Honored Enemy (12 page)

Richard moved over to the priest and looked down. He didn’t know the name of the soldier the priest was treating, but he was young, features pale, sweat beading his face. He had suffered a broken leg in their crashing assault down into the stockade. Corwin had set the leg with the help of a couple of men and was tying off the splint, talking soothingly as if comforting a child.

‘Will I be able to walk in the morning?’ the soldier asked.

‘We’ll worry about that then, son.’

The young soldier looked up at Richard.

‘I could help him,’ Richard ventured.

‘We’ll ask the Captain,’ the priest replied, but Richard could tell by his tone that the answer would be no. Either the boy walked on his own or died.

Corwin patted the soldier reassuringly on the shoulder, stood up, and looked over to where a Tsurani lay with a crossbow bolt buried deep in his upper thigh. A comrade was by his side, trying to get him to take a little food.

‘Poor bastard,’ Corwin sighed and without hesitation went over and knelt beside him. The two looked at Corwin, turning to him masklike visages on which there was no expression. They looked straight through Corwin and Richard as if they didn’t even exist.

‘Really got you,’ Corwin said quietly, motioning to the arrow.

The two said nothing.

‘Got to get it out sooner or later.’

Again no response.

‘Damn it, don’t they take care of their wounded?’ Richard asked.

‘It’s obvious they don’t have a chirugeon with them,’ replied the Priest of Sung. ‘This arrow’s in deep. I guess they figure they’ll just leave him here – no sense in putting him through the agony of trying to get it out. Richard, go fetch me some boiling water and I want you 69

to take these two knives, stick one in the fire for a minute or so, the second one, leave it in the fire.’

As he spoke he drew two small daggers belted to his waist and handed them up. Richard followed the priest’s orders and returned with a tin pot filled with boiling hot tea and the dagger which was shimmering with heat.

‘No water, just the boiled tea.’

The priest chuckled. ‘It’ll do,’ he said. He reached into his tunic, pulled out a small roll of white linen, tore off a piece and stuck it into the boiling liquid. Then he motioned at the arrow and made a gesture as if pulling it out.

The wounded man looked at him wide-eyed and shook his head, and his comrade said something and made a gesture, waving his hand over the arrow as if to block Corwin.

‘He says they already tried to get it out, that it’s snagged on the bone,’ Gregory announced, coming up behind the group. ‘Priest, just leave him alone, he’s finished. You can’t draw it without cutting the poor bastard to pieces. Those damned moredhel arrows are four-barbed.’

‘Just shut up and stay out of my way,’ Corwin growled. He reached into his tunic, pulled out a small leather case and unrolled it, drawing out several needles which already had threads attached, tweezers and tiny brass clamps.

He looked straight into the eyes of the Tsurani and began a low chant in a strange tongue. Those around him fell silent for the words carried a power, a sense of otherworldliness and Richard felt a cold shiver. The chanting continued for several minutes. Then Corwin slowly reached out, placing his right hand on the Tsurani’s forehead and let it gently slip down to cover the man’s eyes. Finally he drew his hand back. The Tsurani’s eyes were still open but were now glazed.

Corwin gripped the arrow with his left hand and ever so slowly tried to pull it out. It didn’t budge.

‘Snagged on the bone, like he said,’ the priest whispered. ‘Richard, help roll him on to his side then hold him tight.’

Richard followed the priest’s orders. The wounded man’s eyes were still unfocused. Richard cradled the man on his lap and looked back 70

down at the priest who was carefully examining the wound, running his fingers around the back of the man’s leg.

Corwin picked up the still hot dagger with his right hand, positioned it underneath the wounded man’s leg on the opposite side from the wound and drove the blade in half way to the hilt and rotated the blade.

A gasp escaped the wounded man. Richard looked into his eyes and saw that consciousness was returning: the Tsurani’s pupils went wide.

‘Hold him!’ the priest snapped.

With his left hand he grabbed the arrow and started to push even as he pulled the dagger back out. A second latter the head of the arrow exploded out of the hole cut by the dagger.

The wounded Tsurani cried out, and began to struggle, but Richard grabbed hold of him, ‘It’s all right; you’ll be all right,’ he began to say over and over.

‘Damn it, priest, he’s bleeding to death!’ Gregory cried.

‘Just shut up and get the hot knife from the fire!’

The priest continued to push the arrow through the wound, finally pulling it out and flinging it aside. He picked his dagger back up, cut the exit wound wider and, using one of the brass clamps, pulled the wound apart. He motioned for the wounded man’s comrade to hold the clamp. Taking a pair of tweezers from his kit he reached into the wound, drawing the artery which was spurting blood.

‘Not the main one, thank the Goddess,’ he muttered, even as Gregory knelt by his side, holding the now-glowing dagger fresh from the fire, the hilt wrapped with a piece of smouldering canvas.

The priest took the dagger, cursing when he singed his fingertips, then deftly touched the blade against the artery. A steamy cloud of boiling blood hissed up from the wound.

The man jerked, trying to kick, but Richard held him tight. He realized that for some strange reason he was beginning to cry.

This
is
a
Tsurani,
damn
it
. He felt a wave of anger for the man even as he held him tight and continued to try and reassure him.

‘Almost done,’ the priest announced.

He drew out the hot dagger, turned, and then cauterized the 71

entry wound. Finally he drew out the boiled bandages, stuffed both wounds, then tightly wrapped a compress around the leg.

‘We’ll stitch him up later, I want to keep it open so I can get in quick in case he starts to bleed again.’

The whole operation had taken no more than a couple of minutes.

The priest sat back, then took the hand of the Tsurani who had been helping and guided it to a pressure point above the wound to help slow the bleeding.

‘All right Richard, you did well, son.’

Richard, shaking, looked down at the Tsurani. There were tears in the corner of the man’s eyes and he suddenly realized just how young his enemy was: about the same age as himself and the wounded Kingdom soldier with the broken leg. The Tsurani was obviously struggling for control, looking up at Richard in confusion, his emotions mixed between gratitude and hatred for an enemy.

The priest knelt, softly muttered a prayer and made a sign of blessing over the wound, finishing by lightly touching the man’s forehead again.

Wiping the now-cooled daggers, he bundled up his kit and then picked up the arrow, which was covered with blood, and a hunk of flesh still on the barbs.

‘Evil weapon,’ he sighed, ‘No bone splinters though; he just might make it.’

He tossed the arrow aside. The room was silent: all were staring at him.

‘I’m pledged to healing,’ the priest said, ‘it doesn’t matter who.’

He looked back over at Richard. ‘You’re a brave lad for helping.’

The Tsurani Patrol Leader approached, bowed to the priest and said something.

Corwin looked over at Gregory.

‘He said that the wounded man, Osami, now owes you a debt which the clan must honour. If we fight and they don’t kill you, they must make you a slave. So if we fight, they’ll let you leave before they kill all of us, so they won’t have to capture or kill you.’

Gregory explained.

Corwin said nothing for a moment and then began to chuckle softly. ‘Hell, tell him I think you’re all crazy,’ Corwin replied. ‘When 72

you’re done killing each other I’ll take all your coins, and whatever the Tsurani use, and consider it a donation to the church.’

Gregory translated and now the Tsurani laughed. The tension in the room eased for a moment.

Gregory knelt next to Corwin. ‘You a chirugeon?’ He pointed to the small kit Corwin had used and was now cleaning ready to put away.

The priest shrugged. ‘As a boy I apprenticed to one for a while.’

‘What happened?’ asked the Ranger. ‘Get the calling?’

Putting away his medical tools, the priest said, ‘No, that came later. I was a mercenary for a while.’

Remembering how frightened the priest had been when they had first met, Gregory could barely hide his surprise. ‘A mercenary?’

Corwin nodded. ‘Not all mercenaries are swordsmen, Ranger. I have no skill with blade or bow. I earned my living with a company of engineers building siege machines. Give me two men with axes and in less than a day I can turn a tree into a ram that would knock down that stone wall out there in under ten minutes. Throw in a pair of hammers and one bow saw, and I can do it in six hours.’ He paused as if remembering. ‘Saw most of my fighting from a distance, though I’ve had a few close calls under a wall or two, trying to collapse a foundation.’ He smiled at Gregory’s blank expression. ‘I used to be a fair sapper, too.’ He sighed and lost his smile. ‘And I had more than my share of practice keeping other men alive, I can tell you.’

He stood, and Gregory did as well. ‘Then I got the calling and entered the temple.’

Gregory nodded. ‘I though you priests used your magic to heal.’

Corwin shrugged. ‘Like anything else, healing magic takes talent.

Some brothers could heal every man here in a couple of days. A rare few can lay on hands and make a wound vanish or a bone heal in an hour. I have no such gift. I have to rely on my tools and prayer.

The bit of “magic” I used to calm the boy is simply a healer’s trick; anyone can learn it.’

Gregory didn’t comment.

Sighing with fatigue, Corwin said, ‘Besides, I never said I was a particularly good priest, did I?’

‘Guard change, five minutes!’

73

Both Gregory and Corwin looked to see Dennis standing in the doorway, Asayaga by his side, shouting the same order in Tsurani.

A chorus of curses and groans greeted the order.

Richard pushed through the press of men, reaching the place where he had hung up his outer coat, jerkin, boots and socks.

They had yet to dry, and slipping on the damp woollen socks and sodden boots he grimaced. A Tsurani was sitting beside him, mumbling under his breath as he wrapped on his footcloths and then laced up the heavy sandals. Their eyes caught for a second and this time Richard did not lower his gaze.

Again the impenetrable stare. The one-eyed man came past the two, barked something at the Tsurani and continued on. There was a look in the man’s eyes and Richard for the first time felt that he could understand something about these alien invaders, for he recognized the mixture of respect and hatred all soldiers hold for good sergeants. He almost smiled at the reaction. Again their eyes held and there seemed to be a brief instant in which the Tsurani was ready to smile as well.

And then both of them realized just who the other person was.

They turned away, stood up, belted on their swords, and formed up with their squads.

‘Everyone listen.’

It was Dennis.

‘It’s quiet out there except for the damnable weather – it’s slackening a bit, but it’s still no spring evening. Squads one and two, on the wall, keep a sharp watch, and keep your fool heads down. They can see you more easily silhouetted up there than you can see them; and, remember, the moredhel have better eyes in the night than we do.

‘Third squad, under Gregory, will secure the flank of the hill to our left. Gregory will detail several of you off to probe forward. Tinuva tracked the Dark Brothers. They’ve holed up in an abandoned mine a mile downslope but have patrols out.

‘Two hours then we shift watches again. Those of you detailed to the flank and forward patrol will get an extra hour of rest when you come back in. The Tsurani have the same routine and will cover the right flank.’

74

‘When do we fight them?’ Darvan asked from the back of the room.

Several men growled in agreement, while others mumbled for him to shut the hell up.

‘When I tell you and not before, you damned fool,’ Dennis snapped. ‘Now get the hell outside!’

Richard fell in with his unit and followed the men out into the night. The storm still raged and he gasped as the cold wind hit.

Filing past, rushing to get inside, were the miserable men who had been detailed to the first watch.

‘Third squad.’

Gregory stepped in front of the group and motioned for them to follow. A narrow trail fifty yards further up the pass had been found, switchbacking its way up the icy slope. The men struggled to keep a footing, hanging on as gusts of wind roared through the pass, ready to snatch them off the icy precipice. The night was pitch-black, the men cursing, even the older veterans complaining that it was madness to be out on watch on a night like this.

The group pressed on. Struggling to the top of the pass they met Tinuva and several men. Gregory and the elf conferred briefly, then the first watch headed back down to the shelter below. Gregory motioned for the men to gather round.