The Bonemender (21 page)

The heavy arc of an ax swung in from his left. He caught it with his shield, but the angle was too extreme to meet it properly. Tristan’s arm crumpled with the impact; the rim of the shield slammed into his shoulder, knocking him sideways. Through waves of pain he fought to keep his footing, nearly regained it—then a powerful downward slice forced him to one knee as he threw up his arm to deflect it.

The end was a matter of seconds now, no more. Tristan’s enemies paused, momentarily, as if savoring their victory as they raised their weapons for the kill.

Damned if I will die a faceless death, Tristan thought. Let them look on the man they kill! He swept off his helmet, raised his sword defiantly, sucked in a final burning breath. “For Verdeau!” he yelled. They seemed as good last words as any.

T
HE
E
LVES HAD WAITED
until the commotion of battle was a terrible clamor in the sky to come out of cover and rank up. There would be no hiding in the forest this time, but they could at least come upon the enemy unawares. Without battle cry or drums, horns or heralds, they appeared, a stern and silent host behind an army that took no notice of their presence.

Four volleys of arrows, loosed in quick succession, found their marks before the
Gref Orisé
realized their source. Several more stopped the first disordered counterattacks. By the time a commander was found to organize a concerted front against the Elves,
Gref Orisé
soldiers lay thick on the ground before them.

Now it was close fighting against these men clad in metal, and Féolan remembered vividly the claustrophobic misery of those casings. To die trapped within them was as ugly a death as he could imagine, and he felt no disadvantage from his own exposed flesh. Neatly, almost surgically, he stepped in and slashed at the leather shoulder strap of the heavy soldier before him. Blocking the man’s powerful return stroke, he kicked out hard at the knee joint. His opponent staggered, flailed momentarily but did not fall as Féolan had hoped. His comrade, Islain, fighting on his right side, seized the opportunity and swung his blade in a ringing broadside to the head. Even through the helmet it brought the man down—and soon after he was dead.

Féolan and his unit fought on, slowly making inroads into the enemy’s rear flank. He could summon no hatred for the men he killed, only bitter anger at the tyrant who had sent them here and the conviction that they must be stopped.

Shouting, just a little ahead, caught his ear. He thought it was a Basin accent, though in the uproar it was hard to be sure. The scene before him unfolded in brief glimpses, snatched in the heartbeat pauses between thrust and block, feint and strike: a line of
Gref Orisé
soldiers, moving away from him; a lone Verdeau soldier, green stripe on his helm; the
Gref Orisé
on the attack, wolves after their prey.

Féolan had his opening, thrust at an exposed underarm and shoved his opponent to the side. Now he was directly behind the
line of soldiers. The Verdeau man had fallen to his knees, was just visible through a gap in the ring surrounding him. Feolan watched as the soldier suddenly reached up, ripped off his helmet and with a hoarse cry yelled, “For Verdeau!” The soldier’s thick blond hair fell free, his blue eyes blazed defiance. The
Gref Orisé
lifted their swords high.

“Tristan!” cried Féolan and leaped at the nearest soldier, clubbing him to the ground. Islain was with him, the others close behind. A sword fell; Tristan parried. Two of the attacking
Gref Orisé
whirled away from Tristan to face this new threat. Soon Féolan stood back-to-back with Tristan, his head still ringing with alarm and relief.

“Well met, my friend!” he shouted. He could see, now, Tristan’s men, only a few strides away, working steadily toward them. His own Stonewater Elves closed in, so that it was the
Gref Orisé
who now began to feel trapped.

“Féolan! Never have I been so glad to see an unexpected friend,” returned Tristan. He took advantage of the sudden press of allies to catch his breath, and as his chest heaved for air his face darkened. Here, he thought, is another who will mourn my sister and must be told.

“Tristan,” called Féolan over his shoulder, “your sister Gabrielle sends her love and says you should be more careful!”

For one terrible moment, Féolan feared the shock of his words would be the death of his newly rescued friend. Tristan dropped his arms, turned and gaped at Féolan.

“She’s alive? Is she safe? Where?”

“Watch yourself!” Féolan roared. Tristan scrambled back into his defensive posture. However, it was not skill at arms but the beatific smile with which he greeted the attacking Greffaire
soldier that saved him. In the midst of such wreckage, Tristan’s grin of relief completely unnerved the fellow, who checked his ax swing and ran off in search of a less maniacal foe.

There was little chance for talk through the rest of that bloody afternoon. Tristan and Féolan fought side by side, as did their men, and though the work of war was as fearsome and terrible as before, each was bolstered by the other’s presence.

When the tide finally turned in their favor, it gathered momentum quickly. By nightfall the invasion was over. The few hundred
Gref Orisé
who had broken through the thin ranks of Elves ran desperately for home. The conscripts who had had the sense to bolt early from the battlefield were not pursued. Few others were left alive.

I
N
a protected hollow a few hundred yards behind the battle- field, a select group of men met in King Drolet’s tent. Present were the king himself and his First General, Roche, for La Maronne; Prince Tristan and First General Fortin for Verdeau; First General Moreau for Gamier; and for the Elves, Jalanil of the Elders’ Council, Haldoryn as chief military officer, and Féolan, first ambassador of Stonewater and translator.

The gathering was brief, involving as it did only two items of business: introductions and mutual expressions of friendship and gratitude, and organizing the wretched aftermath of battle. The wounded must be found, treated and brought home. The dead, thousands of them, must be disposed of. King Drolet offered accommodation in Gaudette for anyone requiring it. More extensive discussions would wait.

Féolan and Tristan sat down for the discussions. They had both seen heavy fighting from the first moments of battle and neither was inclined to stand on ceremony. Tristan’s left arm was tied up in a makeshift sling Féolan had made by ripping a foot of fabric from the bottom of his tunic. It was broken just above the wrist, and Féolan could tell by the way Tristan shifted restlessly in his seat that the pain of it was beginning to tell. As for himself, he suspected there were broken bones in his right hand, but he had
escaped major injury. Even so, there seemed to be no place on his body that did not hurt. Few of today’s warriors would have a comfortable night’s sleep.

As soon as they were dismissed, Féolan went to Tristan. “Let’s get you to a healer and have that arm set,” he said.

Tristan shook his head. “Afraid not. Not yet, anyway. They have their hands full right now with worse injuries than mine.”

Féolan didn’t like the white, strained look around Tristan’s lips and eyes. As royalty, Tristan could undoubtedly demand—and get—preferential treatment. But his judgement was sound. Another man’s life could hang in the delay caused by plastering a simple break. Féolan wouldn’t want that on his head, either.

“Why don’t we see how busy our Elvish healers are?” he asked. “There are fewer of us to mend, after all.”

The two men skirted the edge of the battlefield and walked up the road to the Elvish healing lodge. Féolan was limping now, only just realizing how badly he had wrenched his knee. Propping themselves against the trunk of a huge old cedar a stone’s throw away from the tents, they tried to take stock of the scene before them. The line of waiting patients was shorter than at the Human clinic tents, but it was impossible to tell how critical their injuries were. Everyone, including Tristan and Féolan, was so blood-spattered and streaked that all looked, from a distance, on the verge of death.

“Can we sit while we wait?” suggested Tristan. “I pretty much have to, actually.” He eased down to the ground with a grimace. “Right. Now tell me about Gabi. Where did you see her, and how is she?”

Féolan didn’t answer right away. He was staring at the chestnut-brown braid hanging down one healer’s back. The square of her shoulders, their rise and fall as she wrapped bandaging around
and around a patient’s bare chest, was familiar. So was the way she stretched out her back and neck when she was done.

“I think,” he said, “that you can ask her yourself. Look there.”

G
ABRIELLE TOOK A LAST
appraising look at her bandaging. She tucked in a stray end and nodded approval. Helping her patient to his feet, she guided him over to the row of pallets behind the Healing Lodge, where he could rest and recover. She signaled to the healer overseeing the recovery area, who would dole out medicines and watch for fever or other complications.

What a strange experience it was working with healers who shared her methods but not her language. Not that there had been time for talk. Up until this last hour she might have been in a recurring nightmare back at the Skyway Pass. One emergency after another. One hacked and bloody body after another. Elvish or Human, the suffering was the same.

But there had been fewer. Now, at last, they were down to the less critical cases, at least until more survivors were brought in from the field. She cast her eyes along the row of waiting casualties, and then something made her look up.

Two men, dark hair and fair, both as sorry-looking as she had ever seen them. Both alive.

Gabrielle flew out of the tent and over to the great tree where they were propped like rag dolls. Dropping to her knees, she opened her arms and gathered them in—but tenderly, for her healer’s eyes had noted Tristan’s sling.

E
VEN HIS OWN SISTER
couldn’t tend to him right away; Tristan had to settle for a cup of evil-tasting herbal tea, which he admitted after ten minutes or so did ease his pain. I should have asked for
some too, Féolan thought ruefully; his hand and knee sang out now in time to his pulse. He passed the hour’s wait telling Tristan how he had unwittingly rescued Gabrielle from the
Gref Orisé
.

“She went after my father, didn’t she?” asked Tristan.

“Yes. But I think that is a tale for her to tell.”

Gabrielle had just come for Tristan when a runner approached Féolan.

“My lord Féolan, they wish to question a
Gref Orisé
prisoner. If you are able, will you come and speak to him?”

“You will have to help me walk, I’m afraid,” replied Féolan. “But yes, lead me on.”

He had expected a bound soldier. Instead the messenger led him to a crude haycart tucked away at the far edge of the field. A couple of Stonewater Elves stood peering in. They turned to Féolan, their expressions doubtful. “We do not know what to do with this one.”

Féolan looked inside with trepidation. Glaring back at him was a scrawny boy in mid-adolescence at most. Face pale and clammy under chopped dirty hair. Fear palpable under the bravado. And sick. There was no question he was seriously ill.

Gabrielle’s fears had come true. With the shock of Col’s death and the momentum of the invasion, Féolan doubted anyone had treated Derkh at all. It looked as though he had been tossed in the cart as an afterthought.

Féolan looked at the boy, his gaze steady and kind. Slowly, the young man’s frightened hostility faded.

Then, very quietly, so only the two of them could hear, Féolan said, “I am a friend of Gabrielle’s. Are you Derkh?”

The emotions chasing one another across the boy’s face would have been comical if he had not been in such desperate shape:
Shock. Relief. Hope. Worry. His first words were touching in their selflessness: “Is she all right?”

Féolan smiled. “She’s fine. And she’ll want to see you right away, I expect. She won’t be at all happy at the state you’re in.”

Derkh eyed the tall Elves around his cart. “Aren’t they going to kill me?”

“We aren’t in the habit of killing sick boys,” said Féolan briskly. “They are going to pull this cart to our Healing Lodge, where Gabrielle will try to put right whatever has gone wrong with your wound.”

“Infected,” the boy grunted. He lay back on the straw and closed his eyes. “She warned me.”

G
ABRIELLE WAS PLASTERING
Tristan’s arm as Féolan approached them.

“Ho, there’s a fair-weather friend,” declared Tristan. “You managed to disappear for the screaming and yelling part, I see. Where were you when I needed an arm to grip?”

Gabrielle knew Tristan was exaggerating but not inventing “the screaming and yelling” part. Bonesetting could be a rough job, and after several hours of jostling, his arm had been swollen and tender. It bothered her still that she could not take the time to speed the healing and soothe the hurts, not just for Tristan but for all the injured she had treated this day.

“Hold still, Tris,” murmured Gabrielle. “Give it a chance to harden.” She rinsed the plaster off her hands and took a critical look at Féolan. He favored his right hand, she saw, on top of the limp. “Right, you’re next. Let’s have a look at that leg.”

“There’s someone here who needs you more, Gabrielle,” said Féolan, pointing to the cart parked just outside the tent. Drying
her hands on the back of her skirt, Gabrielle walked over and looked over the wooden side.

“Ah, dark gods,” she whispered. “Look at you.” She reached down to feel Derkh’s forehead, though she didn’t have to. Heat almost shimmered off his body. Remorse stabbed at her. “I shouldn’t have left you.”

“Of course you should have,” Derkh snapped. He seemed older than Gabrielle remembered. “This way we both get to live.” Then his manner softened, became childlike. “Can you save me again, Gabrielle?”

Her throat was tight as she thought of what her young friend had been through. “I’ll do my very best, Derkh. I promise.”