“Now,” said the Duke, when she had choked down most of the bread. “Take your time, but tell it all, from the beginning. I want to know everything you can remember about the attack.”
Paks blushed. “Well—sir—my lord—I was asleep. Then someone screamed, and the wagon bumped. I saw Vanza jumping out the back, and out the front were riders in red, with a black wolf’s head on the front—”
“On the back as well?”
Paks thought a moment. “No—I don’t think so. Just the front. Then I saw our driver’d been shot, so I tried to get the reins. The mules were scared. Varne helped me pull the driver into the wagon. One of the attackers tried to grab the lead mules’ reins, but they swerved away—”
“Were you driving, or—”
“Yes, sir, I was—but I wasn’t sure which reins were which. It seemed like a lot—I jerked the ones that were tightest, and the mules veered—”
“Go on.”
“Then the rider turned and came at the wagon, so I pulled the other reins, and the wagon ran into his horse—”
“What did he look like?”
“The rider? He had a mask on.”
“A mask? Not a—wait—have you seen anything but open helmets? Have you seen a knight’s helmet, with the visor down?”
“Yes, sir. Sergeant Stammel showed us that in training. This was different. He had an open helmet over chain mail, but a mask over his face—it was some kind of cloth; I saw it ripple.”
“Aha!” The Duke slammed his fist onto his thigh. “Very good. Go on—what else?”
“He seemed heavy—broad in the shoulders. Taller than Sergeant Stammel, I think. He had something on the shoulder of his tunic that glittered. The horse had no barding, but it was a war saddle, and the blanket was black with a red stripe.
“What color was the horse?”
“Light brown, dappled, with a pale mane and tail. All the others were dark, but for the spotted one.”
“Spotted?”
“Yes, sir. One was black and white spotted. Now that I think of it, that one was smaller—we went by it in the trees.”
“What sort of rider on the spotted one?”
Paks shook her head. “I’m sorry—I don’t remember—”
“But you’re sure of the horses?”
“Yes, sir—though I don’t know that I saw all of them. We were moving too fast, and I was trying to steer around things, but I didn’t see the stream until we were almost into it. So I broke the wagon—” Paks faltered, remembering Stammel’s lectures on damaged equipment.
“Hmm.” The Duke’s eyes crinkled. “Are you an experienced teamster?”
Paks looked down. “No, sir—my lord.”
“That’s all right then. Not your equipment.” Paks looked up, still worried. “Tir’s bones, girl, that wagon’s the least of my concerns. I’ve lost fighters here. A wagon’s nothing—you did well. But I want to know who—” he bounced his fist on his thigh for emphasis, “—and why and how anyone would attack a caravan of wounded. No treasure—no ranking prisoners to ransom—and they must know this’ll bring my Company down on them. It’s costing me now, but it’ll cost them—” his voice trailed off, and Paks almost flinched at the look in his eyes. He glanced back at her and half-smiled. “You were just promoted, right? Paks, isn’t it?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Well, Paks, you’ve had the most expensive healing I hope you’ll ever need, and you should be ready to fight in a day or so. The next time you see those red tunics, you’ll have a weapon in hand. I’ll expect you to fight as well as you did in your first battle.” The Duke stood. “No—don’t try to get up yet. The surgeon will clear you for that.” Paks watched as he strode away, cloak swirling around his tall boots.
Paks looked at her leg, no longer wound in bandages. A red scar showed the line of the wound, but it looked nothing like the deep gash it had been. She wondered what they had done—how it had healed so fast—and why they hadn’t healed it that way in the first place. She looked around. The makeshift camp was bigger than she’d supposed. Smoke rose from a fire near the stream crossing; loud clangs revealed a smith at work. Across the clearing, the Duke was talking to a short man in plate armor. They headed for a tent, maroon and white striped. A man in green livery led a big warhorse still lathered in sweat. Another led three lighter mounts. On the track away from the stream, the remains of the caravan clogged the way. Two burnt-out wagons, one unburned, but missing a wheel, dead mules. As she watched, a group of soldiers dragged a mule into the forest. She wondered what had happened to the other wounded; she didn’t see any of them. Had they all died? Callexon hadn’t looked that bad—She saw the surgeon and Vanza approaching.
“How do you feel?” asked the surgeon.
“Fine,” said Paks. “Can I get up?”
“Yes—you’ll be weaker than you think; you lost a lot of blood.” Vanza reached down an arm, and Paks pulled herself up. She felt dizzy at first, but it passed quickly. “Try walking,” said the surgeon. She took a step, then another. She felt no pain, but she was shaky. “That’s expected,” the surgeon reassured her. “Don’t push yourself for the next day or so—rest when you’re tired. Eat and drink as much as you can.” He turned away. Paks looked at Vanza.
“Where are the others? Were they all—”
“No. Not all.” He sighed. “We lost more than we should, though. I still can’t believe it. No one does this—I knew the Wolf Prince was bad, but even he—”
“Is that who it was?”
“It must have been. You saw the wolf’s head, didn’t you?”
“Yes. But I’m confused—”
“We all are. Now—all you wounded are being healed, as you were, by the Duke’s command. For today, stay close. You can help with food, and that sort of thing, but don’t try to do too much—no hauling mules around.”
“But—what did that Master Vetrifuge do? And why not do it all the time, if it works so well?”
Vanza stopped short and gave her a startled look. “You mean you don’t know about magical healing?”
“No. Effa said something about St. Gird, but—”
“That’s different. Or somewhat different. Let me see—first of all, Master Vetrifuge is a mage. Wizard, they’re called in the north. Surely you’ve heard of them?”
“Yes, but—”
“Just listen. Some mages specialize in one sort of magic; healing magic is one particular kind of magic. I don’t know how it works—I’m no mage. It’s great learning, I’ve been told, and great power—but whether of a god, or the mage himself, I don’t know. But healing mages can heal wounds, if they aren’t too bad. Too old, say, or full of fever. Sometimes they can heal diseases, though not so well. But it takes a lot of money. Mages don’t work for nothing.”
“What about potions?”
“You had that too? Mages make potions, to speed healing. Those are even more expensive; don’t ask me why. Our surgeons always have a few of these, but of course they don’t use them most of the time.”
Paks frowned. “Why not? If wounds could be healed so fast—”
“Because of the cost. Paks, the Duke will have spent the whole contract’s profit, I don’t doubt, just healing the few of you here. No one could afford to have every wound magically healed. It’s cheaper to train and hire new fighters. Our Duke is one of the few I’ve heard of who will use such healing at all for his common soldiers.”