He felt himself slung over a shoulder, but in the pain of that jolting movement, he passed out again. He came to with a hand hard across his mouth. “Quiet,” the voice said. He nodded, and the hand released its pressure. It was dark, but now he could see. Yellow blurs in the distance—torches, he thought—and a vague sense of darker nearby shapes looming over him. “Horse lines,” murmured the voice. “Got to ride—too far on foot.” Cal shuddered at the thought of straddling a horse.
“C-can’t,” he croaked.
“Quiet. You must. That or the deathstroke. You’ve no bones broke but ribs—we’ll help you.” Cal was shaking now, shaking too hard to help as they urged him up.
“By St. Falk, we’ll never—” The second voice sounded scared.
“We will. The numbwine, Jori.” Cal felt a flask against his lips again. This time it was numbwine, strong and bitter with the pain-killing herb. He swallowed twice, three times, before the flask was taken away. “No more,” said the voice. “You must be awake for the sentry.” In a few moments the pain eased, though the thought of mounting terrified him. The hands pulled at him, lifted. He could just stand, half-supported by one of his rescuers while the other shoved a horse over to him; he smelled the pungent sweaty hide. “Stirrup’s low,” murmured his supporter. “You can reach it—I’ll help. Jori’s on the other side.”
Cal raised his foot, surprised that he could, and slid it into the stirrup he felt. He leaned into the horse as the man behind him shoved him up; his right leg swung to clear the saddle out of habit. He stood, leaning forward on the beast’s neck, while Jori fitted his foot into the off stirrup. Then the man on the near side vaulted up behind him, and he heard Jori mount another horse. “Lean on me,” said the man behind him. He sank back. The pain was impossible; sweat sprang cold on his whole body—but he did not faint. The horse began to move.
“When we reach the sentry lines,” the man said in his ear, “you’ll have to ride alone—maybe fifty yards—no more. Jori’s got a horse for me to go through the lines with.” He was fitting a hooded cloak around Cal as he spoke. “We’re Vonja militia, remember that. Going back to Vonja. I’m a sergeant; you’re just a private. Don’t say anything. If they ask your name, say Sim. They won’t ask unless their sergeant is there—if they stay bought. At worst we’ll see to you. You won’t be caught again. Now—when I slide off, sit up straight. Just a few yards, remember?”
“Yes—I will.” Cal spoke softly. “Who are you?”
“Right now, I’m a sergeant of Vonja militia, a turncoat. We’ll talk later. Almost there—I’ve got to change horses before we get to the torches. All right?” Cal nodded. As the man behind him slid from the horse, Cal sagged and almost fell. He managed to pull himself upright, and tried to tuck the cloak snugly around himself. The horses hardly paused before moving on. He could see, against the torches ahead, the third horse now in the lead.
A sentry hailed them. He heard the voice ahead, bantering now in a southern accent. He looked forward. It was hard to follow the conversation. Laughter. A face upturned to his, whites of eyes glinting in the light. The horses moved on, into darkness. Cal concentrated on his balance. He dared not look back to see how far they had come. It seemed forever before the voices spoke to him again. “Can you ride alone?” one asked. “We can make better time if you can—we need to get to the river.”
“I—think—so,” Can managed to say. “But not—not trotting—”
“No. Of course not.”
“Should we tie him to the saddle?” asked the other. “If he falls—”
“If you think you can’t make it,” said the first voice, “tell us. Don’t fall.”
“No,” said Cal. “I won’t fall.” He began to believe it might be real. They rode on. Just when he was sure he would faint, strong arms lifted him from the saddle. There were more voices now. Again he thought of a trap, and tried to sit up, but firm hands pressed his shoulders down.
“Take it easy, sir,” said one of the new voices. “We’ve got to get you across the river. Just lie still as you can.”
“But who—” His voice was harsh and unsteady; he swallowed and tried again. “Who are you? Who got me out?”
“No real names this side of the river, sir,” came the reply. Cal felt the grip of many hands as he was lifted, then laid on a hard surface that seemed to dip and sway. A hand touched his face, gently.
“Good luck to you, sir,” came the voice he’d heard first. “We hope to see you someday, me and Jori.”
“But—aren’t you coming?”
“Nay—we’ve to get back to Vonja and act our part.”
“Tir’s gut!” exclaimed someone else. “That’s a dangerous game—what if you’re caught?”
“We won’t be,” said Jori. “We’ve daggers and the wit to use them. And by Holy Falk and Gird, we’ll meet you all in a tavern not too long from now.”
“I wish,” Cal interrupted. “I wish I had something for you—after all this.”
“You gave us your silence,” said the first voice. “That was gift enough, considering. Don’t worry, Captain—Jori and me are weasels for cunning.” Cal heard the horses moving away. He felt the surface he lay on tip sharply, and the muffled thuds of other bodies settling onto boards. Of course, he thought: river, a boat. He closed his eyes as the boat moved out onto the river. It fetched up on the far back with a bump that jounced him into pain again. He was lifted from the boat to the bank, and given another swallow of numbwine and as much water as he could drink. Then he was carried, on a blanket slung between poles, for a long distance: or long it seemed, when every footfall waked another twinge in his battered body.
For the most part he kept his eyes closed, but once when he opened them he noticed the sky above was paling. It must be nearly dawn. The soldiers carrying him were no longer dark blurs against the sky; he could see the shape of their helmets, and the faces beneath. The light grew. He could not distinguish color yet; their tunics were dark, and could have been any dark color. But the helmet shape—the cut—he thought it must be—One of them looked at him.
“Nearly there, Captain. You’re safe now.”
“You’re—”
“The Duke’s men, sir. We’re nearly back to camp. Sorry it’s taken so long.”
Cal felt a ridiculous desire to laugh. He was hardly likely to complain about how far they’d had to carry him. “My father?” he asked. “Does he know?”
The man shook his head. “Don’t know, Captain. The Duke will have told him, I’d think, or maybe he’s waiting until you come in.” Cal let his eyes sag shut. He had no idea how long he’d been in the enemy camp, and he didn’t really care to know. Not yet. Enough to know he was out, and safe. As safe in Phelan’s camp as in his own. He heard the challenge of sentries, and his escort’s reply. A voice he knew, one of the Duke’s captains, he thought, said: “Duke’s tent.” He thought he should open his eyes again, but it was too much trouble.
At last all motion ceased. He lay on something soft, and smelled the pungent reek of surgeons’ gear. Feet stirred on the floor nearby; something rustled. He struggled to open his eyes. Sunlight bled through the tent walls. The Duke stood by the bed he lay in, staring at the floor. Cal swallowed and tried to speak. The Duke glanced at his face with the first sound.
“Cal. You’re safe now. Your father will be here soon. My surgeons are ready—”
“My lord—I—thank you.”
The Duke made an impatient gesture. “None needed. I’m glad you’re no worse.”