‘His tune’s changed,’ Gryss murmured to Farnor when Nilsson had left.
Farnor had other concerns on his mind. ‘I can’t help you,’ he whispered in some alarm. ‘I don’t know anything about sick people.’
‘Just do as I say, and look confident,’ Gryss said, rooting through his bag. ‘It’s the confidence that does most of the healing anyway.’ Despite the grim surround-ings, a brief twinkle of amusement shone in his eyes as he looked at Farnor’s anxious face. ‘This’ll be interesting for you.’
‘What’ve you brought me here for, anyway?’ Farnor went on.
‘I want another pair of eyes and ears about this place,’ Gryss answered. ‘We need to learn as much as we can about these men, in case…’ He stopped.
‘In case what?’
‘Just in case,’ Gryss said shortly.
A groan from one of the injured men ended this subdued conversation, and Gryss turned his attention to their needs.
Farnor did not enjoy what followed, but he obeyed Gryss’s instructions scrupulously and tried to appear confident as the old man poked and prodded, moved limbs, issued instructions to breathe in, breathe out, move your toes, move your fingers, look this way, look that.
When it came to manipulating bones however, Far-nor gave up all attempt at confidence, and simply clenched his teeth and concentrated on doing as he was told. This consisted mainly of mopping brows and giving the patients a thick leather thong to bite on as Gryss heaved and tugged at reluctant limbs. Some of the clicks and cracks that ensued made his entire skin crawl, but it was the eye contact that distressed him most: seeing the fear, the young boys within, risen anew, being grimly, angrily, fought back by the men.
‘What happened?’ Gryss asked each man in turn.
‘A horse kicked me,’ came the standard, and truthful reply.
Gryss wanted to raise a disbelieving eyebrow, but the nature of the injuries forbade it.
‘And I suppose a horse kicked you as well,’ he said, pulling back the sheet from the last bed. Farnor caught his breath and turned away. The man’s hand, clutching a bloodstained rag, fell away from a deep, raw wound in his thigh.
Visions of the slaughtered sheep returned to Farnor at the sight of the torn flesh, and he felt his gorge rising.
‘Slow, deep breaths,’ he heard Gryss whispering urgently in his ear, as a surprisingly powerful hand gripped his arm. ‘Slow deep breaths. Start throwing up when the wound’s in your leg. You’ll be surprised how much pain in other people a good healer can take.’
The sternness and the dark, cynical humour in Gryss’s voice jolted Farnor into self-control and he returned to his role as healer’s assistant.
The old man pursed his lips as he viewed the dam-aged leg, then he burrowed in his bag again. He emerged with a small bottle, the contents of which he emptied on to a pad. Farnor’s nose twitched uncertainly as a heavy, sweet, smell struck it. Then, unhurriedly, but very quickly, Gryss placed the pad over the man’s mouth and nose. The man struggled a little then went limp.
‘What’s that?’ Farnor asked in amazement.
‘Just something to put him to sleep for a few min-utes,’ Gryss replied. ‘Here, tie him down.’
A length of stout rope appeared from the bag.
‘Tie him down?’ Farnor gaped.
‘Tie him down,’ Gryss confirmed insistently. ‘I’ve got to probe this wound, and if he wakes up before I’ve finished he’s not going to enjoy it. And neither am I when he tries to take my head off.’
Unhappily, Farnor did as he was told, trussing the man to the bed as expertly as if he were tying a cover over a wagon. Even as he was doing so Gryss was delving into the wound.
‘Look,’ he said, beckoning Farnor down. He had struck a small sunstone lantern and its bright light brought out every stark detail of the wound. Farnor clenched his teeth and somehow managed to bring his face next to Gryss’s. Rather to his surprise, his unease began to pass as Gryss, using two thin metal probes, confidently lifted back layers of damaged tissue, explaining to the best of his knowledge what each one was: muscle, sinew, blood vessels and the different layers of skin.
The man stirred and mumbled something unintelli-gible. Farnor glanced at him anxiously but Gryss shook his head reassuringly.
He nudged Farnor. ‘Bone,’ he said, tapping a white streak at the bottom of the wound. Farnor rubbed his own thigh feelingly. Then Gryss was peering intently into the wound and, tongue protruding, probing further.
‘What’s the matter?’ Farnor whispered.
Gryss shushed him.
The man stirred again, and then Gryss was busy cleaning and sewing, all the time humming softly to himself. Farnor had seen Gryss stitching wounds before and was able to watch this a little more calmly.
At last Gryss stood up.
‘Why haven’t you sewn it all up?’ Farnor asked.
‘Too deep,’ Gryss replied. ‘It’ll have to heal from the inside out.’
Farnor shook his head in some wonder. ‘How do you know all this?’ he asked.
Gryss turned his head from side to side and wrig-gled his shoulders to ease the stiffness out of them. He smiled broadly. ‘Horses, mainly,’ he said. ‘And some cows.’
He intercepted Farnor’s growing look of horror. ‘We’re not all that much different,’ he said, chuckling darkly. ‘Why do you think I don’t eat much meat?’ Then he became serious. ‘But I’ve done similar for people as well. You can get a nasty wound off a scythe or a sickle.’ He paused. ‘But I’d like to know what’s happened here.’
Farnor started. He had been so preoccupied with watching Gryss that only now did he realize that he knew the answer to this. But it could not be told here. He would have to wait until they had left the castle.
‘Horses, they say,’ Gryss muttered. ‘And it could well be, most of them. But this one…’ He nodded towards the wounded man, whose eyelids were now beginning to flicker. ‘This one’s been wounded by a sword thrust, or a spear. The bone was chipped by a sharp point of some kind. I’ll ask Nilsson when we see him, although I doubt he’ll tell me anything.’ He nodded to himself. ‘Untie him, please, Farnor,’ he said. ‘I’ll need to talk to him when he wakes up properly. I’m afraid he’s not going to enjoy the next few days.’
Later, as he had promised, Gryss sought out Nilsson and told him what he had done. ‘I’ll have to examine them again every day for some time,’ he concluded.
Nilsson shook his head. ‘We’ll tend them,’ he said bluntly.
Gryss seemed about to debate this decision, then he slumped a little and gave a slight shrug. ‘As you wish, Captain,’ he said. ‘They’re your men. But please at least let me tell you how to tend them. The man with the wound in his leg needs particular attention if he’s not going to lose it.’
Nilsson seemed unconcerned by the news. ‘It’s not much,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen men recover from worse lying in the field.’
‘Yes, and you’ve seen men dying screaming and burned up with fever as their limbs rotted on them as well, I’ll wager,’ Gryss said, his voice uncharacteristically savage. ‘But, as I said, they’re your men.’ He turned as if to leave.
There was a brief flash of anger across Nilsson’s face at this outburst, but it was followed by an equally brief flicker of doubt. ‘Very well,’ he said, in a voice that gave no concession to Gryss’s argument. ‘Come tomorrow. After that, we’ll see.’
Gryss nodded. ‘I’ll get myself back to my bed, then,’ he said. ‘And Farnor here has to be up early.’ Nilsson gave him a cursory nod, but did not seem inclined to offer the thanks that Gryss’s comment had been designed to elicit. As Gryss reached the wicket, he turned back as if he had just remembered something. ‘Why’ve you no healer of your own, Captain?’ he asked. ‘King’s men ranging the country and far from their home base. You should have been given someone, surely?’
Nilsson stared at him, then wrenched his thoughts back from the events of the day. Damn this old fool, he thought. But he needed him still. The present pretence must be maintained unless Rannick reappeared and determined otherwise. ‘There were none available at the time we left,’ he said. ‘One of those things. You know the army.’