“I’m fine,” said Gird. He would be fine; it was not all a lie.
Fori grinned. “It worked,” he said. “Just as you wanted: we took their reserves in the flank before they knew we were there. And then the others from here—from the first fight—came and got them between us. We lost a few—”
“How many, each side?” Thinking about the fight might clear his head.
Fori’s hands flicked, counting it up. “Eight hands of reserves, afoot—our match. Then four hands of horsemen, and two hands in the gap itself: fourteen hands, seventy altogether. All dead. Of ours, eight dead, and four hands wounded, some bad.”
Cob’s head appeared beside Fori’s. “Gird—we’re going to move you now.”
“Move me! I can move myself!” He lunged up, but firm hands pushed him down.
“No. We aren’t going to lose you because you walked all your blood out.” Gird would have fought harder, but his body did not cooperate. He let himself relax onto the rough litter, and endured a miserable bouncy trip to whatever ridiculous site Cob or Felis had picked for a camp.
He woke to firelight, and listened to the voices around him before opening his eyes. He knew at once he was indoors, in some large, mostly bare room. It did not smell like he imagined a prison would smell, and the voices around him sounded tired, but satisfied, happy, quietly confident. Then, in a lower tone, someone said, “What about Gird—do you think—?”
“He’ll be fine,” said the voice of the red-headed woman who had tied up his arm. “If he hadn’t tried to fight the whole battle himself—”
“Did you ever see anything like it!” That was no question; the speaker’s voice carried raw emotion. “Throwing that horse down like a shepherd throws a lamb—”
Did I? wondered Gird. He could remember nothing but the first horse rearing over him, and the hoof raking his leg. Now he came to think of it, that had been the other leg, not the one with the bad gash.
“—Like something out of a tale,” the young voice was going on. Others chimed in, a confusion of details almost as chaotic as the battle itself. Gird felt himself flushing. They made it sound as if he’d waded single-handed into the entire Finaarean army.
“If he dies—” began someone else in a hushed voice.
Gird opened his eyes. “I am not going to die,” he said firmly, glad that his voice carried his intent.
Several men laughed. “I told you,” said Cob. “He’s too stubborn to die.” Under that confidence Gird could hear relief in his voice. He tried to hitch himself up and pain lanced through his head.
“Don’t move,” said the red-headed woman beside him.
“You could have said that before I did.” Gird cleared his throat. With the headache, his other pains awoke again, and he wished he’d stayed asleep.
The woman grinned down at him. “Cranky patients get well faster,” she said. “Soup?”
“Water.” She and another supported his shoulders as he drank, then propped him up. The various pains settled down to a steady but bearable level, and he realized he was hungry after all. And curious: what exactly had happened, and where were they, and who had taken over when he fell on his face? Someone handed the woman a bowl of soup, and she lifted Gird’s head so he could drink it.
He saw movement in the group around the fire. Then his most experienced fighters were around him. “You’re wondering what happened,” said Felis, almost smugly. Gird glared as best he could. Felis had become a good leader, but he could be unbearably smug.
“We were all standing around the riders, having poked and prodded them into a huddle, wondering what to do next, when you jumped out and—”
“I remember that,” Gird said. “It’s what comes after—”
Cob shrugged. “You grew about four hands taller, sprouted wings and horns, and started throwing horses around like sheep. No: you didn’t really get bigger, but you looked bigger. Yelling your head off and covered with blood, and you did throw at least one horse right on its side—I saw that, and so did everyone else. The rider that sliced your arm—you threw him, too, across one horse and into another. The riders panicked, even the bowmen. I think we could have stood there watching you finish them all off, but that was boring after awhile, so we tried it for ourselves.”
“What hit my head?”
“I didn’t see that. We heard the others coming, and Fori’s attack yell, and you told us to go help him. I ran off with my group; when I got back, you were sitting against a tree, not saying much of anything, while Elis here cleaned you up. It was hard to tell which blood was yours.”
Felis broke in. “The new formations work perfectly, Gird. Even in the trees—I admit I’d wondered if that practice going between trees was good for anything, but now I know it is.”
“Of course, we outnumbered them,” said Ivis. “Two to one.”
“More than that.” Gird shifted, testing the limits of his pain. “They were stupid enough to come to us in pieces. We had three to one on the first group, more like five to one against the horsemen.”
“But—oh.” Gird could see by their faces that they were working this out for themselves.
“Remember what I told you. What counts is how many against how many at the point of contact. If they’re not in the fight, they don’t count.”
Fori spoke up. “But we were even against their reinforcements, at first. And we were moving them—I think we could have won.”
“Probably. I hope so. But you’d have had more losses, and a harder fight. We’re good, lads, and better than before, but it never hurts to let them make it easy for us. If we can take them at good odds, why not? Now—where are we?”
They chuckled, slightly sheepish chuckles. Cob said. “You aren’t going to like this.”
“What?” He tried to roar, but it didn’t come out as a roar, more as a peevish growl.
“We’re in Overbridge. In the soldiers’ barracks.”
“You idiots!” That time it did come out as a roar, and faces turned to him. He struggled to sit all the way up, and nearly made it.
“Listen to me.” Cob had a hand on his chest, with weight behind it if he didn’t lie back. He lay back, simmering. “There are no more soldiers in Overbridge. The ones we killed were stationed here; the barton is sure none got away. The nearest beyond are past Burry, at a road crossing. We sent word to Burry—and you know the Burry yeomen.” He did know the Burry yeomen, as determined as any; if they swore no one would get through from Overbridge, no one would. “This village is delighted with us—those guards camped here all winter drinking up the ale and rolling the local girls, even a few with babies coming. We killed them without trampling the fields, or involving the local yeomen. They begged us to come in, offered us food, even the little ale the guards hadn’t found—”
“Ale—” said Gird meditatively. That should dull his headache. “But we can’t stay here,” he said, looking around to see if he could spot a likely jug.
“Of course not.” Cob reached back, and someone handed him a jug. He dangled it in front of Gird’s nose. “But for one night, while certain persons take their well-earned rest—”
“You do have sentries out?”
“Of course. Don’t we always do what you tell us?”
Gird heaved himself up on his uninjured elbow; someone behind him helped him up until he was braced against the wall. He got his hands around the jug, and sniffed it. Yes, just what he needed. He took a long swallow that warmed his throat on its way down. He offered the jug to Cob, who shook his head.
“I’ve had some. Now, about our wounded: three of them won’t be able to travel for days, maybe weeks—” Gird took another swallow, and felt the edge come off his aches and pains. Behind the throb in his head, his mind was beginning to work again. Wounded who could walk tomorrow—in two days—not for a long time. Members of the Overbridge barton who wanted to come along rather than stay home and farm. Villagers who wanted to meet the man who had thrown down a horse. Felis wanted to tell him about the weapons they’d taken from the dead soldiers and those found in the armory. Ivis had questions about food supplies for the next march, and Rahi—when had she appeared at his side?—Rahi had one of her herbal brews that puckered his mouth after the ale.