The Wordsmiths and the Warguild (35 page)

       
Out in the night, some
unknown animal cried.

       
Togura was still
trembling - but now it was not adrenalin which was responsible, but the cold.

       
He could see it was
going to be another of those long, long nights.

Chapter 32

       
Togura slept fitfully,
dreaming that he was lying out under the sun with a broken leg. He woke to find
it was true. The morning was still young, but already the day was dominated by
unseasonable heat. His mouth was hot, dry, dusty. Flies picked their way over
his face. He shook them off.

       
The air was loud with
the buzz of flies. Dead men, dead horses, discarded weapons, a confusion of
tracks and bloodshed marked the scene of battle. Togura, careful not to disturb
his broken leg, looked around. He counted five dead horses, a dozen dead men,
the bodies being spread out over quite a considerable area.

       
Who won?

  
     
There was no
telling.

       
Carefully, he examined
his broken leg. It was the shin bone which was sore. He slit his trews below
the knee so he could examine the break. To his relief, he found the bone had
not forced its way through the skin. The area was very, very painful, but there
was not much swelling. As broken legs went, this one was not very serious. But
there was no way he could walk on it.

       
"Togura," said
a familiar, slurred voice.

       
It was a bit early in
the piece to be having hallucinations, so Togura looked around. One of the
bodies had moved. It was the village headman, who was lying on the ground a
dozen paces away, both wrists bent at a strange angle. Togura could only
presume that the headman had broken both wrists in a fall.

       
"Come and help
me," said Togura, though there was not much hope that the headman would
understand Galish.

       
The headman urged
himself forward on his elbows, moved half a pace forwar then stopped, his face
a mask of pain. Obviously he hadn't just broken his wrists. Something else was
smashed. Leg? Legs? Pelvis? Spine?

       
"Togura," said
the headman. "Dosh."

       
What did
"dosh" mean? It meant "go." Togura knew that much.

       
"I can't," he
said, hurt by this totally unreasonable order. "I've got a broken
leg."

       
The headman repeated
himself.

       
There was, or so Togura
supposed, some sense in the order. The attackers, to judge from their dead,
were of the same tribe as the assassin who had tried to kill the headman -
Togura could tell that by their hairstyles. They might have been a scouting
party, or they might have been part of a much larger war party. If any had got
away alive - and quite possibly the enemy had had the better of the battle -
then they might come back with reinforcements. The area was unhealthy.

       
"If I had half a
chance of getting anywhere," said Togura, "then I'd go. As it is, I'm
staying."

       
"Dosh," said
the headman, his voice intimate, urging, commanding. "Togura, dosh."

    
   
They could go on like this
all day. It was very frustrating arguing with someone who didn't speak your
language.

       
"All right
then!" shouted Togura. "Dosh dosh dosh dosh!"

       
His throat was sore. He
wished he hadn't shouted so loudly. He saw the headman smile.

       
"Ssh-schaa,"
said the headman; Togura recognised that as an expression of satisfaction.

       
"This is
crazy," said Togura.

       
But, despite his
reservations, he looked around for something he could use to splint his leg.
The nearest suitable object was a spear sticking out of the back of one of the
enemy dead. Togura wrenched it out, disturbing a hubbub of flies in the
process. Using a knife which was his by right of combat, he cut it down to
size. He cut into the flesh of the dead horse; he used lumps of horsemeat as
padding, and strips of horsehide to tie the splint into place.

       
He ate some horsemeat,
raw, then, as an afterthought, threw a dollop at the headman; it hit his nose
and fell to the dust. The headman salvaged it with his mouth, tasted the dust
and spat it out.

       
"Choosy," said
Togura. "Beggars can't be choosers, you know."

       
"Donz-m'dola,"
said the headman.

       
That little phrase had
something to do with the idea of getting bigger, or increasing. Togura had a
hazy notion that in some contexts it was obscene, but that could hardly be the
case here. Realising what the headman meant, Togura cut a sizeable chunk of
meat and tossed it so that it fell within mouthreach.

       
"Zon," said
the headman.

       
Which mean more.

       
Togura provided. He ate
some more, feeding methodically. When he could eat no more, he decided it was
time to go. To give his broken shinbone the smoothest possible ride, he was
constrained to travel on his back. He started off, using his hands and his good
leg. Raising his buttocks from the ground sent pains shooting along his right
leg; his saddle-sick buttons would have to drag along in the dust.

       
"Gjonga," said
the headman.

       
The word, a very formal
form of "goodbye," was unknown to Togura. He did not answer, but
concentrated on the task at hand. He scraped along, clumsy as a broken insect.
Under the pitiless sun. Under the pitiless sky. Flies were already festering on
his horsemeat padding. His broken leg, even though it was splinted, nagged him
constantly.

       
It was hot, hot work.
The meat ripened as the sun lazed through the sky. He started to feel nauseous,
perhaps from the burden of horsemeat in his stomach, or from the stench of
rotting meat wrapped round his leg, or from the constant twinges of pain from
the leg - pain which was sharp, stabbing, unrelenting, worse than toothache.

       
- Pain is the worse
thing.

       
The battlefield was
distant now. He could just make out a small clump of shadows far away on the
open plain. Carrion birds circled overhead.

       
- Courage, Togura.

       
His hands hurt. His
buttocks hurt. His legs hurt. Thirst, like a jagged spatula, scraped at the
back of his throat. Familiar muscles began to cramp; unfamiliar muscles ached
and protested. He was starting to get backache. He was a crippled skeleton. An
insect man, a freak of nature. A damaged organism.

       
The skin was wearing
away from his buttocks. And from the palms of his hands. He should have padded
himself with something. Strips of horsehide, perhaps. From time to time he had
little dizzy spells in which the world blurred and darkened. Drops of sweat
crept down from his forehead.

       
He needed water. So what
was he going to do about it? Dig a well? Do a rain dance? He laughed, hurting
himself. He tried to generate saliva, so he could ease the scraping thirst in
his throat. No joy. He should have brought some spare horse meat with him. He
could have sucked on it. Before setting out, he should have dragged himself
round the dead men and the dead horses, looking for a water skin. Surely there
would have been at least one. He was an experienced survivor. He had no excuse
for not thinking of these things.

       
He halted, to take a
rest. High overhead, a skylark was singing. He listened intently to its
attenuated song. It carried him up, up, up, higher and higher into the dizzy
sky. Then vanished, dropping him away to nothing.

       
He fainted.

       
He woke when something
hurt his leg. Opening his eyes, he saw a big bald-headed bird gashing into his
horsemeat splint padding. He waved an arm. It went scuffling into the air, then
settled on the ground. Its beady eyes considered him. Then it hopped forward.
He dragged himself away, thinking unpleasant thoughts about the carrion birds
he had seen circling over the battlefield, and about the headman lying there,
utterly defenceless, with two broken wrists. Well, at least the headman would
be able to jerk his head around; that would probably dissuade the birds, at
least while they had plenty of quiescent carcasses to feed on.

       
- Onward, Togura.

       
He dragged himself on,
chafing away the last of the clothing protecting his buttocks. The skin began
to rub away. He endured.

       
- Pain is life.

       
Night came, bringing
unrelenting cold. Togura slept a little, then dragged himself on. When the pain
was at its worst, he cried out with high, harsh, half-singing exclamations,
which sounded almost like broken snatches of song. He allowed himself a little
sleep, dreaming of pain only to wake to pain.

       
- Worse things happen at
sea.

       
He kept the stars of the
north dead ahead of him, knowing that the south lay behind his head. The moon
rose, making shadowed craters out of the hoof-marks of horses. He was on the
right track.

       
Toward morning, he heard
dogs barking in the distance.

       
- Strength, Togura,
strength.

       
He was taking the
journey a step at a time. Pause. Brace. Push. Scrape. Endure the pain. Rest.
Think out the next move. Gather courage. Brace. Push. Scrape.

       
- This is your test.

       
Rest. And brace. And now
- strength! - push. Scrape. Rest. Endure. And once more, Togura, once more.
Brace! Push! Scrape!

       
- And once more.

       
The light slowly
lightened. The sun rose. His blood, pulsing through his ears, sang to him. He
felt the steady thud of his heart in his chest. He pushed himself along. Relentlessly.
He was a master torturer now, absolutely without pity for the broken organism
he was punishing. Brace - push - scrape -

       
- And rest.

       
Resting, he heard
hoofbeats. They came closer and closer, then the horse wheeled, riding in to
halt behind him. Looking up he saw, hazily, a man in the saddle. Togura
recognised him by his haircut. He was from the home village.

       
"Dosh,"
croaked Togura, pointing north. Then, louder: "Dosh!"

       
Then he fainted.

Chapter 33

       
Togura's arrival back at
the village was a source of some surprise to the inhabitants. Unbeknownst to
him, one of the village men who had survived the fight in the night had come
riding back, wounded, to say that the pursuit party had been slaughtered by
half a thousand of the enemy. As Togura's return cast doubt on this story, a
rescue party was sent north ,eventually retrieving the headman from the open
plains. Apart from his broken wrists, there was nothing wrong with him but a
slipped disc, which was put back into place by skilled manipulation.

       
As for Togura, his leg
was properly splinted. With time, the bone healed, as bones will. The skin he
had lost grew back, or was replaced with scar tissue. By the time he was able
to walk again, his muscles were badly wasted. He found his tendons had
shortened because of his long, idle days in bed without any exercise; his legs
were stiff. But the headman, who took a personal interest in his case, showed
him, by sign and example - Togura's language skills had not improved - how to
build up his strength and regain his flexibility.

       
Togura foudn that his
right leg ached in damp weather. But there was not much damp weather for it to
ache in; spring was at an end, and summer had begun.

       
Soon after he was up and
about, there was a big festival, with much eating and drinking. And music
making, which he took no part in. He did not sit behind the headman, as he was
accustomed to, but beside him, in a place of honour. The next day, all the
unmarried women - Namaji this time beign excluded from their ranks - were lined
up in front of Togura.

       
He hesitated.

       
Someone said something,
and all the women laughed. The headman silenced them, then pointed to one of
the taller ,wider women and gave her an order. To shouts, applause and the
stamping of feet, the woman stripped, proudly. She was not what he was looking
for, not exactly - she was stronger than he was, and taller - but there was no
doubt that she was a real woman. He smiled.