stonemen as they ran for the hills, a phenomenon of speed and terrible grace; but that might have been a trick of the strange light. Glancing up in puzzlement at the retiring moon, he wondered how Veron had done it. But he was too weary to feel much real curiosity.
As he helped to convey the wounded Riders to the rear he noted with dull gratitude that nearly all the captains had survived relatively unhurt. Sashel had come off worst, with a bad blow to the head: apparently he had gone berserk at the final attack of the stonemen, and had rushed straight at them – “as if he didn’t care if he lived or died,” said one of his company.
Rothir nodded, unsurprised. He felt beyond surprise at the moment. Everything in battle was dreadful and none of it was cause for wonder. Not even the appearance of the wolves had surprised him. He had immediately guessed that Veron was responsible, and was just exasperated that it had taken him so long.
Which was unfair, he knew. While he was lifting a wounded soldier into one of the carts, he saw Veron close by with his band of huntsmen. As Rothir walked over to them, Veron was smiling; he clapped his hand on Rothir’s shoulder, a most unusual gesture of familiarity for him. Now there was a happy man, thought Rothir; ecstatic, even, consumed by some inexplicable delight.
“Well, you did it,” he said flatly.
“She did it,” Veron answered.
“She…?”
“My wife. The huntress.”
Rothir thought of the tall silver woman striding through the battlefield, and wondered. The moonlight shone from Veron’s eyes as it did not shine elsewhere.
“I’m going back to her now,” Veron said, exultant. He whistled to his horse, which came trotting up; but he paused before he mounted. “Your protégé did well,” he added. “Yaret. Better than I had hoped. She seemed to know her.”
“Yaret’s not my protégé,” said Rothir, totally bemused. “Who seemed to know who? And she did well at what? I didn’t even know that she was with you.”
“She had to petition my wife. It can be fatal,” said Veron. He swung himself up into the saddle. “But she knew the words without being told and she was unafraid.”
“But what was–” Too late. Veron was already riding away.
One of the huntsmen turned to him. Rothir recognised him as Naduk, who had come to the captains’ council.
“It was amazing when she changed,” Naduk told him, with something of the same exultancy that had shone from Veron’s face. “I thought she’d run. Or get her head bit off.”
“Who? What do you mean?”
The huntsman merely grinned and shook his head. “The best day of my life,” he said. “I never thought I’d see her.” He strode off to the carts.
Rothir gathered that by that last her Naduk did not mean Yaret. The best day of his life? What an extraordinary way to feel. For him, it was very far from that. It was victory, for now, but that was all.
But he was at last conscious of some small cause for relief, because it seemed Yaret was safe. He’d assumed that she was at the back of the army; if he’d known she’d been in the thick of it with Veron it would have added to the burden of his cares.
Her unexpected appearance at the Watch Fort had given him a shock. No other word for it. An odd mixture of gladness and annoyance – even anger, because there was no need for Yaret to have travelled so far west into such danger. It was quite unnecessary. Yet he was also conscious of a rising joy; because… Well. Of course to see any friend at that time must bring joy. But seeing Yaret had also brought him a new fear: he worried about her to a slightly perplexing degree. It must arise from having saved her life. And from having left her with that ugly stump; he felt responsible for that, in part at least.
But for the moment she was evidently safe. And there was more cause for relief when he saw Huldarion upright and uninjured, directing the exodus of wounded soldiers. Beside Huldarion stood a pair of Kelvhan nobles – not the Prince or Arch-Lord Shargun, thankfully, but two of the senior captains: in Rothir’s opinion, capable enough men who had commanded their troops well.
He walked over, saluted Huldarion, and bowed to the Kelvhans, although both his sense of justice and his back complained.
“I trust Prince Faldron is unhurt?” he said.
“Entirely, I thank you,” answered one of the Kelvhans. “He is unscathed, partly due to the prompt actions of Lord Huldarion and his men.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“He is a valiant youth,” said Huldarion.
“Impressively brave-hearted,” said Rothir, although he had cursed the Prince for a heedless fool when he first realised he had ridden out into the battle. Cost men their lives. The Arch-Lord Shargun ought to have known better. But he said the needful thing. “His courage was remarkable.”
Huldarion didn’t look particularly happy either, he noted, even allowing for the scars. He looked grim. Nobody was looking happy except Veron and his men – and these Kelvhan captains.
“The wizard Leor,” said one of them to Huldarion. “A friend of yours?”
“The friendship is long-standing,” said Huldarion.
“A crude form of wizardry, that enchantment of the animals,” commented the other captain. “Yet effective in its crudeness. Without it the Vonn must surely have foundered; and even Kelvha might have struggled to prevail.”
“Indeed,” said Huldarion evenly. Rothir, as he bowed again and walked away, could not find the energy to feel indignant. He felt drained. But he ignored his tiredness and checked the carts holding his injured Riders, making sure that all were as comfortable as possible. Then he supervised the orderly return of the uninjured, encouraging them to ride back to the nearest Watch Forts before night fell.
He was the last of his company to leave the battlefield. As he swung himself up onto Narba, he looked back at the scene. The sun had set, pulling its bloodied rags of clouds down with it. The last pink glow had faded and the moon was taking precedence once more: it sailed high above the plain, which was littered with the slumped and twisted bodies of the stonemen. He doubted if any of their fellows would come to claim them. A few Kelvhan troops were busy harvesting their stones: after that, they would be left here for the crows and buzzards.
Somewhere a lonely wolf howled. A reminder of the turning of the battle’s tide. We won, Rothir told himself, we won. He felt no triumph; maybe that also would come later. Right now, there was too much to attend to. The familiar grim aftermath of battle. Oh, I have had enough of war, he thought, and shoved the thought aside.
After the ride back to the nearest Watch Forts, he found that the largest building, which had been designated for use as an infirmary, was already almost full. The wounded were being tended on crude trestles, or crammed together on the floor, in tight rows all down the pooled lamplight of the long hall. However, he managed to find places for the most severely injured of his people, and then seized hold of medics – Kelvhan or Vonn, he didn’t care – and ordered them to attend to each.
Leor was already in the infirmary fort, doctoring the Melmet troops, his orange hair a beacon moving between the crowded beds. Parthenal, too, was there, tending some of his own company; he raised a brief hand in acknowledgement to Rothir before starting to clean and stitch a gash in Hevral’s side. Although Parthenal rolled his eyes slightly at Hevral’s agonised groans, his hands were deft and gentle. This caring aspect of his friend was seldom evident to Rothir, and he knew he ought to find it touching. But neither Parthenal’s gentleness nor Hevral’s pain seemed to affect him. Emotion was better kept for later, he decided. He wanted a clear mind, no, an empty mind, just now.
Seeing Sashel sitting in a corner with a mountain of bandage on his head, he sat down with him for a few moments to say encouraging things. How bravely he had fought, how proud his brother Gordal would have been. Sashel nodded with his eyes closed, his bruised face pulled tight. It was hard to think of the right things to say. The crying from the far end of the great hall was not helping. There was a constant low hubbub of murmurs and groans of pain, but this was different: someone was sobbing, almost shrieking in distress.
Eventually he got up and walked over to see if he could quiet the man. It was an Ioben – not one of Veron’s hardened huntsmen, but a young man, very young; one of those who had at first rebelled, and then had been persuaded to fight alongside Melmet.
And had fought his last, Rothir could see at once. His abdomen had been ripped open. It was beyond any needlework to mend that dreadful overflowing of his innards. The attendant was trying to hold the wound closed while he changed the dressings, which were soaked with blood. The boy lay in a growing pool of red, crying and calling over and over for his mother.
“She’s here,” said his attendant. “She’s here.”
He realised that the attendant was Yaret. While she applied the clean, useless dressings, she spoke quietly to the boy in his own tongue. Her words were calm and almost steady despite the tears that trickled down her grimy cheeks.
“Muma! Muma!” How recognisable it was in all languages, thought Rothir. Yaret took the hands that were trying to rip off the new dressings and held them, still talking softly. Almost singing to him.
The boy grew quiet at last. “Muma,” he said once more, and that was all.
After a moment she released his hands. Then she covered his face with his blood-stained cloak and got awkwardly to her feet. She was trying to say something, still in her own language, but choked on the words; her face was twisting up.
He found it scarcely bearable. It was not needed. He walked across to her.
“Crying doesn’t help,” he said.
Yaret looked up and stared at him through a film of tears. “What?”
“You feel too much. It’s not useful.”
For a moment she did not speak. Then she answered, “It’s not useful? Tell me, then, when should I feel? Should I wait until a hundred men have died, or a thousand, or ten thousand? When should I feel anything, if not for a boy who has just died far from home and calling for his mother?” Her voice was not loud, but it was hoarse and biting.
“It doesn’t help.”
Her mouth worked before she could speak again. “If you feel none of this,” she said, “if you make yourself feel nothing, the time will come when you can feel nothing. You’ll want to feel and there will be nothing there.”
With that she picked up the bundle of bloody dressings, turned her back on him and walked away down the full length of the hall to where a row of tubs stood at the far end. When she reached them she dropped the cloths into one tub and began to wash her hands in another.
Rothir leant against the wall next to the dead boy. After a few minutes two men came and carried the limp body away. A third mopped the floor, without speaking.
He knew that he was right; to feel too much just now was dangerous. There would be no end of it. It would send you crazed and yelling, like Sashel, rushing to seek your death. It would stop you from doing what you needed to.
So feel nothing. But he felt something. He did not know what it was. It caught his throat in an implacable grip and closed it tight. At his sister Olbeth’s he had suffered some sort of winter of the soul: he thought that it had passed. But here it was again, and it was worse.
A deeper, fiercer, hungrier winter. So much death. So much had been lost. His three dead Riders stood at a distance with bowed heads, both visible and not visible. He did not look too closely at them. If he let sorrow for them surface, it would pull him down and drown him.
But Yaret was also right. He ought to feel some sorrow. He ought to feel more grief for Gordal, that loud, cheerful, uncomplicated man, and for the others who had died. Yet when he looked inside himself for grief, he found none there.
So what was he feeling? It was pain. The sense of something lost. What was that? Was that his sorrow?
Yaret had dried her hands and was walking across the far end of the hall. Her limp was obvious. She picked up another bundle of clean cloths from a pile and walked round the edge of the hall past all the crowded beds. She was coming back towards him. It seemed to take forever. He braced himself for what she might say next, because he knew he could not answer.
She stopped in front of him with her cloths folded under one arm. Then she put her right thumb to her forehead, dipping her head in the archer’s salute.
“I apologise. I ought not to have said that. I spoke from my distress. You were right, Rothir. I know that it is not useful to feel too much. It means you cannot act as you should.”
She looked him in the eyes, and her own were anxious. But her manner was formal, as befitted a junior soldier addressing a captain. He became aware that other eyes were on them, some of them Kelvhan, and realised that the apology was necessary.
“I do not wish to lose your friendship over this,” she said. “It is very valuable to me. I beg your pardon.” He said nothing. After a few seconds she saluted him again, and walked away.
Rothir still leant against the wall unmoving until the pain in his throat eased a little. So much was lost; and yet perhaps some things were not lost altogether.
He saw Parthenal looking over at him but did not want to talk. So he went back outside.